An Accidental Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  Nita rose, straightened her dress, and tried to reclaim her dignity, but failed. She pointed at her husband. “Pants on fire!” she exclaimed, and all three of them broke out laughing.

  When they had composed themselves, TJ delivered a message. “Mr. Bayley asked me to tell you that Chief Steele called. He said the lady in the hospital is conscious, and he wants Mom to question her.”

  “Of course,” replied Nita, suddenly serious. “Now maybe we’ll find out what happened to Edith. I’d better go return that call.”

  Twenty-seven.

  When she got back to the cottage, Nita informed them that a patrol car would come to drive her to Southampton Hospital.

  “You guys are on your own for a while,” she said. “If you’re out when I get back I’ll just wait here for you, or maybe take a swim.”

  TJ said he’d walk over to the inn to see what the other kids were doing. Nita ducked inside the cottage to collect her purse just as her ride arrived. The familiar face of Earl Finch was visible in the driver’s seat.

  “That was quick,” said Fitz. “He must have been on the way already.”

  “Howdy,” Finch called from behind the wheel. Fitz strolled over to the car and returned the greeting.

  “Think you have a break in the case?” he asked.

  “I sure hope so. Metzger’s mother wants us to release the body. The family’s Jewish, and they bury their dead right away. Poor woman. She was upset enough before the chief told her she couldn’t claim the remains just yet.”

  “What about the son? Isn’t he handling the arrangements?”

  “He’s only eighteen. He’s in bad shape, too. He and his sister were both born in Germany—that’s where the family’s originally from. The chief got their story. They escaped from the Nazis just in time—fortunately they had relatives here. Only the father didn’t get out. He was a college professor. He stayed behind to settle their affairs and got caught. He died in a concentration camp.”

  “Jesus, that’s terrible. Your husband’s murdered, and then your only daughter—does she know that, by the way?”

  “Yes, the chief had to tell her. Otherwise why not let her have the body? Although he didn’t actually use that word. He said the death was suspicious, and that an investigation was under way.”

  Nita arrived, kissed her husband, and slid into the passenger seat. Calling “See you later,” she waved goodbye as Finch left the parking lot and turned up Ocean Avenue toward the highway.

  As they headed west into the hamlet of Wainscott, Finch pointed out an imposing gate on their left.

  “That’s the entrance to The Creeks,” he told her, “Ossorio’s estate. That’s where they had the concert on Saturday night.”

  “The one Pollock and the girls were supposed to be going to?”

  “Right. Too bad you can’t see it from the road. It’s quite a place. To get a good view of it you really need to be in a boat on Georgica Pond. It looks right out over the water. I used to go there as a kid, when the Herters owned it. Ever hear of the Herter Brothers?” Finch asked.

  Nita said no.

  “Fancy furniture makers and decorators in New York. Plenty of family money. One of the sons, Albert, was an artist. Him and his wife—she was an artist, too—built the place. It’s what rich folks call a summer cottage. Pretty grand for a cottage. Big stucco house, carriage house, boathouse, art studios for both of ’em, fancy gardens all laid out just so, the works. Me and my pals would row over to the dock, and Mrs. Herter would give us ginger ale and cookies. Their two sons were grown and gone, one of ’em was killed in the first war, and I think she missed having boys around the house.

  “She died not long after I got back from the army, ’forty-­six I think it was, and then her husband died a few years later. The son who lived inherited the place. He’s a big-shot politician, the governor of Massachusetts, and he didn’t want it. There’s something like sixty acres of property to keep up, the house is kind of a white elephant, and he lives in the governor’s mansion in Boston, so he put it on the market.

  “Lucky for him, a year or so later along comes Ossorio, another artist with plenty of family money, and he buys it. Studios all ready for him, didn’t even have to renovate. I haven’t been inside since, but I hear it’s full of the abstract art he collects and some weird stuff from France made by hermits and people in the nuthouse.”

  “Sounds like fun,” quipped Nita. “What’s his own work like?”

  “It’s all jumbled up, sorta like Pollock’s, only with figures. Course Pollock did figures, too, but that’s not what he’s known for. Both of ’em show at Guild Hall, the white brick building opposite the library on Main Street. They have art shows and theatricals and club meetings, all kinds of social activities.”

  “I remember seeing it. We should pay a visit before we leave.”

  “There’s an art show on there right now, and Pollock’s in it. Opened just before he got killed. I bet the smart money’ll snap up his pictures now that he’s dead.” That comment was accompanied by a snicker.

  “Anyway,” Finch continued, “Ossorio’s stuff has a lot of religious symbols in it. He’s Catholic and so am I, so I recognize some of ’em, but most of it’s too obscure for me, and some of it’s downright grotesque. Not my cuppa tea. Maybe it’s his Spanish heritage—no offense, Nita.”

  “Certainly not,” she hastened to reassure him, “I know what you mean. Some of those old Spanish churches are pretty ornate. Not that I have any firsthand experience, I’ve only seen pictures. Never been to Spain, never even been to Cuba, where my family’s from. I’d love to go, and take my mamacita. She left when she was just a kid. But she wouldn’t go back now, not while Batista’s in power. You can’t even say his name in her house.”

  Their conversation had taken them through Wainscott, Sagaponack, Bridgehampton, Water Mill and into Southampton, where the highway veered off to the right and their route became Hampton Road. A left on Osborne Avenue led to Meeting House Lane and the hospital.

  Finch pulled up to the main entrance. “I’ll come in with you,” he said, “but I’ll stay out of the way. Don’t want my uniform to spook her.”

  In the lobby they were directed to the inpatient rooms on the second floor, where the nurse on duty told them that Miss Kligman was in room 208. Finch took a seat in the waiting area while Nita made her way down the hall.

  As she approached the room, she stopped suddenly and gasped in amazement. Standing in the doorway, in conversation with Dr. Abel, was Ruth Kligman, apparently completely recovered. Her hair was pulled back off her face, which showed no signs of injury. She was standing unaided, no crutches or cane, and her sleeveless blouse and knee-length skirt revealed no bandages on her unmarked bare arms and legs.

  Nita couldn’t believe her eyes. Two days ago this woman had been nearly comatose, suffering from concussion and who knew what other internal injuries, and here she was up and about like nothing had happened to her. It was astonishing, and Nita’s jaw dropped as she tried to make sense of it.

  Just then Dr. Abel spotted her.

  “Ah, Detective Diaz, there you are. Chief Steele called to tell me you were on the way. Come, let me introduce you.”

  Still stunned, she approached the doctor, eyeing his companion warily.

  “Thank you for doing this,” he began. “I think it’s important for a woman to handle the questioning. Ruth is still not very responsive.” This confused Nita even further.

  “I want you to meet her sister, Iris,” he continued, “her identical twin.”

  Now the mystery of the miraculous recovery was solved.

  “She arrived this morning from New Jersey. Iris, this is Detective Juanita Diaz of the New York City Police Department. She’s here with her family on vacation, but she’s kindly agreed to help with the investigation.”

  Iris greeted Nita warmly, taking her hand
and gazing at her earnestly.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,” she began. “I understand you took care of Ruth at the accident scene, before Dr. Abel got there. He said you knew just what to do—I’m so grateful.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I’m the older one, born ten minutes before her. She’s my baby sister.” The tears rolled down her cheeks, and she fumbled in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief.

  The doctor tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She just needs rest and quiet. As I explained, the concussion is the most serious injury, but she’s over the worst of it.” He turned to Nita. “Her whole body is bruised, but remarkably there are no broken bones. I have her on an intravenous painkiller, so she’s a bit groggy. You can see her now.” He stepped aside and followed the two women into the room.

  An IV drip was attached to Ruth’s left arm, which was swollen and turning livid as the bruising progressed, but apart from the tape that held the needle in place she was unbandaged. Ointment had been applied to her facial abrasions—Dr. Abel believed that exposing such wounds to the air speeded healing and minimized scarring. Her vacant expression brightened a bit when she saw her sister, and she raised her right hand weakly. Iris held it and patted it fondly as Abel pulled up bedside chairs for her and Nita, then withdrew quietly to a corner of the room.

  “Ruthie, honey, this is the lady who helped you when you got hurt,” Iris explained. “Do you remember her?”

  Ruth let out a shallow sigh. She tried to focus on Nita’s face, but couldn’t concentrate. When her voice came, it was thin and raspy.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What do you remember?” asked Nita.

  Ruth groaned slightly and tried to shift her position in the bed. Suddenly she seemed restless. She tried to push herself up on her elbows, and Abel stepped over to the bed and settled her. He adjusted the drip.

  “Where’s Jackson? Where is he? What happened to him?”

  Nita glanced at Abel, looking for guidance, but his expression was neutral. Apparently Ruth didn’t know he was dead. Funny, Nita thought, she’s not asking about Edith, only Jackson. I’d better tell her, she decided. If I’m evasive or lie to her she won’t trust me. She may already be imagining the worst anyway.

  She leaned over and put a hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “he didn’t make it.”

  Ruth’s face contorted into a mask of pain. She made a whining noise and gulped for air, trying to sob but failing to fight through the morphine.

  “Oh, God, I knew it,” she moaned. “Oh, God, Jackson, oh, no . . .” Her voice tailed off. Iris stroked her brow and murmured encouragement, knowing there was no real comfort for her.

  Presently her breathing slowed and she became calmer—the drug was doing its work. Unfortunately it made Nita’s task harder. She probed gently, hoping for a revelation.

  “Do you remember the car going off the road?”

  “Yes, it swerved into the woods. Then I woke up here.” She gulped again. “And Jackson is dead!”

  “Why was he driving so fast?”

  “I don’t know. He always drives fast.” Her head lolled to the left, and it seemed she might fall asleep, but she pulled back and made an effort to pay attention.

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Now Nita had to ask the crucial question.

  “What happened to Edith?”

  “Edith?”

  “Edith Metzger, your roommate. She was in the car with you and Jackson.”

  “Was she? I don’t remember.”

  “What’s the last thing you do remember before the crash?”

  Ruth closed her eyes. When she opened them, they brimmed with tears. Her voice was so soft that Nita strained to hear her.

  “I remember,” she whispered, “making love to Jackson.”

  Twenty-eight.

  “This kind of short-term memory loss is not uncommon with concussion, especially when it’s accompanied by gross physical injury,” said Abel as he escorted Nita from the room. Iris stayed behind, reassuring her sister that everything would be all right, which of course it wouldn’t. Not that her words really mattered, as Ruth was drifting into drug-induced sleep.

  “It’s the mind’s way of protecting her from emotional distress that could send her back into shock,” he explained. “In order to heal she needs to stay calm. Blocking out the traumatic event helps that process. You saw how she reacted when she got a flashback to the car veering off the road. We need to avoid that kind of agitation for the present. I hope you understand.” Reluctantly, Nita agreed.

  “The last clear memory she has,” continued Abel, “is something positive, and it’s true, she’d had recent sexual intercourse. She was wearing a diaphragm, which we removed, and we found traces of semen in her vagina. Her memory of what occurred after that will come back in time, when she’s better able to cope.”

  “I sure hope it’ll be soon,” said Nita. “She’s the only person alive who knows what happened to Edith—although that’s not necessarily true if it wasn’t Pollock who killed her. And if that’s the case, there’s a live murderer out there and we need to find him.”

  Abel agreed with her supposition. “I think you’re safe in assuming it was a man, whether Pollock or someone else. Dr. Cooper shared the autopsy report with me, and we concur that Kligman doesn’t have the strength to inflict those injuries manually.”

  Remembering her earlier conversation with Fitz, Nita asked, “Can you tell whether the killer grabbed her throat from in front or behind?”

  “Not for certain,” the doctor told her. “Either way, the lateral bruises on the neck would be more or less the same, depending on the angle of the killer’s hands. If he was tall, coming at her from behind would put downward pressure on the neck and throat, which would be just as lethal as a frontal attack, and leave similar marks.”

  “The reason I ask,” she explained, “is that if Edith scratched her attacker’s face with her right hand and he was behind her, the scratches would be on the right side, or even on his right hand or arm if she was clawing at it. If it was Pollock, the right side of his face was so badly injured that any earlier scratches wouldn’t show, would they?”

  “No, they wouldn’t. The autopsy report doesn’t mention any scratches on his right hand or arm, though.”

  “Was Dr. Cooper able to get a blood type from the tissue under her nails?”

  “Not yet. He had to send the sample to the lab in River­head, and the results haven’t come back. It was easier with Pollock and Kligman. We drew blood and tested it. Turns out she’s Type O positive, very common, but he’s unusual, Type A negative. Only seven percent of Caucasians have it.”

  “Gosh, that would narrow it down,” said Nita. “If the skin sample matches Pollock, it makes him the likely killer. Still, it’s not definitive. Someone else with that blood type could have done it, but what would be the likelihood?”

  “As I say, it’s rare in whites, and even more so in other races. Only two percent of Hispanics and Negroes have it, and less than one percent of Orientals. No, I believe a match with Pollock would be pretty strong evidence.”

  Nita’s years of experience told her that the most obvious explanation isn’t always the right one. Skepticism was especially important in murder investigations. As she and Abel walked down the hall to where Finch was waiting, she reminded the doctor that Ruth’s account would be crucial.

  “Pollock obviously had the opportunity,” she said, “and he was strong enough to have done the deed, but what would his motive have been? That’s why we need Ruth’s memory to return, the sooner the better. If Pollock did it, only she can tell us why.”

  “And if he didn’t,” reasoned Abel, “only she is likely to know who did.”

  Twenty-nine.

  Riding back to E
ast Hampton in Finch’s patrol car, Nita expressed her frustration at the lack of results from her questioning.

  “I couldn’t get anything out of her. Not only is she doped up, but she also has amnesia, at least about the crucial time just before the accident. Dr. Abel says we have to be patient, and really there’s nothing more to be done with her until her condition improves, but we’re losing valuable time. Meanwhile we’ll just have to work some other angles.”

  “How can you do that without arousing suspicion?” asked Finch. “If you start questioning other people, word will soon be out that Metzger’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “I think I can be more indirect than that,” she said. “For instance, I could simply observe some of the likely suspects, see if I can detect the kinds of injuries Metzger’s fingernails would have inflicted on their faces, arms, or hands.”

  Just then they passed The Creeks, and she gave him an example. “Starting with Ossorio. Fitz and I have a theory about him—nothing concrete, but it bears checking out. When we get back to the Sea Spray I think I’ll phone The Creeks and see if I can pay him a visit.”

  “I’ll drop you off at the inn, then stop by the cottage, see if the guys are around,” said Finch. He had taken quite a liking to both Fitz and TJ, she noted with pleasure.

  “Won’t Harry—the chief, I mean—be expecting you back soon?” she asked, not wanting to get him in Dutch with his boss.

  “They’d radio if I was needed,” he replied, “so I’ll take lunch now. I can swing by the dairy and pick up some sandwiches.” He made a left off the highway onto Toilsome Lane, which curved right and became Gingerbread Lane just before it would have hit the railroad tracks. At the intersection with Race Lane, Tillinghast Dairy provided simple lunches for the local workmen. Nita waited in the car while Finch went in and placed his order.

  “I hope egg salad is okay for everybody,” he said as he returned to the car with four sandwiches in a paper bag. Nita offered to pay, but he insisted on treating. “Dairy products, eggs, bread, that’s all they got here. Oh, and coffee, but I don’t recommend it this late in the day. Been on the stove since five a.m. Your spoon’d stand up in it by now.”