by Rick Boyer
"I just can't . . . I just can't . . . seem to stop crying, Dr. Adams."
"Don't try. just keep on crying until the pain cries itself out. If you need me, call me or Mary at the Swope Dorm, okay?"
She nodded.
"Who could have taken your key or made a copy of it? Terry?"
"Sure. Terry or . . . or any number of people I guess. But what would he want with a key?"
"Who knows? But somebody went in there looking for something. And they had a key."
* * *
Joe was waiting for me in his cruiser outside Swope Dormitory. After we pulled out of town and were on the highway to the clinic in Hyannis, he pulled something out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. A brass badge: a shield with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts state seal on it. Above the seal were the words DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC SAFETY. Below the seal it said SPECIAL POLICE. I turned the heavy shield over and over in my hands, trying to get used to it.
Joe grinned at me out of the side of his mouth.
"I know you're excited, Doc. Try not to wet your pants."
"What does this entitle me to?" I asked.
"You ready for this? It's a license to kill. Anybody you don't like, or that pisses you off, POW! Blow 'em away."
"I mean seriously."
"Seriously? Okay, try this then: it allows you to be abused, verbally and physically, with almost no right to fight back or defend yourself. It gives you the right to be called out at four in the morning to scrape the corpse of a teenaged hooker off the railroad tracks beneath a viaduct . . . the right to expose yourself to constant danger, including getting shot at. The right to drink half a bottle of booze at ten in the morning to stop the shakes from seeing your partner's brains blown out while he's standing next to you on a dark street. The right to be called a motherfucking honky pig by blacks, and a nigger-lover by whites. The right—"
"Hey, you want this back?"
"Do I want it back? Hell no I don't want it back. Carrying one is more than enough. It's yours now, pal. You're stuck with the fuckin' thing."
He reached into the coat again and pulled out a worn leather folding case the size and shape of a wallet. He tossed me the badge holder.
"This was Joe Kenny's; he retired last fall. You can have it. When he left he told me he never wanted to see it again."
"What can I say? Words fail me. I'm overjoyed."
"You've got to read the code of conduct, and memorize it. You've also got to memorize a bunch of legal stuff, and you've got to sign some forms and be photographed and fingerprinted. You've got to take a set of polygraph tests and some personality profile tests for mental soundness.”
"Mental soundness, eh?" I said, fingering the badge. "Well, it was fun while it lasted . . ."
"We need copies of your diplomas and all that stuff. Some letters of recommendation and other- hell, that can wait. Right now you're going to take a short tour of your new work place."
"Can't wait."
"And for this, you'll be paid the smashing salary of eighty-five hundred a year."
"What can I say? I'm over—"
"Plus an hourly fee for your lab time. Plus expenses."
We exited for Hyannis and headed for the small clinic that was also the forensic mortuary for Barnstable County.
"I'm thinking that this appointment—should it go through—is a godsend," said Joe as he pulled the cruiser into a parking slot outside the low brick building. "Because as of now, you are officially a state cop, of sorts."
"So?"
"So you figure it out. We cops stick up for each other. Your son's in trouble; we stick up for him. Get it?"
"Yeah, I get it. Now I see what Mary was getting at. Have you ever noticed how smart your sister is?"
"Or how brilliant her brother is? C'mon, let's get this over with, and hope to Jesus you don't have a 'customer' waiting."
Joe and I followed Carl Blessing through the hospital corridor and down a flight of stairs. He opened the second door on the left and flipped on the light.
The big drain table caught our attention first. Stainless steel, with a molded gutter around its perimeter. To catch what is euphemistically referred to as "bodily fluids." Then there were the enameled steel cabinets on the walls, filled with dark brown bottles, cotton swabs, balance scales, and photographic equipment.
"Here's where you'll be working, Dr. Adams," said Blessing.
"Actually, it isn't used all that often. By the way, there are three death certificates I'd like you to sign off on before you leave: a drowning victim and two motor vehicle fatalities. Fortunately, none required autopsies because in each instance the cause of accidental death is clear. The report of the attending emergency room physicians is sufficient."
Blessing pulled out a wide, silent drawer filled with bright steel tools.
"And here, of course, are your postmortem instruments," he said in a weary tone, picking each one up and naming it as he did so.
"These are the rib shears, as you must remember from med school: Bethune rib shears, Semb rib shears, Saurbach serrated rib shears . . ."
Get me out of here, I was thinking to myself. just get me the hell out of here—
"The rib spreaders are these: Finochietto rib spreader here, Sweet rib spreader, Giertz rib guillotine . . . here are the hand retractors . . . a Charriere bone saw there . . . here are the cranial drills . .. Satterlee bone saw Smollett geared retractor . . .Meyerding bone chisel—that'll go through anything!—your mallets are here, these are the suction tubes—he said, pointing to a tray of neatly arrayed hollow steel probes with holes in them, "and of course your motorized surgical saw. Howard used this one for cranial cutting prior to removing the skull cap—"
I took an involuntary step backward. Joe was staring, transfixed, at the gruesome array of implements. Torquemada would have loved to get his mitts on them. Nothing delicate about them: they were massive, with gear-driven mechanisms for shearing, clipping, tearing, crunching through the stoutest chest cavity, the thickest femur, the heaviest skull and jaw. And no concern whatsoever for pain . . . of course.
"Thanks, Carl," I said, trying to catch my breath, "you've been most helpful. I think we can be going now. I—"
"Wait. I've got to show you the chem lab and radiology."
"Do we hafta?" asked Joe, holding a hanky up to his mouth.
"Carl, uh, how often are autopsies performed here?"
He thought for a second, hand on chin, his white lab coat flopped open. "More in the summertime, of course. I'd say a total of eighty to ninety annually, which isn't much, really. Increasingly, they're done up in Boston. Remember though, the rate's two hundred an hour. Comes in handy," he said with a wry grin. "Of course, it's not much fun working with a floater, but then we—"
"Floater?" said Joe weakly. "You mean like . . . a floater?"
"Uh-huh. Not a drowning victim . . . a floater. Mostly decomposed. Hard to tell if they're male or female, or even human. And definitely aromatic. But like I was saying, every job has its drawbacks."
We left the hospital and got back into Joe's cruiser. We both had our windows open all the way back, trying to suck in the sea air.
"I quit," I said. "In case you haven't realized by now, I quit."
"Now, c'mon, Doc. There aren't that many. Carl himself said—"
"Listen, it was the only part of med school I hated: cutting up the cadavers in gross anatomy. I swore I'd never do it again. And I'll tell you this, too: the only floater I'm having anything to do with is the Ella Hatton."
"So you're quitting? Before you even start?"
I thought again about what Joe had said about cops sticking together, protecting one of their own. Jack needed all the protection he could get.
"No. I'll stay on and sign the death certificates and things like that. The title gives me some authority and I want it. But I've still got my practice, and it just won't leave me time for autopsies. Sorry about that. So the first heap of stinky meat that comes in, waiting for the knife, it
's goodbye Doc. Get it?"
"Okay, okay," he said. "Can't say I blame you."
* * *
Joe dropped me off in Woods Hole on his way back to Boston. "I'll be in touch with the lab people who've been examining the evidence from the Breakers and the stuff from the boys' rented house here," he said. "We should have a clearer picture of what took place. The funeral in Providence is tomorrow?"
"Uh-huh, at three. just can't wait. You going to be there?"
"No. Paul and I are meeting with the D.A.'s office in Boston. So now you're going to try to see Lionel Hartzell?"
"Yep. First thing tomorrow when Moe gets here. I want his diagnostic expertise."
"Well, good luck. Remember, though, you still can't make him see you. How's our boy doing?"
"Jack? He's doing pretty well, considering. Yesterday he went out whale watching with Tom McDonnough, so things can't be that bad."
"But they could be better, right?"
"You said it. Hey, and don't forget to run that car through R and I, okay?"
Joe pulled out his notebook. "White Caddy Eldo. Rhode Island vanity plate, SLINKY. Guy's first name is Eddie. Gotcha. So long."
I found Mary up in our dormitory room, resting after a day of shopping and sightseeing. We poured drinks and relaxed. I showed her the badge.
"Hmmmm. This mean you're going to start wearing a uniform, Charlie? I like uniforms on men. I go to pieces."
"Well, bad news. I stay in civvies."
"You gonna carry a big gun? Huh?"
"You know me, Babe. I'm always packing a big gun."
She sat down on my lap and sipped.
"C'mon now," she said. "Let's not get arrogant."
ELEVEN
I WAS FIRST UP, so I was elected to go down to Water Street and fetch two big cups of coffee back to the dorm. Mary propped herself up on one elbow and looked out the window at the sun.
"Oh, Charlie! I feel great today. I think I'll go running up along Oyster Pond Road with Jackie. It's a good feeling, having grown-up kids when you aren't even old yet."
"Well speak for yourself. For me, fifty's just around the corner."
"You're not old. You're very, very young. You've proved that twice in the past—she glanced at her watch"—fourteen hours. You hot shit, you."
I sat down at the foot of the bed while she got up. "You mean it wasn't just a dream?"
She had just pulled on her panties. I like that word: panties. They were hip-huggers, of some yellow, slick material that felt good when you ran your hand along it. She leaned over and rubbed my shoulders.
"But the reason you're so good is because I'm good. Isn't that right?"
"Sure is. And you've got the press to prove it, too. Didn't I tell you what I saw written over the urinal in the bowling alley last week?"
"Let me guess: 'For a great fuck, call Mary at three-six-nine-eight-four-six-oh.' "
"That's it! Verbatim. Done in red spray paint. And only two misspellings. You're attracting an increasingly literate following, my dear."
"Ahhhh. Good news travels fast." She climbed back on the bed and reclined lazily, stroking her bare thigh and licking her lips, yawning.
"I wish they'd hurry up and get here," she whispered.
"Who?"
"Those bikers. She palmed her hand behind her ear and cocked her head toward the open window. "I can almost hear the rumble of those Harleys now . . ."
"Well, hate to break the spell, but we've got a funeral to attend this afternoon."
She froze, lowered her eyes, and got up and put on her bra.
Mary is a knockout. She's also a nurse, a potter, a cook, and a wife and mother. But mainly, she's a knockout. Always will be. That's the part I like best.
"Where are you going?"
"Outside to wait for Moe. I'll be back to take you to lunch before we change and leave. Bye."
I kissed her and left. Ten minutes later I saw Morris Abramson's faded 1974 lime-green Dodge pull into the parking lot. What a car; the blow-lunch special. He hopped out, dressed in khakis and a freshly ironed shirt. Moe can surprise me; he looked almost legit.
"Well, Doc, here I am, ready to meet this nut case."
"How do you know he's a nut case? You haven't even met him yet."
"You told me he was and I believe you."
"Why?"
"Takes one to know one."
We rang the bell at Lionel Hartzell's house. No answer. Three doors down was Jack's place. I couldn't see anybody stirring there, and since it was almost nine, I supposed the boys were out on the briny deep or in a lab somewhere. We rang again, then knocked on the door. Still no answer. I knocked extra loudly.
"Who the hell is it?" said a crusty voice.
"Dr. Charles Adams," I said. And then I added: "With the state police."
"Go away."
"Dr. Hartzell, I'm here on official business. I have to see you about the murder of Andrew Cunningham."
"I already talked to somebody. Go away."
We heard footsteps retreating from the door.
"Now what?" said Moe.
I shrugged, looking down at the badge I'd been waiting to flash. Not having opened the door, Hartzell hadn't even seen it. The badge wasn't worth diddly-shit.
"Let's go wait for him in the office building. It's called Lillie Hall."
So we hoofed it back down Water Street and found Lillie Hall, where we located his office and waited around the corner, sitting on the corridor floor. People walked to and fro, scarcely giving us a glance. After almost an hour I heard quick footsteps coming down the linoleum that stopped where we knew his office door was. I heard a key make its beady metallic noise as it was inserted into a lock, and when the lock clacked I was up on my feet and around the corner, forcing my way through the open door into Hartzell's office, right behind him.
He spun, muttering and throwing his hands up. The man who looked up at me was short and gray-haired, with half-moon, tortoiseshell glasses. His head was large and bulbous at the top, tapering to a small mouth and chin. His eyes were large and dark gray. His face looked a little like the actor Peter Lorre. It was full of fear and rage, the eyes intense, the jaw set. Hartzell looked past me toward the door. Moe had come in right behind me, gently shutting the door and establishing his angular presence between us and the way out.
"Who are you?" he said, panting. "Get out!" For added emphasis, he shoved his attaché case into my gut, as if trying to force me back. No such luck, you little twerp, I thought, and deftly removed the badge from my pants pocket and held it up in front of his face.
"We'll leave shortly. Right after you answer our questions truthfully."
"Were you at my house earlier? I told you then—"
"I know what you told us. Now I'm telling you something; I'm telling you we're staying here until you answer my questions."
"I talked with the police already."
"I know you spoke with my colleague, Lieutenant Keegan. Now you're going to talk to us."
I had used the word "colleague" inadvertently; it just seemed to leap from my mouth. I hoped Keegan wouldn't get wind of it.
"Who's he?" Hartzell asked, pointing to Moe.
"I'll ask the questions for now, Dr. Hartzell. I'm Charles Adams, Jack's father. I'm the interim medical examiner for this region. Since Andy Cunningham died in my house and was my son's friend, you can see my interest in this case, professional and otherwise."
"Jack's father? You're not a cop."
"Oh yes I am," I said quietly. "Now this won't take long, I promise. You can cooperate and we'll be out of here fast. If not, we can only view your failure to cooperate in the worst possible light. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I could see that he did, and he didn't like it at all. Still glaring at both of us, he turned and walked stiff-legged toward his desk at the far end of the room. The desk was located behind a lab table covered with equipment, including a rack of laboratory glassware that acted as a tall trellis, shielding his work area from view
of the doorway. Moe and I followed him into this tiny, encapsulated area. He sat and we stood; there wasn't room for three chairs. I set my badge down on the tabletop and leaned against a cabinet. Hartzell immediately lowered the blinds and adjusted them so that he could see out to the waterfront, but nobody outside could see in. He crossed his legs tightly and crossed his arms over his chest, staring balefully at us.
"Hurry up then. You know, your son is a nice kid. It's a shame I could never say the same about Andy."
"It's well known that the two of you did not get along," I said, staring at him levelly. I wanted to try and unnerve him a bit, to catch him off guard. All I got from him was a shoulder shrug. "Andy Cunningham was a kid who charmed people, Dr. Adams. But underneath he was spoiled and greedy. I happen to know he stole a major portion of my research notes."
Hartzell pointed to a series of shelves along the near wall. All of them except one were full. He pointed at the empty shelf.
"There! Right there was my folder of rough notes from two-and-a-half years of experimentation. It's now gone; it disappeared two weeks ago. I don't know if you've heard about the nature of my project—"
"Andy mentioned something about extracting precious metals from the ocean by means of a little organism."
He nodded shortly, looking down at his stomach with a frown. "Yes. Most people here know the general nature of the research," he said. He pointed to a marine tank on the counter whose bottom was covered with small brown bulbous shapes resembling Milk Duds, the caramel candy.
"These are the tunicates called sea squirts," said Hartzell, rapping the glass softly for emphasis. "They have the ability to extract and concentrate various elements from sea water. But exactly how they're going to do this for a selected metal is extremely complex . . . and . . . very secret."
"Why are you so certain that Andy took your notes?" I asked.
"Why? Because only he had access to the folder. As for me, I can get along fine without it; I had the raw data transcribed, and it's safe in my possession. That is, I think it's safe. I hope it's safe."
"And so Andy's access to the data makes him automatically guilty," I continued. 'just as, supposedly, Jack's proximity to Andy when he died makes him a suspect." I paused to wag my finger right in front of Hartzell's nose. "I don't like that kind of thinking, Hartzell. I don't care for it at all. Now Andy might have had some character flaws, but he wasn't stupid. Even you would have to admit that. He would certainly realize he would be suspected of the theft immediately. Therefore, one could argue that he didn't take it. Someone else probably took it knowing Andy would take the heat."
