The Pied Piper of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “I think there is something I should tell you about Markham Swan,” Lyon said. “Actually, this situation is my fault since I am the one who recommended him to your father. I never considered the fact that he might be working out of Bridgeway and that you two would meet more than casually.”

  It was her turn to laugh. The sound was a sparkling tinkle of pure sound. “I see how he looks at me. I learned about that sort of thing a long time ago.”

  “He does have a reputation in that area,” Lyon said. “In fact, the reason he gave up teaching was his involvement with a young woman student whom he eventually married.”

  “So I am not supposed to go to any evening trysts at the gatehouse with the infamous Markham Swan?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ll be there. I’m here tonight because Markham phoned me about this nine o’clock meeting. He’s involved in some sort of huge head game, but damned if I know what it is. I swear to you, Paula, I will find out.”

  She tilted her head and seemed to be considering her options before she turned to him with a wide smile. “Then you’ll go for both of us and protect me from the lecherous Mr. Swan?”

  Lyon peeked into the library, to find Bea seated alone at the library table. She was bent over a small Tiffany lamp that cast a multicolored glow across her face. She seemed tired to the point of exhaustion. He wanted to hold her and protect her, but that was not possible at this moment.

  She turned with a small smile of recognition and relief. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Where are the two dragons?”

  “They have temporarily retreated into their caverns under ostensibly different pretexts, but I suspect they are actually holding a secret conference concerning my care and feeding.”

  “Let’s go home. The hell with them.”

  She shook her head. “No way. I’m not backing off. If that super-WASP wants the nomination, he’s going to have to work for it. Let him convince me along with about six hundred more state delegates. And you can’t leave until you deal with Markham Swan.”

  “Want me to stay with you?”

  She shook her head again. “It would just inhibit them, delay things, and infuriate you. Go to Markham Swan’s overly dramatic meeting and see what in the world he’s up to. If he’s discovered monsters hiding at Bridgeway, they can’t be worse than the ones I’m jousting with.”

  Lyon left the house by the front door and went around to the side, where he found a wide parking area filled with guests’ cars. He also located the electric golf cart, with the keys still in the ignition. He switched on the motor, clicked the front lights, and drove slowly toward the front gate.

  He was nearly to the small house at the wall when a muffled retort echoed across the hills. A second noise followed it after a count of four.

  The sounds were not quite like any gunfire he had previously heard. Although the surrounding hills made it impossible to pinpoint the direction of their origin, the sounds were certainly not the result of a car backfire or thunder. They sounded more like the distant explosion of large firecrackers.

  He stopped the cart by the front door of the small cottage, then sat still for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the night. It was quiet except for a lone cricket and a single owl. If he turned in the right direction and listened carefully, it was possible to hear a distant muted din from the remains of the party at the house up the hill.

  Lyon had not noticed the gatekeeper’s cottage during the incident with the protesters. The structure was barely visible from the outside of the estate since it faced the interior side and had no windows or doors on the far side of the wall. A narrow building three stories high located next to the gate’s entrance, it was constructed of the same brownstone material as the main building, and was actually built into the estate’s walls. It was a nondescript building matched by a twin structure located on the other side of the gates. The second building had a double-wide entrance and was evidently used for equipment storage. A single light shone through a leaded window built into the oval-shaped door.

  Lyon stepped from the cart and used the knocker on the front door. No answer. He knocked again and heard the reverberations of the sound echoing through the small building. There was no response from the interior of the house.

  He knocked again without result and then tried the handle and found the door unlocked. He slowly pushed it ajar.

  The building’s narrow structure restricted the floors to one room in width, built in a shotgun design. Entrance was directly into a living room area, with a small dining room beyond, followed by an efficient-appearing kitchen area. He assumed that the bedrooms upstairs were laid out in a similar manner. The small dining room had been converted into an office. A computer monitor that reflected the flicker of a screen saver was the only light illuminating the room.

  The body was slumped over the table directly in front of the computer.

  A short-haired blond woman was hunched in the far corner of the room. Her back pressed against the wall while her hands were clenched into fists that pressed tightly against her mouth.

  She made small mewing sounds as she stared at the corpse in the flickering computer light.

  “What happened?” Lyon said.

  “He … he’s dead,” the woman finally mumbled. “The son-of-a-bitch is finally dead.”

  “You killed him?” Lyon asked in a low tone that was half question and half statement.

  She didn’t answer.

  Lyon looked more closely at the corpse. There wasn’t any need to feel for a pulse or begin heroic resuscitation efforts. Markham Swan was dead. No one could have survived the massive wounds to his head and throat.

  FOUR

  The physician chuckled as he examined the dead man.

  Although the doctor’s first name was Lars, the assistant medical examiner for the State of Connecticut was usually known as Happy Hansen. Considering the circumstances of his work, his loud laugh was often inappropriate. These unexpected and exuberant bursts of joviality frequently jolted the most seasoned police officers and accident-seasoned paramedics. There was little question in the minds of his associates that Lars’ attitude could transform a generally gruesome situation into the genuinely macabre.

  “You going to fly that ridiculous new balloon of yours at the hot air meet at Farmington next week, Wentworth?”

  “I think not, Happy. I’m not comfortable with its performance yet,” Lyon answered.

  Happy laughed. “Just as well. Miserable excuse for a hot air balloon if I ever did see one.” Hansen gave a triumphant gurgle as his tweezers successfully clamped a metal object. He squinted at his newfound possession and laughed again. “Hey, big fella, look at this.”

  Rocco Herbert, whose size overpowered the cottage’s small dining area, leaned toward Happy. “What do you have?”

  “This little baby that just fell out of our victim will rattle your cage.”

  Rocco squinted at the clamped object. “What in the hell is it?”

  “This guy’s got what I call a double whammy. In other words, someone took him out twice. There are two wounds here, Chiefy,” Happy continued. “Rather massive actually. They appear to have been made by the same type projectile. The head wound missile is still inside the cranium. The second was lodged in the soft tissue of the neck and fell out when I turned the head slightly,” he said as he dropped the object into an acetate bag.

  Rocco held the transparent bag up to a ceiling light and slowly turned it for a better perspective as he examined it carefully. “Damnedest thing I ever did see.”

  “If it weren’t so large, it would slightly resemble a pellet shot for one of those compressed air guns,” the doctor said. “As a bullet she would be about a …” He took a small instrument from his breast pocket and measured the size of the object through the acetate. “About fifty caliber or more, I’d say.”

  Rocco nodded, “Could be, but it’s far too large for any air gun. How about something for commercial use?” Rocco suggested. “A comp
ressed air tool of some sort that would eject something this size with considerable force?” He handed the envelope to Lyon.

  “Maybe,” Larsen agreed in an uncharacteristically serious vein.

  “Possibly it has something to do with heavy construction equipment,” Rocco said. “I’ll check it out with some civil engineers and the highway department in the morning.”

  Lyon handed the bag back to Rocco. “No need,” he said. “It’s a bullet.”

  Hansen returned to his examination of the body, shining a penlight into the fixed pupils. “Wish I could be that sure about things. I’m not even sure this guy’s dead.” He laughed. “I also doubt the judgment of anyone dumb enough to buy a balloon like that Cloudhopper you just bought. Face it, Wentworth, bullets are not your specialty. When was the last time you fired a rifle, or any firearm for that matter?”

  “He doesn’t believe in guns,” Rocco answered. “He feels that if guns don’t kill people then bullets act as damn good surrogates.”

  “You’re something else again, Lyon,” Happy said. “I see bullets all the time and this is the strangest looking one I ever saw. Look at the concave rear. What in hell kind of metal is it made from? The state police forensic guys will go ape trying to figure it out and will finally end up shipping it off to the FBI lab.”

  “It’s a minié ball,” Lyon said.

  “You may be Minié, but I’m Mickey,” Happy Hansen said with a further burst of laughter that made Rocco wince and roll his eyes behind the examiner’s head.

  Rocco took Lyon’s comment seriously enough to reexamine the evidence bag. “The thing is bullet shaped, Lyon. The front part is rounded to a near point like any ordinary bullet load. If you’re thinking of a minié ball like in antique firearms, you have it wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. The minié principle was used in military firearms from about the 1850s on. It had extensive use during our Civil War.”

  Rocco shook his head. “I’ve seen old firearms loaded. The rifle had a ramrod, which you used to shove powder and paper wadding into the barrel. That was followed by the musket ball, which was nearly as large as the caliber of the weapon. The projectiles were large round jobbers like fat marbles.”

  Hansen chuckled. “Guys who write kiddie books shouldn’t throw musket balls. Hell, Wentworth, what do you know about ordinance?”

  “Minié balls were not round,” Lyon continued as if he had not heard the medical examiner’s last remarks. “They were bullet shaped, with a concave rear that rested on the powder charge which was shoved down the barrel with the ramrod. The minié principle held that when the rifle was discharged, the rear of the bullet expanded until it fit snugly against the rifling, thereby making it more accurate. They were called minié balls after a Captain Minié, but they were what we call bullet shaped.”

  Hansen raised an eyebrow at Rocco. “You taking notes from our arms expert here, Chief?”

  “The guy’s like that,” Rocco responded. “He’s got all kinds of weird knowledge that seems to come out of nowhere.”

  “Usually out of books,” Lyon finally countered, “but in this case it’s knowledge from a different source. When I first started teaching I had a contract with Gettysburg College. Since English instructors are not overpaid in the heartland of Pennsylvania, for extra money I studied and passed an exam to be a weekend guide at Gettysburg battlefield. I’ve picked up many a minié ball from the ground where they fell.”

  “Call them what you want,” Hansen said. “But at least two of those suckers killed this guy.” He guffawed again.

  Captain Norbert, commander of the nearby State Police Barracks, nodded to a trooper corporal. His subordinate acknowledged the signal with a barely perceptible flick of his eye and then brought his fist down on the wide wooden panels that made up the front door of the gatekeeper’s cottage.

  “Open up! Police!” Without further prompting, he began a two-handed beat that created a staccato thump of noise.

  Years ago, Norbert had barely qualified for entry into the state police academy due to the height requirement. As time went on, he had seemingly tried to erase this deficit by enlarging the upper portion of his body. He had eventually produced a pronounced pyknic build with a barrel chest that seemed to make him slightly top-heavy. This change in his center of gravity forced him to walk with a slightly forward tilt that appeared remarkably like a bantam strut. The other members of his accompanying force resembled recently discharged Marine drill instructors.

  Doctor Happy Larsen tore the door open and glared at them over the rim of his granny glasses. “You guys want to wake the dead?” His belch of laughter nearly convulsed him but failed to move the stone-faced state police, who pushed past him into the small building.

  “Rocco! Chief Herbert! I know you’re here,” Norbert bellowed.

  “Will you shut up, Norby,” Rocco said as he poked his head out of the dining room. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d quit monitoring my radio frequencies.”

  “Secure the crime scene,” the state captain commanded his corporal.

  Rocco pointed a long finger that froze the corporal in midstep. “It’s been done. Trooper, you touch a damn thing and you are dog meat,” he commanded in a low voice.

  The confused corporal looked at Captain Norbert for confirmation. The state police captain shrugged. “It’s his jurisdiction … temporarily,” he said. He stepped closer to the taller police chief and spoke in a whisper that carried throughout the downstairs. “One-horse towns with hick police shouldn’t handle sophisticated crimes, particularly those committed on the estate of one of the most prominent men in the area. Stick to your traffic tickets and occasional gas station holdups.”

  “The ME is here and the state forensic people are on their way,” Rocco said. “We have a suspect upstairs who is presently undergoing preliminary interrogation.”

  “It’s the wife if it’s the usual deal,” Norbert said. “The deceased is Markham Swan, right?”

  “Right,” Rocco answered.

  “We busted him a few years ago. Stat rape as I recall.”

  “The charges were dropped,” Rocco replied. “He married the girl.”

  “It figures. The guy couldn’t keep his pants zipped and he was roving again. The wife knows the symptoms. She finds out what fluff he’s bouncing on and blows him away. Tidy and neat. These cases make a great record for the closure statistics since wifey usually feels so bad she’ll confess to killing anyone. We let her attorney plead it to manslaughter, and we have another quick conviction to take to the major.” He peeked into the small dining room to glance at the body slumped over the computer. He waved at the ME. “Gunshot wound, Happy?” he asked.

  “What’d you expect?” the ME replied with a chortle. “Although some around here would speak about a whiff of the grape?”

  “Grape? What kind of talk is that?” The State Police captain looked uncertain. “You mean poison?”

  Doctor Happy shrugged. “Minié balls I will not discuss with this guy,” he muttered. “Call it death by unknown projectile,” he said in his most authoritative manner.

  Norbert whispered to his standby corporal and Rocco. “God, he’s a horse’s ass. Who did you say was breaking down the wife?”

  “I didn’t say,” Rocco answered, “but Lyon Wentworth is the one talking to her.”

  Captain Norbert flushed red, which gradually deepened into a purplish hue. “Wentworth! I can’t believe you would leave a primary suspect with that liberal airhead! What kind of idiot are you?”

  The corporal and Rocco exchanged swift looks. The trooper’s grim lips curled into the slightest trace of an anticipatory grin. The captain’s subordinate was obviously going to relish the physical confrontation he expected to begin momentarily. “I can’t do a damn thing about this guy,” Rocco said to the corporal. “Captain Norbert’s my brother-in-law.”

  “I would like to point out that Wentworth is a civilian,” Norbert said.

  “A very perceptive one,” R
occo added.

  The bedroom was small, but as comfortable as the other rooms in the cottage. There was one narrow window near a canopied bed that had curtains which could be drawn to the floor on drafty nights. A small bedside table and an ornately carved wardrobe completed the remainder of the room’s furnishings. White walls with colorful cafe curtains gave a cheerful touch that lightened the room.

  When Rocco radioed for backup and the medical examiner, Loyce Swan had left the dining area and the body of her husband and climbed the stairs to the small bedroom. Now she lay fully dressed on the bed and stared up at the canopy.

  Lyon stood at the foot of the bed. She gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. “What happened?” he asked.

  There was a delay before she answered. “I don’t know.” Her voice was flat and devoid of feeling.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. I often wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “I was in the garden. That’s in the side yard just outside the kitchen door. I heard voices arguing and then the shots. When I ran inside he was slumped over the computer like you found him. The front door was closed and no one else was there.”

  “Were the voices you heard male or female?”

  “I really couldn’t say. I could tell that one was Markham’s, of course. The other person could have been anyone. I was outside, beyond a heavy door, and they were in an interior room. I really didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Why did you want to kill him?”

  She sat up with an abrupt movement and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her gaze looked through him as if she were actually focusing on a spot just over his head. It was a look of fright, loss, and the bewilderment that precedes the horror of overwhelming acceptance. As she spoke, a tremor caused her hands to shake. “If I had killed him it would have been because of all the women he made love to. He was a philanderer who gave the word a bad name. He didn’t just want some women, he wanted all of them. And I still loved him. Which probably proves that I had a problem.”