by Liz Turner
“Right this way,” Truman said, turning down a hallway. The building was very small, just a front room, a narrow hallway, and the back room for the autopsy examinations. The room was lined with eerie green tile, and the floor was gray linoleum. Designed to be easy to clean with a single hose. All was familiar to Hallie, but as she looked around at the various “hazardous waste” bins, she remembered why it was she had opted to move from medical examiner to general practitioner. The place was downright creepy. A spindly metal table stood in the center beneath a bright light. On top was a figure cloaked in a white sheet. Next to the table stood a large aluminum sink and a tray full of sterilized tools. “We had some techs prepare the body for you,” Truman was saying. “We’ll let you get straight to work—we’ll be working out some other leads at the station. Please come find us when you’re finished. Hopefully you will be able to tell us how John Doe died out there by the tree.”
Once left alone, Hallie donned a lab coat, gloves, and surgical mask to block out the smell from the decaying corpse. She pulled back the white sheet. The man was as handsome as she remembered. His ash-blond hair was thick and hung attractively over his face; he had a chiseled jaw with high cheekbones and thin lips that drooped downward. He was striking. She began by opening his jaw. His teeth were crooked and yellowed, but he had several silver cavity fillings. Odd, she thought. Clearly, this man has had dental work, but probably not in the United States. Hallie didn’t know of any American dentist who used silver fillings. She checked the throat: empty, unblocked. No, this man hadn’t choked to death. As she moved further down the body, she noted a few patches of the severe sunburn that also marred his face. It was strange, though, how the sunburn appeared erratically, as though the man had spent several days in the sun with odd-shaped holes in his clothing. A reddish patch on his stomach, here again on his left shoulder blade. Yet, his hands were perfectly clear, as were his neck and arms.
When she had finished the examination, Hallie still hadn’t determined a cause of death. There were no signs of physical trauma—no bruises, no cuts, not even a minor scratch anywhere on the body. Hallie had felt around the man’s skull for signs of a contusion and come across nothing that would have been fatal. He hadn’t been suffocated, either. She sighed with frustration. How was it that this apparently healthy man had just leaned against the tree in the park and died? From Hallie’s point of view, his heart had simply stopped. She moved the sheet back over his face and peeled off her gloves. She had better go meet the others at the police station. She may not have the cause of the death, but she was certain about something else.
Chapter 5
A Lack of Clues
T he station was by far the most imposing building in Sandwich. It was a rectangular brick building, with a protruding stone steps and white columns. She entered to find the place quiet, officers at work at their paper-strewn desks. Then she spotted Detective Truman down a hallway. She hurried up to him.
“Doctor Malone! Just the person we wanted to see. I’ve just finished getting Ms. Shirley’s statement,” he said, turning around at her approach.
“And?” Hallie asked, eager to find out if Shirley, her mind fresh with a night of sleep, may have offered something of use to the case.
“And,” Truman said, sipping from a mug, “Her story was the same as it was last night. She saw the man once in the morning, and then again, in the same place as before, last night. It was then that she went to check on him and discovered he was dead. And you know what happened from there.” He sighed. “I tried to press her to recall if she had seen him before at any point, or if she had seen anyone else hanging around that area of the park yesterday, but the poor girl is somewhat traumatized. Just kept repeating the events of last night. I sent her home. I’ll the men post fliers of the man’s photo around town, in all the train stations in Massachusetts. Maybe someone will recognize him and come forward.” He shook his head. Hallie’s heart sank. She wished she had more conclusive results to share herself. This case was seeming more and more impossible to crack. “Come into my office,” Truman said.
Hallie followed him to a set of large double doors. Inside were the three young officers from before, and they were puzzling over something on the table between them.
“Perhaps he makes them himself!” One of the young officers was saying, a thin man with a shock of jet black hair.
“Of this quality? You think he makes his own suits? Don’t be dense,” replied a chubby, red-haired officer.
Hallie peered at Truman. He cleared his throat loudly, and the men sat up straight. “Doctor Malone has finished her examination.” He nodded at Hallie.
She fidgeted. “Now, before you get too excited,” she said, laughing a bit. “I haven’t yet determined the cause of death—but I have ruled out several possibilities. And I think I’ve uncovered another key piece of information.” All eyes were on her. “John Doe is not American. At least, it’s very unlikely that he is. In fact, I think he is from Europe, specifically, Eastern Europe.”
The black-haired man piped up, “I knew it! He just didn’t seem…. But how did you determine that, Doctor Malone?”
Hallie explained about the silver cavity fillings, common in certain parts of Europe, but rare in the United States. Also, she confessed, his odd dress and his chiseled features were indicative of eastern European descent, but that was just a hunch. “But now,” she said, finally, “What’s all the commotion in here about?” She sat down at the table with the men. Laid out were John Doe’s clothes.
Truman asked her eagerly, “Do you notice anything odd about these clothes?”
Hallie looked closely. The material was high quality, but too heavy for summer. Also, there was the matter of the clothes seeming… off. What was it? Hallie had chocked it up to being just an unusual European style, but suddenly it dawned on her. She exclaimed, “There are no labels! On anything! It’s as though he did make his own clothing.” She nodded slightly at the black-haired officer.
Truman nodded. “And that’s not all. Or rather, it is all.”
“What do you mean?” Hallie asked curiously.
“I mean, that’s all that was on the body. No sort of identification. No wallet. No money of any kind. Not even a pocket watch; not even a comb for his hair.” Truman said this with a twinge of frustration. Clearly, he viewed this as a setback.
But Hallie was excited by the news. “Interesting,” she mused aloud. “The lack of clues… is actually a very good clue indeed.” The officers looked at her blankly. She continued, “Well, just think about it. What sort of man ends up without any identification at all?” When they didn’t answer, she added, “The sort that doesn’t want to be identified! Yes, John Doe has taken great care to make sure his identity was not revealed, even in death. No papers, no dental records in this country, no personal items, not even any indication of where he bought his clothes…nothing to point us to who he is, or what he was doing in Cape Cod.”
The third officer, a meek-looking man with thinning brown hair, spoke up. “So, what are we looking at here then? A middle-aged runaway? A man trying to avoid some creditors overseas? A mobster?” The last word was spoken with a fearful urgency.
Hallie chuckled. “Perhaps. And I think you’re on the right track.” Turning to Truman, she said, “I want to have another look at the body. I think I may have missed something.” The wheels were turning in her head.
Truman nodded, looking at her curiously. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”
***
Hallie reentered the morgue with Truman in tow. She put back on her gloves and white lab coat, but this time, she left off the mask. As she opened the body for the second time, she was overwhelmed by a distinctive smell. Hallie crinkled her nose. It was the smell of roasting almonds, but harsher—the odor stung in her nasal cavities.
“Ah hah!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Truman asked from the doorway.
“That smell. I missed it the first time because I was wearing a surg
ical mask. But after talking to your men, it occurred to me a cause of death that would be just suited for someone trying to disappear without a trace: Cyanide poisoning. It’s quick, easy, and extremely fatal. It wouldn’t attract attention, and it would leave no trace of itself. That is, aside from its telltale smell…and these reddened patches of skin,” Hallie said triumphantly, gesturing to the places she had assumed were sunburned. “If you wanted to disappear, cyanide is the way to do it.”
“That’s fantastic!” Truman replied. “Er, not for John Doe here, but for us.” He stroked his mustache. “Wait a minute now, are you suggesting that he ingested the cyanide on purpose? A suicide?”
“I’m simply saying that’s a possibility. Among others.”
“Such as?”
“Well…” Hallie hesitated. “Homicide, for one.”
Truman nodded somberly. “Yes, I suppose those are about the only two probable answers. Who could ingest cyanide accidentally?” Hallie noticed his sad expression. Truman continued, his eyes unfocused. “I suppose I just don’t understand it, Doctor Malone. Why would anyone—a healthy, young, and apparently well-off man like our John Doe—come all the way across the Atlantic, find our little town, and then just commit suicide?” He looked at Hallie with a strange expression on his face. “It’s just…the war is over. After going through all that as a young man and coming out on the other side a survivor… only to end it yourself? Five long years of fighting to liberate your country….” He seemed stricken.
“Detective Truman, were you a soldier in the war?” Hallie asked kindly. He seemed lost in thought, but abruptly he looked at her and nodded, his old confidence returned.
“That I was, Doctor Malone. A soldier. Of course—” he clapped his hands lightly. “There’s nothing to say that Mr. Doe here was. I suppose I got a little sentimental. But something about him strikes me as military. I’m not quite sure what.” He smiled, his face turning a light shade of pink.
Hallie placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “I don’t know, Detective Truman. He might be a soldier yet.” She looked down at the man on the table. What was his story? she wondered. What was he doing here? And how did it turn out so badly? “One other interesting thing I noticed,” she said.
Truman looked interested, any trace of the man who must have seen horrors during the war, gone. “What’s that, Doctor Malone?” He whipped out his notebook and began to scribble in it.
“His hair has been dyed,” Hallie said. She lifted a section of his blonde hair to reveal dark auburn roots.
“Well,” Truman said. “That certainly goes along with our loose theory so far, then, doesn’t it? The man was certainly hiding his true identity. He did not want to be recognized.”
Just then there was a knock at the morgue door. Hallie answered it to find the chubby red-headed officer, breathless, his hands on his knees. “Doctor Malone, is Detective Truman there with you?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” Hallie replied, attempting to help him to his feet.
“What is it?” Truman asked, appearing behind Hallie in a flash.
Through his wheezing, the young officer managed to relay to Hallie and Truman that after going through the man’s clothes more thoroughly, they had found something after all. Something most intriguing. “A key!”
Hallie and Truman looked at each other in surprise, and the two followed the young officer back to the station. Upon arriving back at Truman’s office, the brown-haired officer presented them with the deceased’s loafer.
“We discovered a secret compartment in the sole of his shoe!” he said excitedly, holding up the brown leather shoe. He carefully plied apart the heel to reveal a hollow center. Within it was a key. “It was Milton’s idea,” he said, pointing to the black-haired officer. “He said he had read something about secret compartments in shoes. Not a one of us believed him, too…. Until… well we found the key!” Marveling, Hallie held the key up to the light. It was small and silver, new. There was a number etched into the metal: 32.
Detective Truman clapped the boys on the back. “Great job! Have you any idea where it goes to?”
One of the men began speaking when Hallie interrupted. “A storage locker,” she said firmly. “My guess is one of the lockers at the train station where folk sometimes store their extra baggage on day trips.” She turned the key over in her palm. “You see how small it is? Far too small to be to a house. And it’s brand new—look how shiny it is. Unscathed metal. Sharp edges. It hasn’t been used but a few times. That rules out any of the old boathouses or any boardinghouse rooms. Those keys would be far more marred from use.”
Now it was Hallie’s turn to receive a clap on the back. “Doctor Malone! You’re brilliant. Perhaps we’ll find a clue to his identity in that locker! Or maybe even his name.”
***
Hallie and Detective Truman were seated in an outdoor café—Truman having insisted he take Hallie out for lunch for her help with the case. “We’ve gotta eat,” he had said, grinning. “And I need to eat something other than cafeteria food for a change.” Hallie had finally allowed herself to be persuaded when he told her the place was on the way to the train station; she hadn’t realized she hadn’t eaten all day. The excitement of the case seemed to whisk away her appetite.
The restaurant was Sandy’s Place, a cheerful little spot with white and red checkered umbrellas over the tables. Almost every table was taken, and groups of people frequently walked by on their way to the beach or the train station. Everyone was dressed well, if casually, the women wearing white blouses with starched collars tucked into pastel trousers, and the men wearing plaid shirts over their pressed pants. Smoke drifted around the area as people lit cigarettes.
Hallie tried to relax, to enjoy the breeze coming in from the shore, and return to the state of bliss she had been in until Shirley’s unexpected visit last night. But she couldn’t seem to let go of the case.
“…The bluefin tuna is fresh this morning, and I’d recommend that,” someone was saying. Hallie looked up blankly to find a smiling waiter—a boy of about seventeen, with hair slicked back sharply—at the edge of their table.
“Oh!” Hallie said, embarrassed to have been caught with her mind wandering. “Yes, yes, I’ll have that, thank you.” She quickly closed the menu they had been handed when they sat down and passed it to the waiter.
Truman was looking at her curiously, but he simply smiled and said that he would have the same. Once the waiter had left, he said, “You’re still thinking about the case, aren’t you?”
Hallie smiled sheepishly. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s just so strange—a cyanide poisoning case? In this little town? How does that happen?”
Truman stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “What would be your guess, Doctor Malone? A crime of passion? Two lovers in a spat, turns deadly?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No… the way the body was, posed so neatly against the tree…and the lack of identification, tells me that whatever this was, it was planned. Calculated.” She looked around at the happy couples and playful families. How was it that something like this could have happened here? She thought. She could almost forget all about it, here in the sun.
Truman looked like he was about to reply when the waiter returned with a pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses. “On the house for you, Detective Truman. Thank you for your service,” the waiter said, and performed a little salute. Truman nodded gallantly as the boy continued. “I’d like to enlist in the army next year. It’s too bad the war ended before I had the chance to show them who’s boss! I’ll catch the next one, though, Detective.”
Looking pained, Truman cautioned, “Your country always needs men like yourself, you’ve got that right. Don’t be wishing for another war anytime soon though.” The waiter nodded eagerly, clearly proud to have received such a compliment, and made for the kitchen.
Hallie looked at Truman, whose sad expression had returned. “The young kids don’t get it, do they?” she sa
id. “I served in the war, too—although not quite in the same way you did, Detective. I was a doctor in the army hospitals.”
Truman looked intrigued. “Yet another thing I didn’t know about you! Why, where were you stationed?”
“Mostly in France. Although I did spend some time in Belgium. Like much of the country, I felt the pull to help in any way I could. Luckily, it turned out my skills were in high demand,” Hallie chuckled. Then she grew sober. “I have to say, though that stint changed me. My whole career path. I went from mostly working as a medical examiner and in forensics, to wanting to help real, living people get better. Something about seeing so much preventable death in those zones…” she trailed off, taking a gulp of her lemonade.
Truman nodded in agreement. “I understand completely. For the first two years after I returned…I couldn’t fathom where I was. How was it that I could go one day living in an army camp, perpetually listening for enemy fire, to waking up the next day in my old cottage by the beach?”
“How did you manage? You seem quite well-adjusted now,” Hallie asked. She had met many other former soldiers who still seemed stuck in the battle zones. She had read recently that psychologists had designated a new term for the mental trauma sometimes incurred by soldiers: battle fatigue—or, more technically, Combat Stress Reaction. Some men just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that bombs might go off around them any moment, despite having been safely in their suburban homes for a year or more. Hallie had seen loud noises move grown men to tears; their minds would take over and convince them that the innocuous car backfire or fireworks display was in fact the sounds of the war.
“I suppose I channeled my energy into a new form of work: being a police officer. I discovered I had a knack for observation and quick thinking during the war…skills that translate excellently to my current line of work. It certainly helped to have a daily place to go where I could practice some of the same things again. I don’t know how some did it—coming home to work in a quiet office. That might have driven me mad.” He paused, then added, “And it didn’t hurt that my hometown is as beautiful as Sandwich!” He leaned back in his chair and opened his arms wide, as though he were trying to invite as much of the atmosphere in as he could.