“The Manhattan district attorney assigned me to head an investigation,” Ben said. “There’s been quite a bit of public speculation about the case.”
“What kind of speculation?”
Where did this guy live, Ben wondered, on the moon? “About what might have been going on at the time of the senator’s death. As you know, he wasn’t alone when it happened.”
Phelps put his head back and looked down his nose at the detective. “That’s quite so. Two women were with him. If you’re suggesting there was something improper about that, the allegation is absurd.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Ben said. “Nor am I making allegations. All I said was, there’s been a lot of public speculation.”
Phelps sniffed. “The public should get its collective mind out of the gutter. This was a great tragedy—not only for the Cunninghams but for the entire state. The country, too, for that matter. His family built this hospital, you know.”
“Yes, I did know that,” Ben said.
“And Lord only knows how many charities they support. We all have to go sometime, but the senator was one of a kind.”
Ben was getting a little tired of hearing clichés about Clayton Cunningham. He wondered whether Phelps would now tell him they didn’t make them like that anymore.
“I spoke with the police last night, of course,” Phelps said. “They were there when I arrived at the senator’s office. I assume they issued a report.”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
Phelps folded his hands across his belly. “Then you know all you need to know, Lieutenant.”
Maybe, Ben thought, and maybe not. “I understand the senator died of a heart attack.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell me what caused it?”
“What caused it? A coronary thrombosis.”
“And what is that, exactly?” Ben knew, but he wanted to get Phelps talking about it.
“A thrombosis is an occlusion of the circulatory system,” the doctor said. He sounded as if he was lecturing a class of medical students. “Caused by a clot, or thrombus. In Senator Cunningham’s case, it produced a stationary blockage in one of the arteries of his heart.”
“And when that happens, the patient dies?”
“Not always. But this one was massive. The occlusion resulted in myocardial infarction.” He paused, then continued in the same condescending tone. “Which in turn caused the heart to lose its ability to maintain adequate blood circulation. The result was cardiac failure. The heart stopped beating; he was dead.”
“Then I take it death was quite sudden?”
“Almost instantaneous. Blood supply was cut off from his brain, so he was rendered unconscious virtually at once. For all practical purposes, that was the moment of death.”
“I see. Then he was dead by the time you got there.”
“Quite dead.” Phelps was regarding him with a steady gaze through the silver-rimmed spectacles. It must be wonderful, Ben thought, to consider yourself possessed of knowledge ordinary mortals could only marginally understand.
“Did the paramedics undertake emergency procedures?”
The physician was obviously becoming nettled by the insistent questioning. “Yes, of course they did. They attempted defibrillation, which involves shocking the heart with electric paddles held against the chest. But it was much too late and wouldn’t have been effective, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you call a medical examiner?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why? The law says—”
“Don’t lecture me on the law, young man. It states that in such an event, an examiner must be notified unless the deceased was attended by his physician. I was at the scene, and he had been my patient for twelve years.”
“How long had he been having heart problems?”
Phelps’s eyebrows raised slightly. “He hadn’t. Until this incident, I had seen no evidence of arteriosclerosis, and therefore there was no warning.”
“Isn’t that unusual? For a patient to die from the first such attack, with no sign of a problem before that?”
The eyebrows came down again, and now Phelps’s voice carried a distinct note of annoyance. “No, Lieutenant, it’s not. Senator Cunningham was in generally good condition for his age, but he worked much too hard, drove himself relentlessly. And hardening of the arteries in a seventy-two-year-old man is hardly unusual.”
“But you said you’d seen no sign of it.”
Phelps leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “I said he hadn’t had problems with his heart. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a number of matters to attend to. Good night, Lieutenant.”
“Sure. Just one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“Why no autopsy? Wouldn’t that clear up some of these points?”
“There are no points that need clearing up, as you put it. In front of witnesses, Senator Cunningham suffered a fatal heart attack. One of the witnesses attempted CPR, which was ineffectual. Paramedics applied emergency procedures, which didn’t work, either. I then examined him and pronounced him dead. The family didn’t want an autopsy, because that would only inspire more stupid speculation.”
Ben was about to say that it wasn’t his speculation, stupid or otherwise, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he asked, “The body was brought here?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it now?”
“At the Bennett Funeral Home. It was sent there at the family’s request.” Phelps was on the edge of hostility now. “What was your name again, Lieutenant?”
Ben got to his feet and smiled. “Tolliver. Thanks for the chat, Doc.”
He turned and left the office, walking through the hospital corridors toward the front entrance.
Maybe it was because of Phelps’s attitude, or maybe because Ben didn’t believe a number of the things he’d been told—first by Ardis Merritt and then by Jessica Silk, and now by this haughty dickhead. Or maybe it was because Ben was a stubborn cop who’d finally gotten his back up. Whatever, he’d be damned if he’d simply walk away now—not as long as so many people were working hard to cover this up.
There was one more person he could check who might give him some answers he could rely on. But Ben would have to hurry, before they covered that one up, too.
12
The Bennett Funeral Home featured a chapel the size of a small church. The establishment was on the west side of Madison Avenue, in the low Eighties, blending in nicely with a number of the city’s renowned art galleries and boutiques. The area was famed for posh shopping.
Givenchy, for example, was a few blocks down, handy if you didn’t have time to zip over to Paris for additions to your wardrobe. So was Gimple & Weitzenhoffer, where you could pick up a Picasso or a Manet for a few million, or a Nikki de Saint Phalle, if you preferred something more contemporary. The Carlyle was also in the neighborhood, Jack Kennedy’s favorite Manhattan hotel, back in his sporting days.
Like the other businesses in the area, the mortuary carried out its functions with taste and dignity and was discreet about the people it served. Thus when it came time to depart, sophisticated New Yorkers considered the Bennett Funeral Chapel the only way to go.
For its patrons, Bennett’s would do the preparation, which in the genteel jargon of the boneyard industry meant embalming the corpse, and then there would be a viewing and a service in the chapel. Burial or cremation would follow.
But this was for customers who were merely run-of-the-mill rich. The really rich, the people with superbucks, used Bennett’s for the first stage of a two-stage send-off. First, they would have a private service in the chapel, by invitation only. Like a wedding reception, only more somber. That would be attended by members of the family and a few hundred close friends, including persons of political or business prominence.
After that, the show went on the road, shifting to a suitable church or cathedral, where it would be open to the public. Finally, after ever
yone from the high to the low had taken a last look and the eulogies had been delivered and the television cameras had covered the notables getting in and out of glossy black limousines, the deceased would be laid to rest. In a mausoleum, or a family plot, or occasionally in a private cemetery, when the individual was so important it would be unseemly to associate with commoners, even after the soul had moved on.
Cremation was out. To members of this class, that whole process was considered gauche, to put it mildly. Especially when it was carried to the extreme of heaving the ashes out of airplanes or dumping them into the ocean. Such ceremonies were thought to be vulgar, on a par with voodoo rites.
Clayton Cunningham would go in a two-stager, Ben knew, and a memorable one, at that. Even among such grand events, his would be an outstanding production. The detective parked in front of Bennett’s and went into the lobby.
The place was busy, with evening viewings going on in two of the so-called slumber rooms. Its decor reminded Ben of what he’d seen in the Cunningham Foundation building, quietly understated, with oil paintings in gold frames, dignified drapes and carpeting, the furniture apparently all antiques. Men and women wearing dark clothes and sad expressions were moving through the lobby, and the smell of flowers was so heavy you could slice it.
A patrician-looking gentleman in a cutaway and striped trousers approached, smiling politely as he asked Tolliver which visitation he’d come for. Ben told him neither one and showed the guy his shield and ID, saying he wanted to talk to whoever was in charge.
“I’m Mr. Westover,” the man said in a low voice, “one of the directors.” He drew Tolliver to one side. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“No, no problem,” Ben said. “I’m in charge of an investigation into the death of Senator Cunningham. I want to see his body.”
That got a reaction. Westover frowned, but then quickly recovered. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see—”
Tolliver knew exactly how to handle a situation like this one. All he had to do was raise his voice. In a loud tone, he said, “This is a police matter, and it’s urgent.”
The funeral director jumped as if he’d been goosed with an icicle. He raised his hands, palms up. “Please, Lieutenant. The uh, subject is still in preparation. It wouldn’t—”
Ben turned up the volume another notch. “I said this is police business.”
It had the desired effect. Westover glanced quickly from side to side in hopes they hadn’t been overheard. “Come this way,” he said.
Ben followed him through a door at one end of the lobby and then down a long hallway leading toward the rear of the building. They turned a corner and went down a flight of stairs and Westover stopped before another door.
Before opening it, he turned to the detective. “Lieutenant, may I at least ask why this is necessary? Is anything wrong?”
“No, there isn’t. It’s just that the senator was a very important man. I have to do a complete report for the district attorney’s office, and this is only one step.”
“I see. And all you want to do is look at the body?”
“That’s it.”
“Very well. Forgive me for seeming reluctant, but I’m sure you understand. We’re very circumspect about our clientele.”
“Sure,” Ben said. “I understand completely.”
Westover opened the door and Tolliver followed him inside.
The room had the appearance of a medical facility. It was about fifteen feet square, its walls and floor surfaced in pale green ceramic tile. There were no windows; light came from overhead fluorescent bars. At one end was a row of cabinets with a stainless-steel sink in the center of the countertop and next to that stood a porcelain table with raised edges.
On the table lay the nude corpse of Clayton Cunningham III, its head resting on a concave block.
A machine mounted on a mobile cart was positioned beside the table. At the top of the device was a transparent cylinder filled with an orangy pink liquid. A tube ran from the apparatus to the cadaver’s neck. The machine was chugging steadily, pumping the contents of the cylinder into the senator’s body.
Two men were in the room, both wearing surgical masks and rubber aprons and gloves. One appeared to be monitoring gauges at the base of the machine, while the other was putting surgical instruments into a sterilizer.
“This is Lieutenant Tolliver of the police department,” West-over said to them. “He’s making a routine check on the passing of Senator Cunningham. Lieutenant, this is Mr. Zander and Mr. Potensky.”
Both men nodded and went about their business.
Westover gestured toward the table. “We’re in the process of injecting embalming fluid at the moment.”
“So I see,” Ben said.
“The equipment we use is all state-of-the-art. You’ll note the machine operates with the same rhythm as the beating of the human heart. It’s called a Porti-Boy.”
Catchy name, Ben thought. He stepped to the table for a closer look at the body.
To his surprise, Cunningham didn’t appear at all peaceful, the way people invariably did when they were laid out prior to burial. The senator’s eyes were open and staring hard and his lips were drawn back over his teeth in a rictus, as if he were experiencing severe pain.
The embalmer standing by the machine noticed Tolliver’s reaction. “I haven’t set his features yet,” he said. “An expression like that is common with sudden death.”
It had been common in Ben’s experience as well, although the circumstances had been different. He’d seen expressions like it often enough, but always on people who’d been knifed, or shot, or bludgeoned with a heavy object.
Westover hastily interjected, “Of course he won’t look anything like that when he’s fully prepared. We take a great deal of pride in a client’s appearance.”
The door opened and another guy in a cutaway and striped pants stepped into the room. He whispered something to Westover and the director turned to Ben, saying, “Sorry, but I’m wanted upstairs. Shall we go back, Lieutenant?”
“You go ahead,” Ben said. “I’ll just be another minute or two.”
Westover again seemed hesitant, but then he said he’d be back shortly to show the detective out. He and the other man left the room.
Ben resumed his study of the dead man’s face. The features were familiar, of course, despite the way they were contorted now. He’d seen the heavy jaw, the prominent nose, the thick shock of black hair countless times in newspaper photographs and on TV. It was also remarkable how much the senator resembled his grandfather in the portrait Tolliver had seen earlier in the day—and how much his son looked like him.
“His color will be better, too,” Zander said, “when we get finished with him.” He inclined his head toward the cylinder atop the steadily chugging machine. “We use a cosmetic dye in the formula, along with the formaldahyde and the phenol. That’s what gives it that pink shade. Stuff’s called Lifetone. Makes him look real healthy.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Ben said.
“We also use topical cosmetics on the face and hands as a final touch.”
“Uh-huh.” Tolliver continued to stare at the twisted countenance. “Right now, he looks like he was in a lot of pain when he died.”
“Yeah, I’d say he was.”
Ben turned to the embalmer. “You said an expression like that is common with sudden death. That includes people who’ve had a heart attack?”
“Sometimes. At least when somebody had a coronary. You also see it with pectoral angina. But not so often if the heart just failed, the way it often does with a very old person.”
“So in this instance, does it look to you like the senator died of a coronary?”
Zander hesitated. “It could be.”
“It could be?”
“Right.”
“But not necessarily?”
“No, not necessarily.”
“And therefore, it could have been something else. Is that correct?�
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“It’s possible.”
“I see. So now tell me this. In your opinion—your opinion, mind you—did this man die of a heart attack?”
The embalmer’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what it says on the death certificate.”
“I know what it says. But that’s not what I asked you.”
“I don’t know what he died of. I’m not a doctor.”
Tolliver looked at the other man, Potensky. “And what about you—what’s your opinion?”
Potensky returned Ben’s gaze and then glanced away. “I’m not a doctor, either.”
Tolliver folded his arms. “Come on over here, both of you.”
The two men stepped toward him. They seemed nervous, but it was hard to read their faces with only their eyes showing above the surgical masks.
“Let’s get something straight,” Ben said. “I know you’re not doctors. I know your answers can be only opinions. But that’s all I’m asking for.”
For a few moments, neither embalmer spoke. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic chug of the Porti-Boy. Then Zander said, “Lieutenant, if I tell you anything, could it be just between us?”
“Absolutely. What is it?”
“It won’t get back to the management here?”
“You have my word,” Ben said, “that I’ll protect you. Anything either one of you tells me will stay strictly confidential.”
“Okay,” Zander said. “In my opinion, this man did not die from a heart attack. How about it, Dave?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Both men were now holding the detective in a fixed gaze.
Ben stared back at them. “What makes you say that?”
“We knew it right away,” Zander said, “when we drained him.”
“It was obvious,” Potensky said.
Zander continued: “See, when there’s a clot in one of the major heart arteries, it creates a problem for us. Makes it harder to get the blood out. We have to get it out before we put in the embalming fluid. If we can’t get all of it, we have to use a special preinjection formula that’s got anticoagulants in it. Otherwise, the clot obstructs the fluid distribution—what we’re doing now. But with the senator here, the whole thing’s been going like zip. Nothing to it.”
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