(1/12) Blindsight

by Cook, Robin

  “Let’s get out of here,” Angelo said. He felt a little green. “Wipe off any prints from that machine.”

  Five minutes later they retraced their steps and climbed back out the window. They’d considered using the door but decided against it in case it was wired.

  Once in the car, Angelo began to relax. Cerino had been right. Dominick hadn’t been lying. It hadn’t been a setup. As he pulled away from the curb, Angelo felt a sense of accomplishment. “Well, that’s the end of the acid boys,” he said. “Now we have to get back to real work.”

  “Did you show the second list to Cerino?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, but we’ll still start from the first list,” Angelo said. “The second list will be easier.”

  “Makes no difference to me,” Tony said. “But what do you say we eat first? Sitting around the Vesuvio made me hungry. How about another pizza?”

  “I think we’d better get one job done first,” Angelo said. He wanted to put a little distance between the grisly scene at the Spoletto Funeral Home and his next meal.

  Embroiled again in the recurrent nightmare about her brother sinking into the bottomless black mud, Laurie was thankful for her alarm’s jangle that pulled her from her deep sleep. Barely awake she reached over to the alarm and turned it off. Before she could retract her arm back into the warm covers, the alarm went off again. That was when Laurie realized it wasn’t the alarm. It was the telephone.

  “Dr. Montgomery, this is Dr. Ted Ackerman,” the caller said. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I’m the tour doctor on call and I got a message that I should call you if a certain kind of case came in.”

  Laurie was too bewildered to respond. Glancing down at the clock she saw it was only two-thirty in the morning. No wonder she was having a tough time getting her bearings.

  “I just got a call,” Ted continued. “It sounds like the demographics you had mentioned. It also sounds like cocaine. The deceased is a banker, aged thirty-one. The name is Stuart Morgan.”

  “Where?” Laurie asked.

  “Nine-seventy Fifth Avenue,” Ted said. “Do you want to take the call or shall I just go? I don’t mind either way.”

  “I’ll go,” Laurie said. “Thanks.” She hung up the phone and stood up. She felt miserable. Tom, on the other hand, seemed pleased to be awake. Purring contentedly, he rubbed against her legs.

  Laurie threw on some clothes and grabbed a camera and several pairs of rubber gloves. She left her apartment still buttoning her coat and dreaming of returning home to climb back in bed.

  Outside, Laurie found her street deserted, but First Avenue had traffic. In five minutes she was in the back of a taxi with an Afghani freedom fighter for a driver. Fifteen minutes later she got out of the cab at 970 Fifth. An NYPD car and a city ambulance were pulled up on the sidewalk. Both vehicles had their emergency lights blinking impatiently.

  Inside, Laurie flashed her medical examiner’s badge and was directed to Penthouse B.

  “You the medical examiner?” a uniformed policeman asked with obvious amazement when Laurie entered the apartment and again showed her badge. His name tag read “Ron Moore.” He was a muscular, heavyset fellow in his late thirties.

  Laurie nodded, feeling little tolerance or reserve for what was coming.

  “Hell,” Ron said, “you don’t look like any of the medical examiners I’ve ever seen.”

  “Nonetheless I am,” Laurie said without humor.

  “Hey, Pete!” Moore yelled. “Get a load of what just walked in. A medical examiner who looks more like a Playboy Bunny!”

  Another uniformed but younger-appearing policeman poked his head from around a doorway. His eyebrows went up when he saw Laurie. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  He had a handful of correspondence in both hands.

  “Who is in charge here?” Laurie questioned.

  “I am, honey,” Ron said.

  “My name is Dr. Montgomery,” Laurie said. “Not honey.”

  “Sure, Doc,” Ron answered.

  “Who can give me a tour of the scene?” Laurie asked.

  “Might as well be me,” Ron said. “This here’s the living room, obviously. Notice the drug paraphernalia on the coffee table. The victim apparently injected himself there, then went into the kitchen. That’s where the body is. You get to the kitchen through the den.”

  Laurie took a quick look around the apartment. It was tiny but beautifully decorated. From her spot in the foyer, she could see the living room and part of the den. In the living room two large windows with a southern exposure afforded an extraordinary view. But more than the view, Laurie was interested in the clutter on the floor. It appeared that the room had been ransacked.

  “Was this a robbery?” Laurie asked.

  “Nah,” Ron said. “We did this. Part of our usual thorough investigation, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Laurie said.

  “We’re always exhaustive in our search,” Ron said.

  “For what?” Laurie demanded.

  “For proper identification,” Ron said.

  “You didn’t notice all these diplomas here on the foyer walls?” Laurie questioned while making a sweeping gesture. “The name seems to be rather obvious.”

  “Guess we didn’t see them,” Ron said.

  “Where’s the body?” Laurie asked.

  “I told you,” Ron said. “It’s in the kitchen.” He pointed toward the den.

  Laurie walked ahead, avoiding the debris on the floor, and stepped into the den. All the drawers to the desk were open. The contents looked as if they’d been roughly gone through.

  “I suppose you were looking for identification in here as well?” she said.

  “That’s right, Doc,” Ron said.

  Passing through the den, Laurie walked to the threshold of the kitchen. There she stopped. The kitchen was as messy as the other rooms. The entire refrigerator was emptied, including its shelves. Laurie also noticed some clothing scattered across the floor. The refrigerator’s door was slightly ajar. “Don’t tell me you were looking for identification in here as well?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Hell, no!” Ron said. “The victim did this himself.”

  “Where’s the body?” Laurie asked.

  “In the refrigerator,” Ron said.

  Laurie stepped to the refrigerator and opened the door. Ron wasn’t kidding. Stuart Morgan was wedged into the refrigerator compartment. He was almost naked, clothed only in Jockey shorts, a money belt, and socks. His face was bone white. His right arm was raised, his hand balled into a tight fist.

  “I can’t understand why he wanted to climb into the refrigerator,” Ron said. “Weirdest thing I’ve seen since I joined the force.”

  “It’s called hyperpyrexia,” Laurie said, staring at Stuart Morgan. “Cocaine can make people’s temperature go sky high. The users get a little crazy. They’d do anything to get their temperature down. But this is the first one I’ve seen in a refrigerator.”

  “If you’ll release the body we can let the ambulance boys take Stuart away,” Ron said. “We’re pretty much done otherwise.”

  “Did you touch the body?” Laurie asked suddenly.

  “What are you talking about?” Ron said nervously.

  “Just what I said. Did you or Pete touch the body?”

  “Well . . .” Ron said. He didn’t seem inclined to answer.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “We had to find out if he were dead,” Ron said. “But that was pretty easy since he was cold as one of those cucumbers on the floor.”

  “So you merely reached in and felt for a pulse?” Laurie suggested.

  “That’s right,” Ron said.

  “Which pulse?” Laurie asked.

  “The wrist,” Ron said.

  “The right wrist?” Laurie asked.

  “Hey, you’re getting too specific,” Ron said. “I can’t remember which wrist.”

  “Let me tell yo
u something,” Laurie said as she removed the lens cap from her camera and started taking pictures of the body in the refrigerator. “See that right arm in the air?”

  “Yeah,” Ron said.

  “It’s staying up in the air because of rigor mortis,” Laurie said. Her camera flashed as she took a photo.

  “I’ve heard of that,” Ron said.

  “But rigor mortis develops after the arm has been flaccid for a while,” Laurie said. “Does that suggest something to you about this body?” Laurie took another photo from a different angle.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ron said.

  “It suggests that the body was moved after death,” Laurie said. “Like perhaps out of the refrigerator and then back. And it had to be several hours after death because it takes about two hours for rigor mortis to set in.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” Ron said. “Maybe Pete should hear about this.” Ron went to the door to the den and yelled for Pete to come into the kitchen. When he did, Ron explained what Laurie had told him.

  “Maybe this guy’s girlfriend pulled him out,” Pete suggested.

  “This overdose was found by the deceased’s girlfriend?” Laurie asked. The torture drug abusers put their loved ones through was horrible.

  “That’s right,” Pete said. “The girlfriend called 911. So maybe she pulled him out.”

  “And then stuffed him back in?” Laurie questioned with skepticism. “Hardly likely.”

  “What do you think happened?” Ron asked.

  For a moment Laurie stared at the two policemen, wondering what approach she should take.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said finally. She pulled on her rubber gloves. “But for now I want to examine the body, release it to the hospital people, and go home.”

  Laurie reached in and touched Stuart Morgan’s body. It was hard, due to the rigor mortis, and cold. As she examined him, it was obvious that his other limbs were in unnatural positions as well as the right arm. She noticed an IV site in the antecubital fossa of the left arm. Except for the refrigerator, the case certainly seemed uncannily similar to the Duncan Andrews, Robert Evans, and Marion Overstreet overdoses.

  Straightening up, Laurie turned to Ron. “Would you mind helping me lift the body out of the refrigerator?” she asked.

  “Pete, you help her,” Ron said.

  Pete made an expression of annoyance but accepted the rubber gloves from Laurie and put them on. Together they lifted Stuart Morgan from the refrigerator and laid him out on the floor.

  Laurie took several more photos. To her trained mind, it was obvious from the attitude of the body that the rigor mortis had taken place while the body had been in the refrigerator. That much was clear. But it was also clear that the position the body was in when she found it was not the position it had been in originally.

  As she was photographing the body, Laurie noticed that the money belt was partially open. Its zipper was caught on some paper money. She moved in for a close-up.

  Putting her camera aside, Laurie bent down to examine the money belt more closely. With some difficulty, she managed to work the zipper loose and open the pouch. Inside were three single dollar bills with torn edges from having been caught in the zipper.

  Standing up, Laurie handed the three dollars to Ron. “Evidence,” she said.

  “Evidence of what?” Ron said.

  “I’ve heard of cases where police steal from the scenes of accidents or homicides,” Laurie said. “But I’d never expected to be confronted by such an obvious case.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ron demanded.

  “The body can be moved, Sergeant Moore,” Laurie said. “And I am supposed to extend an invitation to you to come and see the autopsy. Frankly, I hope I never see you again.”

  Laurie snapped off her rubber gloves, threw them in the trash, grabbed her camera, and left the apartment.

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Tony said as he pushed the remains of a pizza away from him. He pulled the napkin from his collar where he’d tucked it and wiped his mouth of tomato stains. “What’s the matter. You don’t like pepperoni? You’re eating like a bird.”

  Angelo sipped his San Pellegrino mineral water. Its fizz tended to settle his stomach which was still churning from the Spoletto Funeral Home visit. He’d tried several bites of the pizza, but it hadn’t appealed to him. In fact it made him nauseated, so he’d been impatient for Tony to finish.

  “You done?” Angelo asked Tony.

  “Yeah,” Tony said, sucking his teeth. “But I wouldn’t mind having a coffee.”

  They were sitting in a small all-night Italian pizza joint in Elmhurst, not far from the Vesuvio. There was a handful of customers sitting at widely spaced Formica tables despite the fact it was three-thirty in the morning. An old-fashioned juke box was playing favorites from the fifties and sixties.

  Angelo had another mineral water while Tony had a quick espresso.

  “Ready?” Angelo asked when Tony’s empty espresso cup clanked against the saucer. Angelo was eager to get going, but felt he owed it to Tony to relax for a while. After all, they had been busy.

  “Ready,” Tony said with a final wipe with his napkin. They stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and walked out into the cold November night. Tucking their heads into their coats, they dashed for the car. It had started drizzling.

  With the motor running to get the heater up to temperature, Angelo took the second list from the glove compartment and scanned it. “Here’s one in Kew Garden Hills,” he said. “That’s nice and convenient, and it should be fast and easy.”

  “This is going to be fun,” Tony said eagerly. He burped. “Love that pepperoni.”

  Angelo put the sheet back into the glove compartment. As he pulled out into the deserted street, he said, “Working at night sure makes it easier to get around town.”

  “The only problem is getting used to sleeping all day,” Tony said. He pulled out his Beretta Bantam and screwed the silencer on over the muzzle.

  “Put that thing away until we get there,” Angelo said. “You make me nervous.”

  “Just getting ready,” Tony said. He tried to jam the gun back into the holster, but with its silencer it didn’t quite fit. The butt stuck out of his jacket. “I’ve been looking forward to this part of the operation because we don’t have to be so careful pussyfooting around.”

  “We still have to be careful,” Angelo snapped. “In fact we always have to be careful.”

  “Calm down,” Tony said. “You know what I mean. We won’t have to worry about all that crazy stuff. Now it’s going to be fast and we leave. I mean, boom, it’s over and we’re out the door.” He pretended to shoot a pedestrian with his index finger extended from his hand, sighting down his knuckle.

  It took them a while to find the house, a modest, two-story affair made of stone and stucco with a slate roof. It was situated on a quiet street that dead-ended into a cemetery.

  “Not bad,” Tony said. “These people must have a few bucks.”

  “And possibly an alarm system,” Angelo said. He pulled over to the side of the road and parked. “Let’s hope it’s nothing complicated. I don’t want any complications.”

  “Who gets whacked?” Tony asked.

  “I forgot,” Angelo said. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the second list. “The woman,” he said after locating the name. He returned the list to the glove compartment. “And let’s get this straight so there will be no confusion: I’ll do her. They’ll probably be in bed, so you cover the man. If he wakes up, whack him. You understand?”

  “Of course I understand,” Tony said. “What do you think I am? An imbecile? I understand perfectly. But you know how much I enjoy this stuff, so how’s about I do her and you cover the man.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Angelo said. He took out his gun and attached a silencer. “This is work, not some turkey shoot. We’re not here to have fun.”

&nb
sp; “What difference does it make if you whack her or I whack her?” Tony asked.

  “Ultimately, no difference at all,” Angelo said. “But I’m in charge, and I’m shooting the woman. I want to make sure she’s dead. I’m the one who has to answer to Cerino.”

  “So you think you can shoot someone better than me?” Tony said. He seemed insulted.

  “For Chrissake, Tony,” Angelo said. “You can do the next one. How about we take turns?”

  “Okay, that’s fair,” Tony said. “Share and share alike.”

  “Glad you approve,” Angelo said. Then, looking briefly up at the ceiling of the car, he added: “I feel like I’m back in kindergarten. All right, let’s go!”

  They climbed out of the car, crossed the street, and melted into the dense, wet shrubbery surrounding the house in question. Arriving at the back door, Angelo studied it carefully, running his hand over the architrave, peering through the cracks with a small flashlight, and inspecting the hardware. He straightened up.

  “No alarm,” Angelo said with amazement, “unless it’s something I haven’t seen.”

  “You want to go through a window or a door?” Tony asked.

  “The door should be easy enough,” Angelo said.

  With his pocketknife Tony made short work of the caulking around one of the glass panes bordering the door. With a pair of needle-nosed pliers, he pulled out the wire brads, then lifted the pane out. Reaching inside, he unbolted the door and turned the knob.

  The door opened with only a minor squeak of protest. No alarms sounded and no vicious dogs barked. Angelo silently stepped inside, holding his gun up alongside of his head. He let his eyes roam around the room. It seemed to be a family room with gingham-covered couches and a large-screen television. He listened for a minute, then lowered his gun. After testing for alarms, he began to relax. Everything seemed to be fine; the place was there for the taking.

  Motioning for Tony to follow, Angelo moved silently to the front entrance hall. Together the two men crept up a grand circular staircase. The stairs led them to an upstairs corridor with a half-dozen doors opening onto it. Each of the doors was slightly ajar save for one. Trusting his instincts, Angelo made his way straight for it. When he was sure Tony was right behind him, he tried the door. It pushed open at his touch.