I mulled a bit. “I wonder if Beecher’s Coggins is current,” I said, finally. “You and Joe can drop by tomorrow morning to check. A nice neighborly call. And if it isn’t current, Joe, draw a blood sample to send off the to the lab.”
“Perfect,” Madeline said. She dropped a kiss on my head and gathered her purse and coat about her. “Allegra’s off to class. I’m off to Wegman’s.” She glanced at her watch. “If you’ve got a two o’clock with Coughlin, sweetie, you’d better get going. Poor guy’ll pitch a fit if you’re late.”
I was twenty minutes late, as luck would have it. But it didn’t matter to Coughlin.
He was already dead when I got there.
Thirteen
JERRY Coughlin had sold his large house and successful clinic two years before, a consequence of an unusually unpleasant divorce. The practice was now located near a stretch of abandoned railroad tracks outside the village of Covert. I pulled into the graveled driveway and looked at the premises in some dismay. The house badly needed a paint job. Not to mention a new roof. The barn was sound, at least; the roof had been newly shingled and the north wall had been totally replaced with T1-11 siding. The outside paddocks were clean and well kept.
I knew something was wrong the moment I pulled the Bronco to a halt. For one thing, Lincoln was uneasy. He shifted restlessly in the front seat, ears up. He pawed at my knee and whined. I rolled the driver’s window down. I could hear lowing cattle. I got out of my vehicle. At the sound of my feet on the drive, a dog began to bark—short, high-pitched yelps that indicated a high degree of canine anxiety. Lincoln pushed his head out the window and barked back. The yelps increased to a crescendo. Jerry’s dog was an Akita, a beautiful breed that can be temperamental when under stress. Her name, I recalled, was Juno.
It would be prudent to avoid a dogfight. “Leash, please,” I said to Lincoln.
He stopped barking, gave me a brief, reproachful look, then retrieved his leash from its place under the front seat. I attached it to his collar and let him out of the car.
Juno appeared at the south corner of the house. She barked, spun around, and dashed back out of sight. Linc and I followed at a jog.
I had an intimation of disaster when I heard the sound of a truck motor. Jerry garaged it in a somewhat ramshackle shed at the back of his house. The intimation strengthened to surety when I saw the rolls of pink insulation jammed under the closed overhead door. Juno stood in front of the door, all four feet braced, the yapping nonstop.
I unsnapped Linc’s lead, told him to stay, and whistled for Juno. She danced frantically up to me. Age has sapped a bit of my strength, but not, thank god, my response time. I grabbed her collar, leashed her, tied her to the nearest shrub, and raced to the overhead door. I pulled at the handle, which was not locked, and flung the door upward.
Clouds of carbon dioxide-laden exhaust rolled from the space within. I took a breath and jumped over the insulation to the inside. Jerry had backed the truck in; I saw him slumped over the wheel. The driver’s window had been rolled down an inch or two. Plastic tubing ran from the exhaust pipe to the clearance. I tore the tubing away and pulled at the door handle.
The driver’s door was locked.
Lincoln raced back and forth between me and the frantic Juno, ignoring my command to stay down. I backed out of the choking air, took another breath, and returned inside. I had to get Jerry out of that vehicle.
There was nothing at hand to break the window. What I could see of Jerry’s face—his forehead, his right cheek, his chin—was a bright cherry red. His right eye was open. It was too dim in the garage to see if the sclera was suffused.
He didn’t blink when I pounded at the glass.
I ran back to the Bronco, retrieved the tire iron from the rear, then went back a third time. This effort at smashing the glass was successful; the window broke into shards mostly contained by the safety glass coating. I swept at it, reached in, unlocked the door, and pulled Jerry from the truck into the open air.
I sat down next to him, unable to get enough air of my own. Lincoln behaved in a most annoying fashion, leaping at me and licking my face. I think it was more irritation with my dog than anything else that roused me from my stupor.
I straddled the poor man and began cardiopulmonary resuscitation. I stopped, put my thumbnail to that ghastly opened eye, and pressed down. No reaction. No pulse, either at throat or wrist. I resumed CPR for some minutes, then stopped, at last, for good. Jerry Coughlin was beyond what assistance I could give him. I went back to the Bronco and radioed for help. I then walked through the barn and checked on the animals.
Simon Provost and the Summersville emergency crew arrived simultaneously, some twenty minutes later. I sat on an upturned crate next to the body, both dogs at my feet. The EMTs spoke little; one went to the corpse and removed the horse blanket I had placed over him, the other two removed a gurney from the back of the ambulance. I rose at Simon Provost’s approach and extended my hand.
“How do you do, Lieutenant?”
He nodded, unsmiling. The last time I’d seen him had been at the press conference at the Tompkins County Courthouse; he had looked tired then, and he looked even more tired now.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my amateur Columbo. You call this in?”
“I did.”
He walked over and gazed down at Jerry’s face for a long moment. The young man who had been taking Jerry’s vital signs shook his head. Then he walked back. “You have a reason for being here, doc?”
“I do. We had an appointment for two o’clock.”
His eyes narrowed. “I saw you at the press conference with Rita Santelli. What are you doing out here? How do you know Coughlin?”
“I am a veterinarian. He is a veterinarian. Of course we know each other. And I’m impressed that you recall my presence at that event, Lieutenant. You were fairly well occupied at the time.”
“You stuck out a little,” he said. “The crowd was a bit younger, on average. Now, you want to tell me what happened here?”
I gave Provost a succinct, unembellished account of events. He made notes in a much-battered steno pad. Then he walked to the shed and peered inside. I followed. The dogs followed me. He turned abruptly and seemed taken aback when confronted with the three of us. “I don’t want any civilians back here,” he said. “Would you mind?”
“There were some anomalies about the scene that you may not have noticed, Provost. I was going to point them out to you.”
“Anomalies, huh? Great. Why don’t you tell me about them back over there?”
Being a law-abiding citizen, I acquiesced. As we returned to the upturned box, I noted that the EMTs had not only loaded Jerry onto the gurney, and into the van, but that they were preparing to drive away.
“You’re not waiting for the pathologist?” I said, in dismay. “What about the forensics people? What about evidence collected in situ?”
“You moved the body, Dr. McKenzie. And the forensics team isn’t going to be real happy to be called out on a suicide.”
“It wasn’t a suicide,” I said flatly.
“You know something I don’t?” Provost’s entire mien was stern. He turned and walked back toward me. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that he suspected me of untoward activities.
“Perhaps,” I said, somewhat testily. It had been, after all, a trying hour and a half. “Yes, I moved the body, but you’ll agree I had no other choice, and yes, I do know something you don’t because vital evidence—of necessity—has been disturbed. Please refer to your notebook.”
He blinked at little. He opened his mouth—perhaps to consider registering a protest—but closed it again. Instead, he took out his notebook.
“Refer to the statement I made about the condition of the insulation around the garage door and the driver’s window.”
He licked his thumb, turned to the relevant page, and said, “‘Insulation tucked in from outside.’”
“That is not verbati
m, but it is essentially correct.” I waited for him to expand upon this, somewhat impatiently, I admit. It didn’t take long.
“You mean you think someone stuffed the insulation in after the doc was in the truck?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Bravo.”
“He could have gotten in the passenger-side door.”
“Unlikely. That side, too, was stuffed from the outside. I checked. As a matter of fact, you may see that for yourself. There was no need to remove it.”
Provost scratched his ear with his pencil. Then he went into the garage, examined the truck from all sides, and came back.
“Now refer to the statement I made about the animals.”
He paged through the notebook. “‘Stock not fed.’”
“Again, that is not precisely what I said. But it is significant.”
Provost’s gaze was politely disbelieving.
“No veterinarian would leave his stock untended. I don’t care how depressed the man was. Rather than leave the cow unmilked, the calves unfed, and the surgery patients without water, he would have shot them all.”
This took Provost aback, as I had intended it should.
“Or at least seen to their welfare,” I amended.
“But he knew you were coming to meet him, didn’t he? You’re a vet, too. He knew you would have taken care of the critters.”
This hadn’t occurred to me. “Hm,” I said. “You have a point.”
I heard the familiar chug-chug-chug of an ill-maintained motor. Provost stiffened, much in the way that Lincoln does when he senses an intruder. “Now, who the hell is this?”
I turned to see Joe’s Escort pull into the drive. “My assistant, Joe Turnblad.”
“You gave him a call?”
“I did.”
“To give you a hand with the stock, here?”
“Yes.”
“There’s some sort of veterinarian’s oath? Like the Hippocratic oath for people doctors?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but held his hand up so that Joe wouldn’t park too close to the garage. “You notice anything else while you were prowling around the joint, Dr. McKenzie?”
I reflected a moment. “There were one or two things. They can wait, however.” Joe unfolded himself out of the Ford. It is a very small car for someone of his height.
“Mrs. McKenzie got me on my cell after you called her,” he said as he came up to us. I introduced the lieutenant. Joe greeted him soberly, then stooped to ruffle Lincoln’s ears. He gave Juno a considering glance. She had responded to the death of her master like Greyfriars Bobby was reputed to have done; she lay where his body had lain, muzzle sunk onto her paws. “Sorry to hear about Dr. Coughlin.”
“And I’m sorry to drag you out of class, Joe. But we need to transfer these patients to Sunny Skies. I’ll need your help to load them up. Take the Bronco, return home, and hitch up the stock trailer. We’ll need it here.”
Provost raised his hand in protest. “Hang on a minute. You can’t take anything from the property.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Lieutenant. Either Jerry Coughlin killed himself, knowing that I would arrive to take care of his responsibilities, or he was murdered.” I paused, for the effect of my next point. “In that case, of course, you stay and take over the clinical duties. I will be happy to leave you instructions.”
Provost didn’t look happy. Worse yet, he didn’t look convinced. “Can’t you send someone over once a day? My wife goes over once a day to feed the neighbor’s cat when they go on vacation.”
I held up one finger at a time as I enumerated. “There is a gravid mare, who looks to be due within days.”
Provost rolled his eyes at Joe.
“She’s pregnant,” Joe clarified.
“There is a very fine, show-quality heifer with mastitis. She has to be milked carefully twice a day.”
“Infected teats,” Joe said. “Probably pretty messy, Lieutenant.”
“And there are the chickens.”
“Oh god,” Provost said. “Chickens. I hate chickens.”
“The hens can be extremely quarrelsome,” I agreed. “But we will have to leave them here anyway.” I turned to Joe. “According to Victor Bergland, Coughlin was involved in some research for the CDC. We’ll have to carry out SPF procedures in caring for them until we review Coughlin’s records.”
“Specific pathogen free, Lieutenant,” Joe said, rather merrily. “He’s talking biohazard gear, here.”
“Are you talking contagious?”
“The concern is more for the contamination of the chickens,” I said irritably. “Although I believe Coughlin’s research had to do with various strains of avian flu, yes.”
Provost swore rather colorfully. Then he said, “Are these all Coughlin’s, these animals? He had a practice, didn’t he? You can’t just haul off somebody’s property.”
I shrugged. “I have no way of knowing unless I go through the records. But the heifer should be under medical care. I’m not certain about the mare. She may be Jerry’s own event horse. Madeline will be able to identify her if that’s so. But, ownership notwithstanding, we have to deal with the pregnancy. The statistics for healthy delivery in the equine are surprisingly low.”
“Stop,” Provost said. “I get the picture. You charge by the word, doc?”
I didn’t dignify this with an answer.
Provost sighed again. I was beginning to think the man had an oxygen deficiency. “Okay. This is what I’m going to do. Hold your right hand up, Dr. McKenzie.”
I demurred. “I’m not adept at the ritual known as the high five.”
“I’m going to deputize you, dammit. You, Turnblad, you’re a witness. Got that.”
“Got that,” Joe said.
“And wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Turnblad.”
Deputize me? I raised my right hand. I believe I had a shit-eating grin on my face, too.
Provost scrubbed his face hard with both hands. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Okay. Hang on a sec. You have a record, doc?”
“Do you mean a sheet?” I said jovially.
Provost muttered something, then said, “Yeah. A sheet.”
I thought a moment. “Yes,” I admitted, rather proudly.
Provost’s face fell, perhaps at the thought of caring for the sick chickens. “What the hell for?”
“Felony parking.”
“Felony parking? What’s that when it’s at home?”
I explained about the $300 parking violation at Earlsdown the prior year. “And as I understand it, misdemeanors are separated from felonies in part by the value attached to the penalty. Three hundred dollars certainly falls into the felony category.”
“Bullshit,” Provost said. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Raise your hand, McKenzie.”
And so I was deputized. Provost did not have a badge handy, but promised that one would be sent in the mail. Then, with further profane fulminations, he retired to his cruiser, returned with a digital camera, and proceeded to take photos of the crime scene. Not that I could get him to admit that it was a crime scene. He did, however, warn me off taking anything from Coughlin’s files.
I sent Joe home to retrieve the stock trailer, then went to the house in search of information about the patients. Halfway into the kitchen, I stopped at Provost’s behest, which took the form of “What a minute, godammit.” He ran up the steps and shouldered his way past me. “You can’t just trample all over the place, McKenzie. This may be a crime scene.”
“It is a crime scene,” I said agreeably. “I do, however, need the records on Coughlin’s animals. Particularly the chickens.”
Provost ran one hand over his chin. “You said something about research? I’ve read about avian flu. It’s pretty dangerous stuff.”
“I doubt that Jerry was involved in any research involving pandemic diseases that affected humans. This location is not secure. Besides,” I added, somewhat absently, as I looked about the kitchen, “the research wo
uldn’t have been original. He would have been carrying out experiments under a senior scientist somewhere.” I sighed. “Provost,” I said. “I find this kitchen very sad.”
The area was clean, that was all that could be said for it. The window that looked out on the desolate backyard was curtainless. The linoleum on the bare floor was cracked and peeling. Yellowed newspaper had been spread under Juno’s water bowl and food dish. An old tin pot sat in the sink next to a solitary bowl and soupspoon. A stack of empty, rinsed-out Camp-bell’s soup cans lined the worn counter. An old, humpbacked refrigerator clanked away in the corner. I opened the door. The sole contents were three loaves of Wonder Bread, a jumbo jar of peanut butter, and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. Provost opened and closed a scarred wood cabinet. “Cans of tuna fish. And some cereal.”
“An arid existence,” I observed. “He was a bachelor, you know.”
“Poor guy had a limited diet,” Provost agreed. He shook his head, “Thank god my wife’s Italian.”
“Lasagna,” I agreed. “Pasta puttanesca. You’re a fortunate man. But it’s more than a lack of the feminine, Provost. There is a poverty of the senses, here. The man was depressed.”
Provost looked smug.
“It was not a suicide,” I said.
“There’ll be a note.”
“There will be no note.”
“Probably in his office.”
“He didn’t keep records in the barn. That’s what will be in the office, and that’s what we’re looking for, here.”
“A small percentage of suicides leave a note.”
“There will be no note.” What there would be, I was convinced, was something that would link McClellan to this crime.
The rest of the small house was as unlived in as the kitchen. No color. No life. And in the small second bedroom that Coughlin used as an office, what few personal mementos he owned were shoved carelessly aside on his desk. A picture of his ex-wife, whom I vaguely recalled, now that I saw her face; a high school graduation photo of a young man who bore a close resemblance to Jerry; and a large, expensively framed picture of the young man grown up, with wife and toddler.
The Case of the Roasted Onion Page 18