by Mark Reps
Doc carefully tipped Farrell’s chin up, giving the trio a clearer view.
“Now take a look at this.”
Doc opened Farrell’s mouth very carefully. Using his thumb and first finger, he grabbed onto the tongue and pulled it out of the mouth.
“He bit clean through it. Twice,” explained Doc. “Not once. Twice.”
“What are you saying, Doc?” asked Zeb.
The old country physician relit his pipe. His nostrils flared dragonlike as smoke filtered its way out of his body.
“From my point of view, when I act as coroner of this fine county, I have to make certain all facts fit together. In this case I’m a little confused by what I see. There’s no good reason for a man who hanged himself to have rope burns up and down his neck. Plus, two sets of deep indentations on the neck, well...”
“Well what?” asked the puzzled deputy.
“You want to explain it, Zeb?”
“You’re doing fine, Doc.”
“Deputy, I assume you’re thinking Farrell stepped up on the chair, put the noose around his neck and jumped off. Right?”
“Yes, it seems that would be the logical sequence of events.”
“Now take a step back for a minute. Put yourself in his Hush Puppies. Suppose you were going to hang yourself by the neck like John Farrell here decided to do. Suicide is rarely a spontaneous act. It tends to be rather well thought out. A planned act, if you will, as to time and place. I suppose his office is as good a place as any. That beam up there is a perfect spot to hang a noose. Then you would want to pick the right time. You wouldn’t want to be interrupted. I guess Farrell accomplished that by waiting until lunch time when his secretary would be out of the office.”
“Doc likes to think he’s an amateur Sherlock Holmes,” whispered Jake loud enough for all to hear. Jake tossed a wink in the direction of Deputy Steele. Unabashed by the aside, Doc Yackley continued.
“You’d toss the rope up over the beam and tighten it down hard. Wouldn’t want it to slip, would you? It would be a mighty embarrassing thing if the knot came loose and you went crashing to the floor. ”
The current sheriff, former sheriff and deputy all nodded in unison.
“Then you’d push a chair up underneath the rope and stick your head through the noose.”
Doc paused his lecture to relight his pipe.
“Then you would cinch up the noose real good and snug and bango, kick away the chair. It’s not a complicated process. Any old fool with a genuine death wish could do it.”
“Sounds like you might have thought about it once in a while yourself, Doc,” said Zeb.
“I can think of better ways to leave this vale of tears. Right now, at least in this moment in time, I enjoy being among the living.”
“Amen,” added Jake.
“But as I was saying,” said Doc, “once you kick away the chair, death comes in one of two ways. The preferable way would be a short step off the chair, a quick snap and a broken neck. You could say it would be pretty much an instant and painless departure from planet Earth.”
“From the sounds of it, there’s a less preferable way,” said Zeb.
“I’m afraid so. The other way isn’t quite so pretty. Same chair, same short step, but only now you’ve got a problem. The neck is a creature made of bone and sinew, and the good Lord put in a lot of fail-safe mechanisms to keep us from accidentally doing what it looks like Farrell here did on purpose. The odds are pretty good a neck is almost as tough as a bunch of tightly wound together hemp fibers.”
“Are you sayin’ his death might not have been instant?” asked Kate.
“I’m pretty damn sure his death was a slow time coming. Looks to me like he suffered from what has been termed the gallows struggle.”
“That doesn’t sound pretty, Doc,” said Jake.
“I read a written description of a famous hanging over in Tombstone where a gallows struggle took place. The report said there was so much squirming, kicking and fussing about that the hanged man looked like a ticked off, hog-tied calf, about to be branded.”
“Are you suggesting Farrell might have changed his mind after stepping off the chair? asked Deputy Steele.
“I can’t imagine any human being, no matter how intent they were on dying, when they felt the breath of life slowly being choked out of them wouldn’t reach up and grab the rope thinking that maybe they had made a mistake,” said Doc.
“But the slow painful choking type of death would be damn unlikely to end up in a broken neck. If Farrell went that way, he would have reached up to grab the rope in one last attempt to save his own skin. It would only be the natural thing to do, even for a man bent on calling it quits.”
Doc paused, hovering over the body.
“What we have here is a man who didn’t try to stop anything. We have a man who never reached for the noose around his neck.”
“How do you know for sure?” asked Deputy Steele.
Kate respected Doc Yackley, but she also knew the grizzled old country doctor was not a seasoned pathologist.
“Take a good gander at his hands, especially the fingernails. There’s not a single strand of rope fiber under his nails. No rope abrasions like a man with hands as delicate as his would have from tightening the noose. There’s not a single bit of forensic evidence telling me he ever held that rope in his hands. And, to complicate matters, his neck is fractured. Snapped in half. Broken like a twig off a dead tree branch.”
“What were you saying about the rope burns on his neck?” asked Kate.
“You ever rope a calf?”
“No, I grew up in Tucson,” said Deputy Kate Steele. “But I’ve been to a rodeo or two.”
“You tell her, Zeb. I gotta get a drink of water. I’m a bit thirsty from all this yakking.”
“I think what the Doc is getting at, and correct me if I’m wrong, Doc, when you rope a calf around the neck, it will fight against the rope. At first they fight a little out of surprise. It’s like they’re playing a game. Then when the animal realizes what’s happening, it fights hard. The more the calf resists the more the rope burn. Right, Doc?”
“Keep going, Zeb. You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“The more times you pull on the rope, the closer you draw it up the neck of the calf. You gotta be careful so you don’t break the neck or choke the animal, right Doc?”
“You got to be damn tough to break an animal’s neck. Damn near as tough as you have to be to break a man’s neck. Most people could never muster up the strength to do such a thing. Not unless they were as powerful as an ox or maybe if they were a bull goose loony with super strength,” said Doc.
“Since Farrell’s got two indentations and rope burns up and down his neck, he was either pulled or dragged by the rope when it was around his neck. Am I right, Doc?” asked Zeb.
“I’m leaning in that direction.”
“How about the holes in the tongue?’ asked Zeb.
“Now that sounds sort of like the thing they would cover with that fancy East Coast FBI Academy training. What do you think, Deputy Steele?”
“We were taught during violent confrontation people often bite through their tongues. There are many other circumstances causing that specific type of injury - electric shock, impact, fear, car accident. The list is endless.”
“Let me make it one reason longer,” said Doc.
Once again Doc tamped his pipe on the open window sill.
“If a man had the wherewithal to put a rope around his neck, climb up on a chair and jump off to hang himself, he sure as shootin’ would know it was about to happen. He wouldn’t be sticking his tongue out of his mouth like some sassy kid. But we’ve got Farrell who decides to bite through his tongue not once, but twice.”
“It sounds to me like you might have a theory, Doc. Mind enlightening us?” asked Jake.
“No, not at all. I figure somebody knocked him out. Then they put a rope around his neck and hoisted him to the ceiling.
I haven’t got the who or the why part figured out yet. All the commotion of dragging his body, hoisting and lifting it up would account for the tongue getting bit through twice, the rope burns and indentations on the neck.”
“Well, then what about the broken neck?” asked Jake.
“That has me thinking. I can’t really give you an answer on that one. I’m hoping that an autopsy will fill in some of the missing gaps.”
“Doctor, I appreciate the input,” said the sheriff. “I agree with you we should have an autopsy. Consider it ordered.”
Doc nodded, “Can do.”
“Until we know more the official cause of death will remain open. I don’t want anybody else coming into this room until we’ve gone over it with a fine-toothed comb,” said Zeb.
Doc Yackley snapped off his rubber examination gloves and stowed his equipment in his leather medical bag.
“When will you have time to do the autopsy?”
“I’ll get at it ASAP. I should have some preliminary results for you tomorrow morning,” replied Doc.
With that the doctor walked out the door.
“Looks like we got a mess on our hands, Deputy,” said the sheriff. “Jake, would you by any chance be looking for a little bit of excitement? Maybe a part time job?”
Jake’s heart nearly jumped through his rib cage.
“Hell, yes I would.”
“Welcome aboard,” said Deputy Kate.
“Welcome back,” said Zeb.
Chapter Seventeen
“Deputy Steele, did you get anything from Darla that might help us?” asked Zeb.
“She seems awful surprised he killed himself,” said Deputy Steele. “She specifically mentioned that he and his wife were planning on taking a trip to France next spring. It was supposed to be kind of a second honeymoon for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. His suicide doesn’t make any sense at all to her.”
“Do you think she’ll be comfortable talking to us?” asked Zeb.
“She’s pretty emotional, but I would bet she’s willing to talk about it,” said Deputy Steele. “I’ll bring her in.”
Deputy Steele walked outside where Darla Thompson was being consoled by her sister.
“Miss Thompson, I know it’s a horrible time, but would you mind terribly if we asked you a few questions?”
Deputy Steele handed the bleary eyed secretary a fresh handkerchief.
“We can talk here. If you’d prefer, we could go down to the sheriff’s office.”
“Right here is fine, Deputy,” said Darla.
“Call me Kate.”
“If you want, we can use that little office at the end of the hall. We use it as a conference room.”
“That would be fine,” said Kate. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“Please, but I’ll get it myself.”
“No, I’ll get it,” interrupted Jake.
“Miss Thompson?”
“You can call me Darla.”
“Are you okay to take a few questions?” asked the sheriff.
“I’ll try.”
“Darla, how long have you worked for Mr. Farrell?”
“Ten years now. Actually it was ten years last March. March fifteenth. Ten long years. Oh! I don’t mean that like it sounded. I meant ten years is a long time.”
“Of course. What sort of things did you do for Mr. Farrell?”
“I answered the phone, typed letters and professional correspondence. I ran back and forth to the courthouse to file papers, a little bit of this and lot of that, if you know what I mean. I did whatever needed to be done. He called me his Gal Friday.”
The mere mention of the nickname her boss had given her caused Darla’s tears to flow again. Jake grabbed the tissue box from the middle of the table and set it in front of her. Sheriff Hanks waited until Darla had calmed down before continuing questioning her.
“Has Mr. Farrell seemed despondent or depressed lately?”
“No, never. Mr. Farrell was very happy,” said Darla. “His life was good. I just can’t believe he killed himself like that.”
Darla Thompson broke into a sobbing fit that rose and fell and rose again rapidly.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just…”
“It’s okay. If you feel like crying, go ahead and cry. It’s normal you should feel that way,” said Kate.
“I mean, his business was never better. His kids are all done with school. They have good jobs up in Phoenix. He gets along beautifully with his wife. He goes to church every week. He enjoys his work on the county planning commission. He just built a new addition onto his house. His life has never been better. I often heard him say just that.”
“He had a good life,” said the sheriff. “Could you tell us about today, starting from this morning?”
“I came to work and opened up like I always do at eight o’clock sharp. I put my things in order, like I always do, and started a pot of espresso. Mr. Farrell loves his espresso. He drinks it all day long. He says I make it as good as they do in France. He loved his trip to France. Paris, so romantic for the Farrells,” she sighed.
Zeb, Jake and Kate listened to Darla’s voice falter as she spoke of her dead boss in the present tense.
“Mr. Farrell arrived promptly at eight-thirty, like he always does. He was wearing his blue sport coat and brown slacks, and, of course, his brown Hush Puppies. They are the only shoes he ever wears. He claims they’re the only shoes that fit his feet. He has terrible troubles with his bunions. I suppose that sort of thing isn’t important though, is it?”
“Everything you can tell us is important, Darla,” assured Kate.
“First of all, we went over yesterday’s old business. That’s what he calls it. Mr. Farrell likes to say, ‘If it’s from yesterday, its old business. If it’s from today or for tomorrow, it’s new business.’ He likes to say smart things like that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Then I had him sign some things so they could go out in today’s mail. The mailman comes around ten o’clock. Mr. Farrell signed some papers and gave me a list of calls to make. It was just like any other day around here. I made the calls, typed up some forms and went over the details for a few real estate closing appointments we have coming up later in the week. I make all of Mr. Farrell’s appointments. I mean…I used to.”
Once again the thought of what wouldn’t be happening in the future brought tears to her eyes.
“You’re doing very well, Darla,” said Jake. “You’re being most helpful. Would you care to continue and answer a few more questions? Or, would you like to wait a while?”
“I’m okay, honest. It’s just that I can’t believe Mr. Farrell is gone.”
“It’s hard for everyone who knew him,” said the sheriff.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“What kind of mood was he in today?” asked Kate.
“Normal, I would say normal. He is not a real emotional man. He likes his work and his family, but he doesn’t prattle on or anything like that. He likes to make business deals. That is probably what he likes best. Yes, to him there is nothing quite as much fun as making a sale and closing the deal.”
“Did he have any big deals in the making?”
“No, not really. Just the usual, a couple of houses and some land, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did he talk to anyone this morning?”
“He made some calls, business calls I assume. I don’t really know to whom. He always keeps his door shut when he’s talking. He likes his privacy. I don’t mean he’s secretive or anything like that. He just likes his privacy. He seemed busy with paperwork and business as usual. We didn’t talk much today. Then around noon, like I always do, I went home for lunch. I had my usual lunch of tomato soup, a cheese sandwich and a glass of warm milk.” She didn’t mention the pinch of scotch she routinely added to her milk.
“Did Mr. Farrell stay in the office when you went out for lunch?”
“He didn’t say he was
going out, but it wouldn’t be unusual for him to stay at the office and work,” explained the secretary.
“Was he in his office when you left?”
“Yes, I knocked on his door like I always do and told him I was leaving for lunch. He said like he always does, ‘Enjoy the t-t-t-to—ma—to soooup.’”
Darla completely lost herself to sobbing. She began crying uncontrollably. Kate reached over and placed a hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” sobbed Darla. “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
“Tears are a way to show we care,” replied Kate. “You must have thought the world of your boss. I’m sure he was a kind and decent man.”
“He was. Indeed he was.”
Darla began to sob again with the further realization that her boss was really gone.
“You know, it’s funny what you think of at a time like this.”
Darla began to shiver and shake. Then suddenly she started to laugh as uncontrollably as she had been crying only moments earlier.
“I just thought of how we, Mr. Farrell and me, used to laugh at some of the business things he did. Mr. Farrell was a good Mormon, you know. Not a ten percent tither, but a good Mormon. Me, I’m a Lutheran. ‘No harm in being a Lutheran,’ he used to say, ‘but look out for those Catholics. They’re the sneaky ones.’ Oh, how we used to laugh when he said that. He said it a lot lately. Believe you me.”
“What do you mean about the Catholic remark being said a lot lately, Darla?” asked Jake.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. Are you Catholic?”
“No. What I meant by my question was why did you say he had been saying it a lot lately?”
“Because of all the land deals up on Mount Graham. He was doing a lot of business with the Catholic Diocese. They were buying a lot of land up there this last year. I used to kid him about tithing to the Mormon Church with Catholic money. Oh Lord, how he laughed about that.”
Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Steele and Jake exchanged quick glances that didn’t go unnoticed by the dutiful Darla Thompson.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” replied Kate. “Not at all.”