“What’s your angle for this feature?”
I blew my bangs off my forehead. “I don’t know yet.”
Jesse set his fist at his hip and faced me. “You don’t know?” His tone held more than incredulity.
“What I’m thinking,” I said, my hands coming up to placate him, “is that we ask these folks about the one who made it out. His name is Howard Rybak. He used to live here and now he’s holding a full-time job. He’s turned his life around. If we can elicit some opinions from these people . . .”
We both turned as the black man below bellowed, “I will build an ark, Lord!” He held his arms out, began to cry as he begged—loudly—to please make the rain stop. He pounded his chest screaming expletives.
Jesse and I looked up at the clear sky. I felt my shoulders slump.
“We’re going to be out here at least a week,” Jesse said.
Ron Shade
I hoped that I’d have better luck, and fewer interruptions, with Dr. K. Boyd. Karen. Not a common name anymore. And the old lady on the porch had said the practice had belonged to Boyd’s father. Country doctoring must have run in the family. I wondered how many autopsies she’d performed since graduating med school. From the stares the Beater was getting as I drove down the street, I realized that I’d probably have to get myself a new car pretty soon. It was all about image, even down here in southern Illinois.
I parked across the street and walked up the wide sidewalk to the yellow house. The sign above the doorbell said Dr. K. Boyd, M.D., General Practice. It looked weathered and old. Like it had been there a while. I was very surprised when a pretty woman with long brown hair opened the door. She was thin and looked to be in her mid- to late-thirties. The hand-embroidered letters on her gray smock spelled out her name and title.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so.” I handed her one of my cards and gave a brief explanation of why I was there. “I already talked to the coroner. He mentioned you did the autopsy.”
She studied the card for a few seconds, then stepped back, holding the door. “Come in. I’m expecting a patient soon, but I have a few minutes.”
Inside the house looked like any other country home. Her medical office was a section of rooms off to the right. They looked like they’d been added on or converted after the house was built. One appeared to be a waiting room with several chairs, the requisite array of magazines, and a small coffee table in the center. I followed her through it to the room beyond it, which was obviously her office. As offices go, it was neat and orderly. A huge bookcase with leather-bound volumes of medical books was immediately behind her, and stacks of journals were in cardboard slipcovers in a second case. A framed photo of her with her family, a smiling pair of kids, a handsome man, and a dog sat in the center of her desk.
“Nice-looking family,” I said.
“Thank you.” I saw her eyes studying my face longer than normal. “Are you a boxer, Mr. Shade?”
I grinned. “A kickboxer, actually. And not only that, I’m the world champ at the moment.”
“Impressive.”
“So how did you know?”
She smiled. “You have a slight build-up of scar tissue forming over your left eye. I used to live in Las Vegas, and we’d treat a lot of fighters in the ER. At least those who got hit in the face.”
“Actually, I try not to get hit a lot.”
She smiled again. “Maybe you should try a bit harder then.”
This town was full of would-be comedians. It was like everybody was practicing their stand-up routines on me today. I waited a few more seconds to see if she was going to crack another joke or maybe launch into a lecture about the dangers of taking too many blows to the head, pugilistic dementia, and the whole bit. But she didn’t. I was impressed with her perceptiveness. Maybe she’d picked up some impressions during the autopsy that could help.
“You said you were here about an autopsy I did?” she asked.
I nodded and took out the picture of Robert Bayless. I also took out the copy of the coroner’s report and the neatly typed report that she’d previously done.
“Oh, yes, I remember this one.” She paged through the papers, frowned slightly, and looked up. “This seemed pretty cut and dried. Why is it you’re looking into it at this time?”
I decided on a cautious approach. No sense spreading suspicions too quickly.
“The company paid out a huge double-indemnity claim on this one,” I said, mentally chastising myself for using “the company” excuse again. I was going to have to start limiting myself or I was going to turn into a Dick. “I’m looking into a few questionable things.”
“Such as?”
She was an inquisitive lady. I ignored the question and countered with one of my own. “You listed the cause of death as multiple trauma, massive internal injuries, and cardiac arrest.”
“That’s correct.”
Oh, great, I thought. Trying to get her to open up was going to be like getting Brunger to give away some free hay to the horse farmers. “What exactly does that mean?”
The dark eyes looked at me for a moment. “It means, quite literally, he had substantial internal bleeding. The damage was severe to his internal organs, but catching on fire caused him to expire more rapidly.”
“He burned to death?”
She inhaled and smiled. “People don’t really die from being burned as much as their lungs and heart stop functioning due to the inhalation of the horrifically hot air. It’s not a nice way to go.”
“As if any way’s a nice way,” I said, trying a grin. Her expression didn’t change, so I added, “But I guess some ways are worse than others.”
“You could say that.”
“So there’s no doubt he was alive when the car caught on fire?”
“None,” she said. “There was soot in his nostrils and mouth. I also checked the lining of his trachea and lungs. They showed the searing that’s consistent with the inhalation of intensely hot air.”
“I’m surprised that the teeth survived intact. That’s how you made the ID, right?”
She nodded. “Actually, the oral cavity was pretty well preserved. That’s not unusual in burning deaths.”
“Was any DNA testing done?”
She shook her head. “No need. The dental X-rays were a perfect match. And they just confirmed what we suspected from the vehicle’s information.”
“Do you think there’d be enough places left in the body at this point to do a DNA comparison?”
The space between her eyebrows creased slightly. “I’m sure there would be, unless it was cremated. They would need to withdraw marrow samples from the pelvic bone. But why would they need to? Is there some question as to identity?”
The best way to counter a question you don’t want to answer is with another question. “Do you remember if there were any signs of a major disease, like cancer or something?”
She seemed a bit miffed, but answered me anyway. “None that I recall.”
I smiled. “I guess what I’m asking is could the decedent have been terminally ill? Some medical condition that might have caused him to want to end it all?”
“Suicide?” Her eyebrows rose, but the dark eyes remained focused on me. “As I said, I don’t recall any evidence of that. His organs didn’t show any signs of major disease, other than his lungs. He was a smoker.”
“A smoker?” I opened the file and ran my finger down the columns until I found it. “I have Robert Bayless listed as a nonsmoker on his life insurance application. Are you sure?”
“Mr. Shade, it’s very easy to tell the difference between a smoker’s lungs and nonsmoker’s, even if they have been in a fire.” She canted her head slightly. “Now are you going to tell me what this is really all about, or not?”
“I already have.” My voice sounded a bit forced, unnatural.
“I don’t really appreciate it when people aren’t up front with me,” she said, getting to her feet. “Unless you want
to be more forthcoming, I’m afraid this interview is over.”
“More forthcoming?” I tried a quick laugh, but not as phony-sounding as one of Brunger’s. “I have been.”
“I doubt that. You’re holding something back.” She crossed her arms across her breasts and stood there looking down at me. “Believe me, I can tell.”
“Well, actually.” I slowly got to my feet. Starting up the rumor mill down here would be counter-productive. Doctors don’t have the same instincts cops and private investigators do. “I’m just basking in my thankfulness of having followed the advice of my mother and my coaches at never having started smoking.”
I tried another grin. It didn’t seem to work.
I had another half hour to kill before Deputy MacMahan came on duty so I took out my cell phone to check for messages. It was on, but each time I tried to dial a number, the little screen would flash: No Signal. I tried moving up and down the street but nothing helped. So instead of climbing to the top of the monkey bars at the local park playground looking for that one spot where it would work, I decided to just wait till later. So much for the “Can you hear me now?” guy’s commercials. Of course, my cell was a different brand than his, anyway.
I found an antiquated wooden park bench within about forty-five feet of the Sheriff’s Office and sat to write up some notes. I recorded the times of each conversation and a general summary of each, along with any particular direct quotes that I could recall. This was getting to be like pushing a boulder uphill, but, I reminded myself, I was getting paid to do it. Trying to keep an open mind in this investigation was getting progressively more difficult, and I was beginning to put a bit more credence in good old Herb’s identification of the horse-laugh when I saw a white squad car with the blue and red Mars lights on the top pull down the street. The tan letters along the side spelled out FURMAN COUNTY SHERIFF’S POLICE. It came to a stop in front of the Sheriff’s Office Building. I glanced at my watch. Two-thirty-five. This was beginning to look promising. A big, stocky guy in a tan-and-brown uniform got out, squared a Smoky the Bear hat on his head, and ambled toward the front entrance with a bunch of papers and tickets in his big hands. I hopped to my feet and began a quick intercept course.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me what time Deputy MacMahan’s working?”
The big guy stopped, regarded me with one of those sizing-up cop looks, and shifted his papers to his left hand. “That’s me,” he said, extending his open right hand. “And you’re pronouncing it wrong, by the way. It’s Mac-Ma-han.”
I’d been saying it more like the old Bear’s quarterback, Jim McMahon.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m—”
“The private detective come down from Chicago,” he finished for me. “I figured as much. That’s why I came by here a bit little early.”
“I appreciate that. Can I buy you a coffee or something?”
“No thanks.”
I grinned. “Hey, I’m on an expense account.”
He flashed the easygoing smile again. “Nah, thanks anyway. What can I do for you?”
I took out the copy of the crash report and handed it to him. “You remember this one?”
He studied the report and nodded. “Bad one out on the highway. The guy was burned to a crisp by the time I got out there.”
“How’d the call come in?”
MacMahan’s eyes glanced skyward and he pursed his lips. “Best I can recollect, it was third party.”
“Third party?”
He held up his paperwork and cocked his head toward the building. “Let me dump this stuff inside, and I’ll show you the map and explain.”
I followed him inside where he nodded at the comedian dispatcher. She reached across her console and pressed something and a loud buzzer sounded. MacMahan pushed on a solid metal door and stepped inside, motioning for me to follow. As we walked past the radio dispatch room he stuck his head inside and said, “Millie, print out a hardcopy of—” He paused and read off what I assumed was the incident report number from the accident report. “Make me ten-six, too, will ya?”
Mildred nodded and flashed me a lips-only smile, obviously still relishing her earlier witticism. I smiled back. MacMahan continued to walk down the hallway past several offices. Everybody looked pretty busy either typing, reading, or talking on the phone. He stopped and motioned to an open door that led to a report-writing room. The walls were covered with large bulletin boards with sections of huge maps tacked to them. Clusters of different-colored pins decorated the surface.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I stood by the table and waited, trying to figure which map was which, and what the different colored pins meant. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the first map showed traffic crashes, while the second and third showed criminal activities. Just as I was trying to trace the highway route on the map to what I assumed was the site of the Bayless crash, MacMahan returned.
“I see you found it,” he said.
“More or less. I could still use a little expert help.”
He grinned and pointed a big index finger to one of the black pins. It was positioned at the center of the crooked line representing the highway. I suddenly knew what Brunger had meant when he’d referred to it as having “a real bad curve to it.”
“Deadman’s Curve, huh?” I said.
“Pretty close. Lots of fatalities there. They even had it on the TV news about two or three months before Mr. Bayless crashed there. Lots of rocks sticking up.”
“You have any photos of the crash?”
He held up a manila folder. “This is our full investigation.”
We sat down and he opened the folder, taking out a packet of color photos and spreading them onto the table top. “Looks like he was coming into the curve way too fast.” MacMahan tapped two photos showing the extreme bend of the road that had been taken during the day. A jagged section of rock, probably thirty feet high, jutted outward like an inverted staircase. The next photo he tapped was a picture of the car and showcased the burned vehicle, the roof of which had been peeled back like a tomato can.
“After the fire was put out,” he said, “we had to use the jaws of life to open it up and remove the body.”
“Any photos of the body?”
His eyebrows rose, and then he nodded. He picked up another packet of photos and opened it. “Yeah. He was a goner way before we got there, though.” He snapped a series of photos, each showing a blackened torso, frozen in a death spasm, its arms bending at the elbow and curled upward almost in supplication.
“What direction did it appear he was going?”
“Southeast. The highway cuts over toward Indiana. From the Interstate.”
“Anybody have any idea where he was headed?”
MacMahan shrugged. “Wherever it was, he was in a hurry to get there.” He took out another photo and set it carefully down on the tabletop. “We also found this inside the car.”
It showed a scorched bottle.
“Booze?” I asked.
He nodded. “Vodka. His blood alcohol level wasn’t that high. Point zero four, but according to his dentist, he’d prescribed some Vicodin ES for Bayless. Could have had what they refer to as a synergistic effect.”
“I’ve heard of those. How’d the fire start?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Not sure. Looked like he ran over some rock sticking up here.” He grabbed one of the photos from the first pack. “That must’ve ruptured his gas tank. After that, something ignited the fumes, most likely.”
I took all this in, then leaned back. “You said something about a third-party notification before?”
“Oh, yeah.” He placed the computer printout down in front of me. “This shows the time of notification. Zero two-twenty-seven. That’s two a.m. See this along here?” His finger traced over a typed comment in the remarks section. Complainant, listed above, was notified by an unidentified motorist of the crash. M/W.
No other information available.
“Exactly what does that mean?”
“The complainant, or the person reporting the incident to the dispatch center, was the clerk at the all-night truck stop.” MacMahan shifted slightly and pointed toward the big map. “It’s located right there on the Interstate, about two miles from the crash site. He said a white guy, about thirty to thirty-five, or so, came running up, ran in the door, and told him there’d been a terrible accident out on Highway Fourteen, and that they’d better hurry because the car was on fire.”
“Some Good Samaritan lost in the night, eh?”
“Or not,” MacMahan said. “Whoever it was took off without leaving any more information. The clerk said he turned around to pick up the phone and the guy had gone. He figured maybe he’d gone back to the accident scene to help, but he sure wasn’t anywhere to be found when we got there.” He paused and flipped up his shirt pocket, taking out a package of gum. He offered it to me. I shook my head. MacMahan unwrapped a stick, folded it twice, and popped it into his mouth. After he’d chewed a couple of times, he canted his head slightly. “I even pulled the inside and outside surveillance tapes from the truck stop trying to see if I could track the guy down, but nothing. The tapes were real grainy and the guy was wearing a baseball cap real low on his forehead. Outside, the only thing I could make out was a big, dark sedan of some sort. Maybe a Lincoln or a Caddie and an SUV. License plates on both were unreadable.”
“Both cars took off at the same time?”
“Looked that way, from the tape.”
I watched him for a moment. “So why’d you go to all that trouble? Wasn’t it pretty cut and dried?”
His index finger tapped one of the crispy critter photos. “I just like to be thorough, Mr. Shade. It was a little thing, but it bothered me I couldn’t find the original witness, or witnesses. Wanted to find out exactly what the guy saw.” He shrugged. “But we were able to piece things together anyway. Ran the plate on the crashed vehicle and it came back to a rental. The renter was Robert Bayless out of Oakton Hillside, up by Chicago. The coroner got the dental records a few days later and made the ID. One car accident. Driver somewhat impaired. Case closed.”
Dead Ringer Page 13