by Frank Hughes
“That’s mighty nice of him.”
“It’s not him. Mr. Kohl stopped by when he heard.”
“Mr. Kohl?”
“Very nice old man, runs the private resort.”
“The Retreat?”
“Yes, that’s right. I saw him talking to Mr. Runyon, my landlord.” She nodded towards the door. “Outside, after he visited.” She looked at me oddly. “You don’t know about him?”
“I don’t mix much with the wealthy. Hey,” I said, as if suddenly remembering, “what about the cameras and stuff from the wedding business? Do you still have that? I might be interested.”
“Sorry,” she said, “everything was taken in the robbery.”
“Oh, God! I’m so sorry. I forgot about that.” I shook my head. “He was so proud of that camera.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “It cost a fortune. HD hard drive or something like that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Great camera.”
“More than we could afford.”
I sipped some more coffee. “What was he doing over in Jasper Creek anyway?”
“I don’t know. He was running all sorts of errands that week.” She sighed. “Patrick had so many interests, and he was so preoccupied that week.”
I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Did it have anything to do with Roger?”
She looked at me surprised and I held up the magazine.
“Oh,” she said, “oh,” as if in sudden understanding. “You’re…?” When I nodded she said “Roger was here the week before.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. Patrick was very secretive about his activism.”
“Did Patrick seem different after the fire?”
“Yes,” she leaned on the counter. “He was very skittish. How did you know?”
“Did you see Roger that day?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Patrick said he was gone.”
“Was there anyone else in town Roger might have stayed with?”
“No, he always stayed with us when he was in town.” Her eyes welled up, and her hand went to her mouth.
Nice job, Nick. Make the widow cry. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge it all up.” I drained my coffee and set the empty cup on the counter. “Thank you for your time.”
“Oh, no, thank you, Mister..?”
“You are more than welcome. I wish you and the boys all the best.”
21.
I drove out to Jasper Creek Gorge to look at the scene of Madigan’s accident. It was a good place for an accident like that, a winding, narrow road carved into a rocky slope. The newly patched fencing made the spot easy to find. I parked at a turnout and walked back to stand at the edge.
The river below looked far away. The way time stretches in accidents it must have seemed to Madigan like he was falling forever. If he’d been awake that is, which did not seem likely. Madigan was Roger’s contact in Purchas, and he died soon after the fire. Epstein had said he was losing contact with associates, plural. That meant there had been others after Madigan.
I thought about the other recent deaths I’d read about in the library. One involved a teenage girl in a Fiesta that was t-boned by a drunk running a stop sign. Guess who survived? The other was a sixty-seven year old with pancreatic cancer who shot himself with the pistol his wife smuggled into the hospital. And the alleged illegal alien who froze to death.
I stood staring into the rushing waters of the distant stream, thinking about the hypothermia victim. It didn’t fit my scenario of spoiled rich kids seeking meaning through eco-activism. I’d dismissed the incident as just some houseboy escaping a tyrannical trophy wife. In this country a lot of us believe that every well-to-do person has an illegal immigrant cleaning their house or tending their garden. But could anyone be so stupid or unaware that they would not steal a coat or blanket before attempting such an escape? The body had been found clad only in a thin coverall. Some of these ski mansions had more window space than the MetLife building, so you would know it was snowy and cold outside. The more I thought about it, the odder the whole incident seemed.
I drove back to Purchas and made a return visit to the library. It turned out the town did not have its own coroner; that was the county’s responsibility. The Juan Doe’s body had been transferred to the morgue at the county seat, less than fifteen miles away. With any luck, the body was still there. I used the computer to map the location and I also got my new library card.
Forty-five minutes later I was at the county coroner’s office, which, to my mild surprise, was not an old barn, but part of a complex of modern glass and stone office buildings arranged around a central plaza. The Sheriff’s headquarters and county administration building were quite prominent, but someone with good sense had tucked the morgue out of sight behind the public health building and a strategic copse of trees.
I presented myself at the front desk, brandishing a printout of the newspaper story and claiming that the unidentified dead man might be a friend of mine. The bored receptionist asked me to take a seat while she looked into it. A good half hour went by before an equally bored fellow in a white lab coat and black rimmed spectacles appeared. He was carrying a clipboard, which made him official.
“Mr. Somerset?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
“I understand you think you can identify one of our John Doe’s?”
“Yes, although I hope to God it isn’t him.”
He folded his arms, hugging the clipboard to his chest.
“What brings you here now? This was nearly a month ago.”
“I’ve been out of town. Armando, that’s my friend’s name, he had the key to my place. We were in the Army together, you see. Afghanistan. He wasn’t quite the same when he came back. You know, PTSD, so I try to help when I can, give him a place to stay when he has trouble, you know, functioning.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“He has episodes, thinks he’s back in the sandbox. When I saw this story, Hispanic male wearing warm weather clothes sort of wandering in the woods, well, that’s just the sort of thing we worry about with him.”
He looked at me, consulted the clipboard again, and then frowned. “Alright, it can’t hurt. Follow me.”
He led me back through double doors and down a tiled hallway through yet another set of double doors. Cold air slapped me in the face. To the right, under stark white lights, were five autopsy tables, each with their accompanying support tables, organ scales, and those all important drains. Thankfully there were no corpses undergoing dissection. The rest of the surprisingly long room was lined with about forty stainless steel tables in four neat rows.
“Jesus,” I said, “are you expecting a war?”
“This was built with Homeland Security money after 9/11. We’re the local repository for mass casualty events.”
“I’m happy for you.”
The rear wall was a sort of corpse condo for long term storage of remains. My guide consulted the clipboard and moved down to the correct door. When he opened it, there was a small puff of frosty air.
“That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?”
“It’s not here.” He frowned and looked again at the clipboard.
“What’s not here?”
“The body,” he said, without looking up. “It’s the right number, but it’s not here.”
I moved around him for a look and the sliding metal tray inside was indeed empty.
“Would they have buried him? You know, in Potter’s Field or something?”
He shook his head. “It’s still an open case.” He tapped the clipboard. “And this is up to date.” He began opening the doors around John Doe’s. Only two were occupied, and their toe tags apparently matched the clipboard.
“What now?” I said.
“Excuse me,” he said, brushing past me to go to the phone hanging on the tiled wall. He picked up the receiver and punched in a number, s
peaking to whoever answered in low, urgent tones. He hung up and started down the wall, opening doors and checking toe tags on the occupied ones.
“Anything I can do to help?” I said.
“Please wait. Dr. Clifford will be here soon.”
I hopped up on one of the empty tables and lay on my back to watch him work. He was almost done when the doors behind me opened. The man who entered wore a white lab coat over a business suit. His blandly handsome politician’s face wore an expression of deep concern he had no doubt practiced in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?”
“We seem to be missing a body, Doctor.”
“That’s impossible. Bodies just don’t get up and wander out.”
“They do in zombie movies,” I said.
Clifford turned to me. “Who are you?”
“This is Mr. Somerset. He thought he could identify our John Doe.”
I sat up, swung my feet over, and hopped off the table.
“Which one?” said Clifford, giving me an uneasy look.
“Automobile accident. The OTM,” said the attendant.
“Why do you think you know him?” Clifford said to me.
“He thinks he might be-.”
Clifford whirled on him. “I’m asking him,” he said, sharply.
“I think he’s an old Army buddy I loaned my place to.” I said.
“Really?” His expression told me he did not believe me.
“Yes, really.”
“I doubt it was your friend.”
“Why?”
“There is no way this man was in the United States Army.”
“Why?”
“Because he was clearly an illegal immigrant recently arrived in this country.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The general condition of the body. He was a farmer, or possibly a miner, who worked under primitive conditions with few safety precautions. There is no way he was ever under the sort of care he would have gotten in the U.S. military.”
“You’d be surprised. My friend was in combat in Afghanistan. Talk about primitive conditions and irregular safety precautions.”
“I was a surgeon in the first Gulf War, Mr. Somerset, and I know what I am talking about. This man was a laborer.” Clifford held out his big, well-manicured hands and turned them over. “His hands were heavily callused and covered with badly healed scars. The skin was discolored, as if he regularly handled fertilizer or some caustic chemical with his bare hands.”
“Recently?”
“I would say so.”
“Where would he be doing that here at this time of year?”
“I have no idea, but I can surmise that people don’t smuggle in foreign laborers for easy work. And why do you care? This clearly wasn’t your friend.” He looked dramatically at his oversized gold wristwatch. “I’m a busy man, so if we’re finished here.”
“One more question. Your man here said he wasn’t Mexican, but he was Hispanic, correct?”
Clifford turned to the attendant. The man looked bewildered. “I never…”
“You called him an OTM,” I said. “That’s Border Patrol lingo. It means other than Mexican, right?”
The attendant looked at Clifford for direction.
“That’s correct,” said Clifford, suddenly wary, his narrowed eyes reappraising me. “The man was not a Mexican.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He folded his arms. “I’m good at what I do, Mr. Somerset. The man is from the Andes region of South America, most likely Columbia or Peru.”
“Why the Andes?’
“The condition of his teeth and gums suggested he was a long term user of coca leaf, which, as I am sure you know, is chewed by the locals to combat altitude sickness.” He unfolded his arms and gestured towards the door. “Whoever he might have been, this man was not who you think he was.”
I started for the exit, but stopped and turned back after a few feet. “So where is his body?”
“That is our concern, not yours. Good day.”
As I went through the double doors I looked back. Clifford was staring at me, arms still folded. I turned away and let the doors swing closed behind me.
22.
I drove back to Purchas and went to the police station, a squat, bunker-like building that could probably survive an H-bomb and possibly a fraternity party. Just inside the door was a narrow lobby where I came face to face with two wide bullet proof windows, separated by a wall of plaques. Behind the right one was a well lit office and five desks, three of them occupied by young women in civilian clothes. In contrast the other window guarded a dimly lit room full of radio equipment and computers. Behind the console, facing a microphone on an articulating arm, was a uniformed officer the size and shape of a manatee. He glared at me with that weird combination of suspicion and disinterest only cops can manage.
“Hi,” I said, assuming he had some means of hearing me through the inch thick glass.
“May I help you, sir?” he said, through some hidden speaker.
“I’d like to speak to the Chief, please.” I glanced at one of the plaques on the dividing wall, which said the present chief was a C. Masterson. “Chief Masterson.”
“What is the nature of your business?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“The Chief will want to know the reason, sir, before she’ll agree to meet with you.”
Since I hoped to get a little official cooperation, I was going to have to take a chance and use my real identity. No sense getting on the wrong side of the police. I took out a business card and slid it through the tiny opening at the base of the window. He picked it up and looked at it.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said, “here from New York. I felt it best to check in with the Chief before I did anything.”
I heard a loud click and a door at the other end of the lobby opened. It was one of the clerical staff, leaving for the day; behind her was a uniformed officer.
“Chief’s not here right now,” said the man behind the window, after a fleeting glance at my card. “Won’t be back until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Nine,” said the woman in the lobby. I turned to look at her, but she was looking at the cop. “She’s got her skating lesson tomorrow, remember?”
“Yeah, right.” It was clear what he thought about skating lessons.
“Ice skating?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Nancy,” said the cop behind her, his tone sharp, “no need to be giving out personal information.”
“Sorry, Myron,” she said, sheepishly, before turning back to the cop in the glass booth and saying, “Good night, Terry.” She shouldered her bag and left quickly.
The cop stayed to size me up, hitching his belt in his best lawman fashion. I recognized him from the photo in the newspaper article. It was Schecter, the cop at the Madigan accident scene.
“Who are you?” he said.
“He’s a private investigator from New York,” said Terry.
This state appeared to be full of people wanting to answer questions for me.
“What do you want?” said Schecter.
“I want to see the Chief.”
“About what?”
“A private matter.”
“You can tell me.”
“Only if the Chief gives me permission to,” I said.
He glared at me for several seconds. “Give me your card. I’ll tell the Chief.”
I wasn’t going to put money on it, but I smiled and gave him another one of my cards. “Thanks, officer. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“No, you wait until you hear from us.”
“Sure thing.”
I waved to the cop behind the glass and went back outside, where I spent ten minutes doing some window shopping to see if anyone followed me. Apparently I was not worth the effort. I walked a couple of blocks away from the town center and called Carl on one of the disposable cell phones. He answered on t
he fourth ring.
“Nice to know you’re alive,” he said, without preamble.
“Nice to know someone cares. What kept you?”
“Just closing up and I wanted to get outside before I answered.” I could hear the swishing sounds of passing cars. “Your friends were here.”
“FBI?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Names make you think of a lawnmower engine?”
“The very ones.”
“Did you get any answers on Cynthia Simmons?”
“Yes, but we should go with breaking news first. They found Raviv’s driver.”
“Is he talking?”
“Only to Sponge Bob. They found him and the SUV submerged in the Hudson just off Jeffries Hook. He was strapped in the passenger seat with a bullet in his head.”
“Well, that’s a dead end.”
“Funny. The Simmons woman, not so much of a dead end.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. You’ve caused quite the little stir in Homicide.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. They dug up the ME’s report, and guess what? She was strangled and her throat crushed by what appears to be the same weapon used on Raviv.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You might be surprised at the weird part.”
“What’s the weird part?”
“There were traces of gold in the wound.”
“So what,” I said, “women wear jewelry. And she was strangled.”
“Raviv had them, too.”
“He wore a Star of David on a gold chain.”
“They tested for that. Different alloy. The metal in the wounds had a much lower gold content than Raviv’s necklace.”
“And the Simmons woman?”
“Identical.”
I digested that one for a few moments. “So they think it came off the weapon?”
“It’s one of the theories.”
“Is this weapon a known M.O.?”
“They don’t know, yet. Inquiries are out to the FBI and Interpol to see if it rings any bells.”
I was quiet for a few minutes, thinking.
“You still there?” said Carl.
“Yeah. Suggest they look into the background of his secretary, name of Isabella Ricasso.”