Dead Run
Page 23
“Ad Barton,” Marvin said, and added that he’d be damned. “Hell,” he said, “Adrian and Louise were coming to our place for Sunday lunch tomorrow. Unless he had a dying dog or something. Or I had an emergency. Where is he?”
Apparently Marvin and Barton had been friends. Barton was still “he” to James Marvin, M.D. To medical examiners, cadavers quickly become “it.”
Heimrich took Dr. Marvin to Barton’s body, stiffening on the floor of his operating room.
“Dead a couple of hours,” Marvin said. “Rigor’s setting in. Just fell down dead, you think? Where he is now?”
“Apparently,” Heimrich said. “Oh, we moved him a little. This was partly under him.”
He took the wrapped syringe out of his pocket. He said, “Hold it just a minute, Doctor. Better have this printed.”
Forniss had come in with them. Heimrich handed the tissued syringe to Lieutenant Forniss, who said, “Yep,” and carried it out toward the lab truck.
Marvin knelt beside the corpse. He pushed back the closed eyelids, and closed them again.
“Just dead,” Marvin said. “Have to open him up to find out why. Could be a heart attack, from the looks of it. You closed his eyes, Inspector?”
“No. Closed when we found him.”
“We?”
“A young doctor from White Plains. Had come up to take his girl to dinner. Name of Rorke. Ever hear of him, Doctor?”
“Barton mentioned him once, I think. Said he was badgering Carol. Pretty kid, she is. Kind anyone would be likely to make passes at.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Barton used the word ‘badgered’?”
“Way I remember it,” Marvin said. “You want to take pictures of it before we take it away?”
Heimrich did want pictures taken. Forniss came back. The hypodermic syringe was now unwrapped. “One set,” Forniss said. “Where you’d expect them to be.”
“Probably Barton’s,” Heimrich said. “Better print him before they take him away.”
“They’re coming,” Forniss said.
Heimrich gave the syringe to Dr. Marvin.
“Empty,” Marvin said. “On the floor beside him, you say?”
“As if he’d dropped it as he fell, Doctor.”
“Adrian was a diabetic,” Marvin said. “Mild case. Apparently under control. Insulin.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Dr. Chandler told me that.”
“Good old Ernie,” Marvin said. “Still practicing. When I get to be his age, I hope I’m retired. Not that he isn’t a damn good man. So he was treating Adrian, was he? Mild case, way Adrian thought?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Probably forty units, then,” Marvin said. “Maybe before breakfast—blood glucose highest in the morning—or in the evening, half an hour or so before dinner. But injecting the stuff is a bit of a nuisance, even when you’ve got used to it. What time would he be having dinner, do you know?”
Heimrich didn’t. Probably Miss Arnold would know. Apparently she had her meals with the Bartons. When they had found Barton’s body, his dinner had been ready and waiting. Mrs. Barton had sent word to that effect, by Rorke.
“Times fit,” Marvin said. “What your lab boys will find a residue of in this syringe will be insulin, hundred to one.”
“He’d operated on a cat just before he died,” Heimrich said. “Don’t vets anesthetize animals by injection?”
“Barbiturates,” Marvin said. “Dosage by weight of animal. So, nowadays, do we. Sodium pentothal, usually. For starters. You think maybe he injected himself instead of the cat? Not likely, Inspector. Not with the same needle, obviously. Thousand to one, your boys will find insulin was in this syringe. Maybe with zinc, more likely regular. You’re thinking of insulin shock?”
“Just wondering about the whole thing,” Heimrich told him.
“Have to take a good many times the normal dose,” Marvin said. “Not likely to. They get so measuring the prescribed dosage is pretty automatic. One c.c., usually. Forty units of insulin per one c.c., Marked on the syringe. See?”
Heimrich looked at the cylinder of the hypodermic. It was marked in cubic centimeters.
“Also,” Marvin said, “he’d be using the needle on a lot of animals. All sorts of medications by injection. Animals don’t like to take pills. Particularly cats, I gather.”
Marvin was damned right. Heimrich told him so with feeling. He had had, a year or so before, to give Mite pills. It had been arduous, although in the end successful. When the pills finally got into Mite they were accompanied by blood from human fingers. Cats do not approve of taking pills.
“Are there poisons of which one c.c., by needle, would be lethal, Doctor?”
“Sure. Dozens, possibly. You’re thinking maybe he got the stuff out of the wrong vial? Inspector, Adrian was a pro. Going to be damn sure what he shoots into himself. However, anything he might have used by accident would be in his refrigerator there. We can look.”
They looked into the small refrigerator set into the wall. There were a number of bottles and vials in it. They were arranged in racks.
“There’s his insulin,” Marvin said. He pointed to the racked small vials. All but one had red caps on them. The little vials were labeled, “Lilly, Iletin (R) 40 U. Regular.” They were also marked, “10 cc.”
The one vial without a red aluminum cap had a stopper in it.
“One he was using,” Marvin said. “Rubber plug, see? Special kind of rubber. You push the needle through it and get out what you want. Pull the needle out and the rubber seals itself.”
He held the vial up to the light and looked at it.
“About four c.c.’s left, at a guess,” Dr. Marvin said.
He put the little vial back in its appointed place in the rack. He looked at, without touching, the other small bottles and vials in the refrigerator.
“Pretty much what you’d expect,” Marvin said. “Barbiturates in solution. Sodium pentothal, of course. Knocks them out in seconds. Out for good, if that’s what’s wanted. A good many things we don’t use on human patients. A few’ve been tried and didn’t work. Or worked too damn well, sometimes. Where are these photographers of yours, if you’re still going to treat it as homicide?”
“Waiting for us to get out of the way,” Heimrich told him.
They got out of the way into the waiting room.
The police photographer went into the narrow operating room, and the bulbs flashed. The photographer came out and the fingerprint men began dusting, and lifting prints and taking pictures of what they found.
Dr. Marvin looked at his watch. He said, “No point in my sticking around that I can see. Autopsy report’ll be along in the morning sometime.”
“And lab findings,” Heimrich said.
“If I can get the lab boys on it,” Marvin told him. “After all, it’s a weekend, Inspector.”
Heimrich knew it was a weekend. He also knew that hospitals run short-staffed on weekends. (And that Sunday was supposed to be his own day off. It was a tattered supposition.)
He said, “When you can, Doctor.”
Dr. Marvin flipped a hand in a gesture which might mean anything. He went out toward his car. Heimrich continued to wait. It was twenty minutes, it was almost nine thirty, before the fingerprint men came out of the office. One of them said, “All through, sir. Way it looks, the prints on the syringe are his, all right. Same type, anyway. We’ll check them out and send the report along. Monday be all right?”
Heimrich supposed it would have to be. He also supposed there would be a good many prints in the operating room and that not all of them would be those of Adrian Barton, DVM. To that, the fingerprint man said, “Sure are, sir.”
Forniss had been outside, looking around. He came in as the fingerprint men went out. He said, “Tell them to come and get it, M. L.? They want the ambulance for live ones.”
Heimrich said, “Yes, Charles.”
One of the fingerprint men said, “Want we should tell the
m, Inspector?”
Heimrich said “Yes” again. He and Forniss sat on the green sofa.
Forniss said, “Onto something, M. L.?”
“Doesn’t look much like it,” Heimrich said. “Find anything outside, Charley?”
Forniss had not. After the blacktop of Barton Lane ended, there was only gravel, loose gravel. Cars had roughed it up without leaving behind any tire marks. Oh, there was one thing. “Around back somebody drove up on the grass. Light car, looks like. Maybe a Volks.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “A Mrs. Cummins. Came to pick up her cat.”
“So?” Purvis said. “We just wait for reports.”
That was about it, Heimrich told him—for reports that probably would show that Barton had died of heart failure; that the residue in the syringe would be residue of insulin, 40 U, with which Dr. Barton had injected himself half an hour before dinnertime. Or, of course, thereabouts.
“There’s a girl works here,” Heimrich said, “Studying to be a vet, and getting practical experience during vacation. Very pretty girl named Carol—Carol Arnold. The kind, Dr. Marvin says, any man might make a pass at. Man named Rorke’s probably making a pass at her now. Several passes, from the time they’re taking over dinner at the Tavern.”
“The one in Cold Harbor?” Forniss said. “Hamburger and pizza joint, mostly. Shouldn’t take them long. She know you want to talk to her, M. L.?”
“I asked her to come back, Charley. She was here this afternoon. Almost certainly when Barton died. She’d been told not to disturb him, because he was operating on a cat.”
Forniss merely raised inquiring eyebrows.
“Nothing,” Heimrich said. “Just what went on during the afternoon. If she has a record of who brought animals in for treatment. If anything unusual happened. Whether pet owners were allowed inside Barton’s examining room. That sort of thing. Probably all a waste of time, because Barton probably—just died.”
“Unaided, you mean?”
“Unaided, Charley. And a nosy cop just happened to be here. As a pet owner, Charley.”
He told Forniss about Colonel. Forniss offered sympathy. He said old Colonel was quite a dog, and was agreed with. And so they just waited the return of Carol Arnold and a man named Rorke?
“A doctor,” Heimrich said. “Also, apparently, a boy friend. Yes.”
But then he stood up. “Could be,” he said, “they’ve already come back and gone up to the house instead of coming here. Suppose I go see, Charley. If they show up, you can go to the back door and semaphore or something. You can semaphore?”
“Sure,” Forniss, who is an ex-marine, told his longtime superior and longtime friend.
“Good,” Heimrich said. “Not that I can read it, of course.”
Inspector Heimrich went out the back door and across the smooth lawn toward the white house.
Buy The Tenth Life Now!
About the Author
Richard Lockridge (1898–1982) was one of the most popular names in mystery fiction from the 1940s through the ’70s. He is best known for the prolific detective series he wrote with his wife, Frances, including the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries, Nathan Shapiro Mysteries, and Captain Heimrich Mysteries. Upon Frances’s death in 1963, Richard continued writing, delivering new and much darker Nathan Shapiro and Captain Heimrich books. His works have been adapted for Broadway, film, television, and radio.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1967 by Richard Lockridge
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5062-3
This 2018 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.mysteriouspress.com
www.openroadmedia.com
THE CAPTAIN HEIMRICH MYSTERIES
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
info@mysteriousbookshop.com
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@ OpenRoadMedia