“Like the corner of a table or something?”
“Possibly,” the coroner said, quickly moving on. “Second. The bruises on his neck are indeed hand impressions. And cause of death was asphyxiation.”
“So, he was strangled,” Philip said.
“Correct,” the coroner nodded.
“Before or after the blow to the head?” Dave asked.
“After.”
“Could the blow have occurred during a struggle while he was being strangled?” Dave asked.
“Possible,” the coroner said, “but unlikely.”
“Why unlikely?” Philip asked.
“Because there were no signs of a struggle,” Steve said.
“The man was struck in the head and strangled to death and there were no signs of a struggle?” Philip was bewildered.
“The bruises on his neck are clear,” the coroner indicated the blue marks on the man’s neck. “If he had struggled, his assailant would have been straining to keep his death grip on him.” He held his hands together as if to choke an imaginary friend. “He would have been shifting his hands, maybe even losing his grip and having to grab the neck again.” He moved his hands from side to side to demonstrate.” There would be a less clear imprint. The guy who did this simply placed his hands on the man’s neck and squeezed. Most likely, the blow to the head rendered him unconscious first.”
“What about the other bruising I see on him?” Dave pointed.
“The large one on the chest could be from a struggle. It would be hard to prove when he got it,” the coroner said. “Most of the others are post mortem. I would imagine they occurred while being transferred to the dump site. There are also animal bites on his fingers and face. All post. Probably while he lay out there waiting to be found.”
“Anything else important?” Dave asked.
“Saved the best for last,” the coroner smiled, something Dave seldom saw the man do. “Your victim was not dressed at the time of death.”
“That explains his appearance,” Philip said. “How do you know for sure?”
“His clothes were wrong,” the man said. “His shirt was miss-buttoned. His pants were not zipped. His belt was cinched too tight, and not exactly around his waist. And his underwear was just, well, not pulled up right. One side of the waistband was rolled up. The man did not dress himself. We took pictures if you need to see them”
“Well,” Dave said. “That changes things.”
“There were also fluids dried on his penis,” the coroner continued. “We won’t get the results until later but I would say the man was having sex just before he was killed.”
“Jealous husband, maybe?” Dave suggested. “Or a male prostitute?”
“Or a female prostitute with an angry pimp,” Philip said.
“Not my area,” the coroner said. “That is where you guys come in. I gave you what I can for now. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have another body to examine.”
The detectives left the morgue, their minds racing with the new information. Philip was popping antacids like candy in a vain attempt to calm his stomach.
“He died while having sex,” Philip said.
“Which means the wife or a mistress,” Dave said.
“Or a hooker,” Philip added.
“It’s time we paid Mrs. Tuttle another visit,” Dave nodded. “The person he was sleeping with may not have killed him, but they may have seen who did.”
Chapter 12
(The Bank)
Allan’s eyes fluttered open. Instead of the onslaught of harsh sunlight he expected, he only saw darkness. For a fleeting moment, he thought he had lost his vision. It took only seconds or his eyes to focus on the tree branches threatening to reach down and snatch him up. He had no idea how long he had lain at the base of the tree. A mix of being hit in the head and pure exhaustion had played a part in his long nap. His limbs were stiff, like the tree’s, from lying uncomfortably on roots and stones.
He shifted to one side and something sharp stabbed into his ribs. Rolling back the other way, he sat up. His head pounded like a drum. He reached up to the offending area, brushed dried, crusted blood with his fingertips and winced. A large bump had formed above one eye. He pulled himself to his feet, staggering clumsily before grabbing the tree for support.
Disoriented, he started walking only to stop after only a few minutes, convinced he had gone the wrong direction. He turned and walked, stopped again. Turning again, he walked. Time and time again he stopped and changed direction. Twice he came to the water’s edge. Several times he lost himself in the trees. It was over an hour of disjointed navigation before he saw a land mark he recognized. Starting from there, he took a single step and stopped. He started at the wooden post, rotted and leaning, as if it would tell him which way he needed to go. Finally, he made a final turn and staggered toward his cabin hurt, hungry and exhausted.
Leaning into the mirror, Allan examined his forehead. As expected, there was a huge knot over one eye, the tissue black and blue from bruising. In the center was a large red gash caked with dried blood. Instinctively, he reached up to touch it and cringed in agony. There were no bandages in the cabin. Money for supplies was running low and knew he would need more food if he was going to stay. He had no choice but to go to the bank and withdraw some cash.
His reflection in the mirror stared back at him just as everyone at the bank would be doing once he arrived. He knew they would wonder how he could have received such an injury, and why he didn’t cover it up. His face flushed with embarrassment, knowing he had frightened himself so much he walked into a tree. He dabbed at the wound with a damp washcloth and cringed again.
As a novelist, he often wrote about his characters doing things like stitching up their own wounds or cutting a bullet out of their leg with nothing more than a pocket knife. He was not one of those characters. Just touching the cut on his head brought him to tears. He looked at himself, crinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue. His eyes were cupped in thick dark rings, the lids drooping. Despite being unconscious most of the day, he needed sleep; restful sleep. Hoping the swelling might lessen overnight, he turned away from his reflection, walked slowly to the bedroom and collapsed. Allan slept most of the night in a deep, undisturbed sleep.
Morning came and Allan’s muscles ached, emphasizing the stiffness in his joints. He lay motionless staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. After a half hour he reluctantly climbed out of bed, his head throbbing.
He slowly made his way to the kitchen and used the last of his food supplies, to prepare a small breakfast. While eating, he made a mental note of the things he needed. At the top of the list was cash. Stopping at the bank would have to be a priority. The rest of the list consisted of the essentials; food, clothing, shoes, bandages and toiletries. All unnecessary if he went home. But he knew he wasn’t ready to face Sarah.
He cleaned the kitchen, showered and dressed. He tried to wash the dirt from his slacks which only served to turn it to mud. He pulled them over his legs and rubbed at his knee through a hole in the material. The blisters on his feet protested their return to his shoes. Standing back, he checked himself in the mirror. The wrinkled, dirty shirt hung loosely from his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved in two days. He looked homeless, an observation that would humor him if it didn’t feel true.
He had no money for a cab and faced a ten mile hike to his bank to get some. For the first time in years, Allan wished he had a car. As a teen he loved driving, it was like freedom. He would roll all the windows down and let the wind engulf him. He drove every chance he could, making excuses to go places, always taking the longest route possible.
All that changed fifteen years ago. He was crossing a bridge, reaching across to adjust the radio. When he looked up, there was a truck in his lane, coming straight at him at a high rate of speed. He would learn later that the driver had suffered a massive heart attack and died with his foot on the accelerator. With nowhere to go, all Allan could do was stop, sit
and wait. He closed his eyes at the moment of impact thinking of all the things he had not done in his short life. He woke four months later in the hospital. Recovery was slow and agonizing. Months of physical therapy brought him to a full recovery. It had not, however, returned him to his previous mental state. Every time he sat behind the wheel of a car, he experienced a tightness in his chest that, if he did not get out, developed into a full blown panic attack. He never drove again. That was also when the quirks other fears began. It started with counting steps, jumping at noises and an obsession with symmetry. Soon, he could not be in a crowd, avoided even the slightest confrontations and ultimately became the hermit he was when Sarah came into his life.
It was during this stage in his life that he started writing. At first, it was a way to get his mind of the fact that he was struggling with menial tasks like walking. Soon it became an escape from his fears and people. His stories took on a life and at times he would think of them as real. Always, he imagined himself the hero; no quirks, no fears, only strength and confidence.
With a heavy sigh, he locked the cabin and started the first leg of his journey. He would walk to the general store and use the last of his money to purchase a bottle of water to keep him hydrated for the walk into town.
The closest branch of his bank was in a small suburb about eight miles beyond the store. There, he could withdraw some cash and hit some of the local stores for clothes, shoes and food. A cab ride back to the general store for supplies and back to the cabin would round out the day.
The first step Allan took caused his full weight to come to rest on one of his many blisters. He winced and shifted his body only to roll his weight onto another blister. A tear formed in the corner of his eye as he limped toward the highway wondering if he would make it to the general store. The thought of Pappy driving by and giving him another ride gave him brief hope until he decided the idea probably sounded better than it would actually be. He pushed himself forward fighting back tears every step of the way. By the time he reached the store, an hour later, the sun was high overhead.
He pulled the door open and stepped inside. Although Pappy only kept the temperature a couple degrees lower than the outdoors, Allan thought it heavenly. He staggered to the last isle where a row of reach-in coolers lined the wall. He pulled one of the doors open, reached in and pulled out a bottle of water. He was drinking by the time he got back to the counter.
“You okay, Mr. Bolder?” Larry Jasper asked as Allan fished the last of his change out of his pocket.
“Not really,” Allan said.
“You look like crap,” the old man observed. “What did you do to your head?”
“Ran into a tree,” Allan tried a smile which turned to a scowl as his head throbbed.
“Well, it looks like crap,” Larry repeated.
“Yea,” Allan agreed.
“That all I can get you?”
“For now,” Allan nodded. “Have to go to the bank for some cash. Then I’ll be back.”
“Okay,” Larry said, counting the change Allan had put on the counter.
“See you.”
"Oh, wait," Larry said. "Got that key for you."
Allan took the key with a gracious, yet painful, smile. "Thank you, so much."
“No problem,” Larry said, looking at Allan’s forehead. “Man, you look like crap.”
Allan tried to grin, but only one side of his mouth rose to the occasion, and the corner started to twitch with gave him a crazed appearance. Larry took a step back before Allan gave up and retreated through the door.
Staying in the shade as much as possible, Allan made it about two miles before stopping to rest at a roadside park. He sat at a dilapidated picnic table positioned under an ancient elm and watched cars pass by on the highway. In all the times he had sat in the back of a cab on his way to or away from the cabin, he had never seen the park before. He felt oddly serene even with the roar of the engines as they raced by.
Reluctantly he pressed on, making slow progress. In the shade the heat was barely tolerable. When the trees failed him, it was intense. Sweat streamed from his brow, stinging his eyes. In no time at all he finished the bottle of water he had bought at the general store. For the last few miles, his lips became dry and cracked like a dried up river bed. Taking the last step to reach the sidewalk where it began at the edge of town, tears formed in Allan’s eyes. He had made it.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, Allan nodded and smiled at a couple exiting a nearby clothing store. The woman stopped short, her companion placing his arm around her shoulder to steer her wide of the strange man. Allan’s smile faded to a twitching grin, causing them to lower their heads and quicken their pace. Allan looked at them incredulously then turned to the store itself. Seeing his reflection in the window, he lowered his eyes to the concrete. Buying bandages was a top priority.
The suburb he had arrived in was home to some of the cities more elite residents. Only once before had he been there, almost five years ago to stop into the very bank branch he was seeking now. He had taken a cab then and paid little attention to the route taken. All he remembered about the bank’s location was that it was located on a street corner, or close to the corner anyway.
“Can I help you?” The voice was strong, authoritative and even looking down, Allan knew it was directed toward him.
Allan raised his eyes to see a tall man in police uniform looking down at him. His eyes were stern and Allan got an uneasy feeling looking into them. Something about the officer’s posture alarmed Allan and he froze.
“I asked if I could help you,” the officer said. The tone of his voice suggested he had no intention of helping at all. “Can you hear me? Are you on something?”
“I . . . uh . . . I,” Allan’s stammered, no thoughts processed, no words formed. Incoherent sounds escaped his lips as he fought to breathe.
“That’s a nasty cut on your forehead,” the officer observed, his voice softening slightly. “Do you need a doctor?”
Allan shook his head.
The officer leaned in, studying him intensely. For a long moment, Allan thought the officer was going to, at best, yell at him; at worst, strike him. Standing straight again, the officer said, “There’s no loitering here. Don’t let me catch you around here after dark.”
Allan nodded, glad he could manage the simple head gesture. He started down the street in the direction he hoped would lead him to the bank. Glancing over his shoulder two or three times before reaching an intersection, his eyes met those of the officer who glared at him from where he stood.
Rounding the corner more to evade to officer’s gaze than to find the bank, Allan saw an old brick structure that reminded him of a Mexican restaurant on the intersection of two busy streets in an otherwise quiet town. It was the bank. He gave a sigh of relief and staggered in its direction.
He climbed the steps and pushed his way through a large oak door. A number of partial renovations for a half dozen or more different businesses previously located in the building left the interior an eclectic combination of era specific designs. When the bank moved in, the owners decided to only add the fixtures necessary for business, passing on yet another architectural facelift. The result was mahogany desks and counters sitting in a room of cheap linoleum floors and brightly painted, yet peeling walls. It was obviously out of place in the neighborhood.
No drive-thru, no ATM; there were a number of tellers standing behind the counters with genuine smiles. The only intimidating thing about the bank was the brawny young man standing at the door in a guard’s uniform. He gave Allan a harsh look as he crossed the room to stand in the short line to the tellers.
Allan felt eyes on his back as he waited patiently for his turn, shifting uncomfortably from one aching foot to the other. Reaching the front of the line, he waited for a very long time as the tellers worked with their customers, each of whom seemed to have very important business to attend. The first of those customers to complete their task, gathered his thing
s and turned to leave. His expression sored as he passed Allan. The overly friendly young woman behind the counter looked at Allan, her smile wavering but not disappearing.
“How may I help you?” she asked as friendly as she had been with the previous patrons.
“I need to make a withdrawal from my account,” Allan smiled.
“You have an account with us?” she inquired with a hint of doubt.
“I do,” Allan said. “The name is Allan Tuttle. And I have the password.”
“Tuttle, you say?” she said, her fingers working the keyboard of her computer.
“Tuttle. Yes.”
“Did you say Allen?”
“Yes, with an A.”
“An A?” the teller looked at him.
“A. L. L. A. N.,” he spelled.
The woman’s eyebrow raised, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. She studied the screen before her. “Are you sure you have an account at this bank?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“I just don’t remember you and . . .”
“No,” Allan said. “I have the account with one of the city branches. I live in the city. I just need to withdraw some cash to buy some clothes and shoes.”
“Yes,” the woman smiled, in understanding. “It’s just . . . you’re not in our system.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are no active accounts with your name.”
“That can’t be,” Allan said, his voice slightly raised. “I’ve been banking with you for over fifteen years.”
“You have no account, sir,” the woman said.
“What about inactive?” Allan asked, suddenly.
The woman typed some more, with a hint of reluctance. After a moment her eyebrow arched again. She typed a little more and nodded to herself. “You had an account with us.”
“Had?”
“I’m showing the account was closed yesterday.”
“Closed?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for you.”
The Widow's Husband Page 8