Remains Silent mm-1

by Michael Baden

  “I guess I still don’t understand.” Struck by his manner, she realized there were to be no more jokes. “Why do her kids feel so strongly about an autopsy? Do they think she was killed?”

  “First off,” he said, “the next of kin can request a private autopsy, even if the authorities don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Actually, I doubt if Mrs. Alessis’s children would have thought of it if she hadn’t been smitten with my brother, Sam. He talked me up to her; she told her kids about my work. Voilа.”

  The machine beeped. He carefully cut a thin sliver of tissue from the frozen block of liver tissue, as though it were deli meat. “This is called a microtome blade,” he explained. “It’s very sharp. I’ll put the tissue section on a slide, add some dye, put a cover slip over it, and it’s ready to go.” He inserted the slide under the microscope and adjusted the focus. After a minute he stood, that same troubled expression in his eyes. “Here. Take a look for yourself.”

  “I’m fine right where I am.”

  “Don’t be a baby, you’ve been through an autopsy. This is just a slide. Besides, I may need you as a corroborating witness.”

  That did it. She felt a surge of excitement, even pleasure, and put her eye to the microscope. “What am I looking for?”

  “You see those pink pie-shaped areas? They’re called the liver lobules. Normally, under this stain each cell nucleus is blue, surrounded by pink cytoplasm.”

  “But some of them-”

  “Are a mess.” His voice was hoarse. He was pacing now, clearly fighting to keep his emotions under control. “You can see where the nuclei have been destroyed. It’s dead tissue, what we call necrotic. Because it’s in the center of the liver, we refer to this kind of damage as centrilobular necrosis.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  “It means,” he said, “that Mrs. Alessis was poisoned.”

  IT TOOK HER until they had once again gone outside and he had changed into civilian clothes for her to adjust to the shock. Murder was as much her territory as his, and its presence focused her mind.

  “What was the poison?” she asked.

  “Probably carbon tetrachloride. There aren’t many that could cause this particular harm to the liver.”

  “You mean the cleaning agent?”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “It was once used by dry cleaners. There were lawsuits by families of people who died from inhaling its fumes, so it was banned.”

  “Exactly right,” he said. “Good for you.”

  The compliment made her absurdly pleased. “And you really think Mrs. Alessis died from it?”

  Jake took a sip of the coffee he had bought from a hallway vending machine on his way out and poured the rest on the ground. “It’s a clever method. You have to be able to get close enough to give it surreptitiously. The victim doesn’t die until a couple of days later. And since the compound itself can no longer be detected through toxicology tests in the body after three days, no one’s really hunting a killer.”

  “Could this have been an accident?”

  He shrugged. “Unlikely, but of course possible. We should go to her apartment to see if she has older cleaning products there containing the poison.”

  “You want to go now?”

  “Absolutely. I told her family I’d want to look at the place where she died, and now there’s an urgent reason. What’s wrong? Are you tired?”

  Strangely, she wasn’t. She rejected a sarcastic answer. “Why should I be tired?”

  Jake smiled at her; Manny got the feeling it was genuine. “You’re a trouper,” he said.

  ***

  “Baby, darling, honey, sweetheart,” Manny called, approaching the Porsche. She opened the door. Mycroft shied away, whimpering. “Don’t be afraid. It’s Mommy.” She turned to Jake. “What have you done to my dog?”

  He held out his hands, palms up. “Nothing. I swear.”

  “Then why is he acting like this?” She made kissy noises. Mycroft leaped from the car and hid under it.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  The odor of her jacket wafted up. “Oh, Jesus,” she said. “I smell like death.”

  “Then Mycroft must be an unusual animal. Dogs usually like clothing that’s been in the autopsy room.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They think it smells like food.”

  “That,” she said, “is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “But it’s true. It’s not you he’s scared of-”

  “I should say not!” The idea! “- it’s somebody or something else.”

  They peered into the dark. Manny turned on the headlights. The bushes in front of the car were indented, as though someone had fled through them.

  ***

  Theresa Alessis had lived in the basement apartment of a two-family house on a run-down street three blocks from downtown Turner. The upper floors were vacant; a sign out front said 2 APTS 4 RENT. Manny didn’t imagine there’d be many takers. Even in the dark she could see that the paint was flaking and the front lawn overgrown.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” she asked, as they crept their way down the uneven concrete stairs that led to Mrs. Alessis’s front entrance.

  “Yes. Why are you whispering?”

  “Because it’s three o’clock in the bloody morning.”

  Jake fumbled with a flowerpot outside the door and produced a key. “Right where her son said it would be.”

  He unlocked the door, reached in, and groped for a switch. The lights blazed on, as startling as a scream in the darkness.

  The small apartment was shabby but neat. An ornate cross Manny recognized as Greek Orthodox dominated the wall over the couch, and a china cupboard contained what appeared to be a large collection of sewing thimbles.

  “My grandparents were tailors,” Manny said, touched. “These thimbles make me feel a certain kinship with Mrs. Alessis. Even a responsibility.”

  “A coincidence,” Jake said. “My grandparents were tailors, too.” He didn’t add that, as union members, they had been beaten nearly to death because they belonged to the ILGWU.

  “Maybe it’s fate that we’re in this together… Oh!”

  Jake came to her side. “What is it?”

  Manny lifted a photograph of Theresa from a doily-covered end table. The beaming woman stood next to a young lady in a graduation gown. “It seems so odd to see her alive.” She glanced at him for a reaction. “That probably sounds stupid to you.”

  “Not at all,” he said, without irony.

  “I just… I had such an intimate look at her, and I don’t even know her. It seems wrong, somehow. And here I am, looking through her things…”

  “To find the reason for her death. We’re investigating what looks to be a murder. If we solve it, that’s the best thing we can do for her children.”

  Put so bluntly, it wiped away sentiment. “You’re right. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Sometimes I get sappy when I’m overtired.” She took a deep breath. “So what are we looking for?”

  “To begin with, any cleaning products containing carbon tetrachloride she might have breathed in or swallowed.”

  “I’ll start with the bathroom.”

  It was right off the living room. Jake watched as she bent down to investigate the cabinet under the sink, granting him a view of an alluring tush. Tantalizing. There was no other word for it. He felt an unfamiliar quickening of desire. Whoa. She straightened. Looks pretty good standing up, too. He moved to the kitchen to conduct his own search.

  “I’ve found something,” she called, not masking her excitement.

  “A bottle with a skull and crossbones marked DANGER: CARBON TETRACHLORIDE?”

  She came into the kitchen, carrying a bottle. “This. Our Mrs. Alessis kept it hidden next to the Ajax.”

  Jake was accustomed to surprises and good at maintaining outward calm. But this time he gasped.r />
  “Do you have any idea how much this stuff costs?” she asked.

  He knew precisely how much. It was a fifth of Johnnie Walker Blue.

  “It belonged to Pete Harrigan,” he told her, recalling his friend’s pleasure at the gift. “Elizabeth must have told Mrs. Alessis she could have it. It’s great stuff. I should know. I’m the one who gave it to him.” Jake stared down at the floor.

  “Yuck!”

  He looked at her. She had unscrewed the top and was holding the bottle away from her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This scotch has gone bad. It’s rancid.”

  “Nonsense. Scotch is scotch. It doesn’t turn the way wine does.”

  She handed him the bottle. He sniffed it. “Son of a bitch!” His hand trembled as he set it on the table. “You just found our poison.”

  Manny sat down heavily. “Good lord!” She examined the bottle. “Wait a minute. Why would anybody drink something that smelled like this?”

  “Because it didn’t. Theresa Alessis died yesterday. That means she drank from the bottle two or three days ago. The carbon tetrachloride has been building up in the headspace ever since. But if you opened the bottle often enough and let the gas escape, you might not notice the odor. Only about an inch is left. What she drank was enough to kill her.”

  He doesn’t know I’m in the room, Manny realized. The look in his eyes said his brain was running at full speed, and he frowned with a concentration she had not seen before, even during the autopsy. Handsome. Almost beautiful.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  He was startled into awareness of her. “I’m thinking about the color of Pete Harrigan’s eyes.”

  JAKE DIDN’T WANT to waste a moment. “We’ve got to get to Harrigan’s cottage,” he said. “Grab your keys.”

  “But you’ve already been there, I thought. You were there just last week.”

  “Yes, to clear out the study and get rid of the furniture. This time we’re looking for something different.” He grabbed her wrist and started out the door.

  She shook her arm free but kept up with his pace. Fatigue, excitement, bewilderment, and foreboding created a volatile cocktail in her stomach. “You think he was poisoned, don’t you?”

  He turned to look at her. His expression was somber. “Yes.”

  “But you said he was dying anyway. Why murder a dying man?”

  “Don’t you see?” There was exasperation in his tone. “Because of the bones.”

  ***

  The cottage had been broken into again. This time it had been trashed. The cardboard boxes of everyday household furnishings that Jake and Sam had packed were strewn about haphazardly. Furniture was overturned and pillow feathers dusted the floor like snow.

  They walked through the rooms, assessing the damage like residents returning home after a tornado. “How long ago do you think this happened?” Manny asked. She realized she was now holding on to his arm, but he seemed to take no notice of it.

  “I spoke to Mrs. Alessis day before yesterday. She never mentioned another burglary, only that she worried about getting everything sorted and packed for the Salvation Army, said she was tired. It must’ve been the carbon tetrachloride affecting her.”

  “What do you think they were looking for, the Johnnie Walker Blue?”

  “I don’t know. You wouldn’t have to do this much damage to figure out it isn’t here.”

  “Maybe they trashed the place because they couldn’t find it.”

  “More likely they were looking for something else.” He stopped. “Jesus! I may have it. I took home a lot of stuff from the study, piled in boxes and plastic bags. I’ll have to go through it as soon as I get home.”

  I’ll help you, she thought, but felt too shy, too foreign, to say so. Instead she said, “Why do I get the feeling that you know more about this than you’re letting on?”

  “I don’t. Really. It’s one thing I learned in the ME’s office: people don’t change- not that often, anyway. You see someone come in dead of a knife wound, they’ve got half a dozen healed scars from other fights. We find old bullets in people who’ve died of new gunshot wounds; it’s like they’ve been rehearsing their own ending. Why would a sophisticated killer, who’s gotten away with an apparently undetectable murder, risk exposure?”

  Feeling dizzy, she righted a chair and sat down. “You’re scaring me. Sophisticated killer? We meet tonight to discuss a forty-year-old case of malpractice. Now you’re telling me we have two murders, one of them, the housekeeper’s, unintentional. And Mycroft may have been threatened. What does that mean for us? They know we’re looking!” The last was almost a howl. The possibility of danger made her exhaustion unbearable. Was the trip to Poughkeepsie in my lifetime?

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “All I mean,” he said, “is that I don’t believe someone smart and organized enough to poison Pete Harrigan with a poison as obscure as carbon tetrachloride, making it look like a natural death, would trash Pete’s house.” He reached for her hand. “You’re exhausted. Time to go home.”

  At last. She started to rise. “Did you hear that?”

  He stood still. “Hear what?”

  “Something outside. Noises.”

  He dashed for the lights, extinguished them, and drew her toward the front door. “What did you hear? Be specific.”

  “Footsteps on the gravel? I’m not sure.”

  Jake cracked open the door and peered outside. In the light of the quarter moon, nothing was visible. “I don’t see anything. Are you sure you really-”

  She glowered at him.

  “Sorry.” He shut the door silently. “I’ll check the back door. You stay here.”

  “Very funny.” She followed him.

  He opened the door. “I can’t see anything.”

  She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the cops.” The NO SERVICE light flashed.

  “No towers,” he said. “In this part of the world, pristine views are more important than pristine service. Let’s try Pete’s phone.”

  It had been disconnected. “What are we supposed to do?” Manny whispered. “We can’t just hide here till the sun comes up. I’m supposed to have breakfast with Patrice Perez.” Which means no sleep for me.

  He took a breath. “Then let’s go.” His voice was resolute.

  “Fine.” So was hers.

  “Before we leave,” he said, “I want to drop the Johnnie Walker bottle off for the sheriff. I could have left it at the scene, but I didn’t want to risk it.”

  They started out the front. She had locked the car, yet the Porsche’s door was wide open. “Oh my God!” Manny said. “Mycroft!”

  She raced to the car, her heels crunching on the broken glass from her car’s passenger window. Mycroft was missing. “Mycroft!” she shrieked into the darkness. “Where are you?” She turned to Jake, her eyes wide. “He’s gone. Mycroft!”

  “Keep it down,” he urged. “They may still be around here.”

  She glared at him. “My dog is missing,” she said sharply. “Some of us actually care about living things.”

  Mycroft materialized from a neighbor’s yard and leaped into Manny’s arms. The sobs she had suppressed for hours exploded from her throat.

  ***

  Carrying her beloved as she would a newborn, she got into the car and reached for the Prada tote with his treats. “Gone,” she breathed. She twisted to check the backseat. “Gone!” she screamed. “Jake!”

  He was on his hands and knees, searching the ground. She rounded the car and stood over him. “Jake, my new Prada tote bag is gone!”

  He looked at her, eyes blazing. “It’s only a thing- calm down.”

  He’s cracked. He’s a monster. “Jake. Someone stole my bag. Don’t you understand? It had some of my confidential legal work in it.”

  He rose slowly, using the door handle to help him to his feet. His pants were covered with dirt; his hair was filthy. Obviously, he had crawled under the
car. Searching for what?

  When he looked at her again, his expression had softened, and when he spoke it was with his habitual calm. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said. “But they took something even more important. The poisoned bottle’s missing. It means whoever took it has been following us all evening and knows we know that Pete was murdered.” Worry creased his forehead and made lines at the sides of his eyes. “Jesus, Manny, I’m sorry I got you into this. But we’ve been sucked into the vortex and there’s little you or I can do about it now.”

  ***

  They found the Baxter County Sheriff’s Office in a brick storefront just off Main Street. At 3:30 a.m. it was locked up tight, lights off. A sign on the door gave business hours as 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. and a number to dial in case of emergency. Jake flipped open his cell phone. The signal was faint but there.

  He got a dispatcher who reluctantly agreed to patch him through to Sheriff Fisk’s line. The sheriff was not pleased to hear from him.

  “Rosen. I thought you were in New York. What’s so very important you have to wake me in the middle of the night?”

  Jake told him about the results of his autopsy on Theresa Alessis, his suspicion that both she and Harrigan were poisoned, the condition of Pete’s cottage, the missing bottle. “It’s a double murder,” he finished. “I wanted to alert you as soon as possible.”

  “I surely am grateful,” Fisk said, “but I gotta tell you: I never heard such a pile of horse manure in my life.”

  “You mean you don’t believe me?”

  “Rather than Harrigan’s doctor, who already signed the death certificate: Died of natural causes? Not a chance.”

  He’s an enemy, Jake realized with surprise. Be careful.

  “Besides,” Fisk went on, “you don’t have a motive or a suspect. Can you imagine the repercussions if I halt the mall project again because of some city doctor’s cockamamy theory? Maybe there was a bottle of scotch, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe Harrigan killed himself because he didn’t want to live through the pain of the cancer. Sickness can screw up your head. He probably never thought about the maid. Maybe you put poison in the bottle before you gave it to him- for certain you’d be my first suspect. And maybe we’ll say good night nice and polite, and you and your lady friend can get back to the city and not bother us again.” The receiver slammed down.