Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  He quickly scanned the rest of the document. “Blah blah blah and so on, and—here’s the good part—’Dr. Polchak, a tall, muscular man …’ Now that’s outstanding journalism. Yes indeed, very well put.”

  A faint groan came from Teddy, who stood quietly staring at the pavement, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  “Dr. Polchak, I need your help. And I need it right away.”

  He handed the photocopy back to her. “Mrs. Guilford, you need to go to the police. If the police won’t help you, you need to call the medical examiner’s office in Chapel Hill and talk to them. Or you can even hire a private investigator. I’d like to help you—really I would—but this summer I’m under strict orders to stick to research.”

  He turned back toward the Quonset. “Come on, Teddy,” he said, disappearing through the doorway, “we’ve got some sarcophagids to pin. Let’s not waste any more of the lady’s time.”

  Kathryn watched the door swing shut behind him.

  “I’m very sorry,” Teddy said, looking truly regretful. “He meant what he said—he really would like to help you. But to tell you the truth, this summer he’s been given strict orders to stay out of trouble.”

  “There won’t be any trouble.”

  “Trust me. With Nicholas, there’s always trouble.” And with a heavy sigh he turned and followed his colleague back into the lab.

  Kathryn turned slowly back toward the path to her crumpled car. She stood motionless for several seconds, staring directly ahead.

  Suddenly she wheeled around, fists clenched, her face flushed with anger. She marched up to the broken screen door, flung it open hard, and charged through the open doorway—then just as quickly drew back again. There was the same glass case, now occupied by three brown scorpions. The terrarium at her left elbow contained a tree branch where black, metallic-shelled beetles swarmed up, then dropped off in clusters like thick blobs of oil. In the terrarium on her right, a gray-and-brown wolf spider held a struggling black cricket in its slender, tapering legs.

  Kathryn stared desperately across the lab at the large window into the office beyond. Inside she could see the figure of Dr. Polchak already seated again at his work. Her eyes slowly traced the path of the aisleway to her left, pausing at each glass case to imagine the unspeakable horror it might contain. The aisle seemed so much narrower now than at first sight. She measured the distance from her present location to the doorway beside the large window. It couldn’t have been more than fifty feet. Or was it seventy-five? Or a hundred?

  It might as well be ten miles.

  With her left hand she turned her collar up high and squeezed it tight, completely covering her neck. With her right hand she clutched the front of her blouse, wadding it into a ball. She hunched her shoulders forward and pinned her arms tight against her torso. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, and her legs felt thick and rubbery. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped slowly forward like a tightrope walker on a windy day.

  She forced herself to stare directly ahead, though the hideous temptation to turn and look directly into each terrarium was almost irresistible. From the corners of her eyes she watched each glass case pass slowly by—nothing more than blurs of brown and green and tan—but in her mind’s eye she imagined swarms of wriggling insects sucking up to the glass, pressing up against the terrarium lids, their hairlike antennae protruding through the screened tops, probing the air, stretching toward her, reaching for her.

  The office door was directly ahead of her now, no more than thirty feet away. She was halfway there, but the thought that kept forcing its way into her mind was that she was now directly in the center of this living nightmare. She felt herself begin to lose her balance, and a wave of panic and nausea almost overwhelmed her. She imagined falling suddenly to one side, drawn irresistibly by the darkness behind the glass, reaching out to stop herself. Then she imagined her hands crashing through the glass and reaching helplessly into the black abyss.

  The panic swelled up within her like a tidal surge. She commanded her legs to run for the office door, but they seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the glass cases begin to slide toward her, and those behind her seemed to swirl in and pursue her like paper boxes whipped into the draft of a passing car. She looked like a toddler taking its last hurried steps before collapsing into the arms of a waiting parent—but to Kathryn, it felt as though she were running down an endless, windowed hallway for all eternity.

  With a crash, the office door flew open and Kathryn burst into the room. Nick looked up from his microscope with a start and saw Kathryn, still tightly clutching her collar and blouse, trembling and panting like a spent mare. He rose from his stool and walked slowly toward her.

  “Mrs. Guilford,” he said, cocking his head to one side, “are you cold?”

  “Dr. Polchak,” she growled through clenched teeth, “I need your help—and I need it right now!”

  For a moment he stood perfectly still, observing her. Then he slowly reached out and took hold of the hand still clutching at her collar. He pulled gently but said nothing. She resisted. He pulled again, steadily, until she understood and slowly loosened her grip. With his other hand he tugged at the clenched fist on her blouse. He softly lowered both hands to her sides and then began to straighten and smooth her collar and blouse. As he worked, his eyes began to float over her once again, watching, examining, studying.

  “Have a seat,” Nick said as he returned to his stool. Kathryn looked around the office for the first time. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, and impossibly crowded. The largest single item in the office was a tall stainless steel unit that looked like a double-wide refrigerator with glass doors. The back wall was covered with particle-board bookcases of various colors and sizes, and each shelf sagged under the weight of endless dull-colored volumes with tiny gold or silver titles. Some books were placed well back on the shelf, others stuck out half-returned, and between every few books a manila file or stack of loose photocopies projected. Under the great window was a long worktable, completely cluttered with binders, tweezers, magnifiers, plastic containers, and a hundred other mysterious tools of the forensic entomologist’s dark trade. More than anything there was paper: stacks of articles atop the bookshelves, printouts on the tables, manuscripts on the floor. The only break in the endless clutter was two narrow doorways, one at each end of the room—the only means of escape.

  Kathryn stood looking awkwardly about the room. There seemed to be no other place to sit. Nick leaned forward and slid a second stool out from under the worktable, topped with a cascading pile of technical journal articles. With a sweep of his hand he sent the mound of paper back under the table and gestured to the seat.

  “Don’t you ever put anything away?” Kathryn asked, sliding onto the stool.

  “That is away. Away from me.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments as Kathryn gathered her thoughts. Nick spoke first.

  “Only one of us knows why you’re here. I’ll bet it’s you.”

  So much for formalities, Kathryn thought, and plunged ahead. “As I said outside, I have a very dear friend—”

  “Had a dear friend,” Nick interrupted. “When was the body discovered?”

  “Early this morning—by some hunters in the woods not far from here.”

  “And what was the estimated time of death?”

  “They said a week ago. Maybe longer.”

  “Now tell me about the disposition of the body.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “How it was situated,” he explained, “how it was dressed, the position of the arms and legs, the contents of the hands …”

  “I don’t know a lot of … details,” she stammered. “They said he was found lying on his back. He was still holding his pistol in his hand—the one he got in the army. He had … they say he …” She grimaced, made a gun with her right hand and held it to her temple.

  “A contact wound to the right temporal region—a
nd no doubt an exit wound on the left. The standard service sidearm is a nine-millimeter, and as they say around these parts, you just can’t keep that chicken in the henhouse.”

  She glared at him hard but said nothing.

  “The sheriff’s department was satisfied that this was a suicide?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And the medical examiner’s office—what did they say?”

  She looked at the floor. “The coroner said nothing looked suspicious to him either.”

  “Maybe the autopsy will turn up something.”

  “There won’t be an autopsy.”

  Nick raised one eyebrow. “No autopsy was ordered?”

  “No.”

  “In cases of unattended death—as in the case of a suicide—an autopsy is usually ordered to verify cause of death. Things must have looked pretty straightforward.”

  Kathryn had nothing to say in response.

  “This dear friend of yours—I assume we’re talking about a male? He was about your age, thirty to thirty-five? Caucasian?”

  “That’s right. How did you—”

  “Three-quarters of all suicides are by white males. Two-thirds of them are by gunshot, generally to the head. That fits too. He did it outside, probably standing up—men usually do. Women like the comforts of home and almost always lie down. He used his own gun, which was still in his hand. And there was no note, was there? Nothing to explain his motive or timing?”

  She shook her head.

  He let out a sigh. “You just can’t get men to write, can you?” He paused a full measure for dramatic effect. “So, Mrs. Guilford. What can I do for you?”

  Kathryn’s face was red and hot. “I knew Jimmy since we were kids together here in Holcum County. We grew up together, like a brother and sister. I knew him better than his parents, better than his own sister—better than anyone. He would not, he could not have done this to himself. I don’t care what the sheriff or the coroner says, they’re wrong about this—and I have to know what happened.”

  Nick took a deep breath. “Let me see if I understand you. The sheriff’s department, drawing on its considerable experience in homicide investigation, closed this investigation almost before it opened. And the county coroner, representing all of the forensic knowledge of the North Carolina State medical examiner’s system, verified the cause of death without even a second look. But you’re convinced they’re both wrong—because you have this feeling.”

  It was fortunate at this moment that the door behind Kathryn opened and Dr. Tedesco stepped into the room, providing a momentary respite from the tension. He was startled to see Kathryn again but said nothing. He stepped quietly to the side, pretending to resume his duties, and waited for the conversation to resume.

  “I have to know,” Kathryn repeated, barely containing her anger. “The sheriff won’t help me—he thinks I’m wasting my time. The coroner can’t help me either. Since he already signed the death certificate, the body is no longer under his authority. I could hire a private investigator, but not in a town the size of Rayford—and even if I found one, I’m not sure he’d know what to look for. I’m out of options, Dr. Polchak—and I’m out of time. The body is being moved right now to a funeral home, and from there it will be turned over to the immediate family. Soon it will be too late to do anything.”

  Nick said nothing for a long time.

  “You’d be helping the authorities,” she added.

  “I have a long history of helping the authorities,” he said. “Trust me, it isn’t always welcome.”

  “Then you’d be helping me.”

  “I just can’t look into every mysterious death that comes along—and to be frank, Mrs. Guilford, this one hardly sounds mysterious.”

  Kathryn paused. “What about money? Are you motivated by money?”

  “Money?”

  She leaned forward and stared directly into his imposing spectacles. “I will pay you twenty thousand dollars to look into this for me.”

  There was an audible gasp from behind Kathryn. Dr. Tedesco did his very best to contain himself, but bits of words and phrases still tittered out: “Twenty thousand … oh my, I … twenty thousand?”

  “This is why Teddy never plays poker,” said Dr. Polchak.

  “I know more about you than you think,” Kathryn said. “I know that you’re a forensic entomologist, and that there are very few of you around. I know that it’s almost impossible to make a living at it. I know that most of you are employed by museums and universities, and that means you depend on departmental funding and research grants to survive. In other words,” she said, adding her own pause for emphasis, “I know you need that money so bad you can taste it.”

  Nick slowly smiled. “And you said this visit wasn’t about money.”

  “I said this visit wasn’t about banking. What would this really require of you, Dr. Polchak? One look at a body? A trip to a funeral home? A little work right here in your own laboratory? Twenty thousand dollars buys a lot of bug food.”

  From behind them Teddy conducted an elaborate pantomime of hair-pulling, eye-rolling, and desperate pleading. Nick ignored him.

  “I don’t want to waste your money, Mrs. Guilford. Don’t misunderstand me, I want your money—but I don’t want to waste it. I feel I should tell you that there’s a very good chance I’ll come up with nothing at all.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  Nick sat silently for a full minute. “Plus expenses,” he said at last.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars plus expenses.”

  “What sort of expenses?”

  “Travel, if necessary. Meals. Supplies. Valium for Teddy. I don’t know what else … expenses.”

  “Done.” She extended her hand, and as Nick cautiously reached for it she added, “There is one small condition, Dr. Polchak, and this is not negotiable. I want to work with you. I want to be there every step of the way.”

  Nick pulled back, and Teddy buried his face in his hands.

  “That’s entirely out of the question.”

  “It’s not negotiable,” Kathryn repeated. “I’m not a fool, Dr. Polchak. Twenty thousand dollars is a great deal of money. What am I supposed to think if you report back in two weeks and say, ‘Sorry, I found nothing’? I want to see what you do. I want to know that nothing was overlooked. I want to know that if we find nothing, it won’t be because we didn’t look hard enough. I want to know.”

  After another full minute, Nick spoke again. “The investigation will take a full week, perhaps two. And if what you say is true—if the body is already on its way to a funeral home—then we have to begin immediately. That means right now.”

  Kathryn extended her hand again. As Nick took it, he said, “I have one condition of my own, Mrs. Guilford. If you’re going to work with me, it has to be—as you said—every step of the way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Mrs. Guilford,” he said, smiling, “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  The interior of Dr. Polchak’s crumbling Dodge Dart was even worse than Kathryn had imagined. The brittle vinyl seats were split apart in sharp ridges, and the dashboard was a canyon of cracked ravines and gullies with rivers of dusty foam flowing beneath. Above her head the roof liner draped and sagged. Below, the floorboard was pockmarked with rust holes that allowed her a more than adequate view of the pavement streaking by beneath her feet. She sat rigidly, legs apart, straddling the cratered floorboard as if it were an open bomb-bay door.

  “Watch your skirt,” Nick said with a sideways glance. “I’d rather you didn’t get that sodium azide powder all over my upholstery.”

  “What upholstery?”

  “I like to take care of my car. For example, I try to keep beech trees out of my engine.” He glanced at her again. “Care to tell me what happened back there?”

  “No.” She pointed up ahead. “Schroeder’s is on the left at the next corner. If you don’t mi
nd, park on the street.”

  “There are hundreds of unexplained traffic fatalities every year,” Nick said. “No heart attack, no stroke—for some reason the driver just swerved off the road. Some experts—like me—think the answer may be insects. A bug flies in the window, the driver panics, there’s an accident.” He looked at Kathryn. “Entomophobia is one of the more common irrational fears, Mrs. Guilford.”

  Kathryn glared straight ahead. “You’re just a bushel full of interesting information, aren’t you?”

  Nick stopped the car and pulled up on the emergency brake, which moved without a sound. “I don’t think it’s actually attached to anything,” he said. He turned to the backseat, grabbed a large canvas knapsack and then paused, eyeing the two black-and-gold hats resting side-by-side in the rear window.

  “This one,” he said, pulling it on tight. “I think this might be a job for a pirate.”

  Great, Kathryn thought. Just the final fashion touch he needed.

  “No offense”—she looked him over quickly—“but I wish you had changed.”

  “I wish I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”

  Schroeder’s Funeral Home was a landmark in the town of Rayford. For decades it had been known as the Lampiers’ Home, the largest private residence in Holcum County. It was still remembered that way by most of the older residents of Rayford. With its white beveled siding, long black shutters, and green-and-white canvas awnings, it had the perfect image for its current function. Mr. Schroeder simply added the embellishments of his trade: the chapel, the garage, and the tonguelike porte-cochere that jutted out above the circular asphalt driveway.

  Kathryn hesitated at the tall black door. “Do me a favor—let me do the talking.”

  Nick shrugged. “It’s your money.”

  As Kathryn stepped through the doorway, a wave of frigid air engulfed her. As sweltering as her morning had been, the air felt much too cold. She shivered—not simply because of the abrupt change in temperature but because of the total change of environment. Everything around her was suddenly dark, cold, heavy, and silent. She had the eerie sensation that she had just stepped on an unmarked grave.