by Ken Brigham
“I was trying to be fair,” Katya protested. “I know that my attitude toward Beth is common knowledge. I thought that I needed something concrete before going as far as a formal accusation.”
“I understand your motive, I really do,” Shelling said. “But I’m not sure I agree with your actions. Anyway, that’s done. The question is, what next? And this may be the really big problem. If you make the charge formally, Cy Bartalak and likely the dean will do everything within their power to make you the victim. There is a lot more invested in Cy and the reputation of the institution than there is in you. As ugly as it sounds, Katya, you are expendable. I don’t have to tell you what powerful academics can do to the careers of those beneath them in the pecking order. Cy is not a nice man. He will ruin you if he can.”
“And he probably can,” Katya sighed, then continued, “But what if it’s true?”
“That’s the problem,” Shelling said. “The fact that you believe it’s true really gives you no alternative. If Cy doesn’t do anything about it, you’ll have to lodge the formal complaint through established channels for such matters. But, Katya, I desperately fear the consequences for you.”
“I never thought that I would make a very good martyr,” Katya said.
“Unfortunately, true martyrs don’t usually volunteer for the job. They’re more often cast into the role by circumstances.”
“If I’d taken your earlier advice, the circumstances would be different.”
“That’s probably true,” Syd responded. “But if this drug study would still have been done. And if you’re right about it, a lot of innocent people could have been victims of a misanthrope masquerading as a saint.”
“So, will they burn me at the stake?” Katya smiled.
“Only metaphorically,” Shelling responded. “But you’ll feel the heat.”
Hardy Seltzer reflected on his meeting with the chief of police following the interesting session with the DA. Hardy was making his way across the square from his office toward Printers Alley to meet with Shane Hadley. They had a lot to catch up on. Hardy believed that the investigation was rapidly moving toward a close, and he was pleased about that. He would be interested in Shane’s response to how things were developing, whether he would keep pushing for more details about the Texas lawyer and the Reid women. That line of investigation had met a dead end and he hoped that Shane’s vaunted powers of observation and reasoning would lead him back to what seemed to Hardy the obvious conclusion.
But, the chief had surprised him. The chief was obviously pissed in the meeting with the DA when Hardy revealed that Shane was the witness who had seen the killer running from the alley. Hardy had steeled himself for a thorough tongue lashing when he answered the call summoning him to the chief’s office. But the chief surprised him. The chief was not upset by the fact that Shane was involved in the case, only annoyed that Hardy hadn’t told him earlier. In fact, the chief even hinted that the investigation might benefit from Shane Hadley’s thoughts about the situation. The chief suggested that Hardy might give Hadley some more of the details and get his thoughts about how the story might play out.
“Shane Hadley has his faults,” the chief had said. “But I remember him as the best damn detective this police department has ever had,” thumping the desk with his fist, then hastily adding with his characteristic tact. “Present company excepted, of course.”
When Hardy said that this wouldn’t be likely to please the DA, the chief expelled a long stream of obscenities expressing his opinion of the chief prosecutor in greater detail than Hardy felt was necessary. But the chief had made his point. Hardy didn’t tell him that Shane was already involved and was doing everything he could to take the investigation in another direction. There would be time enough for that if it became necessary.
When he arrived at the Union Street entrance to the alley, Hardy paused and looked up toward Fourth Avenue. The killer had apparently ditched the hoodie just as he exited the alley and, according to Shane, turned up toward Fourth Avenue. It was only a short half block to where the two teenagers had been loitering. But they didn’t see him. Could it be that Hardy had asked them the wrong question? Could Shane’s obsession with the gender of the killer be right? Did the two boys see a woman passing that way but not a man and so answered Hardy’s question honestly but without adding any additional information? He should have taken contact information from the two boys, but didn’t since they hadn’t appeared to see anything relevant. If he had done that, he could question them again, but it was too late for that now and likely would have been useless anyway. It was Hardy’s impression that the two boys were not too fond of cops and so weren’t likely to volunteer anything that would make his job easier. Regardless of those possibilities, though, Hardy still could not believe that this crime was committed by a woman. And the case against Jody Dakota seemed so logical. All the elements were there. Well, the ballistics should answer the question. Pistol Pete ought to have those results in the next day or so.
The alley noise was just cranking up as Hardy walked up toward Shane’s building. Hardy could only think of it as noise. There was a good music of all sorts in the city, but not much of it filtered down to the alley. The place still had a seedy sort of appeal, but what passed for music there wasn’t a major asset if the point was to attract the music lovers. Then again, maybe that wasn’t the point of the alley at all.
The Bonz’s Booze and Music sign that had hung on the front of the club near the Union Street end of the alley for as long as Hardy could remember had been replaced by a sign announcing SPACE AVAILABLE in large letters and in smaller letters, Call Rory Holcomb, followed by a phone number. A few people wandered along, occasionally shading their eyes and peering into the clubs’ storefronts. It seemed to Hardy Seltzer that Bonz’s murder may have dealt a mortal blow to the whole alley enterprise. He feared that he was witnessing its death throes, and that saddened him.
“Hi-ho, my man,” Shane called to Hardy from the balcony where it seemed to Hardy that Shane spent the majority of his time observing the locals from a reasonably safe distance. “Won’t you join me?”
Hardy waited for the “…for a sherry,” that usually completed the greeting, but it didn’t come. Maybe Shane had given up his efforts to alter Hardy’s drinking habits.
“Here,” Shane continued, “I’ll lower the drawbridge so you can come up.”
Apparently Shane had found the metaphor that Hardy had used earlier amusing.
Shane disappeared through the French doors into the flat. Hardy waited for the buzz indicating release of the door. He entered the small foyer and boarded the elevator, waiting for Shane to call the car to the second floor.
“So,” Shane said after they were seated in the living room, and Shane had refilled his glass at the bar. “What new developments have you managed to uncover, my man? What about the killer? Have you identified her yet?”
Shane smiled broadly. Hardy was mildly amused by Shane’s gentle ribbing. But the fact that he also smiled was more a response to the infectious good humor that Shane seemed to radiate. Hardy marveled at that. If their situations were reversed, Hardy seriously doubted that his sense of humor, such as it was, would have survived.
“Are you questioning the manhood of Little Jody Dakota?” Hardy answered, deadpan.
Shane chuckled, “Perhaps. But I certainly don’t question your tenacity. When Hardy Seltzer gets an idea in his head, there is no stopping him. Ah, well,” Shane sipped at his sherry, “tenacity has its place. We’ll get to your Jody Dakota story, but first, have you made any progress on the will and the Reid women?”
“I had one of my assistants follow up. Pretty much of a dead end, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
“Well, we did manage to get the state police to agree to track down the will of the long-dead Archibald Stewart Reid of Greensward, Texas. They’ll fax us a copy when they have it. I seriously doubt that the chore is likely to be high on their list of priorities, th
ough, so I’m not sure when we’ll get it.”
“Well, that’s something. And the Reid women?”
“Total dead end there. Elizabeth Ann Reid was killed in a car crash out on I-75 three months ago. That was obviously well before the Bagley murder, and she was a Nashville native as well. Never lived in Texas.”
“And the other one, Elizabeth A.?”
“Her full name is Elizabeth Abramowitz Reid. She is married to an engineer, Sam Reid, and her maiden name is Abramowitz. She is a native of New York if that matters. So she can’t be the Texas lawyer’s daughter that you seem so interested in.”
“Bloody hell,” Shane exclaimed, “I would have sworn that I was onto something there. Bloody hell.”
Hardy smiled, “Can we talk about Jody Dakota now?” he asked.
“Sure, sure,” Shane answered, waving a hand at Hardy and staring up toward the front window. “Bloody hell,” he repeated.
“Ahem,” Hardy cleared his throat in a vain attempt to get Shane’s attention focused on what he was about to say, and then continued, “The meeting with the chief and the DA was interesting. Incidentally, is there some bad blood between you and the DA? When I mentioned you as the witness who had seen the fleeing killer, he exploded into a less than complementary tirade about his dealings with you in the past.”
“Oh,” Shane replied, waving a dismissive hand, “the DA was an idiot when I knew him and most likely still is. In my experience, idiocy is not a condition that tends to improve with age.”
Hardy continued, “The upshot of the meeting was that the case against Dakota seemed strong but that he wouldn’t be arrested until we have the results of the ballistics tests on his gun.”
“That’s a fortunate outcome, Hardy,” Shane answered. “Fortunate for both your department and for Little Jody….for the DA as well although the DA is of no concern to me. He will still be an idiot, regardless of the outcome of this case.”
“Don’t you think the ballistics will answer the question?” Hardy queried.
“I suspect they may, detective,” Shane said, draining the last of his sherry and eyeing, not too discreetly, the half-full bottle sitting on the bar. “Yes, I suspect that the ballistics may answer the question of Little Jody Dakota’s guilt or innocence. However, I also strongly suspect that the answer will not please any of the officials involved in this case. Including you, my man,” he wheeled over and clapped Hardy on the shoulder as he slid past the detective on his way to the bottle of sherry.
Hardy called after him, “Why are you so sure about that, Shane?”
“Think, my man,” Shane said, refilling his glass, and turning toward his guest. “If you were Jody Dakota, there is no way that you would voluntarily surrender the gun for testing unless you knew for a fact that it was not the murder weapon. Mr. Dakota may not be the brightest candle on the cake, but unless he’s brain dead, he wouldn’t have done that.”
Of course Hardy had thought the same thing and was surprised that Dakota had let him take the gun. But he was counting on his impression that the old country music star may well not have enough functioning brain cells to alert him to the risk he was taking. The guy might not know anything about ballistics. But still, why take any risk if he did it?
“Well, Shane,” Hardy said, “he may not be brain dead, but my impression was that he’s not all that far from it. Maybe he just made a mistake. Maybe he’s really stupid.”
“Perhaps,” Shane responded. “Perhaps. We shall see,” he paused and raised his glass to Hardy. “Cheers,” he said, taking a generous swallow of the wine. “Cheers, Hardy, my man.”
Chapter 19
The neuropathologist, Dr. Sydney Shelling, placed two phone calls. It was late in the afternoon, but he was pretty sure that both of the parties he wanted to reach would still be at work.
As he searched for the telephone number of the coroner’s office, Shelling thought about the very different professions, medicine and law. Different but with similarities. Both dealt with conundrums but they used different methods to solve them and very often with different results. For example, there was the different attitude toward the relationship between means and ends, whether the former justified the latter. Certainly not in Shelling’s profession. In medical science, results were neither more accurate nor more reliable than the methods used to obtain them. He doubted that the same held in matters of law. It seemed to him that lawyers usually formed a conclusion and then set about to construct a story to support it post hoc rather than letting the facts lead them to the answer. But then he supposed that the better analogy might be between his science and the work done by the police detectives who did the investigating before the lawyers got involved. Still, the differences in the means and ends thing probably was also true of the detectives—anything to nail the bad guys. He thought that Katya Karpov might have something interesting to say on the subject since her husband had been a police detective before his tragic accident. Shelling would have to ask her about that.
“Dr. Jensen,” the coroner answered.
Shelling had called the number of the direct line to the coroner’s private office, and the answering voice conjured up the coroner’s persona in Shelling’s mind. While Shelling was well-aware of the notion of a lot of people, even some of his colleagues in other medical specialties, that pathology attracted strange personalities, he didn’t believe that. Of course, there were some weird ducks in pathology, but the same was true of surgery and medicine, even pediatrics, for Christ’s sake. Because Jensen was fuel for the weird pathologist stereotype, Shelling wasn’t particularly fond of him. Shelling avoided Jensen’s attempts at familiarity by keeping their relationship as formal and professional as possible.
“Yes, Dr. Jensen,” Shelling responded. “This is Sydney Shelling. I was reviewing those brain sections you sent over earlier today and wondered if you could give me more information about the unfortunate victim.”
“Hold on, laddie,” the coroner replied, using the affected term that he knew annoyed Shelling. “Let me get my copy of his medical chart. I’m not sure if you knew, but the victim’s name is Herman Bagley, better known as Bonz, the old guy who hung out in Printers Alley and got himself shot recently.”
Shelling didn’t know that, of course. He had read some of the newspaper accounts of the murder and seen the news stories on TV, but didn’t really make the connection. It seemed obvious in retrospect.
Shelling could hear Jensen rustling some papers while continuing the conversation.
“So, have you found something interesting, Syd?” Jensen said.
“Actually, I have found something interesting, but I don’t know what it means. There are some changes in the hippocampal region that look definitely abnormal to me but not typical of anything that I know of. Some vacuolization in the neurons and some strange cellular inclusions. My best guess is some kind of unusual toxic reaction. Anything in his history to suggest environmental exposures, ingestion of chemicals, anything at all to indicate exposure to a potential toxin?”
“I have his record here,” Jensen replied. “I don’t recall anything in particular from when I reviewed it earlier. Let me see. I do seem to recall something unusual now that you mention it.”
Jensen could hear the coroner rifling through the chart.
“Yes, yes,” Jensen said, “here it is. He had been followed for several years at the university medical center for his Alzheimer’s disease, which seemed to be progressing. But, here is the note. The chart was flagged because he was involved in some experimental study. Looks like it was some kind of study being done in your department of psychiatry.”
“That’s interesting,” Shelling answered. “Does it say what kind of a study?”
“Not really. As you know, these notes are only meant to give the information that might be important to the patient’s regular medical care. It appears that it’s an early phase study of an experimental drug. The note instructs anyone caring for the patient to contact a research coordinato
r and gives her name and phone number.”
“Does it say who the PI is on the study?” Shelling asked.
“Looks like the Principal Investigator is your rock star scientist, Cyrus Bartalak.”
Jensen knew that Bartalak was one of the medical center’s stars. He was often in the news for one reason or another. His recruitment from Houston made the local news a few years earlier. And there was a big to-do when Bartalak was made chair of the department of psychiatry. Frequent university press releases announced yet another of the psychiatrist’s major professional accomplishments. Bartalak was an academic star and the PR people milked him for all the favorable publicity they could get for the medical center. And it was obvious to even a casual observer that Cyrus Bartalak did not shun public attention.
Shelling was quiet for a few moments, contemplating this new information and wondering if there was some connection with the topic of his earlier conversation with Katya.
“Thanks, Dr. Jensen,” Shelling finally responded. “This is a great help. I’ll dictate a formal report on my examination of the sections you sent and get it to you.”
“And your conclusion?”
“I’m going to have to be a bit noncommittal I’m afraid. It will probably be something like atypical findings suggestive of a toxic reaction to a chemical agent.”
“Obviously not related to the cause of death,” Jensen mused.
“Well, Dr. Jensen,” Shelling responded, “I should think you will have no difficulty making an unequivocal statement about the cause of death.”
“That’s true, laddie,” Jensen responded to Shelling’s obvious sarcasm. “Nice thing about gunshots to the head. Makes my job easy.”
“Perhaps not as easy as you think in this case,” Shelling answered.
Sydney Shelling was still pondering the troubling information from the coroner when he placed the second call.