Wisdom of the Bones

by Paul Christopher

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A privy, son. So why don’t you give me the straight stuff for a minute and I’ll figure out a way you don’t have to go down to the autopsy room at Parkland and see your boss with his brains on the scale and his liver in a jar.’

  ‘I really don’t know anything about his love life.’

  ‘Everything here says he was gay. That a good guess?’

  ‘Are you asking me if Mr Price was a homosexual?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m asking. And maybe I’m asking if you’re one as well.’

  ‘Homosexuality is against the law in Texas.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Ray. ‘As far as I know it’s against the law almost everywhere.’

  ‘You’re asking me to admit to breaking the law. If I said yes I could go to jail.’

  ‘I’m a homicide detective, Errol, not a vice detective. You ask me the guys who work vice are as bad as the people they go after. I don’t care if your boss wore yellow on Thursdays, I’m trying to find out who killed him. You know what they say, equal justice under the law and all that. You think because he was gay I’m going to say, oh, too bad for him, he was gay, so I’m just going to forget all about who butchered him?’ Ray shrugged again. ‘Some cops might think that way, but not me, Errol.’ And he meant it.

  ‘I don’t see how his sexual inclinations are relevant, or mine for that matter.’

  ‘Shows how much you know about homicide. Murder is always about sex, money, revenge or all three in any combination. But I really don’t care shit from shinola about who he was screwing, okay? Just play along, okay? You with me here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Go back a page. Who was he screwing?’

  ‘No one. Not recently anyway. Not seriously.’

  ‘What’s recently?’

  ‘More than a year. Ever since…’ Errol ran a manicured hand through the widow’s peak and looked as though he was going to cry.

  ‘Don’t dangle me, Errol, or we head for Parkland right now.’

  ‘For most of last year he had a… relationship with Mr Valentine.’

  ‘Valentine?’

  ‘Mr Douglas Foster Valentine.’

  ‘You sound as though I should know who he is.’

  ‘Mr Valentine is very well known in the field.’

  Ray sighed. ‘And what field would that be?’

  ‘Texana,’ said Errol.

  ‘Books as well?’

  ‘Just ones about Texas. Furniture, documents, paintings, ephemera.’

  ‘There’s a real market for this stuff?’

  ‘Growing by leaps and bounds.’

  ‘Leaps and bounds, you say.’ Ray stared at the box with Marlene Dietrich inside and thought about Chesterfields and then thought better about them. ‘What do you know about this Valentine?’

  ‘As I said, he’s very prominent.’

  ‘Store?’

  ‘On Harwood, near Pacific.’

  The artsy neighbourhood. Galleries and antique stores within a hop and a skip from the big slums just a bit farther north. He wondered for a second if the President was going to run his motorcade through there. Probably not but give it a few years and it would all be artsy stores and then business towers and the black people would get shuffled off somewhere else.

  ‘What else can you tell me about Valentine?

  ‘He’s very sophisticated. He went to a design school in New York. He may even be from there.’

  ‘Were they openly lovers?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘Did everyone else know?’

  ‘Anyone who counted.’ Errol flushed again. ‘It’s a pretty small community.’

  ‘Gays or people interested in this Texana?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘How many dealers other than Valentine and Price?’

  ‘A dozen or so in Dallas. Several in Fort Worth. Twenty in Houston.’

  ‘What about collectors?’

  ‘Serious ones? Perhaps a hundred in the whole state. There are several eastern universities with an interest in the subject as well. Harvard, for one.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They were together for most of last year?’

  ‘Not literally. But they were… seeing each other.’

  ‘And then they stopped… seeing each other.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? They quarrel? Fight? Beat each other up?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘They had differences.’

  ‘Differences?’

  ‘They disagreed about some business things. Mr Valentine wanted to join forces.’

  ‘Valentine and Price?’

  ‘Price and Valentine.’ Errol smiled for the first time.

  ‘So they did fight.’

  ‘More like bickering. Nothing serious.’

  ‘Not serious enough to kill over, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They were sleeping together and they had business problems. So far we’ve got sex and money, Errol. What about jealousy? Any of that?’

  Errol took a deep breath. ‘Mr Price accused Mr Valentine of selling forged documents.’ Errol suddenly looked greatly relieved. He butted the Chesterfield into a silver bowl decorated with irises that stood beside the lighter.

  ‘Any documents in particular?’

  ‘A number of them, including the broadside of the Texas Declaration of Independence on parchment and the Victory or Death letter from the Alamo on vellum.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Parchment is made from the skin of sheep, calves or goats. Vellum is finer. It comes from kids, lambs and calves, baby animals.’

  ‘And these documents?’

  ‘There are perhaps half a dozen or so of each still in existence. Mr Price’s has a pristine provenance.’

  ‘A pristine provenance.’

  ‘It means—’

  ‘I know what it means.’ Ray smiled. ‘I was just interested in your turn of phrase.’

  Errol flushed again. ‘That’s what Mr Price used to say.’

  ‘And he said Valentine’s was a fake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Worth a lot?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty thousand dollars at auction. The governor owns one. So does the Dallas Public Library.’

  ‘And that’s what they had their falling out about?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Price refused to authenticate Mr Valentine’s copy. He started spreading rumours about Mr Price. There was talk of a lawsuit.’

  ‘Well, you see, Errol, now we’re getting down to it. Ex-lovers quarreling over money. Rivals, you might say.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Valentine is the type to…’

  ‘Sure he is,’ said Ray. ‘We all are.’ He levered himself upright, away from the tangy smell of the cigarette so close. His legs were like stone. ‘You go get that photograph and those papers, Errol. Then we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘But you said…’

  ‘Y’all should finish your sentences, Errol. Be decisive – that’s what they say about getting ahead in the world. And I didn’t say anything except a lot of mights and maybes so get along and find me that photograph and the rest of the stuff I asked for and then we’ll get this thing done and you can take the rest of the day off if you want.’

  Chapter Four

  Since Errol didn’t have a car, they drove to Parkland in Ray’s Chevy, taking Elm to North Akard, then onto Harry Hines Boulevard and the hospital. Ray parked in the doctors’ lot at the back of the low cream-coloured building and went through one of the rear doors, guiding Errol down a flight of stairs and along a gloomy cinder-block corridor to the morgue.

  ‘You’ll be just fine,’ said Ray, patting him on the back and simultaneously pushing open one of the doors. He gently eased Errol into the room. There were four chipped ceramic tables in the room b
ut only one of them was occupied. Doc Rose, the Chief Medical Examiner for Dallas County, had let a lot of the gas out of his subject but the room still reeked of decaying flesh despite the whirling vent fans in the ceiling. Ray guided a nervous Errol over to a nearby counter and offered him a deep sniff from the open plastic bottle of Clorox, then took a dose for himself, the odour of the bleach stunning his sense of smell into submission for the moment. When that was done Ray took Errol by the elbow and brought him to the table. Errol took one look at the wrinkled thing on the table, then turned and vomited forcefully into the stainless-steel liver bowl Ray had ready and waiting.

  ‘That him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Jennings Price.’ Errol swallowed bile and looked as though he was going to puke again. ‘Christ, can I go now?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Ray. ‘Usually you can catch a cab at the Emergency entrance.’

  ‘You’re not driving me back?’

  ‘Not unless you want to wait around here ’til I’m done with your ex-boss and Dr Rose here.’

  Errol swallowed hard again, trying not to look at the thing on the white enamel table. ‘I’ll catch a cab.’

  ‘Wise.’

  Errol vanished.

  Ray turned back to the medical examiner. Earl Rose was heavyset, pale and freckle-faced. He had thinning red hair and behind the thick lenses of his black-framed spectacles he was slightly wall-eyed. He was known for his arrogance, his intelligence and his absolute skill as a pathologist. When he talked it was like listening to an overbearing schoolmaster but Ray and the good doctor had been friends for a long time.

  ‘You bring me disgusting things, Detective Duval.’

  ‘Something to make your day more interesting, Doc.’

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  ‘Jennings Price. According to his friend he’s forty-two years old.’

  ‘Wrong tense, Ray. He was forty-two. Time clock’s stopped for this poor soul.’

  ‘When do you think that might have been?’

  Rose poked around in the now-empty body cavity. He plucked something that looked like part of a translucent spider up between two rubber-gloved fingers. The spider was pink and covered in something yellow. ‘Had a meal of some kind of bouillabaisse with crawfish in it.’ The doctor peered into the belly again. ‘Clams, several kinds of fish.’ He sniffed. ‘White wine as well. A gourmet.’

  ‘I’ll check with young Errol,’ said Ray, taking out his notebook and jotting in it. ‘Maybe he had some favourite restaurant.’

  ‘Not much digestion,’ said Rose. He reached between the corpse’s legs and pulled a long thermometer out of the man’s rectum. ‘Distended belly and bloating. Rigor’s come and gone. He was killed no more than an hour or so after he ate that meal, thirty-six hours ago at the outside.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Somebody cut his head off,’ said the medical examiner.

  ‘Slit his throat?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, now did I, Ray? I said somebody cut his head off and that’s what I meant. Decapitation. From the back and while he was lying on his belly. Tied down to something. Ligature marks on his wrist and ankles. Wire.’ He wiped the long thermometer on his apron and then set it aside in a jar of alcohol. ‘You know your friend here was a homosexual?’

  ‘It had occurred to me.’

  ‘I can guarantee it. Anal sphincter is loose and keratinised.’

  ‘A lovers’ quarrel? Tied down to a bed?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Rose took off his glasses for a moment and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He’d been wearing glasses so long they’d left a permanent red indentation. ‘The blow came straight down on the back of his neck and kept on going right through the first cervical vertebra and right on through the common carotid and the jugular. Went from left to right by the depth of the initial cut.’

  ‘Not a knife?’

  ‘Not even a cleaver. If this was France I’d say it was a small-scale guillotine.’

  ‘It’s not France so what is it that I’d find in Texas?’

  ‘At a guess I’d say a very sharp sword. Maybe Japanese. War souvenir.’

  ‘I’ve got a killer running around cutting people’s heads off with Jap swords.’ Ray shook his head. ‘I’ve got a heart condition, you know. I’d like something a little bit less sensational if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how are you feeling?’ the pathologist asked.

  ‘Just peachy,’ Ray answered.

  ‘I’m asking a serious question.’ Rose scowled. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better than him.’ Ray jerked his chin down at the mangled corpse on the table. ‘But not by much.’ Rose dropped the subject with a nod. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘Looks like the rest of the dismembering was done with the same weapon.’

  ‘Consistent?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘What about those big raw patches?’

  ‘Four of them on the back. Two on the buttocks. Two on the upper thighs. The skin right down through the dermis and the subcutaneous fat layer has been removed in large rectangles. Basically the skin has been flensed like blubber on a whale. Very precisely and very neatly.’

  ‘Before or after death?’

  ‘Post-mortem, without a doubt. At a guess I’d say he was bled out completely after the head was removed. A bucket or large basin. Anything big enough to hold half a gallon or so.’

  ‘Eight pints.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘Maybe our killer is a butcher.’

  ‘A butcher uses a butcher’s tools. This is almost like surgery.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a surgeon,’ Ray said pointedly.

  Rose looked up and smiled. ‘I said almost.’

  ‘You think he did that to make the rest of it easier, less messy?’

  ‘I have no idea what the murderer thought, Ray. I can only tell you what he did. From all appearances the best I can tell you is that this was not a crime done in the heat of passion. There is a contusion on the back of the head. A blunt instrument.’

  ‘Sap?’

  ‘Perhaps. There was enough force to knock the man unconscious. While in that state he had his head removed with a single swift cut. There are no hesitation marks. Death would be instantaneous, of course.’

  ‘Painless.’

  ‘The French authorities seem to think so. There is no empirical evidence I know of to prove or disprove the point.’

  ‘What I mean is, it was entirely premeditated.’

  ‘Certainly. It could hardly be otherwise.’ Rose raised an eyebrow over the black plastic frames of his glasses.

  Ray looked down at the lump of flesh on the table. Like every other dead person he’d ever seen, it was completely lacking in personality. In his experience, no matter what their condition, corpses exhibited no character. Maybe there really was such a thing as a soul, animating people in life and leaving them in death. ‘Which do you think is better, cremation or embalming?’

  Rose raised the other eyebrow. ‘How does that relate to the case at hand?’

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s personal.’

  ‘You’re asking about yourself?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘A fairly macabre question to ask a medical examiner.’

  ‘I’ve been staring at you over dead bodies for a long time, Doc. None of this bothers me much any more except the smell a little bit.’

  ‘Usually these things are set out in a man’s will or his next of kin deal with it.’

  ‘I don’t think I want my brother or my father burying me somehow. I don’t have a family of my own. No wife or children.’

  ‘Personally, I favour embalming,’ Dr Rose answered after a moment. ‘It seems more in keeping with the way of things.’

  ‘The Bible, you mean.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I think so too,’ said Ray. ‘I can’t imagine getting my body burnt to a ci
nder.’ He smiled. ‘Especially my pecker. Makes me a bit queasy thinking about it.’

  ‘Please,’ muttered Rose. But Ray could see he was thinking about it as well.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ray but he was still smiling.

  The medical examiner rummaged around inside Price’s chest cavity for a moment. ‘Why are you asking me all of this now?’ he said finally.

  ‘Going to McSeveney’s after I leave here.’

  ‘The funeral people?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Making your own arrangements?’

  ‘Seems like the smart thing to do. Don’t leave a burden on anyone else.’

  ‘Funerals can be expensive.’

  ‘Why would I care? Can’t take it with me.’

  ‘You could give it to me,’ said Rose. And they both laughed, smiling at each other fondly over the marionette remains of Jennings Price.

  * * *

  McSeveney’s was located on Madison, just off W. Jefferson Boulevard in Oak Cliff, Ray’s own neighbourhood. Leaving Parkland, he bypassed downtown, turned onto Zang and went south down to W. Jefferson. He angle parked in front of the Texas Theatre, which had a bad double feature running, War is Hell, a Korean War action flick introduced by Audie Murphy, and Cry of Battle, a Second World War pic set in the Philippines and starring Van Heflin and Rita Moreno. Ray had seen both two nights before; neither had anything to do with any war he’d ever fought in. He walked down to Madison, turned left and went down a few yards to McSeveney’s, a dusty two-storey brick building with white columns out front and shuttered windows. The front doors were dark wood with brass kick plates. There was a modest black-and-white sign on the narrow strip of lawn outside, discreetly announcing what went on behind the brick walls and the shutters.

  A young man in a well-cut black suit took Ray to Thomas McSeveney’s office and sat him down in a comfortable brown leather armchair then withdrew. The armchair stood in front of a huge Edwardian-style oak desk with carved legs. The desk was clear except for a gold-and-marble pen set and a red leather-bound ledger set squarely in the middle of the desk. There was another brown leather armchair and behind that an oak credenza, on which sat a row of magazines between a pair of lion-headed stone bookends. Ray leaned forward to read the titles. Most of them were catalogues: Practical Burial Footwear, Ray Funeral Supplies – which seemed appropriate – Boyertown Casket Company, Sealtite Caskets, Major Casket Company, Batesville Casket Company and then several slipcased editions of Mortuary Management Magazine.