C is for Corpse (28 page)

He glanced over at me. “How does Kelly Borden figure into this?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “Sometimes I have to look at things that end up having no connection whatever to a case. Maybe it's the same as what you do—inspecting all the pieces of the puzzle until you come up with a theory.”

“I suspect this is a lot more scientific than what you do,” he remarked.

“Oh, no doubt about it,” I said. “But I'll tell you one advantage I have.”

He paused, looking over at me again, but with the first genuine interest I'd seen.

“I know the man whose death I'm dealing with and I have a personal stake in the outcome. I think he was murdered and it pisses me off. Disease is neutral. Homicide's not.”

“I think your feeling for Bobby is coloring your judgment. His death was accidental.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I can persuade Homicide that he died as a result of a murder attempt nine months ago.”

“If you can prove that,” he said. “So far I gather you don't have much to go on, which is where your work differs from mine. I can probably come up with something conclusive here and I won't have to leave the room.”

“I do envy you that,” I said. “I mean, I don't doubt Bobby was killed, but I don't have any idea who did it and I may never have any evidence.”

“Then I have it all over you,” he said. “For the most part, I deal in certainty. Once in a while, I'm stumped, but not often.”

“You're lucky.”

Marcy returned with Kelly's address and telephone number on a slip of paper, which she handed to me.

“I prefer to think I'm talented,” he was saying wryly. “I better not keep you in any case. Let me know how it comes out.”

“I'll do that. Thanks for this,” I said, holding up the slip of paper.

It was now five o'clock. I found a pay phone in an offshoot of one of the hospital corridors and tried Kelly's number.

He picked up on the third ring. I identified myself, reminding him of Dr. Fraker's introduction.

“I know who you are.”

“Listen,” I said, “could I stop by and talk to you? There's something I need to check out.”

He seemed to hesitate at first. “Sure, O.K. You know where I am?”

Kelly's apartment was on the west side of town, not far from St. Terry's. I trotted back to my car and drove
over to an address on Castle. I parked in front of a frame duplex and walked down a long driveway to a small wooden outbuilding at the rear of the property. His place, like mine, had probably been a garage at one time.

As I rounded some shrubs, I spotted him sitting on his front step, smoking a joint. He wore jeans and a leather vest over a plaid shirt, feet bare. His hair was pulled back in the same neat braid, beard and mustache looking grayer somehow than I remembered. He seemed very mellow, except for his eyes, which were aquamarine and impossible to read. He held the joint out to me, but I declined with a shake of my head.

“Didn't I see you at Bobby's funeral?” I asked.

“Might have. I saw you.” His eyes settled on me with a disconcerting gaze. Where had I seen that color before? In a swimming pool where a dead man was floating like a lily pad. That had been four years ago, one of the first investigations I ever did.

“Chair over there if you have time to sit.” He managed to get this sentence out while holding his breath, dope smoke locked in his lungs.

I glanced around and spotted an old wooden lawn chair, which I dragged over to the step. Then I took the address book out of my handbag and passed it to him, open to the back cover. “Any idea who this is? It's not a local number.”

He glanced at the penciled entry and then gave me a quick look. “You tried calling?”

“Sure. I also tried the only Blackman listed in the book. It's a disconnect. Why? Do you know who it is?”

“I know the number, but it's not a telephone listing. Bobby moved the hyphen over.”

“What's it for? I don't understand.”

“These first two digits indicate Santa Teresa County. Last five are the morgue code. This is the I.D. number on a body we got in storage. I told you we had two that had been out there for years. This is Franklin.”

“But why list it under Blackman?”

Kelly smiled at me, taking a long pull off his joint before he spoke. “Franklin's black. He's a black man. Maybe it was Bobby's joke.”

“Are you sure?”

“Reasonably sure. You can check it yourself if you don't believe me.”

“I think he was searching for a handgun out there. Would you have any idea where he might have started?”

“Nope. Place is big. They must have eighty, ninety rooms out there that haven't been used in years. Could be anywhere. Bobby would have worked his shift by himself. He had the run of the building as long as no one found out he was away from his work.”

“Well. I guess I'll just have to wing it. I appreciate your help.”

“No problem.”

 

I went back to my office. Kelly Borden had told me that a kid named Alfie Leadbetter would be working the three-to-eleven shift at the morgue. The guy was a
friend of his and he said he'd call ahead and let him know I was coming out.

I hauled out my typewriter again and made some notes. What was this? What did the corpse of a black man have to do with the murder of Dwight Costigan and the blackmailing of his former wife?

The phone rang and I picked it up like an automaton, my mind on the problem at hand. “Yes?”

“Kinsey?”

“Speaking.”

“I wasn't sure that was you. This is Jonah. You always answer that way?”

I focused. “God, sorry. What can I do for you?”

“I heard about something I thought might interest you. You know that Callahan accident?”

“Sure. What about it?”

“I just ran into the guy who works Traffic and he says the lab boys went over the car this afternoon. The brake lines were cut just as clean as you please. They transferred the whole case to Homicide.”

I could feel myself doing the same kind of mental double take I'd done just minutes before when I finally heard what the name Blackman meant. “What?”

“Your friend Bobby Callahan was murdered,” Jonah said patiently. “The brake lines on his car had been cut, which means all the brake fluid ran out, which means he crashed into that tree because he rounded the curve with no way to slow down.”

“I thought the autopsy showed he had a stroke.”

“Maybe he did when he realized what was happening. That's not inconsistent as far as I can tell.”

“Oh, you're right.” For a moment I just breathed in Jonah's ear. “How long would that take?”

“What, cutting the brake lines or the fluid running out?”

“Both, now that you mention it.”

“Oh, probably five minutes to cut the lines. That's no big deal if you know where to look. The other depends. He probably could have driven the car for a little while, pumped the brakes once or twice. Next thing he knew, he'd have tried 'em and boom, gone.”

“So it happened that night? Whoever cut the lines?”

“Had to. The kid couldn't have driven far.”

I was dead silent, thinking of the message Bobby'd left on my machine. He'd seen Kleinert the night he died. I remember Kleinert mentioning it too.

“You there?”

“I don't know what it means, Jonah,” I said. “This case is starting to break and I just can't figure out what's going on.”

“You want me to come over and we'll talk it out?”

“Not, not yet. I need to be by myself. Let me call you later when I have more to go on.”

“Sure. You've got my home number, haven't you?”

“Better give it to me again,” I said and jotted it down.

“Now, listen,” he said to me. “Swear to me you won't do anything stupid.”

“How can I do anything stupid? I don't even know what's going on,” I said. “Besides, ‘stupid' is after the fact. I always feel smart when I think things up.”

“God damn it, you know what I'm talking about.”

I laughed. “You're right. I know. And believe me, I'll call you if anything comes up. Honestly, my sole object in life is to protect my own ass.”

“Well,” he said grudgingly. “That's good to hear, but I doubt it.”

We said our good-byes and he hung up. I left my hand on the receiver.

I tried Glen's number. I felt she should have the information and I couldn't be sure the cops would bring her up to date, especially since, at this point, they probably didn't have any more answers than I did.

She picked up the phone and I told her what was going on, including the business about Blackman in Bobby's address book. Of necessity, I told her as much as I knew about the blackmailing business. Hell, why not? This was no time to keep secrets. She already knew that Nola and Bobby were lovers. She might as well understand what he had undertaken in Nola's behalf. I even took the liberty of mentioning Sufi's involvement, though I still wasn't sure about that. I suspected that she was a go-between, ferrying messages between Nola and Bobby, counseling Bobby, perhaps, when his passion clashed with his youthful impatience.

She was quiet for a moment in the same way I had been. “What happens now?”

“I'll talk to Homicide tomorrow and tell them everything I know. They can handle it after that.”

“Be careful in the meantime,” she said.

“No sweat.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

There was still an hour and a half of daylight left when I reached the old county medical complex. From the number of parking spaces available, it was clear that most of the offices were closed, personnel gone for the day. Kelly had told me there was a second parking lot around the side that was used by the janitorial staff at night. I didn't see any reason to park that far away. I pulled into a slot as close to the entrance as I could get, noting with interest that there was a bicycle chained to a rack just off to my left. It was a banged-up old Schwinn with fat tires and a fake license plate wired onto the rear, reading “Alfie.” Kelly had told me the building was generally locked up by seven, but that I could buzz in and Alfie would buzz back to admit me.

I grabbed my flashlight and my key picks, pausing to pull a sweatshirt over my tank top. I remembered the building as chilly, even more so, I imagined, if I was there after sunset. I locked my car and headed for the entrance.

I paused at the double doors in front and pressed a bell to my right. After a moment, the door buzzed back, releasing the lock, and I went in. The lobby was already accumulating shadows and reminded me vaguely of an abandoned train station in a futuristic movie. It had that same air of vintage elegance: inlaid marble floors, high ceilings, beautiful woodwork of buffed oak. The few remaining fixtures must have been there since the twenties, when the place was built.

I crossed the lobby, glancing idly at the wall directory as I passed. Almost subliminally, a name caught my eye. I paused and looked again. Leo Kleinert had an office out here, which I hadn't realized before. Had Bobby driven this far for weekly psychiatric sessions? Seemed a bit out of the way. I went downstairs, footsteps scratching on the tile steps. As before, I could feel the temperature dropping, like a descent into the waters of a lake. Down here, it was gloomier, but the glass door to the morgue was lighted, a bright rectangle in the gathering darkness of the hall. I checked my watch. It wasn't even 7:15.

I tapped on the glass for form's sake and then tried the knob. It was unlocked. I opened the door and peered in.

“Hello?”

There was no one in evidence, but that had happened to me before when Dr. Fraker and I had visited. Maybe Alfie was in the refrigerated storage room where the bodies were kept.

“Heellloo!”

No response. He'd buzzed me in, so he had to be around here someplace.

I closed the door behind me. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, giving the illusion of winter sunlight. There was a door to my left. I crossed and knocked before I opened it to find an empty office with a dark brown Naugahyde couch. Maybe the guy on the graveyard shift snagged some shut-eye in here when nothing else was going on. There was a desk and a swivel chair. The outside of the window was covered with ornamental wrought-iron burglar bars, the daylight blocked out by a mass of unruly shrubs. I closed the door and moved over to the refrigerated room where the bodies were kept, peering in.

No Alfie in sight. Inside, the light was constant, occupants laid out on blue fiberglass berths, engaged in their eternal, motionless naps, some wrapped in sheets, some in plastic, necks and ankles wound with what looked like masking tape. Somehow, it reminded me of quiet time at summer camp.

I returned to the main room and sat for a while, staring at the autopsy table. My customary procedure would have been to snoop into every cabinet, drawer, and storage bin, but it felt disrespectful here. Or maybe I was afraid I'd stumble onto something grotesque: trays of dentures, a Mason jar chock-full of floating eyeballs. I don't know what I thought I'd see. I shifted restlessly. I felt as if I were wasting time. I went to the door and looked out into the hall, tilting my head to listen. Nothing.

“Alfie?” I called. I listened again, then shrugged and closed the door. It occurred to me that as long as I was there, I could at least verify that the number Bobby'd written down was, in fact, the same as the number on Franklin's toe tag. That wouldn't do any harm. I took the address book out of my handbag and turned to the penciled entry on the back cover. I went into the cold-storage room again, moving from body to body, checking I.D. tags. This was like some kind of bargain-basement sale only nothing was marked down.

When I got to the third body, the numbers matched. Kelly was right. Bobby'd shifted the hyphen over so the seven-digit code looked like a telephone number. I stared at the body, or what I could see of it. The plastic that Franklin was wrapped in was transparent but yellowing, as though stained with nicotine. Through the swaddling, I could see that he was a middle-aged black man of medium height, slim, with a face of stone. Why was this corpse significant? I was feeling anxious. I figured Alfie would be back shortly and I really didn't want to be caught nosing around in here. I went back to my chair.