The Pied Piper of Death (15 page)

“The cannon was fired. I heard it, felt it, and sniffed it.”

Peyton snorted. “Easily faked. I mean, face it, Lyon. No one would be fool enough to fire that ancient thing. A full charge would probably blow it up in their face. Why should they risk it when there are enough assault rifles around the country for a hundred mass murders?”

“Whoever fired that cannon escaped through the Underground Rail tunnel that goes from the crypt to the river.”

“Underground Railroad! You don't believe that old saw? If there's any secret passage down there, it was constructed so old Caleb could smuggle his bimbos in for a little extracurricular slap and tickle. Rabbit's granddaddy was probably the lookout.”

“No freed slaves?”

Peyton shook his head. “It's my understanding that old Caleb was such a bigot that if the State of Connecticut had allowed it he would have had slaves working in his factory. I can't believe that he ran a station on the Underground Railroad. Now, maybe his eccentric wife who threw herself off the parapet would have done that sort of thing. Her final exit proves that she had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Then those old stories aren't all true?”

“Markham Swan included the Underground Railroad in his book because it made good sympathetic copy and I thought it might swing me some of the black vote.”

“I think I'd like to see Swan's notes.”

Lyon shifted the chair closer to the computer on the cluttered desk in the dining area of the gate cottage. He was convinced that Markham would never have asked to meet with him unless he had something substantial to reveal. The fact that the murdered man was researching a book on the Piper family and felt that Paula was in danger increased Lyon's suspicions.

Markham Swan was not murdered by an irate lover, or his own wife. He was killed by someone his discovery threatened.

What was it?

The answer had to be in Markham's notes. His dangerous information related to the Piper family. This meant that Swan's discovery might be accumulated data or something he had turned up recently. The dead man had undoubtedly done something in the last day or two that had warned his killer.

A threat to whom?

Swan's note to Paula talked about the Pie. How did the Piper family cemetery fit in?

The small room containing the computer and other files was a shambles. Every flat surface held a collection of old newspapers, computer software, files, and historical memorabilia. Only the computer sat alone, with its empty screen staring blankly into the room.

Lyon knew that, like many writers, Swan appeared more haphazard and inefficient than he really was. No matter how the two men disagreed, Markham was still a thorough researcher, a trained historian. Eventually his collection of miscellaneous and seemingly haphazard facts coalesced into a coherent study of his subject. Somewhere inside this computer there was a logical collection of data that might solve the problem of the Piper Pie.

He clicked on the computer.

The screen flickered to life as the initial booting sequence began. For a moment lights flickered in the tiny windows of the various drives, and then built-in memory and system tests flashed on the screen as the system activated.

Instead of merging into a DOS prompt or Windows display, the screen flashed a dark blue screen with a yellow rectangular insert with a heading:
PASSWORD
.

Lyon exhaled slowly as he hummed two verses of Rabbit's “Clover” song. “Damn,” he finally said.

Bypassing the password required a revamping of the computer's motherboard or else a hacking ability far beyond Lyon's rudimentary knowledge. He placed computer lore in his personal realm of useful but esoteric subjects, alongside catalytic converters in his automobile, the Hubble constant in cosmology, and some women's selection of eye makeup.

Although Markham had the necessary education and intellectual tools of an academic historian, he kept his work on a commercial level. His history book on the battle of Gettysburg had been for a young adult market, his work for the tobacco company and now the Piper corporation paid hack jobs. Lyon did not think that the dead man's password would be some esoteric Latin phrase, or a quote from Homer in the original Greek. The password would be something that had meaning for Markham, although it might be laced with a touch of irony.

Lyon leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, visualizing the dead man whose secrets he hoped to examine. Markham was not only a conservatively oriented research writer, but also a man with a Don Juan complex. A man of that sexuality with a researcher's background must have kept a tally or score of some nature. Markham Swan might not maintain his financial records in good order, but his conquests would have statistical and anatomical descriptions.

The password might be a synonym or play on words for the act of sexual congress.

Swan was far too sophisticated for the password to be a simple bathroom wall epithet. Nor would it be the obvious synonyms in French, German, or Russian.

Lyon began to type all the esoteric synonyms for having sex. When none of his alternatives were the correct password he began to type in foreign phrases for the act.

Still no response. He tilted the chair back in fatigue.

He had used every phrase and slang he could think of without result. He thought of Swan's personality again. The man did have conservative beliefs. With that in mind, he began to type in a new series of potential passwords. He began with a list that consisted of men the dead writer might admire: George Patton, Ghengis Kahn, Machiavelli, Adam Smith … the list went on without result.

Next he tried a list of writers and artists that Swan had mentioned to him in passing over the years. No result.

He would have to speak with the dead man's wife to find important personal combinations that might work. If that wasn't successful, he would have to dig up a discreet computer expert who could jump the password through the motherboard.

Damn! He should be able to figure this out. He had known Markham Swan since college, when they had both been up for membership in the Thumpers. As Peyton had recently pointed out, Lyon had been blackballed, but Markham had been admitted for his pandering ability.

Lyon casually typed “Thumpers” into the computer. It was a word important to Swan, and from what Peyton said, it also had a strong sexual connotation.

The screen changed to an icon display. He was in.

A fast review of the hard drive files indicated a neat and orderly progression of notes concerning the book called
The Piper Contribution
.

He began to read.

It was an hour before Lyon had it. The list that scrolled down the screen was a simple genealogy of the Piper family with a few identifying notes by each name. He stopped scrolling and stared at the list.

It was now quite clear why Markham Swan felt the answer was in the cemetery plot known as the Piper Pie. It was obvious what he had found out and why he had been killed.

N
INE

These dead now held a new significance.

Lyon stood directly in front of the obelisk and looked out over the grave wedges that comprised the Piper Pie. Bea was by his side, her hair gently ruffled by a warm breeze that danced past from downriver. While Lyon seemed transfixed by the neat rows of headstones, she turned to look at the tall monument with a puzzled frown.

“Who, beside an Egyptian pharaoh, would erect a gigantic phallus to dominate his future grandchildren?” she asked.

“That miniature Washington Monument was built by the original colonel. If I'm reading things correctly, Markham Swan's genealogical notes tell us that part of the answer to his murder is written on those tombstones,” Lyon said.

“I can't see how they'll tell us anything. They don't even have any fancy inscriptions that would make for interesting grave rubbings.”

“Markham had faults, but he was thorough.”

A flash of sunlight glinted off car chrome from down the narrow lane leading past the cemetery. Murphysville Cruiser Number One sped past the cemetery, then skidded to a stop and backed recklessly to the entrance. The driver shifted into forward and drove through the narrow wrought-iron gates flanked by a pair of stoic stone lions.

“Yonder comes he who shakes the ground,” Bea said. Rocco Herbert heaved himself from the police car, shaded his eyes from the sun, and glowered in their direction.

“I wonder why he's cross?” Lyon asked.

Bea sighed. “I sometimes think that Rocco is angry at the world half the time.”

Halfway to the monument, Rocco waggled an accusatory finger at them. “I have no time to fool with this stuff,” he said loud enough for “this stuff” to echo from the hills.

“We can understand,” Lyon said, “since the weight of the nation's crime-fighting efforts rests upon your shoulders.”

“Worse than that. I'm facing a wages strike with the school crossing guards. Pandy Jerome has got them organized and they're demanding time and a half for rain duty and double time when it snows.”

“You've got to learn to compromise,” Bea suggested. “Give them triple time for snow, with no extra money for rain. Then cancel school on snow days.”

Rocco stopped abruptly. “Hey, you know, that's not a bad idea. You politicians really know how to screw people in a compromise. Okay, why are we graveyard hopping?” He glanced briefly at the uniform rows of tombstones. “Poor rubbings area. This place will never attract the garden club crowd.”

“I'm going to show you the reason why Markham Swan was killed,” Lyon said.

“In translation, that means you're going to point out the tombstone he was screwing behind when he was caught in the act by an irate husband?” Rocco said.

“That's not quite what I had in mind, but this isn't twenty questions. Let me give you the guided tour.” Lyon glanced at the first page of a sheaf of folded notes that he took from his back pocket. He walked slowly down the center row of the Pie and then made a right-angle turn to walk along the first row of stones. “Caleb Piper and his second wife are buried in the mausoleum behind the obelisk.”

“After her swan dive off the parapet into the river, the first wife's body was never found,” Bea added.

“Okay,” Rocco said as he held both hands before his body in a gesture of supplication. “I know how you two think. All I have to say is that my caseload is chock full. I have the school crossing guards to fight with, Norby to fend off, and lots of other stuff hanging fire. I do not need an ancient crime suddenly appearing as an open case. I'll listen to any significant information you have as long as it pertains to something that happened in this century. No. Make that this decade.”

“Be patient, and hear me out,” Lyon said. They followed him as he moved slowly down the first row of tombstones, which was now swathed in shadows from the tall needle monument. Again, as he often did in the proximity of the long dead, Lyon seemed to sense their presence. He stopped before the middle stone in the first wedge of the Pie and ran the palm of his hand across the rough stone in a gesture that was nearly a caress. “This is where Standard Piper, the patriarch's first born, is buried.” Lyon read from the words and letters etched in the stone:
“BORN 1855–DIED 1873
.” He looked down at his notes. “Caleb's firstborn was cut down in his eighteenth year. Records of the time indicate that he accidentally shot himself in the head with a minié ball while hunting wild turkey in a nearby wood-lot.”

Rocco nodded. “Those things still happen around here. God, I hate Fall and the start of hunting season in Murphysville. The usual casualty count is one dead deer and at least two wounded hunters. I think they clean their weapons with ninety proof vodka.”

“Accidents do happen,” Lyon said as he proceeded to the next row of stones. He read from the second monument: “
CHRISTIAN PIPER. BORN 1879–DIED 1897
.” Again a referral to his notes. “Christian was born to Standard's younger brother. He was cut down in his eighteenth year while playing cards on a riverboat going from Hartford to New York City in 1897. It seems there was a dispute over an inside straight poker hand. The man who fired the shot was never located.”

“Poker can be a violent game,” Rocco agreed.

“Okay, we proceed,” Lyon said.

“You know, lover,” Bea said, “I love genealogy as well as any other New Englander, but as far as the Piper family is concerned I am not overwhelmed with interest.”

“Oh, but it gets more interesting.” Lyon hurried his pace as he entered the next row. “Over there lies Thomas Piper, who was shot accidentally in his eighteenth year by the police when they raided a speakeasy in 1920. Rebecca Piper, Peyton's great-aunt, has a tombstone, but there really isn't any body buried there. Rebecca disappeared right after her eighteenth birthday.”

Bea had proceeded ahead of Lyon and had showed little interest until now. She stopped. “Wait a minute. Did they all die in their eighteenth year?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lyon answered.

Rocco had begun to look interested, but now he shrugged off his speculation with a grunt. “It's all coincidental. The nineteenth century was a violent time in this country. It's also not unheard of for young women to run off and never be heard from again.”

“In the olden days they were sold into white slavery or something,” Bea said.

“If your scenario is correct, Rocco,” Lyon said. “Rebecca Piper ran off with the circus right after she delivered her child, Lance, Peyton's uncle.”

“What happened to Lance?” Bea asked.

Again Lyon referred to the notes he had made from Swan's computer information. “Lance lived a little bit longer than his eighteenth year, but was killed in his nineteenth. I think the reason for the delay was that the killer had difficulty in finding him since Lance was in the army during the Korean war.”