The Totem 1979 (4 page)

So he stumbled toward the carcass, and he wondered what he’d tripped on and then realized it was himself. His legs weren’t working properly; he’d have to do this soon and rest. There were three facts that he needed to learn right away. Whether the steer had been dead before the animal had gotten at it. Whether the organs were all there. Whether the predator had left some sign of what it was. The first he thought he knew. If the steer had been dead, especially for some time, the blood would not have flowed. No matter that they hadn’t found the blood, it clearly wasn’t here. The predator had maybe drunk it, but that still meant that the steer was freshly killed. The only sure test was to open up the heart. A lot of blood would mean the steer was long dead when the animal had gotten at it. Little meant the steer had still been living when attacked. The point was that a dead steer meant a scavenger, and that would help identify the animal that had picked at it.

The fact about the organs, whether all of them were present, was related to the first. If some of them were missing, the assumption was that they’d been eaten, and that would help eliminate a good deal of the mystery. The steer had been attacked for food. On the other hand, if all the organs were still present, he’d have to figure why. The extensive damage meant that the animal had lots of time to eat. Even if it had been scared away, there had to be a reason why it didn’t take advantage and eat something at the start. Could be that the steer was dead, and something, not a scavenger, instead an animal that preferred fresh kills, had tried to eat and given up. Could be too the steer was dead, and something, a disease perhaps, had made the meat taste bad. Could be, but the only way to tell that was by checking on the cause and time of death.

The other fact he needed, a sign to help identify what kind of animal had done this, he was hoping he would find as he examined the organs. Something like a piece of fur, a tooth-mark, anything. But that would come as he went through the process. First he’d get a sample of the heart, the brain, the feces. Since the carcass was already open, he would start in on the heart.

But as he went around the table, looking at the open guts, at first he couldn’t find the heart. Then he did, mashed in with the lungs and upper stomach. It was more complete than he had hoped, and he was cutting carefully around it, reaching in to pull it out and slice it into quarters. He was taken up with interest now, breathing fast and hard, staring at the sectioned heart. It was almost empty. That was that. The steer had died from the attack. Of course it might have been diseased as well, and he would tell that as he checked the other organs. But at least he knew that what had done this was no scavenger. It had been a full-scale hunter, on the prowl for food.

His legs gave out, and he was forced to grip the table. This was wrong. He had to get away, get home, and get to bed. But he couldn’t make his legs move. Then he had them working, and he straightened. He tried to go but couldn’t take his mind off all those organs, sorting through them. Liver, bladder, kidneys, all those stomachs. He couldn’t understand it. Even shredded as they were, it seemed that nothing was missing. But that shouldn’t be. He cut deeply into the abdomen to where the bowels were still intact and took a sample of the feces. The stench, on top of what was in his stomach, made him almost retch. He had to find a reason. If the animal had been a hunter, then it should have eaten. But it hadn’t, and he didn’t understand.

His legs gave out again. His chest constricted. The pain shot through his left arm, and he was praying. He thought about his wife. He thought about how she had said she loved him, and he wished that he had said it back. He thought about so many things. Just before he fell, he singled in on one small portion of the guts, staring at them, disappearing into them, and noticed a detail so horrible that in his death at last he understood.

Chapter Seven.

They found him in the morning where he lay on the floor by the table, one fist full of guts that he had taken with him as he fell. That was shortly after seven. The men who found him phoned a doctor, but it wasn’t any use. The doctor came and knelt and checked him and just shook his head.

By then the old man’s wife was there. She had waited up for him, but then, in spite of all her good intentions, she had gone to sleep. She had wakened early and had missed him, searching through the house. She’d seen that the car was gone and phoned the office, but there wasn’t any answer. She had waited half an hour before going into town.

She came around the corner and started running when she saw the ambulance. The double doors were open, and she saw a crowd in there, and she was pushing through, stopping as she saw him, and she gasped. She ran across to him, kneeling down to cradle him, then yelling at him, pushing, shouting that he was a fool. No one understood. The doctor had been just about to leave. He tried to calm her, to lead her carefully away, but she kept screaming. Then she started hitting the body, and the doctor had somebody hold her while he opened his bag and swabbed her arm and filled a hypodermic, giving her a sedative. It didn’t calm her right away. She kept screaming, began to sob, crouched beside her husband once again, and finally it seemed all right to try to make her go. They led her down the hallway to the office.

The medical examiner was there to see the last of it. He waited while they led her down the hallway. Then he checked the body, doing more or less the same as what the doctor had, but taking more time, making notes. He straightened, putting pad and pen together, turning toward the open double doors as behind the people there he saw the police car pulling up. He waited while the driver’s door was opened and the big man got out, putting on his hat. The uniform was tan, the hat a Stetson. Even with the people there the policeman’s face could be seen above the crowd, burly, craggy, strong-boned with high cheeks, just a little puffy near the eyes, the medical examiner assumed from too much beer. What the hell, if you worked the hours he did, you’d be puffy near the eyes as well, never mind the beer.

The policeman’s name was Slaughter, and that had meant he almost didn’t get the job. He had settled here five years ago, and when the old chief had died, Slaughter had asked the town council for the job. At first the council was reluctant, but Slaughter had showed them his credentials, and they couldn’t pass him by. Twenty years a policeman and detective in Detroit, trained in every manner of investigation, tired of living in the city, wanting to come out and live in peace, he had tried his hand at raising horses but then realized he wasn’t any good. The only thing he knew was being on the force; he did it well. The council needed him. He needed them. They finally worked it out. Some had feared, thinking of his name, that he would be too tough for them, that coming from the East he would treat them as if he were in the city, breaking heads as if this were Detroit. But they had phoned Detroit, and reports about him there were even better than he claimed. He had never had a complaint against him. He was never one to push. So they had tried him on condition, and they had kept him ever since. At least in terms of lack of crime, the town had never had things better.

As the medical examiner kept watching, Slaughter started, big and solid, through the crowd, talking to them, his hand pressed down around his gunbelt, bullets showing, that was shoved a little low around his waist. Then the crowd was in back of him, and he released the hand from his holstered gun. Instincts from the city. Among the few that Slaughter still retained. Standing there in cowboy boots and cowman’s hat, a toothpick in his mouth, he looked about as local as a person could become. Not because he wore them, but because he wore them with a certain pride and made the townsfolk proud to see him and to speak with him. That faint inflection in his voice that he had picked up since he’d come. To see him grow to meet the town had made the town aware of what it was. He had added to it.

Now he paused and glanced around. Taking the toothpick from his mouth, he walked across and frowned down at the body. “Old Doc Markle?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I know how you felt about him.”

Slaughter didn’t answer.

“Heart attack,” the medical examiner said. “His wife was here to see him. She’s just down the hall.”

Slaughter looked at him.

“She had to be sedated.”

Slaughter shook his head. “She’ll have it rough from now on.” His voice dropped with sorrow. He tried to distract himself by paying attention to details. “What time did he die?”

“I don’t know yet. Rigor’s set in. That means several hours.”

“Some time in the night?”

“It had to be. Otherwise somebody from the office would have seen him.”

“Maybe. Let’s find out for certain.” Slaughter glanced around. He saw the people by the open double doors and went across to talk to them. They listened, saying something back to him. He spoke again. They nodded, slowly breaking up to go away. He turned and saw the people in the green lab coats standing by the wall. He waved to them to follow him as he walked back toward the table.

“You all work here. Anybody see him just before you closed?”

They shook their heads. There were six men and two women. One, the youngest woman, twenty, maybe slightly more, began to cry. It was clear, the way her face and eyes were red, that she’d been crying earlier as well. They were looking at the body, then away, then in a moment back again.

“No,” one man was saying. He was red-haired, freckled, maybe thirty-five, thin and going bald. “I came through to lock the place, and Markle wasn’t here.”

“You check all the rooms?”

“Yes. In case someone forgot to lock them.”

“What time did you check?”

“Shortly after six.”

“Were you the last to leave?”

The red-haired man nodded.

“Anybody else? You’ve got kennels. Anybody come in after that to check the animals?

“I did.” The older woman, maybe thirty-five as well, short but solid, her hair cut to just below her ears. “A little after ten. The doctor wasn’t here then, either.”

Slaughter looked at her. “The doctor? He said Markle,” pointing to the first man.

“He’s a vet. I just work here.”

“That means Markle came in after ten,” the first man said, “and died a little after.”

Slaughter glanced at him and shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re the one who found him?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you change anything?”

“I turned the lights off.”

“What about the doors?”

“Well, they were open.”

“Then it wasn’t after ten,” Slaughter said. “When I sent all those people home, I found a man who’s got a room in a building that looks down on here. He was out till well past midnight. He came home and checked his window, and he’s sure that everything was dark down here. If the doors were open and the lights were on, he surely would have seen it. No, the doctor came here after one. Now I know you people put in heavy hours the same as all the rest of us, but one o’clock, I can’t believe that’s normal.”

No one answered.

“What about this steer? Tell me what’s the story on it.”

“I don’t know.” The vet came around the table, looking at it. ‘You can see that it was dead before he brought it in.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“It had to be with all that damage. You can see that he was doing tests on it. There isn’t any record why.”

“You don’t know whose it is?”

No answer.

Slaughter looked at him, then at the steer and at the body, and he turned to face the medical examiner. “Heart attack, well, maybe. All the same, I think we’d better run some tests.”

“Again?”

But Slaughter only frowned at him. Then hearing someone coming through the hallway door, Slaughter turned and saw the doctor. He went over to him. “How is Mrs. Markle?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Can I speak to her?”

“She won’t understand.”

“How soon till she does?”

“Maybe after supper. She’ll be at the hospital. I’ll check on her and let you know.”

“Thanks.” Slaughter stared at the floor. “It’s too bad. A woman that age. Now she’s all alone.” He sighed, then walked toward the double doors.

The medical examiner was waiting for him. “What about the body? Can I move it?”

“I’ll have pictures taken. Then it’s yours.” Again he tried to distract himself. “Is everything all right for tomorrow?”

“As near as I can tell.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

Tomorrow was the weekend, and they always got together out at Slaughter’s. That was Slaughter’s way of keeping everybody friendly. Everyone he worked with had an open invitation to the ranch-although “ranch” wasn’t quite the word, just five acres with a house and barn. But he had two horses, and the house was very nice, and he liked to have the people whom he worked with out, the only friends he had. He’d been married once. His wife, though, had divorced him, which was common with policemen who were married to their work. She had kept the children, one boy and a girl, and now he hardly ever heard from them except when he insisted that they come out for a visit. That had been a month ago, and since then he’d been distant. It was obvious that he was looking forward to have people with him for tomorrow.

Now he walked to the cruiser, glanced around, opened the driver’s door and slid inside. He sat there for a moment, then reached to grab the microphone from the two-way radio on the dash.

He pressed the button. “Marge, it’s Slaughter. Any news?” He released the button.

Hiss of static. “Nothing, Chief. What about Doc Markle at the vet’s?”

Slaughter didn’t answer.

“Chief?”

He swallowed. “It’s too late. He’s dead.”

“Oh.” Hiss of static. “Lord, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well… . Guess his time just came.” The words were like stones in his throat. “Damn it,” he murmured.

“Say that again, Chief. I didn’t understand you.”

“Nothing. I’ll be back to the office shortly.” Slaughter returned the microphone to the radio, grabbed the key and twisted it, starting the car.

He had tried his best to be objective in there. Really it was hard. The doctor and the medical examiner both knew the way he felt. So did Marge. That was what she’d meant when she had said that she was sorry. Not for Markle, but for him.