Another Word for Murder (15 page)

“I'd like to get a list of all of Doctor Tacete's patients, if I can.”

“Now?” Wagner's veneer of politeness was rapidly eroding.

“The longer we wait, the colder the trail gets. The kidnapper has already had enough time to put a lot of distance between himself and that Corvette.”

“I'll fax you a printout this afternoon.” Wagner stood and began striding to the door while Lever scrawled the NPD fax number on a prescription chit.

“I'd like that list in an hour, Doctor. You don't want to see Al Lever turn into an unhappy cop…. Nobody does.”

CHAPTER 19

Few people actually enjoyed being in Newcastle's dank basement morgue, but Herb Carlyle and his assistant Estelle were the exceptions to the rule. Both seemed to thrive on the frigid temperatures while the similar and ashen hue of their skin made a disconcerting complement to the bluish color of the stainless steel examining tables, the gray linoleum floors, the metal drawers of the refrigerated body compartments, and the institutional green of the pallid walls. And they both maintained a devoted—some might say, unhealthy—fascination with the dearly, or not so dearly, departed.

But where Estelle was meticulous in her observations and almost fanatical about neatness and cleanliness, Carlyle was lackadaisical. He treated the morgue as an extension of home, often eating take-out burgers and fries in the midst of examining a corpse, or chain-smoking cigarettes until the Petri dish that served as an ashtray reached the point of overflowing. How these two had managed to work so well together for so long caused other members of the NPD to scratch their heads in puzzlement, although there was one thing everyone agreed upon: Herb and Estelle believed the morgue to be their private sanctuary.

Neither the medical examiner nor his assistant enjoyed visits from outsiders—particularly detectives, whom they deemed to have little or no understanding of basic human anatomy. Carlyle considered himself the ultimate expert, though few others did, and he greeted queries or dissent with his pronouncements with an almost pathological defensiveness.

So, when he spotted Al Lever through the large windows that separated his inner office from the morgue proper, Carlyle sighed and turned off the computer game that had been holding his attention for the last half hour. Lever was accompanied by Rosco and Belle, a fact that made Herb's groan take on exaggerated and put-upon proportions.

The detective tapped on Carlyle's glass door twice, stepped into the office, and said, “Herb,” in a manner that was intended to be a pleasant salutation but that fell just short of the mark.

The M.E. looked at his watch and responded with a surly “I thought we agreed on noon? That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Right. We got delayed.”

Carlyle cocked his head toward Rosco. “What's with him? The department can't handle this on their own? Or is the NPD handing out
Second Guessing
awards this week?”

“Mind if we sit?” Al asked, purposely ignoring Carlyle's hostility toward Rosco.

Carlyle shrugged, and the three settled into folding metal chairs that faced his desk.

“Rosco and Belle were apprised of Tacete's abduction at an early stage,” Lever explained. “I feel there's a certain advantage in keeping them up to speed. I'm not opposed to asking for help, Herb. You know that. I take it where I can get it.” The tone made it clear that Al planned to conduct the investigation by his own rules and that he had no intention of being strong-armed by Carlyle—mayor's brother or not.

“The situation's personal this time,” Rosco added. “Karen Tacete's a friend of ours. I intend to help out wherever I can.”

“Before I get into any particulars,” Carlyle told Lever while he leveled his gaze at Rosco, “maybe your former partner can bring
me
up to speed. How
did
this all shake down?”

Al gave Rosco a be-my-guest nod, so he took a large breath and began. “Dan Tacete was last seen leaving his office Thursday at noon. His wife phoned Belle that evening in a panic. On Saturday morning, Karen received a call from a man claiming to hold Dan hostage. Ransom particulars were to follow. The kidnapper was adamant that Karen not contact the authorities, causing her to decide to distance herself from Belle and me, as well.

“Yesterday morning, following new demands on the part of the kidnapper, Karen Tacete placed twenty-five thousand dollars in cash in Dan's gym bag, which she secured in the trunk of his Corvette as per her instructions. She then drove the car to the Gilbert's Groceries parking lot, where she left the keys under the front seat—again as instructed—and took a cab home. Nobody heard anything else until last night when the 'Vette ended up in the ravine off East Farm Lane. The gym bag had been emptied.”

“Well, like I pointed out last night,” Carlyle said as he lit a cigarette, “the situation is cut and dried. The good news for your doc is he was most likely dead before the Corvette turned to toast.”

“How do you know that?” Lever asked.

“His forehead was caved in, which was almost certainly the result of hitting the windshield frame … kinda like cracking an egg. I'm guessing—more than
guessing
, I'm guaranteeing that he was dead before the car came to a stop and before the gas tank blew.”

“So there was no smoke in his lungs.” Rosco's comment was more statement than question.

Carlyle stiffened. “Cause of death is acute cranial trauma.

Period. Our boy was dead before the fire broke out. So, no. There would be no smoke in his lungs.”

Rosco felt sure that the M.E. hadn't checked the victim's lungs, but opted not to verbally disagree. Besides, if the skull was crushed, the likelihood of smoke in the lungs was indeed remote. “Is it possible that he was killed some time before the crash? Say, an hour or even a day?”

“Sure. But it would be the first time a dead man drove a car off a cliff.” Carlyle all but sneered. He looked at Lever. “Whose investigation is this, Lieutenant?”

“Mine. But Polycrates has a good point. Isn't it possible that someone could have killed him, strapped him into the driver's seat, and ran the 'Vette over the edge?”

“I'm placing time of death at the same time as the accident.”

“I'm sorry,” Belle interjected, “but if Dan had his shoulder harness buckled, how could his forehead have reached the windshield frame?”

“He's tall, and the windshield is low.” Carlyle's response was snippy and dismissive. “Hardly a physical impossibility for a big man like him.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and refocused on Lever. “There's something else. Your boy was loaded up on OxyContin. He was in no condition to drive. He should never have gotten into that car in the first place. Whether your kidnappers fed it to him or he was a doper, I don't know, but there's my theory: He was higher than a kite and drove into the ravine all by his little lonesome.”

“Maybe he was being chased?” Belle pondered aloud.

“Why? You just told me they got their money. Maybe the perps figured they'd live up to their part of the bargain and simply let him go.”

Al's reply was a terse. “Anything else I should know, Herb?”

“Nope. That's it: crushed skull and doped up. Cut and dried, like I said.”

“You wouldn't mind if Abe Jones takes a look at the remains, would you?” Rosco asked, knowing full well the suggestion would push every one of Carlyle's buttons.

The M.E. stood and pointed at Rosco while again speaking to Lever. “I don't need to put up with this crap from him. That's why your buddy couldn't hack police work; he never had any regard for procedure; he always thought he knew more than the experts. Jones doesn't go anywhere near that body unless it comes straight from the captain. Got it? He can play forensics whiz kid anywhere else—and
with
anything else, except my corpse. Now, if we're finished here, I've got work to do.”

“Really?” Rosco looked at the computer screen. “Still stuck on Pac-Man, Herb, or have you moved up to Tomb Raider?”

“All right … all right,” Al said. He stood and placed himself between Rosco and Carlyle before their animosity could escalate into a show of physical force. “Let's take this discussion to my office, Poly—crates.” He waited for Belle and Rosco to step out, then added, “Thanks, Herb, I'll keep you posted.”

“You do that.” Carlyle's face was turned toward the computer screen, but his eyes were unmoving.

Belle and Rosco and Al refrained from talking about the case until they reached Lever's office. The decision wasn't based on concerns about being overheard, but because each was wrapped up in speculation as to what might have occurred on East Farm Lane.

“Do you think the captain will let Abe take a look at Dan's body? To corroborate Carlyle's findings, I mean?” Belle asked as she sat in the battered wooden ladder-back chair that lay opposite Lever's desk. Al had flopped down in his swiveling office chair, his body tilting backward and his feet itching to settle on the desktop—where they would have been, were it not for Belle's presence. Rosco found himself a perch on the corner of the desk's scarred surface. The positions were similar to ones the three had taken up many times before; and they carried with them an odd sense of deja vu, and a certain kind of comfort in familiarity.

“That's a tough call.” Al reached for a cigarette but then tossed the pack back onto the blotter. “Sorry, I forgot that you health-nuts aren't into secondhand smoke…. No, I don't think the captain will want to go mano-a-mano against the mayor's brother; i.e., the mayor. I'll have Abe look over Carlyle's report. If he has problems with it, I can push for a forensic examination, but I'm not optimistic it'll wash.”

“I can't imagine that Dan Tacete would get high on drugs if they'd just released him,” she mused, “but maybe the kidnappers had already doped him up …”

“And then let him drive away?” Rosco asked.

“Why would they care what state he was in?” Belle countered. She turned to regard her husband. “In fact, wouldn't it have been better if Dan had been kept in a perpetual, drug-induced haze? That way, he wouldn't have been able to identify his captives.”

“The scene on East Farm Lane revealed no evidence of panic,” Lever interjected. “No tire marks indicating Tacete saw the guardrail and attempted to stop—which lends credence to Carlyle's OxyContin discovery.” Rosco was shaking his head slowly, so Al added, “What? You don't like that scenario? Too simple for you, Poly—crates?”

“My gut tells me that Dan was murdered, Al. Someone bashed in his head, put him in the Corvette, and drove it into the ravine. That's why I'd like to see Abe confirm the time of death.”

“That's not his job,” was Lever's brief answer.

Rosco snorted a short laugh. “Well, don't tell me Abe can't pinpoint time of death. We've both seen him do it in the past.”

This time it was Al who shook his head. “Look, I know I agreed with that notion earlier, but the more I think about it, the less it works for me. The 'Vette was a stick-shift, Poly—crates. It would have been next to impossible to put it in gear, pop the clutch, and get it rolling fast enough; not to mention guiding it around the guardrail, and then jumping out without having it stall; or, seriously, maybe even mortally, injuring the perp who was playing Hollywood stuntman. To say nothing of attempting all that while sitting on the lap of the dead man who was strapped into the driver's seat…. Can't be done. Besides, how Tacete died is neither here nor there. Right now, I'm only concerned with catching a kidnapper or kidnappers. I'll worry about cause of death if and when I've got someone to prosecute.”

“So, where do you start?” Belle asked.

“The first thing I do is get over to Gilbert's Groceries and see if anyone saw who might have driven the Corvette out of their lot.” Lever pulled a sheet of paper from his inbox and set it on the desk next to where Rosco was perched. “Jack Wagner faxed that to me a half an hour ago. It's a list of all Tacete's patients. Wagner marked five names that he considered to be ‘shifty characters'—his words, not mine. But it's a place to start. I'll also have Abe scour the 'Vette for fingerprints …” He shrugged. “Who knows? Something might turn up.”

Rosco picked up the list of names and perused it. “Nobody here I recognize.” He handed the list to Belle.

Lever said, “No. Me neither…. The one guy,” he reached across the desk and pointed at a name near the bottom of the page, “Rob Rossi?”

“Yes?” Belle said.

“Wagner's receptionist, Bonnie O'Connell, mentioned he was a bartender somewhere, but that's it. At least Wagner printed out their home phone numbers and addresses. They shouldn't be too hard to dig up.”

Belle read down the list of names. “Ed Trawler, Hank Unger, Rob Rossi, Carlos Quintero, and Terry Friend…. Huh, Terry? Could be a man or a woman, right?”

CHAPTER 20

Knowing someone—or even knowing
of
someone—who died violently produces odd and unsettling reactions among the living. Time is warped; thoughts become dreamlike in intensity as well as maddeningly obscure; the mind visits and revisits the scene of death, imagining it from different vantage points with differing outcomes, replaying the invented pictures until they begin to lose all resemblance to the perceived truth. The question
Why did this have to happen?
is the only constant, and it jabs at the brain continuously.

Leaving the NPD and driving home while Rosco proceeded to his own office and a late start on his day's work, Belle couldn't have described where the hours went after she returned to the house on Captain's Walk—or even how she got there. When she came to her senses, she felt the same as when she'd almost fallen asleep at the wheel during one particularly arduous all-night excursion back in her college days. Her body jounced into alertness; her head snapped upward; her eyes widened while her startled glance took in the empty plate on her cluttered desk, the crumbs of bread that indicated she'd made and eaten a sandwich, the mug containing the dregs of tea, and a gnawed apple core. All spoke to her of time vanishing without her being aware of having lived it.