Capacity for Murder (Professor Bradshaw Mysteries) (3 page)

The deputy moved to a side door, pulling a bronze ward key from his pocket. Bradshaw stopped him from inserting the key. This was not a simple accident investigation. A man had died, and any time Bradshaw was called to a scene involving death, he took nothing for granted.

He examined the cut-glass doorknob and the ornate bronze plate, noticing a faint but distinct sharp odor. “Vinegar?”

Hornsby said, “Oh, yes. The knobs are cleaned daily.”

The key hole showed no sign of tampering, but it likely wouldn’t even if unlocked by an unauthorized hand. The trouble with ward locks is their ease of access. Nearly any skeleton key will open it.

Hornsby asked, “What are you looking for, Professor?”

“Has this door been locked since the incident?”

“Yes, it’s my habit to always keep the room locked.”

“Where is the key normally kept?”

“In my desk drawer.”

“Who has entered the electrotherapy room since the incident?”

“Who?” Hornsby’s eyes crinkled with thought. “Why, I don’t know for certain. Is it important?”

“It would be helpful if you could recall.”

Hornsby scratched his beard. “My wife and Martha came in, I’m certain of that. Mr. Thompson might have entered, I’m not sure. He offered assistance, but he was too ill to help. We carried David to his bed.” He scratched his beard again. “I’m fairly sure no one entered after that. I locked the door before I went into Hoquiam for the sheriff. That’s when I wired you. I unlocked the door for the sheriff that evening. He didn’t enter the room; he just stood in the doorway and looked about and said he wanted nothing touched until you arrived. This is the first time the door’s been unlocked since.”

“May I?” He held out his palm and the deputy handed over the key. Bradshaw inserted it in the lock and listened as the wards hit their slots and slid back the bolt. Removing the key, he placed his fingertips on the ridges of the cut glass knob and turned. The door swung open into darkness.

Hornsby said, “Oh—I hadn’t thought. We have no light. The machine is plugged into one of the light sockets and the switch is off. It was daylight when…I’ll get some oil lamps.” He hurried off, sniffing and fumbling into his pocket for his handkerchief.

Bradshaw pressed the door fully open and hunkered down in the doorway to allow the office light to penetrate more deeply into the room. The equipment stood out against the white plaster walls that reflected the meager light, an electrotherapy chair, a glass-paneled cupboard of instruments, and atop a storage cabinet, a portable electrotherapeutic machine. The sight of it sent a chill through him.

It looked very much like the outfit he’d designed a few years ago for Arnold Loomis. But they’d been beaten to the market and the design never sold to a manufacturer.

“What is it, Professor?”

“I’m just thinking, Deputy.” He began to stand, then noticed a faint scratch on the otherwise perfectly smooth, polished hemlock floor. He bent lower to inspect the scratch, turning his head sideways to better view the surface. He spied a speck. From his pocket, he retrieved his small leather tool pouch and removed the tweezers. These he used to pinch the speck and discovered it to be a grain of sand. Sand in a house on the beach was expected—but in this house, with the felt-slipper policy, and on the second floor, was perhaps not very common.

Hornsby arrived with three lit oil lamps, pausing at the doorway when he saw Bradshaw holding the tweezers.

“Doctor, have you a small jar or dish I might borrow?”

“What did you find?”

“A grain of sand.”

“Is it important?”

“I don’t yet know.”

Hornsby lifted his brow, glanced at the deputy, who only shrugged. He pushed the office door closed with his foot and set the lamps on his desk.

“How about a vial?” Hornsby pulled a small glass vial from a porcelain basin and gave it few shakes to expel water droplets.

Bradshaw took the vial and dropped in the grain of sand. It clung to a bead of moisture. He capped the vial with a small cork, then dropped it into his pocket. He lifted a glowing lamp. It was fueled with good-quality kerosene and put out a bright light.

“I’d like to go first and move slowly into the room.”

Dr. Hornsby stared at him. His face, already somber with grief, transitioned to alarm. He looked from Bradshaw to the deputy and he began to sway. Bradshaw grabbed a chair and slid it under the doctor as he sank.

“I—you—” Hornsby looked about the room, his eyes unfocused. “You will think me a fool, gentlemen. I just now realized what is happening here. You believe this may have been intentional. You are looking for evidence of—of murder? You think I killed him on purpose. You think I killed David intentionally. I did not. I swear to you I did not! His death was an accident!”

Deputy Mitchell hurried to calm Hornsby. He shook his head. “No, no, Doctor Hornsby. This being an unusual sort of death, Sheriff Graham just wanted the matter thoroughly looked at. No one’s accusing you of anything.”

Bradshaw had never seen a lawman in such a rush to relieve a probable suspect. In his experience, the police hardened themselves to such displays of emotion, knowing truth or confessions often spilled from them.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” the deputy went on. “We only want to help.”

Hornsby said, “I don’t know why I didn’t understand before. The shock, I suppose. But I should have realized when the sheriff refused to let us leave. The door—I thought you hoped it had been locked so the evidence of my stupidity would still be present.” He stared at Bradshaw with wide, fearful eyes. “But you’re looking for more than just an accident.”

“I am simply gathering facts, Dr. Hornsby. It’s how I approach all of my investigations. Most often, the accident proves to be just that, an unfortunate accident. But in the beginning, I gather every bit of data I find and save it until I know its value, or lack thereof.”

Dr. Hornsby looked unconvinced. The young deputy chewed his lip, and Bradshaw resisted the urge to tell him to buck up.

He moved to the doorway and held up his lamp. Under this greater illumination, the electrotherapy machine so much resembled Bradshaw’s he nearly swore aloud. But he wouldn’t let his curiosity drive him too quickly across the room. He dropped down again to floor level. The surface of the polished hemlock floor was smooth and free from grit, sand, or dust. He inched forward and found another faint scratch. He continued to move, following the direction of the scratch, until near the foot of the cabinet he found a circular gouge the size of a large pinhead. Three inches under the cabinet, he found several grains of sand clumped together. Careful not to touch the cabinet, he used the flat edge of the knife from his pocket toolkit to scoop the clump into the glass vial.

A search of the rest of the floor turned up nothing. Bradshaw retrieved the other two oil lamps and held them before the electrotherapy machine, stifling a curse. This was not the outfit that had beaten his to market. This was
his
outfit. The very one he’d built. The prototype for Arnold Loomis. The pattern of the grain in the mahogany case was as familiar to him as the face of an old friend. Without looking further, he knew beyond doubt it was his when he saw the unmatched hinges on the access panel, one brass, the other nickel. He’d used spare parts he’d had on hand in his basement workshop.

What was his outfit doing here? Arnold Loomis had sold it, yes, but to a doctor in Seattle, for a price that just barely covered the cost of building it. Yet here it was, more than a hundred miles away, involved in a man’s death.

Aware that he had stood staring for too long, unsure what this meant for him or the investigation, he said nothing as he moved around the cabinet.

Withholding information was now standard procedure for him in the early stages of an investigation. His first half-dozen cases had taught him that his explanations could alter what he was later told. Witnesses would, mostly unintentionally, change their stories to bring them in line with the new facts. But he’d never withheld anything that potentially incriminated himself.

He forced his thoughts to the insulated braided cord that extended from the outfit case up to the electric light socket, which appeared in fine condition. He tapped the cord with his knuckles. Receiving no shock, he unscrewed the cord from the socket and tucked the end into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. It was perhaps an unnecessary precaution. He didn’t imagine Dr. Hornsby or the deputy would attempt to reconnect the cord while his back was turned. It was an action born of habit and one that had kept him quite safe in all his electrical endeavors.

He applied his knuckles to the access panel as well before opening the latches, then bent to examine the working components in the narrow space. He found the c-shaped discharger where he’d mounted it four years ago, on the inside of the panel, and holding it by the ebonite handle, he touched the balled ends to the Leyden jar capacitors to release any remaining charge. His touch was met with silence, and now he felt safe examining the familiar components more closely. His heart tightened.

All was as he last saw it, his patented coil with its distinctive bell shape, the metal-wrapped glass Leyden jars, the assorted wires and binding posts necessary to change the settings for various applications. Everything appeared in order.

He examined the outside of the outfit, finding nothing to alert him. Indeed, other than a few superficial scratches, only one thing had been altered since he last laid eyes on it. The engraved brass plate affixed to the front no longer bore his name but read, The Loomis Long-Life Luminator.

Loomis. Arnold Loomis.

“May I enter, Professor?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Two sets of footsteps told him both Hornsby and the deputy had entered and now stood behind him.

The doctor asked, “Ever seen anything like it?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you see anything wrong?” Hornsby’s voice trembled. “Anything that could explain what happened?”

“No, but I will need to do a more thorough exam and testing tomorrow. You say you’ve had it just a few weeks?”

“Yes. It’s supposed to be the best, and the safest, on the market. It has all the latest capabilities, you can see, with a superior style of coil. It’s proved to be very easy to operate; much thought was obviously put into the design.” He leaned down to peer inside at the internal workings. “Is there
nothing
to show how it malfunctioned?”

“Nothing immediately obvious.”

Hornsby straightened and exhaled deeply. “You’ll want to talk to the representative, Mr. Loomis. I could get him now, if you like.”

Bradshaw removed the plug from his pocket and draped the cord over the machine. “Loomis is here?”

“Yes, we were all detained, my staff, which is just my family, and the few patients present at the time.”

“What does Mr. Loomis have to say about the incident?”

“He’s flabbergasted and appalled, of course. But the sheriff wouldn’t let him near the machine, not until you got here.”

“He’s a patient?”

“Oh, well, no, not strictly speaking. A guest, you might say. He delivered the unit and has been here ever since.”

Bradshaw closed the access panel. He moved to the patient chair that sat upon a short insulating platform and brought the light close. It was a dark wooden chair, square in shape, the back and seat covered with a rubber pad sewn over metal sheeting. Curved metal grips were mounted on the ends of the arms. Box-mounted metal footplates sat before the chair. A typical setup.

He moved through the rest of the room, shining the light fully on Dr. Hornsby’s cupboard of instruments. The glass electrodes in various shapes to suit specific needs were neatly labeled, nasal, throat, rectal, and so on. There were small stacks of pristine white probe covers, metal clamps, rubber insulated handles, and an assortment of rubber-coated copper cords. Next to the cupboard sat a commode with wash basin stocked with soap, sanitizer, salt, and white towels.

He took out his small notebook and pencil, made a few notes, and sketched the layout of the room and the configuration of the electric outfit while Hornsby and the deputy waited.

“That’s all until morning,” he said at last, tucking away his notebook and leather toolkit. “The door should remain locked until my investigation is complete, and please take care not to touch the inside knobs.”

Hornsby’s brow furrowed for a moment, but grief and exhaustion quickly extinguished any questions he may have had. He nodded silently.

“Just let me know when you want back in.” The deputy locked the door behind them.

Chapter Four

Outside, in the glow of the electric porch lamp speckled with flitting bugs, Bradshaw changed into his shoes, then carrying a lantern, tromped around the drift logs and through the sand to his cabin. There was no moon, but the sky shone with the light of countless stars and gave a dusky glow to the surging ocean swells. The cool, slight wind carried the scent of salt and kelp and the smoky pine residue of a bonfire.

The large cabins south of the main house were dark, but the murmur of deep voices told him some of his students were yet awake.