"Pavel Menansi is dead," Myron said. "Someone murdered him last night."
"The guy who molested Valerie Simpson?"
"Yep."
"Gee, I'm so brokenhearted. I hope I don't lose too much sleep." Esperanza finally flicked a glance away from the screen. "Did you know he was on that party list you gave me?"
"Yeah. You find any other interesting names?"
She almost smiled. "One."
"Who?"
"Think puppy dog," Esperanza said.
Myron shook his head.
"Think Nike," she continued. "Think Duane's contact with Nike."
Myron froze. "Ned Tunwell?"
"Correct answer." Everyone in Myron's life was a game show host. "Listed as E. Tunwell on the list. His real name is Edward. So I did a little digging. Guess who first signed Valerie Simpson to a Nike deal."
"Ned Tunwell."
"And guess who had plenty of egg on his face when her career took a nosedive."
"Ned Tunwell."
"Wow," she said dryly, "it's like you're clairvoyant." She lowered her eyes back to her computer screen and started typing.
Myron waited. Then: "Anything else?"
"Just a very unsubstantiated rumor."
"What?"
"The usual in a situation like this," Esperanza said, her eyes still on the screen. "That Ned Tunwell and Valerie Simpson were more than friends."
"Get Ned on the phone," Myron said. "Tell him I need--"
"I already made the appointment," she said. "He'll be here at seven tonight."
39
Dr. Amanda West now worked as chief pathologist at St. Joseph Medical Center in Doylestown, not too far from Philadelphia. Myron pulled into the hospital parking lot. On the radio was the classic Doobie Brothers song "China Grove." Myron sang along with the chorus, which basically consisted of saying "Oh, Oh, China Grove" repeatedly. Myron sang it louder now, wondering--not for the first time--what a "China Grove" actually was.
As he took a parking ticket from the attendant the car phone rang.
"Jessica is hidden," Win said.
"Thanks."
"See you at the match tomorrow."
Click. Abrupt, even for Win.
Inside Myron asked the receptionist where the morgue was. The receptionist looked at him like he was nuts and said, "The basement, of course."
"Oh, right. Like on Quincy."
He took the elevator down a level. No one was around. He found a door marked MORGUE, and again using his powers of deductive reasoning, quickly realized that this was probably the morgue. Myron the Medium. He braced himself and knocked.
A friendly female voice chimed, "Come in."
The room was tiny and smelled like Janitor-in-a-Drum. The decor theme was metal. Two desks facing each other, both metal, took up half the room. Metal bookshelves. Metal chairs. Lots of stainless steel trays and bins all over the place. No blood in them. No organs. All shiny and clean. Myron had indeed seen plenty of violence, but the sight of blood still made him queasy once the danger passed. He didn't like violence, no matter what he'd told Jessica before. He was good at it, no denying that, but he did not like it. Yes, violence was the closest modern man came to his true primitive self, the closest he came to the intended state of nature, to the Lockean ideal, if you will. And yes, violence was the ultimate test of man, a test of both physical strength and animalistic cunning. But it was still sickening. Man had--in theory anyway--evolved for a reason. In the final analysis, violence was indeed a rush. But so was skydiving without a parachute.
"Can I help you?" the friendly voiced woman asked.
"I'm looking for Dr. West," he said.
"You found her." She stood and extended her hand. "You must be Myron Bolitar."
Amanda West smiled a bright, clear smile, which illuminated even this room. She was blond and perky with a cute little upturned nose--the complete opposite of what he'd expected. Not to be stereotyping, but she seemed a tad too sunny, too upbeat, for someone handling rotting corpses all day. He tried to picture her cheerful face splitting open a dead body with a Y-incision. The picture wouldn't hold.
"You wanted to know about Curtis Yeller?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Been waiting six years for someone to ask," she said. "Come on in. There's more room in the back."
She opened a door behind her. "You squeamish?"
"Uh, no." Mr. Tough-guy.
Amanda West smiled again. "There's nothing to see really. Just that some people get freaked out by all the drawers."
He entered the room. The drawers. There was a wall of huge drawers. Floor to ceiling. Five drawers up. Eight across. That equals forty drawers. Mr. Multiplication Tables. Forty dead bodies could fit in here. Forty dead rotting corpses that used to have lives and families, that used to love and be loved, that once cared and struggled and dreamed. Freaked out? By a bunch of drawers? Surely you jest.
"Jake said you remembered Curtis Yeller," he said.
"Sure. It was my biggest case."
"Pardon me if I sound out of line," Myron said, "but you look awfully young to have been an M.E. six years ago."
"You're not out of line," she said, still smiling sweetly. Myron smiled back with equal sweetness. "I had just finished my residency and worked there two nights a week. The chief M.E. was with the corpse of Alexander Cross. Both bodies came in nearly the same time. So I did the prelim on Curtis Yeller. I didn't get the chance to do anything resembling a full autopsy--not that I needed one to know how he was killed."
"How was he killed?"
"Bullet wound. He was shot twice. Once in the lower left rib cage"--she leaned to the side and pointed at her own--"and once in the face."
"Did you know which was one fatal?"
"The shot to the ribs didn't do much damage," she said. Amanda West was, Myron decided, cute. She tilted her head a lot when she talked. Jess did that too. "But the bullet in Yeller's head ripped off his face like it was Silly Putty. There was no nose. Both cheekbones were barely splinters. It was a mess. The shot was at very close range. I didn't get a chance to run all the tests, but I'd say the gun was either pressed against his face or no more than a foot away."
Myron almost took a step back. "Are you saying a cop shot him in the face at point-blank range?"
Water dripped into a stainless steel sink, echoing in the room. "I'm just giving you the facts," Amanda West said steadily. "You draw your own conclusions."
"Who else knows about this?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. It was a zoo in there that night. I usually worked alone, but there must have been half a dozen other guys with me on this one. None of them worked for the coroner's office."
"Who were they?"
"Cops and government guys," she replied.
"Government guys?"
She nodded. "That's what I was told. They worked for Senator Cross. Secret service or something like that. They confiscated everything--tissue samples, the slugs I extracted, everything. They told me it was a matter of national security. The whole night was crazy. Yeller's mother even managed to get in the room once. She started screaming at me."
"What was she screaming about?"
"She was very insistent that there should be no autopsy. She wanted her son back immediately. She got her wish too. For once the police acquiesced. They weren't interested in having anyone look too closely at this, so it worked out for all concerned." She smiled again. "Funny thing, don't you think?"
"The mother not wanting an autopsy?"
"Yes."
Myron shrugged. "I've heard of parents not wanting autopsies before."
"Right, because they want the body preserved for a decent burial. But this kid wasn't buried. He was cremated." She offered up another smile, this one more saccharine.
"I see," Myron said. "So any evidence of police wrongdoing would have been burned up with Curtis Yeller."
"Right," she said.
"So you think--what--someone got to her?"
Amanda W
est put her hands up in surrender. "Hey, I said it was a funny thing. Not ha-ha funny, just strange funny. The rest is up to you. I'm just an M.E."
Myron nodded again. "You find anything else?"
"Yes," she said. "And this too I found funny. Very funny."
"Ha-ha funny or strange funny?"
"You decide," she said. She smoothed her lab coat. "I'm no ballistics expert, but I know a little something about bullet slugs. I pulled two slugs from Yeller. One from the rib cage, one from the head."
"Yeah so?"
"The two slugs were of different calibers." Amanda West put up her index finger. All traces of a smile were gone now. Her face was clear and determined. "Understand what I'm telling you, Mr. Bolitar. I'm not just saying two different guns here. I'm talking about different caliber. And here's the funny part: all the officers on the Philadelphia force use the same caliber weapon."
Myron felt a chill. "So one of the two bullets came from someone other than a cop."
"And," she continued, "all those secret service men were carrying guns."
Silence.
"So," she said, "ha-ha funny or strange funny?"
Myron looked at her. "You don't hear me laughing."
40
Myron decided to ignore Jake's advice. Especially after listening to Amanda West.
Finding Officer Jimmy Blaine's current address had not been easy. The man had retired two years ago. Still Esperanza found out he lived alone on some small lake in the Poconos. Myron drove through the wilderness for two hours until he pulled into what he hoped was the right driveway. He checked his watch. He still had plenty of time to see Jimmy Blaine and get back to the office in time for his meeting with Ned Tunwell.
The house was rustic and quaint, about what you'd expect to find nestled away in the Poconos. Gravel driveway. Dozens of small wooden animals guarded a front porch. The air was heavy and still. Everything--the weather vane, the American flag, the rocking chair, all the leaves and blades of grass--stood frighteningly motionless, as if inanimate objects had the ability to hold their breaths. As Myron climbed up the porch stairs, he noticed a modern-looking wheelchair ramp that also led to the front door. The ramp looked out of place here, like a doughnut in a health food store. There was no doorbell, so he knocked.
No one answered. Curious. Myron had called ten minutes ago, had heard a man answer, and hung up. Could be out back. Myron circled around the house. As he hit the backyard, the lake stared him in the face. It was a spectacular picture. The sun shone off the still--again, frighteningly motionless--water and made Myron squint. Placid. Tranquil. Myron felt the muscles in his shoulders start to unbunch.
Sitting in a wheelchair facing the lake was a man. A Saint Bernard lay by his feet. The dog too was frighteningly motionless. As Myron approached he saw that the man was whittling wood.
"Hi," Myron called out.
The man barely raised his eyes. He wore a red T-shirt and a John Deere cap pulled down over a weathered face. His legs were covered with a blanket, even in this heat. There was a portable phone within reach. "Hi." He went back to whittling. If he was surprised or upset to have company he was certainly taking it all in stride.
"Beautiful day," Myron said. Mr. Engaging Neighbor.
"Yep."
"Are you Jimmy Blaine?"
"Yep."
Even without the wheelchair it was hard to picture this guy working the city bowels of Philadelphia for eighteen years. Then again, it was hard to picture the bowels of Philadelphia, period, when you were out here.
Silence. No birds or crickets or anything but the whittling.
After some time had passed, Myron asked, "Had much rain this year?" Myron Bolitar, Salt of the Earth. Mr. Farmer's Almanac.
"Some."
"This your dog?"
"Yep. Name is Fred."
"Hi, Fred." Myron scratched the dog behind the ears. The dog wagged its tail without moving any other part of its body. Then it farted loudly.
"Great place you have here," Myron tried. Yep, just two good ol' boys shooting the breeze. Eb and Mr. Haney on Green Acres. Myron half expected denim overalls to materialize on his body.
"Uh-huh." Whittle, whittle.
"Listen, Mr. Blaine, my name is--"
"Myron Bolitar," Blaine finished for him. "I know who you are. Been expecting you."
He shouldn't have been surprised. "Jake called you?"
Blaine nodded without looking up from his whittling. "He said you were stubborn. Said you wouldn't listen to him."
"I just want to ask you a few questions."
"Nothing I care to say to you though."
"I'm not here to hound you, Mr. Blaine."
He nodded again. "Jake told me that too. Said you were okay. Said you liked to right wrongs, is all."
"What else did he say?"
"That you don't know how to mind your own business. That you're a wiseass. And that you're a major pain in the butt."
"He left out snazzy dancer," Myron said.
For the first time since he arrived Jimmy Blaine stopped whittling. "You trying to right the wrong done to Curtis Yeller?"
"I'm trying to find out who killed him."
"Simple," Blaine said. "Me."
"No, I don't think so."
That stopped him for a brief moment. He gave Myron the once-over and then began whittling again.
"Could you tell me what happened that night?" Myron asked.
"The boy pulled a gun. I shot him. That's it."
"How far away were you when you shot him?"
He shrugged, whittled. "Thirty feet. Maybe forty."
"How many shots did you fire?"
"Two."
"And he just dropped?"
"Nope. He swung around the corner with the other one--that Swade kid, I guess. They disappeared."
"You shot a man in the face and ribs and he kept running?"
"I didn't say they kept running. The two of them were by a corner. They disappeared around it. Didn't know it at the time, but the Yellers lived right there. They must have climbed in a window."
"With a bullet in his skull?"
Jimmy Blaine shrugged again. "The Swade kid probably helped him," he said.
"That's not how it happened," Myron said. "You didn't kill him."
Blaine eyed him and then went back to his whittling. "Second time you've said that," he noted. "You want to explain what you mean?"
"Two bullets hit Yeller."
"I just told you I shot twice."
"But two different caliber slugs were pulled out of him. One of the shots--the one in the head--was from close range. Less than a foot away."
Jimmy Blaine said nothing. He concentrated hard on his whittling. It looked like he was sculpting an animal of some sort, like the ones on the front porch. "Two different calibers, you say?" He aimed for nonchalance, but he wasn't making it.
"Yes."
"That kid I shot didn't have a record," Blaine continued. "You know what the odds are of that? In that part of the city?"
Myron nodded.
"I checked up on him," Blaine continued. "On my own. His name was Curtis Yeller. He was sixteen years old. He did well in school. He was a good kid. He had a chance at a good life until that night."
"You didn't kill him," Myron said.
Blaine whittled with a bit more intensity now. He blinked a lot. "How did you find out about those slugs?"
"The assistant M.E. told me," Myron said. "You never knew?"
He shook his head. "I guess it makes sense though," he said. "Blame me for it. Why not? It's easier. It's a legit shooting. No one questioned it. IAD barely broke a sweat. It didn't hurt my record. Didn't hurt anyone. No harm done, they figured."
Myron waited for him to say more, but he just kept whittling. Two long ears were now evident in the wood. Maybe he was making a rabbit. "Do you know who really killed Curtis Yeller?" Myron asked.
There was a long moment of the same whittle-filled silence. Fred farted again and wagged his t
ail. Myron's eyes kept going back to the lake. He stared out at the silver water. The effect was hypnotizing.
"No harm done," Jimmy Blaine said again. "That's what they all probably thought. Good ol' Jimmy. We won't let him take the rap. It'll be washed clean from his record. No one will know. Hell, some of the guys will even treat him special--making a shooting like that. They'll say he saved his partner's life. Good ol' Jimmy will come out of this looking like a hero. Except for one thing."
Myron was tempted to ask what, but he sensed the answer was coming.
"I saw that boy dead," Blaine continued. "I saw Curtis Yeller lying in his own blood. I saw his mother hold him in her arms and cry. Sixteen years old. If he was a street punk or a drug addict or..." He stopped. "But he wasn't any of those things. Not this kid. He was one of the good ones. I found out later he never even touched the senator's kid. The other one--the Swade punk--he did the stabbing."
Two ducks splashed madly for a second, then stopped. Blaine put down the whittling, then thinking better of it, picked it back up again. "I replayed that night a lot of times in my head. It was dark, you know. There was barely any light. Maybe the Yeller kid wasn't going to fire the gun. Maybe what I saw wasn't even a gun. Or maybe none of that mattered. Maybe it was a legit shooting, but the pieces still never quite added up. I kept hearing the mother's screams. I kept seeing her press her dead boy's bloody face into her bosom. And I think about it, you know, and thinking ain't always a good thing for a cop to do. And four years later, the next time a kid is pointing a gun at me, I think about seeing another crying mother. I think long and hard. Too long."
He pointed to his legs. "And this is the result." He changed tools and kept whittling. "Nope, no harm done."
Silence.
Myron now understood Jake's attitude on the phone. Jimmy Blaine had gone through enough. If he'd done wrong in the case of Curtis Yeller, he had already paid an enormous price. Problem was, Jimmy Blaine hadn't done wrong. He hadn't killed Curtis Yeller--legit shooting or not. In the end Jimmy Blaine was yet another victim of that night.
After some time had passed, Myron tried again. "Do you know who killed Curtis Yeller?"
"No, not really."
"But you have a thought."
"A thought maybe."
"You mind telling me?"
Blaine looked down at Fred, as if looking for an answer. The dog maintained his bear-rug pose. "Henry and I--he was my partner--got the call at a little past midnight," he began. "The two suspects had stolen a car from a driveway three blocks from the Old Oaks tennis club. A dark blue Cadillac Seville. We spotted a vehicle matching the description coming off the Roosevelt Expressway twenty minutes later. When we pulled up behind the stolen vehicle, the suspects sped off. We then engaged in a high-speed pursuit."