Frank. Everything you can remember about him in those final few days of happiness you had together. What he talked about. All the news that's fit to print. Right now, however, I'd like to see that coroner's report.'
Before lunch?' exclaimed Rosselli. Are you sure you wanna do that, Jimmy? I mean, there's pictures in there 'n everything.'
Collecting a plate of pasta, Nimmo said, That's okay, I gotta stomach like a spit bucket.'
Rosselli smiled thinly. How very reassuring for your chef,' he murmured.
Nimmo held the plate under his nose and inhaled. Smells good,' he said. I remember one time I saw an autopsy surgeon open some guy's chest like it was a fucking bear trap.' And putting down his plate for a moment he clasped and unclasped his fingers for added effect. Five minutes later? I was eating ribs in Embers.'
Frank, fetch him the report before he starts talking tripe and onions.'
Nimmo took his plate and his glass on to the balcony and sat down at a glass table.
Help yourself to Parmesan,' said Rosselli.
Thanks, I will.'
Nimmo spooned a generous spoonful of cheese and then opened the thicker of the two files Sorges had placed in front of him. Rosselli brought out his own plate and sat down opposite Nimmo. He watched the other man read and eat with an appetite that appalled his more fastidious sensibilities. This was not because he knew what was in the linguine but because he knew what was in the report, for which someone in the coroner's office had been paid very handsomely to make a copy.
Nimmo read the report with growing irritation, hardly noticing when Sorges sat down and spilled a glass of wine. It always annoyed him, the way autopsy surgeons wrote their reports - the omniscience they affected to wield. Nimmo knew the truth was that most coroner's offices were understaffed and underfunded, and most autopsy surgeons were overworked and prone to depression. He wished he had a dollar for every time he had seen a croaker fold on the stand under prolonged cross-examination. But his irritation with autopsy surgeons and their findings concealed a greater hatred of scientists in general. Who else but scientists had created a world in which annihilation was only ever a button's push away? So, as Nimmo read, he growled and sneered and snorted and shook his head.
Not this,' he said to Rosselli, jabbing a fork at the linguine. This is good. The fucking report is what pisses me off.'
What's the problem with it?'
It begs as many questions as it purports to answer, that's what's wrong with it.'
Like what, for instance?'
Okay. Cause of death given as acute barbiturate poisoning due to ingestion of overdose. Mode of death, probably suicide. Now then, the toxicologist says that her liver contained - let's see - twelve milligrams per cent pentobarbital. That's the chemical you find in Nembutal. Okay, now twelve milligrams is about nine or ten times the normal therapeutic dose. But she's also got Chloral Hydrate in her. Again, it's way too high - over five milligrams per cent in her blood. The CH is in another kind of sleeping pill. Maybe a little less dangerous than Nembutal, taken in excess. But she's still got ten to fifteen times the amount Mr Sensible usually recommends for normal shuteye.
Thank you for your patience, and here's my first question. How did she swallow the drugs? Surely she would have needed a large glass of water to wash them all down. But the only glass found by her bedside contained Scotch. Now, we all know that Scotch and barbs go together like a lame horse and a broken carriage, but that's beside the point, on account of the fact that her blood contained no alcohol. However, let us give the late Mrs Jefferson the benefit of the doubt and say that she swallowed the pills with some water while she was still in the bathroom, and then went to bed.'
What's wrong with that?' asked Sorges.
You're committing suicide, Sherlock. Do you put the fucking tops on the medicine bottles, and then the bottles back in the medicine cabinet? The only bottles found with the tops off were by the bed, on the table, next to the glass of Scotch.'
Rosselli pointed his fork at Nimmo and said, What if she brought the bottles through with her from the bathroom, intending to swallow more with the Scotch? Only before she could do so, she passed out?'
Not a bad hypothesis,' admitted Nimmo. Let's suppose that's what happened. A lot of pills consumed at once, like so many sweets, instead of over a longer period of time. So why didn't she vomit?' He spooned some more Parmesan on top of his linguine. There was no vomit found anywhere in that house. And certainly none by the bed where she was found. Barb victims don't always puke. But if they take the stuff in a rush they often do. It's that precipitate rush to wave good-bye to this cruel world that makes them barf and sometimes saves their sad, sad lives. Always assuming they don't aspirate their own vomit and choke to death.
It is possible, however, that she took the stuff on an empty stomach,' continued Nimmo. That way her system would have been much more prone to rapid absorption of barbiturates, which could be the reason why she didn't have time to puke before she passed out. But that just begs another question. There's no residue of capsules in her stomach. And with that finding this autopsy surgeon ought to have considered examining her duodenum, or even her small bowel. Hell, I'm no croaker, but if the stomach is empty, that's where you might expect to find fragments of gelatin capsules. In with all her shit. Maybe even an undigested pill or two.'
Rosselli sighed, and pushed away his plate. With the smell of Parmesan cheese in his nostrils, it was all too easy to think of vomit. I eat too much anyway,' he said weakly. He stood up from the table and, leaning on the balcony's handrail, took a deep breath of the air blowing off Biscayne Bay.
So the croaker missed a few things,' objected Sorges, whose own appetite seemed undiminished. I can't see how that helps us to find Jefferson.'
That's because you're not a fucking detective. Cops stepping on clues, croakers missing probable cause. Shit like that is what forensic method is all about. Look. All I'm trying to do is paint a picture. As accurate a picture as possible of what led up to him taking off like that.' Nimmo pointed to Rosselli's uneaten linguine. You gonna eat that?'
I lost my appetite between the puke and the shit,' said Rosselli.
Mind if I do?'
Be my guest.' Rosselli watched Nimmo attack the cheesy food with alacrity, and groaned quietly. A spit bucket is about right.'
My stomach only holds good for this kind of travail,' confessed Nimmo. And on dry land. It's no good on the water. I'm the only guy in Keystone Islands who doesn't own a boat. I get sick as a dog at sea. That's why I ended up in intelligence during the war. Because I was such a lousy sailor. Me and Jack Kennedy.'
Jack Kennedy was a lousy sailor?' Sorges frowned.
That PT boat sank, didn't it? And the way I heard it, the gung-ho sonofabitch shouldn't have been in those waters in the first place.'
Don't talk to me about Kennedys,' said Rosselli.
Yeah,' laughed Nimmo. I saw the paper. Frank?'
Sorges looked up from his plate.
Let's pretend you are the most interesting guy in the world. You're a regular guest on Ed Sullivan. Dinah Shore wants you on her show every week so she can suck your dick while she listens to those great stories you tell. Tab Hunter just can't hear enough of you. A real raconteur is what you are my friend. You've come on TV to talk about the one person who is perhaps as interesting as you. Tom Jefferson. Well, maybe just that little bit more interesting than you, on account of the fact that he's a virtual recluse. The viewers want to know everything about you guys. No matter how small or insignificant it might seem to someone of your stellar proportions, we want you to tell us all about it.'
Okay, I get the idea,' growled Sorges.
Nimmo took out a notebook and a pencil and prepared to write. Your every word, for posterity.'
Sorges shrugged and, hesitatingly, began to tell Nimmo what he could remember. He wasn't much of a talker and repeated himself a lot when there was a silence. Some of the time he looked out to sea for inspiration, and other times into his glass, which Nimmo kept filled with wine, hoping to loosen the big man's reef-knotted tongue some more. But after fifteen to twenty minutes of it, Nimmo found himself suppressing a yawn and began to cross- question Sorges about some of the things he had said.
You told us you thought there was nothing unusual about Jefferson on that last evening in Key West, except that maybe he was a little quiet.'
