It was nine fifteen when finally he arrived home tired and, despite all his bravado about a spit bucket for a stomach, suffering from mild indigestion. He called a medical friend about finding a pathologist to do a private autopsy on Mary Jefferson, and then settled down with a bottle of Peptobismol to watch The Lawrence Welk Show on television. Then the medical friend called him back to tell him that everything was fixed, and after that he watched the boxing - a middleweight bout between Henry Hank and Gene Armstrong. Five minutes after the fight ended he could not remember who had won. Five minutes after that he was in bed and asleep.
At six o'clock on a Sunday morning, Miami is as bright and empty and lifeless as a painting by Giorgio de Chirico. Hard light fills the deserted streets with sharp shadows, and there is a strange sense of departure, as if all the city's inhabitants have been consumed by a flesh-eating alien organism from another planet.
Jimmy Nimmo, sitting in the open-topped blue Chevy Impala on the corner of North West 12th Avenue and 18th Street, had flesh and its frailty at the front of his mind, not because of his location, which was in the environs of the Jackson Memorial Hospital, but because of the profession of the man he was expecting to meet. He lit a cigarette and, glancing in his rear-view mirror, caught sight of a man walking rapidly towards him from the direction of the Veterans Hospital. He watched him come and then, as the man grew closer, started up the Impala's V8 engine, pushed the automatic transmission stick into reverse, and, with a loud squeal of whitewalled tyres, growled back up the avenue to come alongside the approaching figure.
Are you Dan Hill?' he asked, because in his eyes the much younger man did not look very much like a qualified doctor. With his cheap suit, longish hair and beard, Hill, who was also a student of forensic pathology at the Miami School of Medicine - for which Jackson Memorial was the major teaching hospital - resembled something indigenous to Greenwich Village in New York. Some kind of beatnik, anyway. It was a first impression that quickly proved to be accurate.
That's right, man. You Nimmo?'
Sure. Hop in.'
Hill tossed a Bonanza Air flight bag into the Impala's back seat and got into the car. Nice wheels, man,' he said in a whiny sort of voice. A real dreamboat. What'll she do if you floor it?'
I've not had it much above eighty.' Nimmo hit the gas pedal, jolting them forward on their way.
Hill leaned across to take a squint at the speedometer on the matching blue dashboard. Says one twenty on the clock, so you can probably figure it's good for around a hundred.'
You like cars?'
Yeah. I'm tryin' to get the dough together to buy myself this fifty-six Corvette Coupe I've seen. Two point six litre, two hundred and twenty-five horsepower. A real cool car, you know? He lit a Marlboro and flicked the match away. Tell me something. You ever see an autopsy before?'
A few. Now you can tell me something. Just to check out you're a real croaker and not some night porter who's trying to make an easy buck.'
Go ahead. But I can show you my driving licence if you like. Says there, MD. Just like Ben Casey. As to me being a pathologist, you'll just have to take my word for it until we get into the morgue. Proof of the pudding, so to speak. But Dade County's chief medical examiner just happens to be the head of my department. My teacher, if you like. But ask away, friend. Ask away.'
There was something in the original autopsy surgeon's report. Guy named Hunt. Know him?'
Bill Hunt? Yeah. He's a good man.'
He said that the dead woman had been suffering from something called STD. What is that exactly?' -
An STD is what we call a sexually transmitted disease.'
You mean like a venereal disease?'
That's right. There are lots of STDs around. It's just a catch-all term for the Lord's host of bacterial disorders. Most women are asymptomatic, which is to say that they don't normally know when they're infected, because it's all happening inside their pussies. Men do know, because it happens on the outside. Women have to rely on their partners being honest enough to tell them. So you can see how that system falls down. An STD's easy enough to treat, though. Penicillin, usually. But left untreated it can cause infertility. There's a lot of it around, man. The more partners you have, the more likely you are to pick up an infection. Wear a sheath if you party, man, that's my advice, otherwise you could give Mrs Nimmo something nasty.' He chuckled unpleasantly.
There is no Mrs Nimmo,' said Nimmo, conquering his first inclination which had been to smack the younger man in the mouth. He wondered if Mary Jefferson might have picked up her STD during her liaison with Kennedy. From all he had gathered from Rosselli, Jack Kennedy liked to party a great deal, and with a lot of different partners. He didn't recall any mention of a sheath being used on the tape he had heard. It looked more likely him giving it to her than the other way around.
Ira told you the job was two hundred and fifty, right?'
The money's in the glove-box,' said Nimmo. Go ahead and take it.'
Hill stabbed the lock with his forefinger, let the compartment fall open, and took out the envelope he found there. He counted the money and then nodded. You're aces, man. Aces. Hey, how does Ira Fellner know someone like you anyway?'
I did him a favour once. Got him out of some trouble he was in.'
Yeah? What kind of trouble?'
The mind your own fucking business kind.'
Cool with me, bro.'
Arriving at the Hall of Justice a few minutes later, the two men went down to the basement where they were met by the same autopsy assistant bribed by Rosselli to supply the original coroner's report. Under the eyes of Dan Hill, Nimmo handed over another envelope, this one containing a hundred dollars.
Regular John D. Rockefeller, isn't he?' said Hill.
She's waiting for you on table one,' said the autopsy assistant.
Just like Tony Sweet's,' said Nimmo. Thanks a lot.'
Deputy examiner'll be here at nine to take charge of the Sunday shift. But I want you two guys outta here by eight. Okay?'
Cool with me,' said Hill. He put down the bag he was carrying and took out gowns, masks, and gloves. Put these things on,' he told Nimmo. Quite apart from protecting your clothes, they'll have a hard job identifying us if someone does catch us in flagrante delicto.'
Covered by a plastic sheet, and in a long windowless room, Mary Jefferson lay on a high stainless-steel table equipped with a water hose and drainage system. Hill pulled away the sheet to reveal her naked body, crudely stitched across the chest and belly from the previous autopsy, like some prospective bride of Frankenstein. To Nimmo's surprise, her once beautiful face was badly bruised, as if she had fought several rounds with Floyd Patterson.
Jesus Christ,' he muttered. Her face.'
Don't pass out on me, man.'
I'm okay,' Nimmo said angrily. It's just that the autopsy report said there was no evidence that anyone might have forced her to swallow anything. But she looks like Ingemar Johansson.'
Oh that. Previous surgeon, probably. The facial muscles would have been severed during the removal of her brain. The whole face gets peeled off like the skin off an avocado pear. It's quite common that it should result in this kind of discoloration. Okay man, it's your call. What am I looking for?'
Needle marks. Look for needle marks.'
Hill searched her forearms for several minutes before paying particular attention to one of her wrists.
Find something?'
Not a needle mark. More like a friction burn.'
Could she have been tied up?'
It's possible.'
Keep looking.'
Hill produced a magnifying glass from his bag and began to search the rest of Mary Jefferson's body for injection marks. While he studied her armpits, between her toes, her hairline, her vagina, and even under her tongue, Nimmo explained some of the problems he had with the original report.
Hill listened as he worked, and then said, Yes, it is possible that she could have been given a fatal barbiturate
