Detective Corey from the squad showed up. Of course Mr. Parker’s death was not a suspected homicide-at least not by Sergeant Tripani-but here I was to check it out, and Sergeant Tripani was happy to turn it over to me. In fact, he said, “It’s all yours, John.”
“Ruiz just asked me to stop by.” I pointed out, “I still have my coat on.”
He didn’t reply.
I snagged a pair of latex gloves from a paramedic, and then I surveyed the scene of the crime or the accident: It was a nice office, and there was an Oriental rug on the floor, strewn with lots of leather-bound books around a big mahogany writing desk. The legs of the desk had collapsed under the weight of the falling bookcase behind it, as had the legs and arms of the desk chair and side chair. The tipsy bookcase in question had been uprighted and leaned back against the wall, revealing Mr. Otis Parker, whose sprawled, splayed, and flattened body lay half on the collapsed desk and half on the floor. The desk items-telephone, Rolodex, pencil holder, and so forth- had miraculously remained on the desk as had the blotter, which was soaking up some fresh blood on and around the deceased’s head and face. Fortunately Mr. Parker’s brains had remained where they belonged. I don’t like to see brains.
Also on the desk was a framed black-and-white photo. The glass was cracked, but I could see a dark-haired woman, maybe in her late thirties. If this was his wife, it would be an old photo. But if it wasn’t old, then Mr. Parker had a young wife. Or maybe it was his daughter. In any case, the lady was not bad looking.
Otis Parker, I noted, was wearing good shoes and good slacks and a nice white shirt. His snappy sports jacket hung on a coat tree nearby. I couldn’t tell if he was wearing a tie because he was facedown. So obviously he’d been sitting at his desk when the bookcase behind him had somehow tipped away from the wall and silently fallen on him, his desk, and his chair. He may have seen or felt a few books landing around him, but basically he never knew what hit him. Indeed, it looked like an accident. Except, why did a thousand-pound bookcase fall forward? Well, shit happens. Ironic, too, that Otis Parker was killed by the books he loved. Okay, the bookcase killed him. But that’s not what the New York Post would say. They’d say, “Killed by the books he loved.”
I greeted Officer Rourke and inquired as to the whereabouts of his partner, Simmons.
Rourke replied, “He’s in the stockroom downstairs with Scott Bixby, the clerk who found the body.” He added, “Bixby is writing a statement.”
“Good.” Everyone seemed to be accounted for, so I greeted Dr. Hines and we shook hands. I asked him, “Do you think he’s dead?”
Dr. Hines replied to my silly question. “The responding officers”-he motioned to Officer Rourke-“pulled the bookcase off the victim with the assistance of the clerk, and they found no signs of life at that time.” He further briefed me, “The EMTs”-he indicated the two paramedics-“arrived three minutes later and also found no signs of life.” He informed me, “I have pronounced him dead.”
“Assuming Mr. Parker did not object, that makes it official.”
Dr. Hines doesn’t appreciate the dark humor that is a necessary part of tragic situations, and he made a dismissive sound.
I asked him, “Cause of death?”
“I don’t know.” He elaborated, “Crushed.”
“Instantaneous?”
“Probably. No sign of struggle.” He speculated, “A bigger man might have survived the impact.”
I looked at Otis Parker and nodded. If he’d eaten right and lifted weights…
Dr. Hines continued, “I suspect his neck or vertebrae were broken, or he died of a massive cranial trauma. Or maybe cardiac trauma.” He added, “I’ll do the autopsy this afternoon and let you know.”
“Okay.” When someone dies alone, with no witnesses, even if it’s an obvious accident, the taxpayers pay for an autopsy. Why? Because the ME has to list a cause of death before he signs the certificate, and “crushed” is not a medical term. Also, you do the autopsy because things are not always what they seem to be. That’s why I’m here.
I asked him, “Time of death?”
“Recent.”
I glanced back at the body and said, “His watch stopped at seven thirty-two. That’s your time of death.”
He looked surprised, then walked to the body and peered at the watch on Mr. Parker’s wrist.
Dr. Hines looked at his own watch and announced, “I have another call.” He said to me, “If you discover anything that doesn’t look like an accident, let me know before I begin the autopsy.”
“I always do, Doc.” I added, “Hold off on the meat wagon until you hear from me.”
“I always do, Detective.” He added, “But let’s not take too long. I want the body in the cooler.”
“Right.” The drill is this: The ambulance can’t take a dead body away, so we needed the morgue van, affectionately known as the meat wagon. But if I, Detective John Corey, suspected foul play, then we actually needed the Crime Scene Unit, who would take charge of the stiff and the premises.
But maybe we didn’t need the CSU people at all. I needed to make a determination here, and I needed to do it in a relatively short amount of time. I mean, if you cry wolf and there is no wolf, you look like an idiot. Or worse, you look like a guy who has no regard for the budget. But if you say “accident,” and it turns out later that it was something else, then you got some explaining to do. I could hear Ruiz now. “Do you know what the word detective means? It means detecting things, Detective.” And so on.
Dr. Hines had left during my mental exercises, and so had the two paramedics. Remaining now in the loft office with me was Sergeant Tripani and the responding officer, Rourke. And Mr. Parker, who, if he could talk might say, “How the hell do I know what happened? I’m just sitting here minding my own business and the next thing I know I’m pressed meat.”
I already knew what Sergeant Tripani thought, but in case he’d changed his mind, I asked him, “What do you think, Lou?”
He shrugged, looked at the body, and said, “I think it is what it looks like.” He explained more fully, “An accident waiting to happen.”
I nodded, but it wasn’t a real positive nod. I looked at the bookcase that had been leaned at a steep angle against the paneled wall to ensure that it didn’t repeat its strange forward motion away from the wall. “Objects in motion,” I said, quoting Sir Isaac Newton, “tend to stay in motion. Objects at rest tend to stay at rest.”
Sergeant Tripani had no comment on that and asked me, “Do you need me here while you’re deciding what this is?”
“No. But I need to speak to Officers Rourke and Simmons and the clerk who found the body.”
“Okay.”
I asked him, “Do we know next of kin? Any notifications made?”
He replied, “Wife. The clerk called her after he found the body and after he called us. He left a message on her cell phone and home phone saying there’s been an accident. Then when Rourke and Simmons arrived, Rourke did the same thing, and he asked Mrs. Parker to call his cell and/or to come immediately to the store.”
“Where does she live?”
“The clerk said East Twenty-Third.”
I asked, “Did you send a car around to her home?”
“We did. No reply to the buzzer and no doorman.”
“Does she have a place of business?”
“She works at home, according to the clerk.”
“Doing what?”
“I didn’t ask.”
I wondered why Mrs. Parker had not answered her home phone or even her cell phone and why she hadn’t returned those obviously urgent calls or answered her door. Sleeping? Long shower? Doesn’t pick up her messages? I’m not married, though I do date, and my experience with ladies and phone messages is mixed. I will say no more on that subject.
Sergeant Tripani started toward the spiral staircase, then turned and said to me, “If you find anything that doesn’t look like an accident-”
“Then you buy me breakfast.”
“You’re on.”
“Can your driver get me a ham and egg on a roll?”
