'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 West 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.'
Chapter 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
'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.'
