“Name’s Bony Maronie,” Carroll said, raising an eyebrow at me. “After the song, which came out in nineteen fifty-seven, if that makes you feel old as dirt. I was one year old.”
And I wasn’t even a twinkle, though I had trouble imagining dad facing my mother with anything resembling a twinkle in his eye.
“She was a woman,” Carroll went on. “Died a hundred and ten years ago in New Orleans. Belonged to my dad—the skeleton, I mean. Nowadays, it’s hard to get anything but plastic, but it’s not the same. Plastic lacks the detail of the real thing, the authenticity. Like learning anatomy from a goddamn Revell model.”
In spite of his conversational tone, his eyes were hard. I figured he was going to get down to bedrock with us momentarily, but all in good time. He’d phoned the police. Now, he had a few minutes to kill.
“You want to do science a favor,” he said, staring at me, “donate your skeleton to research.”
“I’m not through with it yet,” I replied.
He smiled. “That thing you just learned about Mayor Sjorgen,” he said with much portent, “is not for public consumption.”
“I had no intention.”
Carroll shifted his gaze to Jeri.
“Nor I,” she said, tongue pushing out her upper lip, giving him a defiant stare.
“Best we can make stick, I think,” Carroll mused, “is some kind of a trespassing charge.”
“I don’t think so,” I countered. “We were invited in by an employee of this office.”
“Who was fired as of five minutes ago. And I think I can make the trespassing charge at least damnably irritating, Mr. Angel. Even haunting, like a case of herpes.”
I shook my head. Carroll wasn’t thinking clearly, while I, for once, was.
“No?” He gave me a half-amused, half-quizzical look.
“The ears of a hungry nation await my every word.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He lifted a shaggy eyebrow at me, waiting for elaboration on the theme.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I went on. “A round-robin thing that includes you, us, and the police department. Ms. DiFrazzia and I don’t say a word to anyone. In return, you keep Ben on the payroll and tell us everything you’ve learned about Jonnie.”
“You’re asking too much.”
“Think about it. It’ll grow on you.”
To his credit, he did. He opened a desk drawer and dug out a cigar in a glass tube, cut the seal with a penknife, removed the stogie and sniffed it, then said, “I give Ragland a week off without pay.”
“How much does he make?” I asked.
“Ten twenty-five an hour.”
“Four ten a week,” I said. Numbers just pop out. I’m a human abacus. The IRS does that to a person. Women find it annoying, particularly in malls. “Three days off and,” I glanced at Jeri, “we’ll cover it. Two forty-six.” Jeri pursed her lips at me, then shrugged. Ben had been her idea. She owed him.
“Don’t worry. Dallas’ll make it up,” I told her.
I looked at Carroll. “How’s that? Ben’s a good kid. You send a message, no one gets seriously hurt.” I would’ve bet Dallas had two hundred fifty dollars clattering around in her change purse. I had no problem spending her money, especially since she’s the one who started this ball rolling.
Carroll leaned back in his chair. “Why in hell am I haggling with you, Mr. Angel?”
“Mort. Because an army of news crews is out there on the streets aching to talk to me, and America is one big inquiring mind. And if I’m locked up, I get that one phone call that is my legal right. And, since I can’t afford a lawyer I wouldn’t bother phoning one, whereas NBC or CNN might cut me a sweet deal for an exclusive, buy me an O.J.-lawyer to run everyone’s tits here through a wringer.”
He smiled. He stood up and pumped my hand, something he hadn’t done earlier. “You are a complete asshole,” he said, plopping back down in his chair.
“I used to make my living in that capacity.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Any trouble filling out that 1040 this year?”
“None whatsoever.” He smiled again. “Filled it out myself. I even filed it on time.”
“Filled it out yourself, huh? Taking into account imputed interest and the de minimus rule?”
His smile faltered. People get nervous around rules they’ve never heard before, especially IRS rules, and the IRS has thousands of them. You can’t beat the IRS for raw intimidation. The IRS can bust anyone it wants, anytime it wants. “So…about Jonnie Sjorgen, Mr. Carroll.”
Slowly, the tension went out of his shoulders.
“Might’s well call me Boyce, Mort.” He finally lit the cigar. I smelled sulfur, but it was his office. He could smoke camel dung if he wanted. “Jonnie Sjorgen had roughly a four-point-two-inch diameter hole cut in the top of his skull. Best we can determine, it was done freehand with a sabre saw. High speed, fine teeth. We got pretty much the same result using a dog’s skull and a Sears Craftsman. Not exactly a Stryker saw, but it got the job done.”
To her credit, Jeri didn’t even blink. I’m not sure I could say the same about myself.
“Sjorgen’s brain was missing,” Boyce went on. “More or less scraped out like a pumpkin.”
Like a pumpkin. Just as I’d thought. When this was over, Boyce and I might become drinking buddies.
Boyce puffed his cigar. “His penis and testicles were inside, all in one piece. The skin of the cap, or whatever you want to call it, was sewn back to the rest of his scalp. Neat job of suturing, too. Whoever did it used a curved needle, like something you’d use on sailcloth. Needle like that isn’t hard to find. Get one at Walmart. But the sewing took ’em a fair amount of time and effort.”
I didn’t think I’d be reporting any of this to Dallas. I hoped she would never find out.
“And Milliken?” I asked.
“Same. Suturing wasn’t as good. He was probably done first. Whoever did it had gained a little skill by the time they
