He nodded, watching Frank. “Yes, I’m here about Bigelow.”
“His son picked up the body the other day. Personally. What with the Bigelow money, he certainly didn’t have to do it, but the kid came in here crying like a baby. Well, hell, he’s not a kid, really. He’s got to be about thirty.”
“I guess you never get so old that you don’t feel the loss of a parent.”
“No.” Frank shrugged. “I talked to him. He’s on the warpath himself, wants to know who killed his father, and why.”
Joe stared at Frank, and Frank grinned and shrugged.
“Okay, you and I both know that the Bigelow money and power drew lots of enemies. But, hey, I’m not a cop. I turn over my findings, and the cops take it from there.”
“And what did you find?”
“That the man’s love for a good glass of wine did him in.”
“So his wine was definitely poisoned?”
“Definitely. He hadn’t eaten in hours. From the timing, I got the impression he was probably about to go out for dinner. That it was the aperitif before the meal.”
“What was it?”
“Rosencraft 1858. A very rare burgundy,” Frank said.
Joe almost smiled. “I meant the poison.”
“Arsenic.”
“I thought arsenic poisoners usually dosed their victims more slowly?”
“Arsenic poisoning was popular in the past. Centuries ago. People got sick, and eventually they died. But a large dose is just as effective—and quicker.”
“Was there anything else? Any sign of a struggle? Bruises, gashes, defensive wounds?”
“Not a thing,” Frank told him.
Joe was silent. Frank shrugged. “‘Quoth the raven—die.’”
“There’s nothing about poisoning in ‘The Raven,’ is there?”
“No, but there is in both ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”
“I do the autopsy, Joe. That’s it. After that, I let the cops do their work.”
“Who caught the case?” Joe asked.
“Raif Green and Thomas Dooley. They’re both good guys. Neither one is green. They’ve been working murders together for almost ten years.”
“Yeah, I know them both,” Joe said. He knew them well, and he liked them both. That was a relief. Neither was the type of hothead to get antsy because a P. I. was on the case. They were both workhorses who had come up through the ranks, seen everything, grown weary and kept at it anyway. Good cops, they were constrained by the department’s budget and tended to be pleased when someone like him could throw some private citizen’s funds at a case.
“There’s a break for you,” Frank said.
“Yeah, thanks, I’ll give Raif a call. I know him best,” Joe said as he rose. “We’ll have to grab a beer soon, Frank. I don’t want to keep you from your work now, though.”
“Don’t worry. Old Hank isn’t going to get any deader,” Frank told him.
Joe glanced over at the body on the Gurney. If it weren’t for the gash, “Old Hank” could have been sleeping.
“A fall?” he asked skeptically.
“Oh, yeah. You bet. He fell right into his buddy’s broken-off whiskey bottle.”
“Sad,” Joe said.
“It’s always sad,” Frank said. “That’s the thing—death is sad. Except…”
Curiously, Joe turned back to him. “Except?”
Frank shrugged. “Every once in a while, I get someone in here who was dying of cancer or something. I cut them open, and it’s horrifying what disease does to them on the inside. But on the outside, hell, sometimes it’s as if they’re actually smiling. Like death was a release from god-awful pain.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. Then again—hell, you should know this—you never get used to it. And if you did, you’d suck at your job.”
“Dr. Arbitter?”
A young woman was standing in the open door.
“Connie?” Frank said.
“They need you in reception.”
“Be right back,” Frank told Joe.
Joe started to protest. He needed to get going. But Frank had already gone to see to whatever business had summoned him away.
Joe looked over at the body, and suddenly the corpse’s head turned, and the grizzled old man opened his eyes. Hey, you. Yeah, you, buddy. You can see me, and you can hear me. You tell Vinny I said fuck you! You tell him he’s going to get his. He can get that crack-freak friend of his to pay his bail, but he’s going to go down out on the streets. You tell him. He ain’t going to have a moment’s peace. You tell him, you hear me? Damn you, you hear me?
Joe felt frozen, staring at the corpse.
This was bullshit.
It was all in his mind.
Hell, he must have had even more to drink last night than he’d thought.
The door behind him swung open again. He spun around. Frank had returned, muttering. “With all today’s technology, these clerks still can’t spell. Who the hell mistakes the word breast for beast?”
Joe looked back at the body.
It was just a corpse again.
Old Hank couldn’t get any deader.