Medieval Murders (4 page)

“We have other things that we need to do,” Ray answered. “We will probably be back in a day or two.”

“And you probably have a way of getting in,” said Castlemain.

“Yes,” Ray responded. “Is this a violation of your space? Is there some way….”

“No problem. Do what you need to do.”

“Is there anything she didn’t tell us?” Elkins asked as they stood just beyond the steps outside Old West.

“Lots. It was a wonderful performance. But then, it’s not good to speak ill of the dead. Did you see that office? Bensen’s side, what a mess. Those two women obviously had totally different styles.”

“Okay. Okay. But is there anything she didn’t tell us that might be important to this investigation?”

“Probably not. As she said, their only connection was that they shared space. One thing, who’s Jean Brodie?”

“I’ll buy you the video,” said Ray, “after we get this mess cleaned up.”

6

A
fter Pascoe dropped Ray off at his car, he drove out to the gleaming new medical campus. He pulled into a lot marked “Medical Consultants Parking” near the rear of the complex. Although he had been to Dr. Gutiérrez’s new office a few times, he consulted the map mounted on the wall inside the back entrance to confirm his memory. The pathology department was located on sublevel one at the rear of the medical center. As he walked through the long, clear hallways, he noticed that the place still smelled of new construction. The walls, flooring, ceiling materials, paints, and building mastics were still off-gassing a complex chemical bouquet, overpowering the usual hospital orders.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” Elkins entered the office of Dr. Kristin Gutiérrez, “Everything is taking more time than I thought it would.”

“Isn’t that always the way,” she responded, as she pushed herself out of her swivel chair, hands on the arms, finally pulling herself to her full height.

Ray had first met her when he had requested help from the pathology department in teaching an advanced evidence course. At that time she was the newest and youngest pathologist on the Medical Center’s staff and the only one with both an interest and a background in forensic pathology. In recent years Gutiérrez—tall, large-boned, a native Minnesotan of Swedish stock, married to Pablo Gutiérrez, a tiny Mexican, and the hospital’s leading vascular surgeon—had lectured in Elkins’s classes and, via the antiseptic medium of video, had demonstrated how a pathologist gathers evidence during an autopsy.

“And your timing’s perfect. I’m running late also. Your office faxed over a copy of the incident report. I checked the temperature when the body was brought in. It’s consistent with the time of the fall. I’ve done some preliminary work and had the body x-rayed. The films are in the autopsy room.”

Elkins followed her the down the hall. Dressed in scrubs and running shoes, she exceeded Elkins’s height. She opened the door and led him past the dissection table, covered with a sheet, to a long X-ray view box, the individual films already hanging against the backlit glass. She eyed his bare arms. “It’s cool in here. Do you want a lab coat? It might help a little.”

“No, I’m fine. Go ahead.”

“It looks like she hit straight on. See how the skull is fractured, it’s collapsing in.” She used the blunt end of a Bic pen as a pointer. “There’s also some damage here and in the first four vertebra, the next area to absorb the impact. We see this with motorcycle accidents. There’s something else you’ll find interesting,” she said moving to the second and third films.

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Here, both sides, neither clavicle is fractured, same for the wrists and arms. Most people instinctively reach out, she didn’t.”

“And what do you make of that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just unusual.”

“So she might have been dead before she hit she ground?”

“I didn’t say that, Elkins,” she responded, brushing a few stray hairs across her forehead and pushing them back under her surgical cap. She snapped on rubber gloves, the right hand first, then the left. Elkins stood at the side of the autopsy table.

“Continuing autopsy AUG-38,” she said after pushing the red record switch. She pulled the sheet off the body. Elkins pulled back from the table.

“You okay?”

“Yes, go ahead,” he said, looking at the waxy pallor of Bensen’s naked body—the black hair on the deformed skull matted with dried blood, the narrow chest with boyish breasts, slender arms, hands with delicate fingers cased in plastic bags, a shallow belly rising to a thinly-haired pubis, frail legs, and delicate feet. Elkins was embarrassed. He thought it was voyeuristic to peek into the privacy that should be afforded the dead.

“The body,” she looked at the notes on the clipboard, “has been identified as Sheila Bensen, a forty-year-old Caucasian female with black hair and hazel eyes. The body is 62 inches in length and weighs 102 pounds. Scar on upper left quadrant consistent with biopsy of breast tissue. Abrasion on left elbow with evidence of bleeding. Contusion on left heel.

Elkins kept his eyes on Gutiérrez, only occasionally glancing at the body. As a young homicide detective in Detroit, he had seen his share of autopsies. The dead were, for the most part, prostitutes, addicts, dealers, and gangbangers. People who put themselves in harm’s way. People he didn’t know, the likes of whom he had never known growing up in rural northern Michigan. It was only the occasional child that got to him, the innocents who caught a stray bullet during a drive-by shooting or a domestic. Thankfully, those had been few and far between. And he was young then, young enough to know he would never die.

“Massive damage to frontal and parietal bones.” She checked the ears and nose. “Blood present in both ear canals and nose.” She looked over at Elkins, studied him for a few seconds and then said, “I’m going to start with the head and then do the Y incision.”

Ray nodded. The cold was starting to bother him. Then he felt almost feverish.“I’ll start with an inter-mastoid incision, but instead of going directly over the top, I’ll make the incision this way so we can get a better view of the skull.” She slipped the stainless blade through the flesh in front of the ear, circled the rear of the scalp, and continued back up around the ear. She ran the blade through a second time, making sure she had cut to the bone. Using both hands she peeled the scalp from the skull, covering the front of the face as she rolled the flesh forward.

A mild tremor ran through Elkins. Bensen’s identity disappeared as her scalp was turned inside out.

“Multiple fractures of the skull, consistent with a fall from a great height.” She looked at Elkins, observed his skin color for a few seconds, and pulling off a glove, reached over and turned off the recorder.

“Listen, before I open the skull, I can tell you what you want to know. Pending other discoveries, it looks like she died from the fall. Why don’t you wait in my office until I finish this.”

“That would be good,” he said.

Firmly holding on to his elbow, Gutiérrez guided Elkins down the corridor to her office and got him settled in a chair. “Do you want something to drink? Coke, water?”

“Water, please.”

She pulled a bottle of mineral water from a small refrigerator next to her desk and handed it to Elkins. “If you want to lie down, there’s a cot in my dressing room.” She opened a door on the right side of her office. He could see the cot. “There’s a toilet in there also. It will take me another twenty or thirty minutes to finish up.”

Elkins twisted the cap open and slowly sipped the water. When he felt less dizzy, he went into the next room and stretched out on the cot. He had always been impressed with how gentle Gutiérrez had been with some of his more squeamish students, never ridiculing or causing embarrassment
. I’ll close my eyes for a few seconds
, he thought.

When he opened them again, he was covered with a blanket. He could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the next room. Gutiérrez looked up as he approached.

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know for sure, half an hour, maybe a bit more. You must have needed the sleep. When did you last observe an autopsy room?”

“Years, but....”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m typing up my preliminary findings. Death was caused by a fall. The mechanism of death was massive destruction of brain tissue. The manner of death is still under investigation. I found no physical evidence of other injuries that might have preceded the fall. Her nails were clean, doesn’t look like she was struggling with anyone. The full report should be transcribed by tomorrow afternoon.”

“How about toxicology?”

“Week to ten days,” she said pulling a blood pressure cuff from a drawer and wrapping it around his right arm.

“A tool of your trade?”

“Don’t need it too often. Have to see if I can remember how these things work,” she said with a chuckle as she inflated the cuff and held the round disk of the stethoscope against his arm. Elkins watched her eyes as she tracked the dial on the sphygmomanometer. She undid the cuff, wrapped it around his left arm, and repeated the procedure. Again, he followed her eyes. He saw what he took as a look of concern.

“What’s the word?”

“As opposed to most of my patients, the good news is that you have a blood pressure,” she offered with a soft smile. “How were you feeling when I walked you back to the office?”

“First I was cold, then hot, and I felt sort of dizzy.”

“Have you had other episodes of dizziness recently?”

“There have been times I’ve felt a little light-headed, but nothing like this.”

“Well, Elkins,” she said as she sat on the corner of her desk. “Your blood pressure is way up. Has that ever been a problem before?”

“Never, it’s always been normal or below. What does that have to do with....”

“Big fluctuations in blood pressure can cause dizziness, among other things. But of greater concern is that it increases your risk for heart attacks or strokes. When was the last time you saw your internist?”

“I don’t know, maybe six or eight months ago,” said Ray. “And your theory is that....”

“My tentative diagnosis is that you were hypertensive when you arrived, and viewing the autopsy, for some reason, exacerbated the condition. Who is your internist?”

“Ron Glass.”

“Tell me again, when did you last see him?”

“Maybe a year, maybe longer.”

“You know, Ray, this is getting to be a pretty big city, especially compared to ten years ago when I first arrived. But it’s also a highly stratified place. People like us—you, me, my husband, Ellen—end up being connected. We’re in overlapping groups. The sociologists probably have some name for it. As you know, my husband is a big devotee of chamber music. He was a big fan of her quartet. As you remember, we saw you at all her local concerts over the years. What I’m trying to say is that I know about her illness, and I have a sense of what you went through while she was dying. There’s an emotional toll and a physical toll. You’re probably still dealing with both of them. And you’re entering middle age. Our bodies start to change, and usually not for the better. You should see Ron Glass. Promise me you’ll do that, Ray.”

“I’ll make an appointment,” he responded without enthusiasm, climbing out of his chair. “Just as soon as I get this case under control.”

“Do what I tell you,” she said with a mocking earnestness, “or you’ll end up in there,” she pointed toward the autopsy room, “sooner than you should.”

7

R
ay had stopped for a sandwich and a soda before leaving the medical center. By the time he reached Bensen’s apartment to meet Pascoe, he was feeling much better. She was standing beside her car in the parking lot near Bensen’s apartment waiting for him. They stood and chatted, neither one inclined to rush into the task at hand.

“I’m glad you’re here. I went up to the apartment with the manager,” said Pascoe. “He was checking to make sure he had the right key, but I didn’t want to go in until you got here. This gives me the creeps.”

“Why’s that?” asked Elkins.

“Going into Bensen’s space, looking through her things. This is one part of police work I’ve never been comfortable with, going through the detritus of other people’s lives.”

“It’s not invasive like an autopsy,” said Ray. A vision of Bensen’s naked body on the dissection table flashed in front of him, a wave of revulsion moved through his flesh. He pushed the specter back and focused on their immediate task. “We’re just looking through her things for possible clues.” He paused briefly, “Think of it as a garage sale.”

“I hate garage sales.”

“So do I,” he admitted looking carefully at Pascoe. She wasn’t as young as he had remembered. There was a sadness creeping at the edges of her deep brown eyes, an ancient look of suffering in the early stages.

Pascoe returned his gaze. “We’re a lot alike. That’s probably why you hired me,” she said with a soft quiet laugh. “Besides a suicide note, what are you looking for?

“I’m not quite sure yet,” he said. “I need to get a better sense of Bensen. Maybe something will leap out at us. Also, check for prints. ”

“In case of what?”

“Her death turns out to be something other than suicide. I’m looking for matching prints here and at the carillon that aren’t Bensen’s.”

“You’re interesting to watch,” she said. “From the beginning you’ve never assumed it was a suicide. I think it is. What am I missing?”

“Missing,” he mused, “nothing. It’s just a feeling.”

“Feeling. I thought we were supposed to be hard-nosed collectors of empirical data, professionals led by data, not feelings.”

“Did you know I was an English major into my junior year?” asked Elkins.

“Your ADD is kicking in. Let’s stay on the topic,” said Pascoe

“The empirical side is extremely important, but only part of the picture. Our work often demands that we put ourselves into the head of the person we’re investigating. We have to put ourselves into their story. What are they feeling, what’s their history, and what do they care about? In this case the facts say suicide. Be suspicious of the obvious.” He paused briefly, “Well, that was didactic as hell.”

“Almost patronizing, but since you’re the boss, I’ll humor you,” Pascoe said shrugging her shoulders. “So let’s play your game. If I were going to kill myself, what outward manifestations might someone find in my apartment? Conversely, if I weren’t going to off myself, how might that be reflected? I don’t know if this game will turn up anything, but at least it makes the task less odious.”

They entered the building and climbed the stairs to Bensen’s second story apartment. Elkins turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The blinds were closed. The room was hot, the air stagnant. Three walls of the living room were covered with bookcases, boards and bricks, each crammed with books, magazines, and journals—some standing on end, others stacked sideways. A glut of books and magazines covered an overstuffed, vinyl-covered chair and the couch, a low-end vestige of the Danish modern school.

“Guess she didn’t entertain much,” Pascoe caught his eye.

“Standing room only.”

A small chrome-legged Formica table was covered with mail, much of it looking unopened. Elkins pushed it around with the back of a pencil.

“You’ll want me to go through this.”

“Yes, looks like mostly bills, but you never know.”

Elkins inspected the stove and opened the refrigerator, catching the lip of the door with the pencil. It was empty save three bottles of mineral water, two full, one empty: a half-head of lettuce; and a pint carton of skimmed milk. “Must have just gotten the milk. Expiration date is Saturday.” He pushed open the freezer. Seven frozen dinners, all fried chicken, and three chicken pot-pies.

“Wasn’t much of a housekeeper,” said Pascoe.

“Or cook, and no gourmet,” he responded.

“How could you not be depressed by this place? No color, no art, place is a mess, and frozen dinners.”

They moved to the bedroom, small and cluttered with piles of clothes. A bike leaned against one wall—black, three speed, with a weathered wicker basket attached to the handle bars. Panties and bras were draped over the bike.

“A drying rack?” he asked.

“A rather novel approach, sort of a nice decorating touch. Might just catch on.”

“Does this look the place of someone planning on killing herself?” he asked.

“How would you know?”

He pointed at the bed. “She didn’t make it.”

“Did you make yours?”

“I pulled the blankets up. I usually do that.”

“Blacks and grays, inexpensive labels,” said Pascoe as she looked at the hanging clothes. “Everything is worn. Didn’t seem to care about clothes. Probably wasn’t working with very much money. What does an assistant professor make?”

“They start in the low forties and don’t get much of an increase until they get promoted to associate.”

“So you spend how many years?” Char asked.

“Seven.”

“Seven years at an entry level salary. I’ve got much to learn. As a student you’re just not aware of life on the other side of the desk.”

“Aspirin, Tylenol, two half-used prescriptions for antibiotics, Band-Aids, tooth paste, brush, comb, deodorant, ” Elkins listed the contents of the medicine chest as he stood in the small bathroom. Pascoe slid behind him. He felt her breasts touch his back as she peered over his shoulder. He moved forward slightly.

“No make-up, nail polish, perfume, nothing feminine.” She turned and looked over the shelves. “Extra toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, and an unopened box of Tampax.

“So explain this to me, you get a Ph.D. and get an entry level salary for seven years. Then what?” asked Pascoe as they made a final survey of the living room.

“You might get tenured if…”

“If what?” asked Pascoe.

“If you’ve done the right things professionally, if you haven’t screwed up politically, and if your department has the funding for a tenure position.”

“And what happens if you don’t. What was Sheila’s future?”

“Don’t know enough about Sheila to tell you. But, generally speaking, you might get lucky and find another tenure track position, usually at a smaller school. And the money would be less.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

“People get one-year gigs covering for someone on sabbatical. Others do adjunct work. The pay is lousy, so they teach lots of sections at three or four different schools, live in their cars. A few get jobs at community colleges. And some, probably the smart ones, get out of academe and do something else. That’s probably better than being a gypsy professor for the rest of their working lives.”

“So this is life in the ivy tower. Given what she had to look forward to, I can see why she jumped.” She gave Elkins a wry smile.

Ray sat in his car for several minutes after Pascoe drove away, making notes in a steno pad. In the process of putting the ballpoint back into his shirt pocket, he noticed a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out and opened the grocery list that he had been adding onto for days. He remembered that before leaving for the office he had put it in his pocket thinking that he would stop for groceries on the way home. So much had happened since then, and he was in no mood to spend a half an hour or more in a crowded store. He would make do with whatever was in the house.

Later, standing in front of a near empty refrigerator, he thought perhaps he should’ve gone shopping. Other than condiments, some dead lettuce, and a near empty jar of thimbleberry jam, there was little to eat. He found a package of frozen enchiladas in the freezer and tossed them in the microwave. As they circled the interior, he pulled the
New York Times
from its blue plastic bag and scanned the front page. Eventually he carried the steaming enchiladas, now on the dinner plate, and a beer out to the deck. Picking at the food, he continued working his way through the paper.

Dinnertime had once been a major part of his life with Ellen. It was the period when they would catch up with one another. Ray did most of the cooking, something he enjoyed, while Ellen made the salad and handled the cleanup. Since her death he had almost stopped cooking.

By the time he had read through most of the national news, his dinner had gone cold. Next he turned to the international news, his concentration interrupted by the sudden appearance of Clifford Chesterton, slightly out of breath, carrying a bright yellow plastic cooler.

“May I join you?” he asked climbing onto the deck.

“Please do,” Ray responded.

“I know it’s rather late,” he eyed the mostly uneaten enchiladas, “but Stephanie was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner. She’s made a crown roast of lamb, and says you’re a great fan of that.”

“I won’t turn you down,” said Ray. “She knows my vulnerabilities when it comes to food.”

“Well, she told me you’d say ‘yes.’ And she’s running a bit late, so I thought we’d have a drink or two while we’re waiting for her to finish up.” Chesterton opened the cooler and pulled out a bottle of scotch, and one of soda, two Whiskey glasses, and a Ziploc bag filled with crescent shaped ice cubes. He added ice to both glasses, added three fingers of the amber liquor, splashed some soda in his glass, and passed the second tumbler and the soda bottle to Ray.

“I’m a couple drinks ahead of you,” said Chesterton. “Today was a hard day. I’m trying to figure it all out.”

“Any conclusions?” asked Ray.

“No, more questions than answers. I’m tired of thinking about it. I need to talk about something else and let it rest a while.” He pushed his feet out and slid down his chair. He surveyed the scene in silence for a long moment, then sipped his drink and looked over at Ray. “It’s very pleasant up here, isn’t it, the nicest place in town. The only bit of terrain in the whole region.” They sat in silence for a while, then Chesterton said, “You know, we’ve been neighbors for a good while. Our women were the best of friends. I think their schedules were more open. They spent time together during the day when we were off doing other things. We’ve never really gotten to know one another. I was thinking about that after our talk at the hospital, that we have never talked much other than the mostly empty chatter at social gatherings.” He finished his drink and set the tumbler on the table. “Ready for another?”

“I haven’t finished this one,” said Ray.

“Let me top it up for you,” responded Chesterton as he mixed a drink for himself. “How did you end up here, out on this vast prairie?”

“Like most people,” answered Ray. “I completed my graduate degree, and there was a job here. I initially thought I would move on after a few years.”

“Didn’t we all,” laughed Chesterton. “What were you doing before that?”

“The short history. I was in graduate school, before that I was a cop in Detroit for a few years. It was interesting work, but I couldn’t imagine spending my life there. And before that the army. I was in
the military police, mostly in Europe. How about you?”

“Not quite ditto, the particulars differ, but a variation on the same story. I was finishing graduate school in Chicago. I had been sort of a wunderkind, three articles in the
Shakespeare Quarterly
before I even finished my dissertation. I thought I was on my way to a major school. My dissertation became a well-reviewed book. I was here by then. But I thought some large school would pick me up. Even then, the market in English was lousy, but I was sure I would get recruited to a pretty good place.”

“But how did you end up here in the first place,” asked Ray.

“Well, my dissertation advisor was a friend of Keith Beckner, who chaired this department back then. Keith was extremely entrepreneurial. He really knew how to work foundations: Ford, Carnegie, Rockefeller. I think I mentioned this earlier today when we were at the hospital. Beckner had this dream about making this university the preeminent center for the study of English literature in America. Don’t ask me where that came from. But he had sold his dream to the grant officers from several major foundations and the university administration. The department was awash in cash. So my chair, looking around at the bleak job market for new PhDs, counseled me to come here. He thought it was an up-and-coming department, and that I could use it as a stepping-stone to my next job. And once I got here, Beckner mentored me like crazy. I got tenure and promotion quickly and became the associate chair within a few years. When he moved on to Provost, he paved the way for me to follow him as chair.

“How about the Center for the Study of….”

“It didn’t succeed. We built it, and they didn’t come. We were never able to attract the large number of graduate students that he anticipated. The money and the enthusiasm quickly went away.” Chesterton tossed the ice cubes from his now empty glass onto the lawn and retrieved several fresh ones from the cooler. He poured more whiskey into the glass and added a bit of soda, stirring the mixture with his index finger. He looked over at Ray. “Are you ready for another?”