Music for Chameleons (11 page)

TC:
And was there a picture of him?

JAKE:
Yes. And I’ll describe it carefully because it is very relevant to the manner of Clem’s death. Actually, I think the murderer meant it as a little joke, a sly hint as to how Clem was going to die.

In the picture, Clem is seated in a kind of jeep. An eccentric
vehicle of his own invention. It had no top and it had no windshield, nothing to protect the driver at all. It was just an engine with four wheels. He said he’d never seen the picture before, and had no idea who had taken it or when.

Now I had a difficult decision. Should I confide in him, admit that the Roberts family had received a similar coffin before their deaths, and that the Baxters probably had as well? In some ways it might be better not to inform him: that way, if we kept close surveillance, he might lead us to the killer, and do it more easily by not being aware of his danger.

TC:
But you decided to tell him.

JAKE:
I did. Because, with this second coffin in hand, I was certain the murders were connected. And I felt that Clem must know the answer. He
must
.

But after I explained the significance of the coffin, he went into shock. I had to slap his face. And then he was like a child; he lay down on the bed and began to cry: “Somebody’s going to kill me. Why? Why?” I told him: “Nobody’s going to kill you. I can promise you that. But
think
, Clem! What do you have in common with these people who
did
die? There must be something. Maybe something very trivial.” But all he could say was: “I don’t know. I don’t know.” I forced him to drink until he was drunk enough to fall asleep. He spent the night here. In the morning he was calmer. But he still could not think of anything that connected him with the crimes, see how he in any way fitted into a pattern. I told him not to discuss the coffin with anyone, not even his wife; and I told him not to worry—I was importing an extra two agents just to keep an eye on him.

TC:
And how long was it before the coffin-maker kept his promise?

JAKE:
Oh, I think he must have been enjoying it. He teased it along like a fisherman with a trout trapped in a bowl. The Bureau recalled the extra agents, and finally even Clem seemed
to shrug it off. Six months went by. Amy called and invited me out to dinner. A warm summer night. The air was full of fireflies. Some of the children chased about catching them and putting them into jars.

As I was leaving, Clem walked me out to my car. A narrow river ran along the path where it was parked, and Clem said: “About that connection business. The other day I suddenly thought of something. The river.” I said what river; and he said that river, the one flowing past us. “It’s kind of a complicated story. And probably silly. But I’ll tell you the next time I see you.”

Of course I never saw him again. At least, not alive.

TC:
It’s almost as though he must have overheard you.

JAKE:
Who?

TC:
Santa Claus. I mean, isn’t it curious that after all those months Clem Anderson mentions the river, and the very next day, before he can tell you why he suddenly remembered the river, the murderer kept his promise?

JAKE:
How’s your stomach?

TC:
Okay.

JAKE:
I’ll show you some photographs. But better pour yourself a stiff one. You’ll need it.

(The pictures, three of them, were glossy black-and-whites made at night with a flash camera. The first was of Clem Anderson’s homemade jeep on a narrow ranch road, where it had overturned and was lying on its side, headlights still shining. The second photograph was of a headless torso sprawled across the same road: a headless man wearing boots and Levis and a sheepskin jacket. The last picture was of the victim’s head. It could not have been more cleanly severed by a guillotine or a master surgeon. It lay alone among some leaves, as though a prankster had tossed it there. Clem Anderson’s
eyes were open, but they did not look dead, merely serene, and except for a jagged gash along the forehead, his face seemed as calm, as unmarked by violence as his innocent, pale Norwegian eyes. As I examined the photographs, Jake leaned over my shoulder, looking at them with me.)

JAKE:
It was around dusk. Amy was expecting Clem home for supper. She sent one of their boys down to the main road to meet him. It was the boy who found him.

First he saw the overturned car. Then, a hundred yards farther on, he found the body. He ran back home, and his mother called me. I cursed myself up one row and down the other. But when we drove out there, it was one of my agents who discovered the head. It was quite a distance from the body. In fact, it was still lying where the wire had hit him.

TC:
The wire, yes. I never have understood about the wire. It’s so—

JAKE:
Clever?

TC:
More than clever. Preposterous.

JAKE:
Nothing preposterous about it. Our friend had simply figured out a nice neat way to decapitate Clem Anderson. Kill him without any possibility of witnesses.

TC:
I suppose it’s the mathematical element. I’m always bewildered by anything involving mathematics.

JAKE:
Well, the gentleman responsible for this certainly has a mathematical mind. At least he had a lot of very accurate measuring to do.

TC:
He strung a wire between two trees?

JAKE:
A tree and a telephone pole. A strong steel wire sharpened thin as a razor. Virtually invisible, even in broad daylight. But at dusk, when Clem turned off the highway and was driving in that crazy little wagon along that narrow road, he couldn’t possibly have glimpsed it. It caught him exactly where it was
supposed to: just under the chin. And, as you can see, sliced off his head as easily as a girl picking petals off a daisy.

TC:
So many things could have gone
wrong
.

JAKE:
What if they had? What’s one failure? He would have tried again. And continued till he succeeded.

TC:
That’s
what’s so preposterous. He always does succeed.

JAKE:
Yes and no. But we’ll come back to that later.

(Jake slipped the pictures in a manila envelope. He sucked on his pipe and combed his fingers through his cowlicked hair. I was silent, for I felt a sadness had overtaken him. Finally I asked if he was tired, would he rather I left him? He said no, it was only nine o’clock, he never went to bed before midnight.)

TC:
Are you here all alone now?

JAKE:
No, Christ, I’d go crazy. I take turns with two other agents. But I’m still the principal guy on the case. And I want it that way. I’ve got a real investment here. And I’m going to nail our chum if it’s the last thing I ever do. He’ll make a mistake. In fact, he’s already made some. Though I can’t say that the manner in which he disposed of Dr. Parsons was one of them.

TC:
The coroner?

JAKE:
The coroner. The skinny itsy-bitsy hunchbacked little coroner.

TC:
Let’s see, now. At first you thought that was a suicide?

JAKE:
If you’d known Dr. Parsons, you’d have thought it was a suicide, too. There was a man who had every reason to kill himself. Or get himself killed. His wife’s a beautiful woman, and he had her hooked on morphine; that’s how he got her to marry him. He was a loan shark. An abortionist. At least a dozen dotty old women left him everything in their wills. A true-blue scoundrel, Dr. Parsons.

TC:
So you didn’t like him?

JAKE:
Nobody did. But what I said before was wrong. I said
Parsons was a guy who had every reason to kill himself. Actually, he had no reason at all. God was in His heaven, and the sun was shining on Ed Parsons right around the clock. The only thing bothering him was he had ulcers. And a kind of permanent indigestion. He always carried around these big bottles of Maalox. Polished off a couple of those a day.

TC:
All the same, everyone was surprised when they heard Dr. Parsons had killed himself?

JAKE:
Well, no. Because nobody thought he had killed himself. Not at first.

TC:
Sorry, Jake. But I’m getting confused again.

(Jake’s pipe had gone out; he dumped it in an ashtray and unwrapped a cigar, which he did not light; it was an object to chew on, not to smoke. A dog with a bone.)

To begin with, how long was it between funerals? Between Clem Anderson’s funeral and Dr. Parsons’?

JAKE:
Four months. Just about.

TC:
And did Santa send the doctor a gift?

JAKE:
Wait. Wait. You’re going too fast. The day Parsons died—well, we just thought he had died. Plain and simple. His nurse found him lying on the floor of his office. Alfred Skinner, another doctor here in town, said he’d probably had a heart attack; it would take an autopsy to find out for sure.

That same night I got a call from Parsons’ nurse. She said Mrs. Parsons would like to talk to me, and I said fine, I’ll drive out there now.

Mrs. Parsons received me in her bedroom, a room I gather she seldom leaves; confined there, I suppose, by the pleasures of morphine. Certainly she isn’t an invalid, not in any ordinary sense. She’s a lovely woman, and a quite healthy-looking one. Good color in her cheeks, though her skin is smooth and pale as pearls. But her eyes were too bright, the pupils dilated.

She was lying in bed, propped up by a pile of lace-covered
pillows. I noticed her fingernails—so long and carefully varnished; and her hands were very elegant, too. But what she was holding in her hands wasn’t very elegant.

TC:
A gift?

JAKE:
Exactly the same as the others.

TC:
What did she say?

JAKE:
She said “I think my husband was murdered.” But she was very calm; she didn’t seem upset, under any stress at all.

TC:
Morphine.

JAKE:
But it was more than that. She’s a woman who has already left life. She’s looking back through a door—without regret.

TC:
Did she realize the significance of the coffin?

JAKE:
Not really, no. And neither would her husband. Even though he was the county coroner, and in theory was part of our team, we never confided in him. He knew nothing about the coffins.

TC:
Then why did she think her husband had been murdered?

JAKE
(chewing his cigar, frowning):
Because
of the coffin. She said her husband had shown it to her a few weeks ago. He hadn’t taken it seriously; he thought it was just a spiteful gesture, something sent to him by one of his enemies. But
she
said—she said the moment she saw the coffin and saw the picture of him inside it—she felt “a shadow” had fallen. Strange, but I think she loved him. That beautiful woman. That bristling little hunchback.

When we said goodnight I took the coffin with me and impressed on her the importance of not mentioning it to anyone. After that, all we could do was wait for the autopsy report. Which was: Death by poisoning, probably self-administered.

TC:
But
you
knew it was a murder.

JAKE:
I knew. And Mrs. Parsons knew. But everybody else thought it was a suicide. Most of them still think so.

TC:
And what brand of poison did our friend choose?

JAKE:
Liquid nicotine. A very pure poison, fast and powerful, colorless, odorless. We don’t know exactly how it was administered, but I suspect it was mixed together with some of the doctor’s beloved Maalox. One good gulp, and down you go.

TC:
Liquid nicotine. I’ve never heard of it.

JAKE:
Well, it’s not exactly a name brand—like arsenic. Speaking of our friend, I came across something the other day, something by Mark Twain, that struck me as very appropriate. (After searching his bookshelves, and finding the volume he wanted, Jake paced the room, reading aloud in a voice unlike his own: a hoarse, angry voice) “Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most
detestable
. Of the entire brood he is the only one, the solitary one, that possesses malice. That is the basest of all instincts, passions, vices—the most hateful. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to
be
pain. Also in all the list, he is the only creature that has a nasty mind.” (Jake banged the book shut and threw it on the bed) Detestable. Malicious. A nasty mind. Yessir, that describes Mr. Quinn perfectly. Not the whole of him. Mr. Quinn is a man of varied talents.

TC:
You never told me his name before.

JAKE:
I’ve only known it myself the last six months. But that’s it. Quinn.

(Again and again Jake slammed a hard fist into a cupped hand, like an angry prisoner too long confined, frustrated. Well, he had now been imprisoned by this case for many years; great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.)

Robert Hawley Quinn, Esquire. A most esteemed gentleman.

TC:
But a gentleman who makes mistakes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know his name. Or rather, you wouldn’t know he
was
our friend.

JAKE:
(Silence; he’s not listening)

TC:
Was it the snakes? You said they came from a Texas snake farm. If you know that, then you must know who bought them.

JAKE
(anger gone; yawning): What?

TC:
Incidentally, why were the snakes injected with amphetamine?

JAKE:
Why do you think? To stimulate them. Increase their ferocity. It was like throwing a lighted match into a gasoline tank.