Authors: James D. Doss
Corpses Were His Life
Like most practitioners of his arcane trade, the granite Creek County medical examiner was a deliberate, methodical worker. But if he would not be hurried, neither was Walter Simpson a dawdler. Being of the literalist persuasion, he would have snorted at the assertion that time is money—his hours were far more valuable than currency. After much probing, frowning, and clucking of the tongue, Doc Simpson instructed one of his assistants to make temperature measurements in the corpse’s various orifices and (at Scott Parris’s request) directed the other technician to take fingerprints from both hands.
The efficient ME completed his preliminary examination of Alvin Burkowitz’s mortal remains in a mere forty-five minutes and officially declared the man dead, which declaration seemed somewhat superfluous considering the fact that four pointed steel spikes had penetrated the subject’s thorax.
No small effort was required to maintain the garden implement
in place
as the assistants partially bagged the body, strapped it to a gurney, muscled the macabre assembly up the cellar stairs, and rolled it outside to the van.
It was a few minutes after one
A.M
. when the medical examiner’s vehicle pulled out of Miss Muntz’s driveway and sped away to the morgue, which was in the basement of Doc Simpson’s 1870s-era Victorian home.
Charlie Moon, Daisy Perika, and Scott Parris had joined Miss Muntz in her parlor, where she had turned on the fireplace’s gas flames, whose yellow-tipped blue tongues licked lethargically at tasteless ceramic logs. Though lacking in pine-scented authenticity, the artificial hearth produced sufficient heat to dispel a chill that had descended upon the premises, which was not entirely related to temperature.
As stiff-backed little seconds marched away into the past, no one stirred, nor said a word.
If Mr. Moriarty purred, the mutter of that cat-motor passed unheard.
All waited for the Legally Constituted Authority to speak his piece.
The chief of police had used the respite during the coroner’s visit to rethink the general scenario—all the way from Hermann Wetzel’s death by gunshot to tonight’s bizarre fatal accident. When the furrowed-brow rethinker concluded that he had fitted enough pieces of the puzzle together to discern the major features of the emerging picture, he cleared his throat. “It’s pretty clear what’s happened here.” He inhaled a breath that swelled the barrel chest. “This wacko guy from the pizza restaurant—who’s probably been burgling homes to finance a drug habit—was in Hermann Wetzel’s house that night with Jake Harper. Burkowitz and Harper were partners.” He shot a glance at Moon, who shared his knowledge of the unidentified prints on the murder weapon. “The prints Doc Simpson’s assistant took off Burkowitz’s corpse will prove he shot Wetzel.” The lawman was correct in this assumption. “And Burkowitz showed up here tonight to . . .”
To carve up Miss Muntz with that hunting knife.
Parris watched firelight flicker on translucent skin stretched tightly over the elderly woman’s face. “Burkowitz was probably already worried that you knew something that’d tie him to the killing across the street. Then, when we showed up at Sunburst
Pizza today and you gave him a tip for making you a take-out pizza that night—”
“I detest pizza.” If her tone was a bit curt, the lady may be excused. This had been a very trying evening; what with encountering a knife-wielding murderer and entertaining guests, she was all tuckered out. “Alvin delivered a calzone.”
“Okay. A calzone.”
Fussy old nitpicker.
Parris bunched the bushy brows.
But wait a dang minute.
“Uh . . . run that by me again—did you say
delivered
?”
She gazed affectionately at her cat. “You heard me correctly.”
“Let me make sure I got this straight—Burkowitz was Sunburst’s pizza-delivery guy?”
“That is correct.”
The cop glared at the elderly citizen. “And you asked him to make a delivery on the
same night
Wetzel got himself shot?”
“I did.”
Parris felt the pulse throbbing in his neck. “You never bothered to mention that fact to me—or any of my officers?”
Miss M cocked her head. “Now that you mention it—I suppose I did not.” A bright, tight little smile. “But I do see your point. Had you known about the calzone delivery, you would no doubt have interrogated Alvin and inquired whether he had noticed any suspicious characters in the vicinity of Mr. Wetzel’s residence.”
The chief of police bit his lower lip. Hard.
Aware that the policeman was somewhat chagrined, she attempted to soothe him. “I doubt very much that such an interview would have aided your investigation.” The retired schoolmarm addressed Parris as she would a slow-witted pupil. “Though Alvin was admittedly not very bright, it seems highly unlikely that he would have admitted to being involved in a murder. He would undoubtedly have claimed that, while making his delivery, he had witnessed nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Maybe so.” Feeling his hands begin to tremble, Parris knotted them into fists. Big, hard-knuckled fists that craved to
punch big, ugly holes in the paneled parlor wall. “But all the same, you should’ve told me.”
The landlady’s response was icy. “I have told you
now
.”
A dull pain alerted Parris to the fact that he had bitten a hole in his lip. He closed his eyes. Imagined the Too Late Creek running under the rickety board bridge. Imagined himself leaning on the railing, watching gleaming rainbow trout break the blue-green water for mayflies. The hopeful angler’s intent was to count ten cold-blooded, bug-gulping vertebrates of the superclass Pisces. He made it all the way to four before a sudden ache in his gut interrupted the reverie. “What’s done is done,” he said. “Water under the bridge.”
Miss M’s thin smile indicated that his clichéd apology was acceptable. But just barely.
Parris unclenched the meaty fists, flexed his fingers. “What matters now is we know that Al Burkowitz and Jake Harper were in on the Wetzel killing together.” He made the necessary adjustments to his story: “After Burkowitz delivers your food, he drives up the street where Harper’s waiting in his Jeep. They go over their plan one last time, then head for Hermann Wetzel’s house.” He licked at the swollen lip, tasted salty blood, and fixed his gaze on the old woman who vexed him so. “But you happen to see one of ’em across the street, snooping around your renter’s residence. You call Wetzel, who’s in the basement, and tell him about it. He goes upstairs with a pistol in his hand. There’s a confrontation and he gets shot dead by Burkowitz, who’s found one of Wetzel’s loaded handguns.” The violent encounter was playing across his imagination like an old black-and-white movie. “As the two of ’em was clearing out, you and that neighbor—Mrs. Burch—spotted Jake Harper making a run across the street for his Jeep.” As if salty blood in his mouth were insufficient, Parris was treated to an acidic surge of heartburn. Having no bicarbonate of soda handy, he took a sip of tea. “But nobody saw Al Burkowitz coming or going. When we put out a bulletin on a guy matching Harper’s description and didn’t mention a second party, Burkowitz figures he’s in the clear. But it’s not long before Pizza Guy begins to fret. ‘What if Jake
Harper gets picked up and spills his guts about how it was his
partner
that shot Wetzel?’ ”
Apparently entranced by the narrative, Miss Muntz nodded.
Parris glared at the enigmatic lady. “Your name was in the newspaper along with Mrs. Burch, and Burkowitz must’ve been wondering whether either one of you might’ve seen anything that could tip us to a second suspect. And then you show up at the pizza restaurant today with the chief of police and give him a tip for delivering your order the evening that Wetzel got popped. That must’ve scared the daylights out of Burkowitz, so he came here tonight to make sure you’d never cause him a problem.”
Yeah. That all hangs together.
Parris’s tone was patronizing. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Miss Muntz. You’ve got to learn to be more careful.”
She regarded him with a curious expression—as one might view an exotic beetle under a magnifying lens. “Yes . . . In retrospect, I suppose I should have been more circumspect.”
She just don’t get it.
“Your first mistake was not telling me about Burkowitz delivering your calzone.” Parris donned his
extremely stern
expression. “And tonight, when you’re having trouble with the lights, what do you do when you hear someone come into your house? Call 911? Or at least keep quiet?” He shook his head. “No, you call out and tell him you’re in the basement. And then, when he comes after you with the knife, that should’ve been the end of it. But the bozo—who’s probably been popping pills all day—trips over his feet, tumbles down the cellar stairs, and lands on your barrel of garden tools.” The recollection of that grisly image reproduced those nasty little pains that had prickled in Parris’s chest. He waited until the discomfort subsided before issuing his reprimand to the senior citizen. “Don’t you see, Miss Muntz, that if it wasn’t for some lucky accidents, that corpse in the cellar would be
you
?”
She stared at her inquisitor without expression.
I’m not getting through to the old biddy.
“Let me put it like this—if I was having a run of dumb luck like yours, I’d go out and buy me a fistful of lottery tickets.”
Miss Muntz winced at this.
Dumb luck?
The exasperated cop raised clenched hands. “
Two
fistfuls!”
The prim little lady gazed at the gas fireplace as if she could see something behind the flames waltzing so languidly in the sooty chamber. Something fascinating. “I appreciate your concern for my well-being. Really, I do.” She turned to see the policeman’s sunburned face gleaming redly in the fire-light. “Please do not take offense, but I find your account to be, well . . . how shall I put it?” After a moment’s reflection, she found a suitable phrase: “Not entirely satisfactory.”
Having run out of words, Parris resorted to a snort.
“I hope this will not sound vain,” Miss Muntz said. “But in your version of what has transpired, I play the role of a silly old woman. A mindless victim who, but for the vagaries of unpredictable circumstances, would have been murdered this evening.” She shook her head. “No. I simply do not like it.”
His grin was more annoying than the snort. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to rattle your cage.”
My cage?
Another clumsy impertinence. But over her lengthy career, Miss Muntz had dealt with scores of adolescent personalities and understood that one must make allowances.
The whole business would probably have ended at that instant—had Scott Parris’s grin not morphed into a superior little smirk, which irked the lady.
Sufficiently so that she felt compelled to strike back. “I do not deny that your explanation of the recent unpleasantness presents a certain inner consistency—not to mention a certain childlike simplicity which some minds would find appealing.” She reached down to stroke Mr. Moriarty’s fur. “But it strikes me as being rather arbitrary.”
Parris’s smirk had faded. “What does that mean?”
The well-bred lady was making a valiant attempt to remain civil. “Only that your narrative seems rather contrived to provide a string of events which suits you.” Sensing the lawman’s growing discomfort, she continued ruthlessly. “In most instances, a given set of facts can be accounted for in a variety of ways.” Her cold blue eyes flashed hot sparks at the chief of police. “In the example under consideration, certain alternate
explanations might prove more plausible than the theory you espouse—and certainly more interesting.”
Scott Parris attempted a nonchalant shrug. “Okay, let’s hear one.”
“Very well.” Millicent Muntz got up from her chair. “But I shall need a few minutes to construct a suitable narrative. While I do, I shall brew us a fresh pot of tea. Considering the lateness of the hour, chamomile seems most suitable.” She turned a warm smile upon Charlie Moon. “As there are no more homemade cookies, I shall open a store-bought bag of gingersnaps.”
Miss Muntz Has Her Say
Consider any of your routine Daily Chores, whether it be stocking a supermarket shelf with thirty cartons of canned goods, changing an old-fashioned diaper on a yowling tot without pricking her skin with a safety pin, or using a .50-caliber Thompson submachine gun to carve a smiling jack-o’-lantern face into a five-hundred-pound pumpkin whilst the oversized vegetable is bumpity-bumping its way down a steep hillside. None of these tasks is as easy as it looks to one who has not given it a try, and so it is with preparing a plausible story—as any practiced liar can attest to. Which was why, even after the tea was brewed and the gingersnaps distributed, Miss Muntz required a few additional moments and all her considerable faculties.
The very picture of concentration, the lady paced in her parlor.
Back and forth she went.
On occasion, she would pause to gaze thoughtfully at Mr. Moriarty, which feline did not return even a glance to his elderly mistress.
Back and forth again.
Finally, the lady’s countenance brightened. “Aha!”
That said it all. There was no shortage of engaging characters, and she had the plot
nailed.
Clasping her hands tightly, Miss Muntz eyed her expectant audience. “Before I begin, I wish to make it perfectly clear that—like Mr. Parris—I shall tell you a story that suits me. In contrast to being cast as a passive bystander who is
lucky to be alive,
” she shot a barbed glance at the chief of police, “I prefer to be the central character in the piece.” The prim little lady’s mouth curled into an impish smile. “I ask you to allow me this harmless self-indulgence. Ever since I was a child, I have daydreamed fantastic adventures, where I was invariably the heroine.” The effect of her girlish blush was charming. And quite disarming.
“I can go with that.” Parris took a noisy slurp of too-sweet chamomile. “I like to think of myself as the best dang chief of police west of the Mississippi—a latter-day Wyatt Earp.”