The Evil That Men Do Page 3

  “Hey, Lisa, how’s it going?”

  “Hey, Dagny, what’s up, girl?” We North Carolinians always say hey when we meet, and call each other girl well into our nineties.

  “This is Lucy Navarro. Her roommate comm—uh, died on Friday under suspicious circumstances. I’m wondering if she’s here, and if she is, when the autopsy is scheduled. They’d’ve brought her in from the university.”

  “Yeah, she here. They brought her in Friday. Sad thing, that, so young. They said she was real smart, very pretty and, uh…” She broke off when she saw Lucy’s eyes filling with tears. “Oh, I’m awfully sorry, hon, truly I am.”

  Lucy took a proffered tissue and wiped her eyes.

  “They’ll do her today, for sure,” continued Lisa. “We had a power outage in the morgue Friday. The fridge went out and we couldn’t keep the body cold. We’re not on auxiliary, you know. Twice over the weekend they wanted to move her to a nearby mortuary, but the engineers kept sayin’ ‘power any minute, power any minute.’ Every time the power came up and the ’frigeration kicked in, down went everything. It’s a pain moving bodies, ‘specially when there’re unusual circumstances. The paperwork is a heap of bother. She been ripening for three days now and they got to autopsy this afternoon. I’m sure the smell by now…” She broke off as she glanced in Lucy’s direction. Lisa had a tendency to be a bit jaded about her job.

  “Do you know who’s scheduled to do the autopsy? I thought maybe we could talk to whoever it is for a minute.” I hadn’t the foggiest what I was going to say, but I owed this much to Lucy.

  “They just hired a new assistant medical examiner, Dr. Charles Clarke,” she said with a wink. She pronounced his name Chaaahles Claaahke, with long vowels and no trace of an r. Southerners have little use for r’s anyway. Lisa wasn’t given to exaggerating her southern accent unless it was to charm some man she was flirting with, but no male prey was in the vicinity.

  “Any chance we could talk to him, just for a sec?”

  “Let me see if he’s in his office. He’s a nice guy, but a little reserved.” She keyed in a number. Someone picked up and Lisa explained our wishes.

  “It’s cool. His office is 225 south. Go down the main corridor, take your first right through the double doors. His office is second on the left.”

  We followed her directions, and a minute later we were peering into an office and seeing the back of a blond-headed man who was seated at a computer terminal. The computer was on a long table that extended the length of the rear wall. On either side of it were books and journals, some opened facedown to keep their place. A smattering of papers, pencils, diskettes, and various other objets de desk accompanied them.

  The office was windowless with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two of the walls. In the center of the room was a desk on which stood a calendar, a telephone, a Rolodex, a pad of paper, and a pen in one of those fancy holders that you get when you graduate from somewhere. Its orderliness contrasted with the chaos of the table behind it.

  Just as I was about to rap on the open door, the man swiveled around and stood up in one easy motion. He was just over six feet tall, with straight, shiny, blond hair that lapped ever so slightly over his collar—a bit of a retro style in these days of short hair. He was dressed in a pair of gray slacks with a coordinated vest and necktie. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled halfway up sinewy forearms. He exuded physical strength and would have looked as natural on a playing field as in a lab coat. He had an angular face with a strong chin and intelligent blue eyes. He looked about thirty. His ring finger was naked. I felt a hormone jiggle.

  He stepped around his desk, stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Chaaahles Claaahke. How may I help you?” Now I saw what Lisa was up to when she pronounced his name. He sounded as English as tea and crumpets.

  I started to introduce us but the first syllable came out as a squawk. I stopped, cleared my throat, and reminded myself that I was a professional woman and not a flighty girl. I began again, more mindful of my appearance than I wanted to be.

  “I’m Dagny Jamison, and this is Lucy Navarro. I’m a private investigator here in Santa Barbara. Lisa told us you were going to autopsy the woman who was brought in Friday. I’d hoped we could talk about that a little. We have some concerns.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” He glanced at both of us but fixed his gaze on me. This was a higher compliment than any words could express. Most men would spend a little more visual effort on the stunning Lucy. “There isn’t any place to lounge in here. I don’t entertain much in my office. There’s a break room down the hall where we can get some coffee, if you’d like.”

  “That’s fine, thank you,” I said. I was watching his mouth when he spoke, wondering how, with the same tongue, teeth and lips as any man, he could produce this marvelous-sounding English. That’s as far as I permitted my imagination to stray tongue- and lip-wise.

  There was a half-filled coffeepot in the break room next to which was a column of Styrofoam cups, sugar, and powdered cream. Charles served and we took our coffee to a table with a Formica surface and aluminum legs. With encouragement from Charles, Lucy told her story much as she’d told it to me. Charles listened quietly, his expression remaining neutral.

  He gave Lucy a few seconds to make sure she was finished. When he spoke, it was to say a little hesitantly, “We know Miss Raskin died from asphyxiation, which is consistent with death by hanging.” He looked from me to Lucy, who was blanching and gnawing her lower lip. “I’m sorry, Miss, uh…”

  “Navarro,” she provided. “I mean, call me Lucy.”

  “Right, Lucy.” He looked at a loss. “Shall I carry on?”

  “Please,” said Lucy. “I’m okay.”

  “Her preliminary didn’t suggest anything other than suicide. Autopsy procedures are well standardized and hard to improve on. But you know what?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I trained in England under a close family friend who was a coroner all his adult life, and was actually descended from the great fourteenth-century Coroner of London, Sir John Cranston. In fact, I was named after him—my middle name, that is. Dr. Cranston always stressed how important it was for a pathologist to observe details. To test us out, he used to make small, subtle changes in the cadavers we students practiced on, such as painting a fifth toe with nail polish, just to see if we’d notice.”

  He said to Lucy, “I’ll give it my best go. If I find anything remotely suspicious, I’ll report it to the coroner.”

  “Would you mind letting me know, too, Dr. Clarke?” I asked, reaching for a business card. “If you don’t get me at the office, try me at home.” Hoping his sharp eyes wouldn’t spot my shaking hand, I jotted my number down on the back of the card. “I’ll pass the information on to Lucy.”

  “I’ll be glad to, and please call me Charles (Chaaahles), uh, Dagny, right? I’m a bungler at names.”

  “Dagny is right. We really appreciate this.”

  We stood up, shook hands, and moved towards the door. As Charles ushered me out, I could swear I felt his eyes on my butt, but I chalked it up to wishful thinking.

  On my way back to the office, I dropped Lucy off at her car with a promise to call when I knew something. She gave me the phone number of the neighbor she was staying with, and we parted.

  When I got home that evening, I found a note from John, saying he had had to fly to Vegas on some unfinished business, and asking me to hold the fort. Just then, the phone rang, and while I hated to scare off any of John’s girlfriends, I thought that “holding the fort” included answering the phone. I picked up.

  “Dagny?” inquired a voice, “Charles Clarke here. I left a message at your office. I thought it would be okay if I rang your home, since you left me your number.”

  “I’m glad you called. Did you find anything?”

  “I think so. If I hadn’t spoken with you two earlier, I might have missed it.” He paused as if choosing his words. “I found what I believe to be an irregularity.
Maybe you ladies are onto something.”

  Chapter 3

  I looked at the clock. Nearly six. I blurted, “Why not meet when you’re off work? I’ll buy you a beer.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d just asked this man out. It was more than a nothing-ventured-nothing-gained kind of thing. It was a small victory in my battle to heal my self-esteem, much battered by the aforementioned ex-boyfriend.

  Ordinarily, getting dumped—and that hadn’t been the only time—didn’t affect me so deeply. But this boyfriend, this professor of law, whom I’d loved enough to follow across the country, was special. Several years before I met him, I was serving in the U.S. Army when a routine mammogram turned up a lump. A follow-up examination revealed an aggressive malignancy that required a mastectomy and a withering regimen of radiation therapy. An honorable, but unwelcome, discharge from the military followed.

  My trauma and its psychological shock waves kept me out of relationships for years. I felt ugly. Sex was out of the question. A prosthesis (read falsie) and intensive counseling put me where I could be responsible for growing back my self-image. By then I’d completed a degree at UCLA and was in law school.

  The professor was the first man to touch me in nearly half a decade. He loved me and accepted me as I was, or so I felt. But I don’t think I accepted myself as I was. Even when we were together, when I dreamt, the missing breast was always present. To lose him to a “whole” woman, as I thought of that chesty belle, slashed open old psychological wounds—deep, traumatic wounds that were only partially healed. It had taken me years to come to terms with my lover’s rejection of me. I hadn’t had a relationship since the break-up—but, hey, who was to say that I couldn’t ever have another one? There’s something about the balmy California air that encourages thoughts of love.

  Charles answered immediately, “Capital idea. I’m not well acquainted with Santa Barbara, though. Where would you suggest?”

  There’s a pseudo-English pub called The Fox ’n’ Hounds just off State Street between John’s place and SB General. I gave Charles directions and we agreed to meet at 7:00. This gave me time to screw up my courage as I freshened up for my date—if it was a date—with Charles Cranston Clarke.

  Furthermore, Charles’s words had alerted my P.I. senses. He didn’t strike me as the type to make cavalier remarks about autopsies. I couldn’t imagine what he’d found, and by the time I got to Foxies, as the locals call it, my curiosity was as great as my romantic interest.

  I had mixed feelings about a possible romance. Not only did I experience a fear of intimacy—which, thanks to my therapist, I could call a false fear, in the hope that it might one day prove to be false—but I also had guilt pangs over mixing pleasure with business. On the other hand, I didn’t have a contract to investigate Judy Raskin’s death, so it was my own time. Not only that, but if Charles did find evidence of foul play, the coroner would alert homicide. I still didn’t see a professional role for me, but I had hopes for a social one.

  The Fox ’n’ Hounds is Santa Barbara’s concession to local anglophiles. Having been once to England, I could testify to its authenticity, given the limitations of beer and ale available in the States. It has plenty of clients who speak ear-bending varieties of non-American English, from southern New Zealand to northern Scotland.

  The main room contains a massive bar of polished wood; behind it, a floor-to-ceiling mirror makes the room seem larger than it really is. Tables and chairs are scattered throughout, and are so arranged as to accommodate parties of differing sizes. The walls are covered with coats of arms and with paintings of hunting scenes. The lighting is of the pseudo-gaslight variety, subdued but sufficient for one to read a menu or recognize a person across the room. It doesn’t quite have the womb-like warmth of a true English pub, but then it hasn’t had five centuries to mellow, like some of the more homey pubs I had visited in the U.K.

  Charles was sitting at a small table beneath a picture of a retriever scrambling out of a pond with a duck in its mouth and water dripping from its coat. We saw each other at the same moment. He stood up as I came over. We shook hands.

  He said, “Nice to see you. Please, sit down.”

  “Same here. Thanks for meeting me.”

  We exchanged smiles and sat down facing each other. “What will you have to drink?” asked Charles.

  Pub etiquette permitted you to fetch your own drinks, which worked out well since the wait staff was perpetually short-handed. Charles had a glass of what appeared to be dark ale in front of him. I figured an Englishman in an English pub, even a pseudo-English pub, would know what to drink, so I asked him, “What are you drinking?”

  “Newkie Brown. They said they’d just got it on draught.”

  “Newkie Brown?” I repeated. It sounded like the street that Senor Vareta lived on.

  “Newcastle Brown Ale. It’s not bad, if you like a dark ale. Here, try a sip.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get something?” It was a poor joke but I wanted to break the ice.

  “Dagny,” he began—my name sounded musical on his lips—“I’m a pathologist and believe me, nothing dangerous could live in this stuff.”

  “Charles, don’t ever do beer commercials. What kind of a recommendation is that?” I took a sip. Not bad, indeed. Within moments there were two glasses of Newkie Brown on the table between us.

  We made small talk for a while, neither of us particularly wanting to get around to discussing the autopsy. Eventually, at a convenient moment, I broached the topic.

  “Can you tell me what you found?”

  “Let me pose a question first. Did you know Judy at all?”

  “Everything about her I learned from Lucy this morning.”

  “Was she training athletically for some kind of competition?”

  “Lucy never mentioned it.”

  “Did she do drugs at all?”

  “No. Lucy was adamant about that. Can you tell me what this is all about? Maybe if I knew I would remember something more helpful.”

  “Of course. Sorry. I’m trying to fill in some blanks. My manners go missing when I think too hard. I forgot you’re a consulting detective.” He added whimsically, “You don’t look much like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Haven’t I told you that I tracked the Giant Rat of Sumatra to Santa Barbara?” I countered.

  He laughed. “You’re a fan of the great detective?”

  I was. As a kid, I quickly outgrew the Nancy Drew mystery stories. Instead, I read and reread the many adventures of Sherlock Holmes written by Arthur Conan Doyle. I read them still—comfort food for the mind. Years ago I copied down a passage describing Holmes that struck a chord with me. I keep it in my wallet, and I dredged it out in a shameless effort to impress Charles.

  “‘Keen observation, first-class memory, attention to detail, ability to concentrate long hours without distraction, logical and methodical thinking, total commitment to the job,’” I read, stumbling at the end when I realized how show-offy I was being. “Even though that was said about a made-up person, it’s what I think it takes to be a good P.I. today.”

  “Bravo, Dagny. You have high ideals.” He reached across the table for a high-five, our fingers interlocking for a moment. We finished our ale and Charles went to fetch two more pints. When he returned he was more serious.

  “I hope I haven’t misled you into thinking I’ve solved the problem of the young lady’s death. The autopsy of Judy Raskin showed nothing inconsistent with her having hanged herself. I examined her minutely before the actual procedure. There were no signs of physical coercion on her body.”

  He paused to sip his ale.

  I was hanging onto his words.

  “We had some problems in the morgue with our refrigeration. We never did get her body on ice. In fact, it was bloody hot in the morgue. Every time we’d go to move her, the engineers would say they’d fixed the problem. But they hadn’t. It never got fixed that weekend. A lot of biochemistry takes place at 80 degrees. Ordinar
ily, this is bad. We lose information about the state of the body at the time of death. But in this instance, it may have been serendipitous.”

  “How’s that?” I asked. “And what would her athleticism have to do with it?”

  “There was one peculiarity that led me to wonder whether she’d been taking steroids. You see, her fingernails had…well, let me explain. After death, without refrigeration, certain parts of your body continue to grow, such as the hair and fingernails.”

  This touched off an ugly memory and I interrupted. “Oh, I read about one of the Hillside Stranglers’ victims. They’d forced her to shave herself before raping and strangling her. When her body was found several days later, her pubic hair had begun to grow back. It made an impression on me, to say the least.”

  “I was a boy in England but I remember that nasty business. Had people in California in near hysteria for months. They must’ve killed over a half dozen women, the buggers. Gave the coroner’s office fits, as I later learned.”

  He shook his head to clear the memory. “Anyway, a healthy fingernail in a young female grows about 75 millimeters a year, if it’s filed down regularly. In three days one grows about half a millimeter, the width of a pencil lead. At the root of several of Judy’s fingernails, about half a millimeter in thickness, was a whitening of the nail that occurs typically when a certain body-building steroid called Nandrolex is taken. It may or may not be an immediate reaction to the steroid, but if you take it long enough, your fingernails will begin to show these striations. In Judy’s case the whitening must have begun at the time of death, which is a suspicious coincidence, but it may be just that: coincidence.”