Too Many Murders(119)

“What’s your considered opinion, Abe?” Carmine asked.

“That we’ve stumbled on another murderer unconnected to our case, Carmine. I’ve cordoned off the apartment—it’s on the first floor with its own section of basement—and I need to go back with two good men and maybe a jackhammer. He’s killed, I’d swear to that, but I don’t know whether he’s put the body in his walled-up basement or somewhere else. I checked him into Major Minor’s motel for tonight, but he’s looking for a lawyer.”

“Then get a fresh warrant from Judge Thwaites now, Abe. Produce one of the bloody whips,” Carmine said. “Anyone else?”

His answer was a general shaking of heads; his team was tired, not in a mood for discussions.

Carmine went to find Patrick.

A very enterprising man, Dr. Patrick O’Donnell had seized upon the landslide of murders to augment his Medical Examiner’s department. Several new pieces of equipment had been approved by the Mayor and Hartford, and he had expanded his empire to embrace ballistics, documents, and other disciplines not usually under the sway of the coroner. What made it easier—and more sensible—was the small size of the Holloman PD and his own persuasive, loquacious, charming personality. His latest coup came as a great relief to his deputy coroner, Gustavus Fennel, namely the addition of a third coroner, Chang Po. Gus Fennel was happiest on autopsies, but Chang was a forensics man.

“How goes it, cuz?” Carmine asked, pouring coffee.

Patrick propped his booteed feet on the desk and grinned. “I’ve had a great morning,” he said. “Look at this, cuz.”

He reached into an evidence box that would have been a snug fit for a pair of light bulbs and withdrew a small, pale brown drawstring bag.

“Careful,” he warned as Carmine took it. “Abe thought it held change, but the change was actually inside a rubber liner.”

Carmine turned it over in his hand curiously, noting its peculiar construction and marveling at the patience that must have gone into fashioning something that puffed out on either side of a complex central seam.

“Any ideas?” Patsy asked, eyes bright.

“Maybe,” his cousin said slowly, “but enlighten me, Patsy.”

“It’s a human scrotum.”

Only iron self-control prevented Carmine from dropping the thing in sheer revulsion. “Jesus!”

“There are some indigenous populaces that cure the scrotums of large animals,” Patrick said, “and in Victorian times it was a fad among some pukkah hunters to take an elephant’s or a lion’s scrotum as a trophy, have the taxidermist turn it into a water bag or a tobacco pouch. But such,” he continued blithely, “is the human male’s horror of castration that it’s a rare man indeed who would take a human scrotum as a trophy. This suspect of Abe’s certainly has.”

“Are you sure it’s human?”

“He left a few pubic hairs, and the shape and size are exactly right if the victim was possessed of a loose rather than a tight scrotal sac. The testes don’t vary much, but the scrotum does. Whoever did this is a real sicko.”

“I’d better tell Abe before he goes to Doubting Doug.”

One brisk phone call later and Carmine was free to quiz Patrick on other things. “Whose bullet killed our assassin?”

“Silvestri’s. No wonder he could take out whole Nazi machinegun nests! The man’s a wonder with that old .38 he won’t be parted from. I bet he never even goes to the range to practice, either,” Patsy said. “Head shot—well, you know that. But you didn’t do too badly yourself, Carmine. Two of your three rounds plugged him in the right shoulder. Your third round lodged in the tree branch. Silvestri’s other two were in the chest.”

“I never claimed to be Dead Eye Dick, especially at thirty yards or more.”

“I know you—you were hoping to immobilize his shooting arm and keep him alive for questioning,” Patsy said shrewdly.

“True, but John was right—we couldn’t risk the kids. I was in error. Do me a favor, Patsy?”

“Sure, anything.”

“Send the guy’s prints to Interpol and our military. He’s not from these parts, I know it in my bones, but he just might have come to someone else’s attention. I’m thinking East Germany as state of origin, but he’s no ideologue. He was in it for the money, which means he has family somewhere.”

“Faint hope, but I’ll do it, of course. One last thing, cuz, before you vanish?”

“Speak.”

“What am I supposed to do with a whole room crammed with cases of photographic and broadcasting apparatus?”