Too Many Murders(120)
“Since we don’t have the manpower to mount that kind of examination, Patsy, I’m donating it to Special Agent Ted Kelly. Let the FBI find any microdots or snapshots of Granny holding up a set of blueprints,” Carmine said with a grin. “I’ll have Delia inform the Cornucopia Board that our evidence has been subpoenaed by the FBI. They’ll get it back, but not for weeks.”
“How can that really help? They’re all so rich they can buy new gear and get going again within days.”
“They could, but buying new gear would be noticed, and even rich people hesitate to spend their money on stuff they’ve already got. They know they’ll get it back, so what’s the hurry? There are reasons why none of them wants to draw attention to himself.”
“You mean Ulysses?”
“How do you know that name?”
“Carmine, honestly! Ted Kelly has a mouth as big as his feet, and he has a habit of using Malvolio’s as his meeting place whenever another FBI agent comes to town. I mean, we’re hicks, the next best thing to Ozark hillbillies on his map of the nation,” Patrick said. “Besides, Holloman is Holloman. It has no secrets.”
“Please tell me Netty Marciano doesn’t know!”
“Of course she doesn’t! This is men’s business.”
So Carmine left in a pall of gloom; the whole of his world knew about Ulysses, which was the penalty for a rather strident independence, he reflected. He was as guilty as the next man; so was John Silvestri. It reminded him of the time a more zealous mayor than Ethan Winthrop had tried to introduce a one-way traffic system to Holloman, where streets had gone both ways since the horse and cart. Holloman didn’t like it, and Holloman refused to obey. Years went by before sheer automobile pressure finally brought one-way streets. It’s a fool politician who tries to create Utopia, he thought. I bet the Reds know that.
Lancelot Sterling didn’t move back into his condominium, which became permanently cordoned off when Abe discovered the well-preserved remains of a man carefully laid out beneath the false bottom of a very long, capacious storage bin attached to the wall of his basement. When its lid was lifted it was found to contain someone’s property: clothes, books, a set of weights, geographical magazines, maps, a tent, a sleeping bag, and other items that suggested an up-front, hiking itinerant.
The body was nude and, externally, missing its scrotum, though the penis was intact. A midline incision, meticulously sutured, ran from his throat to just above the pubes, but the contours of the trunk were perfect. Very little decomposition had occurred, Patrick thought because the compartment under the body was full of hygroscopic crystals. Someone, presumably Sterling, was reactivating them a bucket at a time, which made them a pink or colorless patchwork.
“He heats them in an oven to drive out the moisture they soak up,” Patrick explained, “which accounts for the change in color. It must have cost Sterling a bundle to accumulate this much. He’s put pans of sodium bicarbonate around to remove any smell, but I doubt the smell’s as bad as a freshman dissecting lab.” He pointed at the incision. “I’ll have to get him on my table to find out, but I predict that Sterling has removed the entrails—alimentary canal, liver, lungs, kidneys, bladder. Probably left the heart in situ. This is a mummy. With the false bottom in place, I imagine the humidity inside his secret compartment is very near zero. I’ll test it with a hygrometer.”
He was talking to Abe; Carmine had handed the case over to him to see how he fared, very glad that his decision seemed the logical one. Abe was the original investigating officer. Corey had no valid grounds to assume either that Abe had been favored or that he had been excluded for any reason having to do with Larry Pisano’s lieutenancy. Now Carmine hoped for a case to give to Corey. The day when the panel met to decide which man got the job was looming, and there were four people—two detectives and two wives—who would be examining their treatment with a microscope. The closer the day drew, the greater Carmine’s grief. Why did Lancelot Sterling have to be such a meaty murder, and how could he equilibrate Corey?
Abe was glowing when Carmine walked into the autopsy suite, despite the grisly nature of the crime; it was his talent for finding concealed compartments that had broken the case open, and he felt all the thrill of a job done better than others could have. He was not by nature overambitious, nor was he a selfish man, but he had his share of pride, both in his work and in himself.
“There was a wallet in the storage bin,” Abe said to Carmine. “The victim’s name is Mark Schmidt, according to his driver’s license, issued in Wisconsin two years ago on his eighteenth birthday. Whatever money he had is gone, but his MasterCard is there. The last receipt is dated October of 1966—seven months ago. No photos or letters.”