Death at Charity's Point (5 page)

Dr. Clapp rested his chin on the interlaced fingers of both hands, as if in prayer. I imagined poor George Gresham flailing in the turbulent water. I could not imagine anyone choosing that manner of death voluntarily.

“We’ve developed some pretty sophisticated tests, incidentally,” he went on. “Blood chloride levels in the chambers of the heart, for example. The sodium chloride level in the blood is higher than normal in the blood coming from the lungs in a salt-water drowning. And then there are diatoms.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Diatoms?”

“Yes. Microscopic particles found in water. Little silicate skeletons. Tiny fossils. When drowning occurs, they are circulated through the blood into the organs. It’s one of the sure ways of determining that a body died from downing, rather than, for example, falling into the water
after
cardiac arrest. A dead body will absorb sea water. The lungs may well be full, even the stomach. But because the heart isn’t pumping, the diatoms will not be found in the organs. We detect them by examining liver sections. Diatoms even can help us pinpoint where a body drowned. They’re different in fresh and salt water, and different bodies of water contain their own characteristic diatoms.”

I frowned. Dr. Clapp looked at me as if he were surprised to see me sitting across from him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I do tend to get carried away sometimes. Suffice it to say that we can pretty much rule out a natural cause of death, and we’re certain that none of the blows to Mr. Gresham’s body was fatal. He did drown, all right.”

I thought for a moment. “What about drugs or alcohol?”

“A fair question. Naturally, we test routinely for them. Poisons, too, if we suspect them. There were traces of pyribenzimine in Mr. Gresham’s blood.”

“Traces of what?”

“Pyribenzimine. It’s a routine prescription. He evidently suffered from hay fever. He had taken a pill a few hours before he died.”

“Funny thing for a man to do if he was planning to kill himself,” I said.

Dr. Clapp shrugged. “I suppose. One doesn’t necessarily expect entirely rational behavior from someone in that state of mind. Anyhow, we found nothing to suggest a drug- or alcohol-related factor. Nothing. From what we’ve been able to determine, Mr. Gresham lived a very clean life.”

“Yes. I would have thought so.”

“We did a thorough job, Mr. Coyne. I can appreciate your concerns, naturally. But we do have very sophisticated technology. I took sections from each organ, samples of all the bodily fluids, samples from each orifice, hair from all parts of the body, scrapings from under the nails. All were tested in my laboratories either by me or under my supervision. There was nothing countersuggestive. Nothing at all.”

“And there was the note.”

“Yes. There was, of course, the note. That made it all fit together.”

“Very neatly.”

“You still sound dubious.” He tilted his head back and stared at me over his glasses.

“On Mrs. Gresham’s account, I have to be. I must admit you make a persuasive case.”

He snatched his glasses from his nose with a quick, almost angry motion of his hand, and leaned toward me. “Understand me. I make
no
case. My job is not to make a case. The evidence makes the case. I use my scientific expertise to draw the conclusions that the evidence points to. I have no axe to grind. None whatsoever. I am neutral. I am a scientist. Sometimes I am called upon to examine the tissues from a living body, you know. Sometimes I discover carcinoma. That doesn’t make me happy. I do not make a case for cancer. I report it. Do you think I want George Gresham’s death to have been a suicide? Do you think I
care
? My job is
not
to care. My job is to discover, interpret, conclude, and report.”

I averted my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” His tone was gentler. “Personally, I am always saddened to discover suicide. I am, first and foremost, a doctor. Committed to life. Yes, even pathologists—
especially
pathologists, especially
forensic
pathologists—are solemnly sworn to the great cause of human life. A life senselessly or needlessly destroyed is reason for great unhappiness among doctors. When I think of the confusion, the misery, the hopelessness of a man who is driven to destroy his own life, I do mourn, Mr. Coyne.” He paused. “But I still must report it.”

“I know,” I mumbled, feeling inane. I had had my hand slapped, and I deserved it.

“Please excuse my vehemence.” Dr. Clapp cleared his throat, indicating that the subject was closed. “Now, about the note. You’ll want a copy of it, of course.”

I nodded.

“The original remains with me, but copies are available. I’ve had a photocopy made for you. Perhaps you’ll deliver it to Mr. Gresham’s mother, if she is interested.”

He retrieved a piece of paper from the folder before him and held it up. “Let me assure you that all of the appropriate tests have been run to authenticate this note. It was typed on the typewriter in Mr. Gresham’s room. It was signed by him. And,” he added, staring meaningfully at me, “the envelope it was found in was sealed by George Gresham’s tongue. We were especially meticulous with these tests. Each was performed twice by different technicians. We are virtually certain that George Gresham wrote that note, signed it, and sealed it in an envelope himself.”

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I understand about the handwriting and the typewriter. But how in the world can you tell who sealed the envelope?”

“That really is something, isn’t it?” Dr. Clapp nodded his head, arched his eyebrows, and grinned. He seemed genuinely amazed himself. “Actually, I overstated the case just a bit. We are only ninety percent certain that Mr. Gresham sealed that envelope.”

“Even ninety percent…”

“Yes. You see, serology—the study of the blood—has made wonderful strides in recent years. We now know that virtually all the body’s fluids—perspiration, semen, urine, bone marrow, saliva, and so on—can be typed. Like blood. And the groups are the same as blood. Someone with Type A blood will have Type A sweat, for example. Saliva is really the easiest to type, since it carries such a high concentration of agglutinins and agglutinogens. Our folks in the lab can take an old cigarette butt and tell the blood type of the person who smoked it. We’ve eliminated suspects on the basis of the saliva residue on a bite mark. A recently sealed envelope posed no particular problem.”

“But…”

“Ninety percent. Okay. As you know, there are four blood groups—O, A, B, and AB. Mr. Gresham happened to be Type B. The residue of saliva on the gum of the envelope seal was also Type B. Now, since only ten percent of the white American population is Type B…” He nodded once, and leaned back in his chair.

“I believe you,” I grinned. I took the paper he handed me. The words were constructed on the paper like a freeform poem.

Now

I have nothing.

The rest is silence.

Regrets fly up

Like unanswered prayers.

It was signed in a small, fussy script: “G. Gresham.” And he scribbled the date under his name—May 1.

“I thought he jumped on the night of April 30,” I said. “He’s dated it the first of May.”

Dr. Clapp shrugged. “I wondered about that, too. I guess he knew that’s when it would be found.”

“I suppose,” I said. I reread the note. “I’m not sure I get it. Some of it’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

The doctor nodded. “You recognize Hamlet’s dying words, of course. ‘The rest is silence.’ There’s another place in the play where the king, I believe—Hamlet’s uncle, whom he suspects of killing his father, seizing his throne, and sleeping with his mother—is trying to pray. But his guilt prevents him, and he says something about his words flying up but his thoughts remaining below.”

“I remember,” I said. “Hamlet’s watching him, and thinks he might kill his uncle then, while he’s praying. But he decides not to, because then the villain would go to heaven.” I looked at Dr. Clapp. “What do you suppose it means?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s surely about death, and I guess that’s all that really matters.”

“Gresham’s mother would think it matters,” I said. “It’s sort of a strange suicide note, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen plenty in my line of work, of course. Too many. Most of them, actually, are addressed to somebody specific—a husband or wife, a parent perhaps. Suicides don’t generally announce their intentions to the world. Some of them are pretty cruel. ‘You made me do it. I hope you’re happy now.’ That was one we had. A teen-aged boy wrote that one to his father before he hanged himself. Try living with that.”

“God!”

“Yes.” Dr. Clapp inclined his head. “Others, you know, are actually quite touching. ‘I’ll meet you in Heaven,’ or just ‘I love you.’ And some, to be sure, are long, rambling, incoherent discourses.”

“This one,” I said, tapping the paper I held, “it’s…”

“Epigrammatic.” Dr. Clapp finished my thought. “Yes. It’s eloquent, too. Poetic, really.”

“Very sad,” I said. Then I had another thought. “You found this in his jacket pocket, you said?”

He nodded, his eyebrows arched.

“Maybe,” I continued, “it had nothing to do with his fall. Maybe it was just a coincidence. A sad poem he had written. A life of regrets. Middle-aged ennui, that sort of thing.”

He nodded slowly. “It’s possible, of course. But you must admit, Mr. Coyne, most unlikely. In any case, that’s my verdict, and if the evidence seems circumstantial to you, well, it’s all the evidence we have, you see. Besides, there was the matter of Mr. Gresham’s father.”

“Dudley,” I said.

“He took his own life several years ago, you know. And that—statistically, at least—is very significant.”

I nodded. “It does all seem to fit.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it does.” Dr. Clapp began rustling the papers on his desk. I accepted the hint and rose, extending my hand.

“Thank you, Doctor, for your time. And for the most enlightening discussion.”

His handshake was firm. “Sorry if I lectured at you.”

I shook my head and smiled. “It was fascinating. Wish I could say I enjoyed it.”

He moved from behind his desk and walked with me the few steps to the door. “You know,” he said, “if you’re really concerned about Mr. Gresham’s frame of mind—if you want to try to understand this tragic thing—you should talk to the people who knew him, who he worked with, who were around him before he did this. There are so many things we scientists can’t know.”

I opened the door. “I suppose I’ll do that. At least on behalf of my client, I have to remain skeptical about the suicide. Not,” I added with a smile, “that I don’t trust you.”

His eyes wrinkled playfully. “Don’t trust anybody, Mr. Coyne. That’s one thing that both of our professions teach us. Don’t trust anybody.”

“I try not to,” I said.

I
GOT BACK TO
the office a little after two that afternoon. Julie was on the telephone. She lifted her eyebrows at me when I entered, then quickly put a finger to her lips. I nodded. She was holding a client off for me. She knew it wasn’t urgent. Maybe not even important. My clients tend to call just to chat. They usually seem content to chat with Julie. I consider that valid client service.

I grinned at her. She blew me a kiss, and then spoke into the telephone, her tone soothing. Her free hand twirled absently in her glossy, dark hair.

I went into my office and sat down heavily behind my desk. I had had no lunch, and I discovered that my stomach had hardened into a tight knot. It felt like a barrel knot. At least a clove hitch. As if I’d swallowed a double shot of Liquid-plumr. I was not used to being close up to death. Contracts, separation agreements, wills, citations, I was used to. But glossy photographs of cadaveric spasms and empty eye sockets were out of my line. Suicide notes didn’t seem to lend themselves to loophole-picking rational analysis.

Julie rapped softly at the half-open door to my office. “May I come in?”

I nodded, and she sat in the chair near my desk.

“Want some coffee?” I asked. “My turn to get it.”

“No, thanks. I’ve had my quota already. You know,” she said, frowning at me, “you drink too much of that stuff.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Ulcers, high blood pressure. Rots the brain. Ruins the bowels. You know, you get these little creases between your eyes when you glare at me. You don’t watch out, they’ll become permanent.”

“It causes cancer of the pancreas, too,” she persisted. “Edward says you’re trying to destroy yourself.”

“I thought Edward was a radiologist.”

“He is.”

“Not a psychiatrist.”

Julie tossed her head. “He knows all those things. I worry about you. Cigarettes, coffee, bourbon. You don’t get any exercise. You’re not a young man.”

I snorted. “He’s right. I am the living exemplification of the Death Instinct. On the other hand, there was nothing instinctive about George Gresham’s death. It seems to have been painstakingly conceived, scrupulously executed. I wonder,” I added, ostentatiously firing up a Winston, “if George regretted his clean living as he tumbled to his death. I bet his last thoughts were of bourbon Old Fashioneds and Lucky Strikes and shrimp scampi. Sad, huh?”

“You’re being perfectly ghoulish, Counselor,” she said. “Have a bad morning.”

“I had an accelerated course in more than you ever wanted to know about the abuse that can be heaped upon the human body. It takes a lot to kill a man. I don’t know very much about death. Or didn’t.”

“It was suicide, then?”

“Seems that way.” I summarized quickly what Dr. Clapp had told me. She listened intently, as I knew she would, sucking on the knuckle of her forefinger as I attempted to reconstruct the pathologist’s explanation of how the human body dies from drowning. When I had finished, she stared at me for a moment.

“So it all hinges on the note?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it does. Without the note, I guess it would be a lot of conjecture. But there was the note.”

I removed it from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Tell me what you think.”