A Far Gone Night (7 page)

“I’d like to see a copy of her autopsy report, please,” I said.

“Unless you’re family, which you are not, I can’t do that. Privacy issues,” he said, seeming to be fortified by escaping into regulations.

“Okay, Prentice, but you can release a summary of your findings. That’s public record.”

He gave me a severe look, angry, and afraid. He spun around in his swivel chair to his computer on a side table, moved the mouse around, clicked on something, and hit a button. His printer whirred and produced a piece of paper. He stood and stalked over to me, looked at me for a long time with an expression I could not identify, then shoved the paper at me and said, “Now get out, Thomas. Please.”

I looked into his eyes and said, “If there’s something going on with you, I can help, Prentice.
Seriously.”

“Everywhere you go, Thomas, there are bodies. I don’t want mine counted among them,” he said. Then Dr. Prentice
Jarlsson
turned and left the room, disappearing into the interior of his domain.

I looked at the paper he’d handed me. It was an official coroner’s report dated 12:30 AM today, Friday. It read:

The body of an unidentified white female was
removd
from the Whitetail River by Thomas O’Shea, passerby, at approximately 2:30 AM on
wednesday
, November 17. The deceased was naked when she was found and brought to my office at 3:30 AM by EMS staff. The
leceased
appears to be approximately fifteen years of age. There
areno
identifiable marks on the body and there was no jewelry on the body. No tattoos.
A thorough
examination revealed water in her lungs which indicates clearly that the cause of death was due to drowning.
No indication of
fowl
play
.

There were no personal effects except for one very small silver earring taken from her left ear, identifiable as a tiny eagles head figure with an attached
selver
feather.

Fingerprints were taken of the deceased for purposes of identification.

Signed, Dr. Prentice
Jarlsson
, D.O.

Rockbluff
County Medical Coroner

I thought about the “Fingerprints were taken of the deceased for purposes of identification” note and decided to go see if Sheriff Payne had run them yet. And I wondered about all the spelling and mechanical errors in the report. And why the bold
font on the “No indication of
fowl
play” statement with “fowl” instead of “foul
”? Was he exonerating poultry? Not to mention the “no jewelry” and “one small earring” contradiction. I didn’t remember
Jarlsson
as having problems with clarity because I had seen his Medical Examiner’s Reports on the two men I shot and killed in my home thirteen months ago. In fact, I remember the reports as being meticulous in presentation, succinct, professional. And another thing; his signature on the report was illegible. I remembered it from before as readable, at least for a doctor’s signature. I looked around the office one more time. The place was neat and orderly and business like. There was a photo of
Jarlsson
shaking hands with the Governor of Iowa, and another photo of him posing with Ernie Banks, still in his Cubs uniform.
A couple of plaques for meritorious service from the Elks and the Kiwanis Club.

I decided to go see Harmon Payne.

As I turned to leave, I opened the door to the minimalist parking lot and met Suzanne
Highsmith
, writer.

“Saw your truck outside, Thomas. And how are you this fine
mornin
’, and what are you doing here, may I ask?”

Apparently she’d been sleeping well. There was a glow about her, and her breath, which I could see in the cold air, was sweet.

“I was wondering when you’d show up again. Heard you were still in town,” I said, holding the door open for her, yet standing in her way.

“I’ve been holed up in my motel room, writing, Thomas. And again, I ask, what are you doing here?”

“I have the same question for you. There haven’t been any gunfights, no shootings downtown, nothing like that.”

“Oh, I just thought I’d see what the coroner’s report said about the floater you fished out of the river the other morning.”

“She was a young girl,” I said. “Not a ‘floater.’ Please.”

Suzanne’s eyes lost a bit of their fierce hardness. “I know. Sorry. I wasn’t there.”

“Well, let me get out of your way. Dr.
Jarlsson
is in, but he’s not in a very conversational mood.” I offered, folding his report over in my hand and sliding it into my hip pocket.

“What’s that!” she said, her eyes locking on where the report had gone. “Thomas, what is that?” She tugged at my hand and it felt nice, even
through
her leather gloves.

“It’s the coroner’s report signed by Dr.
Jarlsson
. I doubt he’ll give you a copy. As I said, he’s a bit of a grump today. But I wish you well.”

“I’ll buy you dinner if you make a copy for me. There’s a copy machine in the
Rockbluff
Motel Office,” she said.
“A very
nice
dinner.”

“There’s a copy machine in my house, too. But I’m keeping this one to myself.”

“You know I’ll get my own, don’t you?”

“But not as quickly as I did.”

“He has to give me a copy.
Public record.
I’d hate to threaten him with legal action,” she said.

“That would be tacky.”

“Let me through, Thomas.”

“He’s retreated to private areas.”

“I can be very patient,” she replied, and slipped on by me.

“Good luck, Suzanne.”

She just waved a hand behind her as she entered the offices. I continued on out to the parking lot and climbed into my truck. While I was re-reading the note, Dr.
Jarlsson
emerged from a door at the side of the building, gave me a grave look, jumped into his four-years-old gray Camry, and took off, bumping my fender. We did not exchange insurance information.

I knew Suzanne would be rushing out the door, so I put away the report, started up my truck, and left, heading over to have a conversation with Sheriff Payne. I decided to share what I knew and see what information he could offer. No point in tailing
Jarlsson
. He’d probably drive into a tree.

In my rearview mirror, I saw Suzanne burst from the front door, throw up her hands in frustration, and wave at me to come back. I pretended I didn’t see. That’s all I need, saddled with
Highsmith
while trying to help figure out what the hell was going on in peaceful, bucolic
Rockbluff
, Iowa. I headed for the courthouse, and Payne’s offices underneath, troubled greatly that I had forgotten to get Suzanne’s autograph on my copy of
Something Rotten in
Rockbluff
.

“I
’m glad you’re sitting down,” I said as I entered the offices of the
Rockbluff
County Sheriff’s Department.

Harmon Payne looked up from behind his desk. Deputy Stephen
Doltch
, who was standing with a sheaf of papers in his hand, looked at me with a kind of smirking expression and then looked at Payne.
Then sat down to his computer.

“Now what have you done?” Payne groaned. “No, wait! You’ve solved the case of our young suicide.
Thank you
, Thomas!’

“There’s no time for sarcasm.” I walked over to his desk. He used his foot to push out the banker’s chair beside it. I am more familiar with that chair than I’d care to admit. I sat down.
Doltch
shook his head and turned to his computer.

“Coffee, Thomas?”

“No. I’m about to burst as it is. Did you see Dr.
Jarlsson’s
report on the dead girl?”

“Of course.
He faxed it to me in the middle of the night.” He eyed me, suspicion coming off of him in waves. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

I took a deep breath. Might as well be truthful right up front. Time’s winged chariot waits for no one. “It’s a lie.”

Payne sat up straight.
Doltch
froze at his keyboard. I had their attention.

Payne made a give-it-to-me gesture with his hand. “Talk to me.”

“The report says she drowned. Not so. She was murdered.”

“And you know this because…?” Payne asked.

“When I pulled her from the river, Harmon, and set her on the bank, I repositioned her head to a
more,
I mean, well, a more
comfortable
position. And when I touched her head, I found two bullet holes in the back of her skull.”

Doltch
snorted. He said “You made a corpse’s head more comfortable?
A freaking
corpse
?
That takes the cake.”

I ignored him.

Payne asked, “Why would
Prentice
lie, Thomas? He’s a good man.
A friend of mine.
Decent, hardworking, fine family.”

“You tell me.”

Payne paused. “Are you sure about the bullet holes? Could it have been places where she hit her head coming downstream? It’s a bit rocky on the northern reach of the Whitetail.”

“I know a bullet hole when I see one.
When I feel one.”

Payne slowly nodded his head. “I believe you do.”

“This is so much bullshit!”
Doltch
said from across the room. “Dr.
Jarlsson’s
report said the girl died of drowning, not from gunshots. It was a suicide, not a murder. That’s good enough for me. O’Shea, you are just so full of it. Are you going to believe this guy, Sheriff?”

“I believe he believes the girl had been shot in the head, murdered,” Payne said. “But let’s not get our panties in a wad before we know anything for sure. I’ll give Prentice a call and see if I can take a look at the body.”

“Dr.
Jarlsson
took off right after I talked to him this morning,” I said.

Payne looked pained. “There you go again, Thomas, jumping the tracks and going out on your own investigation. We’ve talked about that. I respect you, but you do burn my butt when you go charging off. Now, dammit, leave this to me. A simple phone
call,
or just stopping by here for free coffee and a chat about your suspicions would have been fine. First you moved the body when it wasn’t your place, and now you’re nosing around in law enforcement business when you aren’t authorized. So, please, go home, or stop by and see our friend Moon at The Grain. Drink some beer, take up macramé or something. I’ll check things out and get back to you. Got it?”

“It makes me nervous, but I’ll submit to an authority greater than I.”

I ignored
Doltch
as I left the office. He was fuming, but he’d get over it. One thing I’ll give him, though, that overrules his emotions, and that is he is loyal to his people. First at the
Soderstrom
Farm months ago when he resented my remarks about the dead Hugh
Soderstrom
,
Doltch’s
friend and former teammate, and now, with the county coroner, with whom he probably had a good relationship, too. I admire loyalty.

So I left, fully intending to obey Payne’s directive. I drove back over the double-arched limestone bridge that had become so dear to me, and headed for the Hy-Vee to get wine for Thanksgiving, and to visit the small liquor store next door for that bottle of brandy Jan wanted.

I took a long walk on Saturday, watched three college basketball games, and began reading Ken Follett’s latest 1,100-page novel. And mostly, I behaved myself, even though Harmon Payne had not called, e-mailed, or spoken to me about his promised conversation with Dr.
Jarlsson
. I stayed away from
Rockbluff’s
environs except for Sunday worship services at Christ the King Church. Carl
Heisler
preached a grace-filled sermon surrounded by praise songs that always bring tears to my eyes, if I let them. I spoke with Carl and Molly briefly after the service, turned down their invitation to Thanksgiving dinner and told them why.

After Sunday worship, I swung by Subway and ordered a foot-long meatball sub and took it home, sharing the last bites with Gotcha. After a nap, I just whiled away the afternoon.
Still nothing from Payne.

I tried everything to get my mind off his lack of communication. Around 10:30 Sunday night I decided just riding around a bit in my truck was irresistible, so I put on a sweatshirt and my Navy pea coat, gave Gotcha a going-away treat, got in my truck, and drove into
Rockbluff
.

My plan was to simply drive around town, enjoying the ambiance of a lovely little village on a quiet early-winter’s night, maybe drift by the coroner’s office in my meanderings. When I actually drove by the yellow-brick building, it looked to me like the front door was ajar. So I turned in and shone my headlights on the door and, sure enough, it was open just a crack.

Well, if God didn’t want me to go investigate, why else would the door be beckoning me to have a little innocent look-see? One has to be spiritually discerning to interpret signs and wonders, and I am.
Sometimes.
Depending on the weather.

I killed the lights and shut down the engine and got out of my truck. I crept up to the front door of Dr.
Jarlsson’s
office and pushed open the door with my fingertips, wishing I had brought Elsie the shotgun with me.

The office was dark. I swept my open left hand against the wall, searching and finding a switch. I flipped it up and light flooded the office.

There were papers all over the floor, desk drawers wrenched open and bent or broken, and broken picture frames strewn about. The two file cabinets were tipped over onto their twisted metal drawers, and the computer that I had seen just a couple of days before was gone.

I decided to take a look into the lab. Its door was slightly ajar as well, and there was no light shining from within. I crossed the office, crunching broken glass underfoot and nearly slipping on papers. There was enough light in the office projecting into the lab for me to find the light switch. I turned on the lights.
More of the same.

The first thing I noticed was the metal examination table in the middle of the room, but then I saw to my left the wall of compartments where bodies were kept in refrigeration until their disposition to families, or friends, or the State. Three of the doors were open and the compartments empty. The other two were closed.

I’ve been around plenty of dead bodies, so I was not fearful of peeking inside the closed compartments. They were empty, too. The body of the murdered girl was gone. It was enough to make me think maybe something was amiss.
Hard to fool an astute observer like me.
I walked deeper into the examination room to see what else I might discover before the sound of glass crunching underfoot behind me disrupted my thinking.

“Stop right there, don’t move, and raise your hands high over your head!”

I recognized the booming voice of Deputy Stephen
Doltch
. Still, I obeyed. Sometimes I can follow instructions. I turned around. Halfway in my rotation to greet The Face of the Law,
Doltch
shouted, “Don’t turn around!”

Then he recognized me at the same time I recognized the
Glock
pointed squarely at my chest. Upon seeing who I was, I had hoped he would lower his weapon. He did not. A twisted smile crossed his handsome face.

“It’s the curious Thomas O’Shea, is it now?” he said with a decent attempt at an Irish brogue.

“As I live and breathe, Deputy.”

“What are you doing here, in the middle of an obvious crime scene?”

“Would you please lower your gun? You make me nervous. I have no idea if you’re proficient in firearms or not, and I’d hate to have it go off in order to learn that you are not.”

“Always with the attitude,” he muttered. He did not lower the weapon. “Turn around. I’m going to cuff you.”

“Is that really necessary?” I lowered my arms.

“Hands back up!
And don’t move!”

I complied and
Doltch
came over, holstered his weapon, spun me around in a rather rude manner, pulled down my hands and jerked them behind me, shooting pain through my shoulders. I grimaced but he didn’t see. What a relief that was. Then he handcuffed me. I have an irrational fear of having my hands immobilized behind my back because just about every time it’s happened, something bad follows. But not always, so I tried to mask my nervousness.

“You’re under arrest for breaking and entering, trespassing on government property, and interfering in a police investigation.” Then he read me my rights.

“I didn’t break and enter. The door was already open.”

“Let’s go, dickhead.”

Doltch
put his hand on my shoulder and shoved me, but I shoved back in protest of his unnecessary use of muscle.

“Oh, boy,” he said, “you thinking about resisting arrest? I wish you’d give it a shot.”

“Even in my restricted condition and advanced age, you don’t want that,” I said.

Doltch
chuckled, not realizing that in five seconds I could have him on the floor. A knee to the groin, another knee to the face when he bent over in
pain,
and a sudden half-turn and stomping on his right instep, collapsing the arch, would do it. Tempting though it was, I resisted the impulse. He was just doing his job, albeit a bit overboard.

Doltch
turned out the lights and shut the front door to the office as we left. He put me in the back of his cruiser, shoving my head down. We drove in silence to the Sheriff’s Department in the basement of the
Rockbluff
County Court House. I leaned forward and looked at the clock on the dash. It was 11:15 PM, way past my bedtime.

He parked in the official parking lot behind the courthouse, pulled me out of the back seat and, hand on arm,
marched
me around front to the limestone steps leading down to the Sheriff’s Department. At the top of the stairs we hesitated,
then
a hefty shove in the middle of my back got us started again.

Was
Doltch
trying to push me down the stairs? Did he want me to fall? In any case, I was able to resist, grateful that I was in good shape. I wondered who would be on duty so late on a Sunday night, but I quickly found out as Deputy Penny
Altemier
got up from her desk and came around as we entered the lavish offices of the
Rockbluff
County Sheriff’s Department.