Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“So the total picture sounds pretty much like”—Ross-man’s eyes narrow as he calculates aloud—“oh, I’d say—about age thirty-seven.”

“Right.” Konig nods. “And that’s just where I’m placing poor Rolfe. Thirty-seven years—maybe forty. Now what d’ya have for me on Ferde?”

Rossman moves quickly around his desk and back to the scanner. “Ferde’s mote interesting. Wait a sec while I stick up his pictures.”

In the next moment both men are back at the scanner, staring up at a row of seven X-ray negatives depicting skull, jaw, mandible, and dentition from various angles. “Now Ferde,” Rossman begins, “was left with twenty-five teeth. All seven of the missing teeth are postmortem extractions.”

“Postmortem.” Konig scribbles into his pad.

“There’s extensive abrasion due to bruxism. He was a tooth-grinder. Probably high-strung. Nervous type.”

“Fine.” Konig scribbles rapidly. “Keep going.”

“I found innumerable carious lesions. Ferde was undoubtedly a big candy eater. And absolutely no fillings at “None?” Konig glances up questioningly.

“None. Not a filling in his head.”

“Curious.”

“Not really. Not in lower-income classes. Fairly common. They’re generally big sugar eaters, and they don’t get their teeth cared for. Just chew with them till they fall out, then chew with their gums. But I did find something curious. Look over here on the lower left central incisor. See that milky white patch?”

“Where?” Konig squints upward at the scanner.

“Right there. Incisal third of the outer surface.”

“Oh, yes.” Konig nods. “Small stain in the center of it What is it?”

“Don’t know.” Rossman shakes his head. “Can’t figure out what the hell it is.”

“Nicotine?”

“Wouldn’t think so. Those are not smokers’ teeth. No signs of tar anywhere else.”

“Looks like a fairly young mouth,” says Konig.

“It is. All four of the wisdom teeth are unerupted. But the left upper is showing signs of impaction. See there? Just look at the jaws.”

Squinting up at the negatives, Konig can see clearly all four of the wisdom teeth still embedded in the jaws, completely unerupted. He knows quite well that wisdom teeth rarely appear before the seventeenth year, and that they are most commonly all erupted by the twenty-first to twenty-fourth years.

“And look at those roots, Paul,” Rossman chatters on eagerly. “Note how they don’t appear completely in the radiographs.”

“Meaning they’re not fully calcified?”

“That’s right. That suggests a person not fully mature.” Konig’s steely eyes quickly run down a list of notes on the condition of Ferde’s remains… “‘No sign of cloture in any of the skull sutures. All epiphyseal seals of limb bones united but some not completely fused.’” He looks up from his notes. “I’d say between eighteen and twenty-five, but based on the unerupted wisdom teeth, I’d say closer to eighteen. Ferde eighteen. Rolfe thirty-seven.” Konig scribbles into his pad then claps it shut. When he looks up again, Rossman is beaming down upon him with pleasure.

“Thank you, Barney. That was very helpful.”

“Always a pleasure, Paul. Oh—just one other thing. Just as a matter of passing interest, the job done on Ferde was not as clean as the one done on Rolfe.”

“Nor as thorough,” Konig agrees. “Only seven extractions as compared to the fourteen done on Rolfe.”

“Right.” Rossman nods. “It’s as if the maniac who did this—”

“—ran out of time,” Konig says, completing the thought for him. “The dismemberment obviously started with Rolfe, took more time than was anticipated. The cutting is much cleaner, the mutilation much more, extensive on the older cadaver. By the time our man got to Ferde he was getting sloppy. Either he was tired or he was running out of time. Yes’, Barney, I thought of that too.”

For a moment the two men gaze at each other. Suddenly Rossman’s phone rings. As he picks it up Konig waves at him and starts out “Yes, he’s here,” Rossman murmurs into the phone. “Just a moment, please. For you, Paul.”

Moving back across the room Konig feels an icy sense of mounting fright. Almost afraid to take the call, his hand trembles as he reaches for the receiver. But it’s only Carver. The moment he hears that warm, husky voice the fear melts. Once again he’s in command, brusque and as imperious as ever.

“Ratchett calling, Chief. You want me to switch it up there?”

“No”—Konig chews furiously on the end of a cold cigar—“I’ll take it in my office.”

“I can’t do that, Paul.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Are you kidding? They’d fry me alive if they ever found—”

“Oh, cut the crap, Bill. Listen, you owe me a couple, don’t you?”

“Sure. I’m not saying I—”

“Don’t forget that Mendoza business.”

“I’m not, but—”

“I’ve got a whole file on that. Then there’s the Bartholomew job. To a lot of people I know downtown that still stinks out loud. And I’m not forgetting—”

“Okay. Okay, Paul. What the hell do you want exactly? Just spell it out.”

Konig leans back in his chair, puffs deeply on his cigar, then withdraws it and for a moment regards its glowing tip. “Blaylock’s appointment book,” he says very quietly, “for the month of March.”

There’s a pause in which Konig can hear the agitated breathing, the palpable desperation on the other end. Finally it erupts in hissing torrents. “Are you mad? Crazy? He keeps that right on his desk. He’d know in a minute if—”

“You’re an appointments secretary, aren’t you, Bill?”

“Yes. What the hell’s that got to—”

“You keep a log of his appointments, don’t you?”

“A log?”

“Don’t play dumb, Bill. I’m in a rush. I’ve got no time for games. You’re an administrative assistant. No one sees Blaylock without going through you first. Right?”

“Right, but—”

“No buts. So you have a log. Right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Where is it?”

“In my desk drawer.” Ratchett’s voice is now grim, resigned, all the protest leaking out of it.

“Very good. Now, take it out of your drawer.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Paul—I can’t do it now. Let me have twenty-four hours on this. First I’ve got to—”

“Now,” Konig growls into the phone. “If I don’t get the information I want from you this minute, the Mendoza file and the Bartholomew file are going to be tied up in pink ribbon and hand-carried to the District Attorney’s office.” There is complete silence from the other end of the phone. For a moment Konig believes they’ve been disconnected or that Ratchett has hung up. But in the next moment he can hear quite distinctly the slow, rasping sound of a drawer sliding open a few miles south of where he himself is sitting at that moment. Then comes the sound of papers rustling. Then William Ratchett’s agitated breathing back on the horn.

“Okay,” says Konig. “You got it?”

“I got it.”

“Fine. Now open it to the month of March.”

Konig can hear papers flipping quickly.

“Okay,” says Ratchett. “I’m at March. What part of March are you interested in?”

“Linnel Robinson was found dead in his cell on March seventh. He was autopsied here March ninth. I want you to tell me if between the seventh and the ninth Blaylock had a visit from Carl Strang.”

Konig carefully lays the receiver down on his desk and rummages through a protocol while all the choking and gagging come sputtering through the receiver. When the voice seems to have quieted, he slowly lifts the phone again. “Finished now?”