Ed McBain - The Last Dance

"Nope," he said, and rolled the corpse onto his back again. The man's penis was swollen and distended. "Postmortem lividity," Blaney explained. "Settling of tissue fluids." There were dried stains in the corpse's undershorts. "Probably semen," Blaney said. "We don't know why, but a seminal discharge is commonplace in cases of asphyxia. Has nothing whatever to do with any sexual activity. Rigor mortis in the seminal vesicles causes it." He looked at Carella. Carella merely nodded. "No rope burns," Blaney said, examining the neck, "no imprint of a noose, no blisters from pinching or squeezing of the skin. A knot may have caused this," he said, indicating a small bruise under the chin. "Did you find any kind of noose?"

"We haven't really made a search yet," Carella said.

"Well, it certainly looks like a hanging," Blaney said, "but who knows?"

"Who knows indeed?" Carella echoed, as if they were

going through a familiar vaudeville routine.

"If I were you, I'd talk to the daughter some more,"

Blaney said. "Let's see what the autopsy shows. Mean

while, he's dead and he's yours."

The mobile crime unit arrived some ten minutes later,

after the body and Blaney were both gone. Carella told

them to keep a special lookout for fibers. The chief technician told him they were always on the lookout for fibers, what did he mean by a special lookout? Carella cut his eyes toward where Meyer was talking to Cynthia Keating across the room. The chief technician still didn't know why a special lookout for fibers was necessary, but he didn't ask Carella anything else.

It was starting to rain.

The mandatory date for turning on the heat in this city

was October fifteenth—birthdate of great men, Carella

thought, but did not say. This was already the twenty-

ninth but too many buildings took their time complying

with the law. The rain and the falling temperature outside

combined to make it a little chilly in the apartment. The

technicians, who had just come in from the cold, kept their

coats on. Carella put his coat back on before ambling over

to where Meyer was idly and casually chatting up the dead

man's daughter. They both wanted to know if she'd found the body exactly where she'd said she'd found it, but they

weren't asking that just yet.

". . . or did you just drop by?" Meyer said.

"He knew I was coming."

"Did he know what time?"

"No. I just said I'd be by sometime this morning."

"But he was still in bed when you got here?"

The key question.

"Yes," she said.

No hesitation on her part.

"Wearing all his clothes?" Carella asked.

She turned toward him. Bad Cop flashed in her eyes.

Too many damn television shows these days, everyone

knew all the cop tricks.

"Yes," she said. "Well, not his shoes and socks."

"Did he always sleep with his clothes on?" Carella

asked.

"No. He must have gotten up and . . ."

"Yes?" Meyer said.

She turned to look at him, suspecting Good Cop, but not yet certain.

"Gone back to bed again," she explained.

"I see," Mayer said, and turned to Carella as if seeking

approval of this perfectly reasonable explanation of why

a man was in bed with all his clothes on except for his

shoes and socks.

"Maybe he felt something coming on," Cynthia said

further.

"Something coming on?" Meyer said, encouraging

her.

"Yes. A heart attack. People know when they're coming."

"I see. And you figure he might have gone to lie down."

"Yes."

"Didn't call an ambulance or anything," Carella said.

"Just went to lie down."

"Yes. Thinking it might pass. The heart attack."

"Took off his shoes and socks and went to lie down."

"Yes."

"Was the door locked when you got here?" Carella

asked.

"I have a key."

"Then it was locked."

"Yes."

"Did you knock?"

"I knocked, but there was no answer. So I let myself

in."

"And found your father in bed."

"Yes."

"Were his shoes and socks where they are now?"

"Yes."

"On the floor there? Near the easy chair?"

"Yes."

"So you called the police," Meyer said for the third

time.

"Yes," Cynthia said, and looked at him.

"Did you suspect foul play of any sort?" Carella asked.

"No. Of course not."

"But you called the police," Meyer said.

"Why is that important?" she snapped, suddenly tip

ping to what was going on here, Good Cop becoming Bad Cop in the wink of an eye.

"He's merely asking," Carella said.

"No, he's not merely asking, he seems to think it's

important. He keeps asking me over and over again did

I call the police, did I call the police, when you know I

called the police, otherwise you wouldn't be here!"

"We have to ask certain questions," Carella said gently.

"But why that particular question?"

"Because some people wouldn't necessarily call the

police if they found someone dead from apparent natural

causes."

"Who would they call? Necessarily?"

"Relatives, friends, even a lawyer. Not necessarily

the police, is all my partner's saying," Carella explained

gently.

"Then why doesn't he say it?" Cynthia snapped. "Instead of asking me all the time did I call the police!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Meyer said in his most abject voice. "I didn't mean to suggest there was anything peculiar about your calling the police."

"Well, your partner here seems to think it was peculiar," Cynthia said, thoroughly confused now. "He seems

to think I should have called my husband or my girlfriend

or my priest or anybody but the police, what is it with

you two?"

"We simply have to investigate every possibility,"

Carella said, more convinced than ever that she was lying.

"By all appearances, your father died in bed, possibly

from a heart attack, possibly from some other cause, we

won't know that until the autopsy results are . . ."

"He was an old man who'd suffered two previous heart attacks," Cynthia said. "What do you think he died of?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Carella said. "Do you?"

Cynthia looked him dead in the eye.

"My husband's a lawyer, you know," she said.

"Is your mother still alive?" Meyer asked, ducking the question and its implied threat.

"He's on the way here now," she said, not turning to look at Meyer, her gaze still fastened on Carella, as if willing him to melt before her very eyes. Green, he noticed. A person could easily melt under a green-eyed laser beam.

"Is she?" Meyer asked.

"She's alive," Cynthia said. "But they're divorced."

"Any other children besides you?"

She glared at Carella a moment longer, and then turned to Meyer, seemingly calmer now. "Just me," she said.

"How long have they been divorced?" Meyer asked.

"Five years."

"What was his current situation?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your father. Was he living with anyone?"

"I have no idea."

"Seeing anyone?"

"His private life was his own business."

"How often did you see your father, Mrs Keating?"

"Around once a month."

"Had he been complaining about his heart lately?" Carella asked.

"Not to me, no. But you know how old men are. They

don't take care of themselves."

"Was he complaining about his heart to anyone at allT Meyer asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Then what makes you think he died of a heart attack?" Carella asked.

Cynthia looked first at him, and then at Meyer, and then at Carella again.

"I don't think I like either one of you," she said and walked out into the kitchen to stand alone by the window.

One of the technicians had been hovering. He caught