Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

“Twenty-eight years in the business,” she stated, absentmindedly stroking the happy cat. “Thirteen of them right here.”

“And Gorden Marshall? How long was he here?”

“Eight years,” she answered quickly.

“Just him?”

“Yes. He arrived as a widower, which is not the norm, since the women generally outlive the men, and to be blunt, he was never in great shape.”

“How was he discovered?” Joe asked. “I take it he lived alone.”

“He did,” she replied. “But he also had an early breakfast routine with some buddies. He didn’t show up, they made a phone call he didn’t answer, and they sounded the alarm.”

“How was he as a tenant?” Joe asked. “Or whatever you call them.”

“We prefer ‘resident,’” she instructed him. “And he could be a bear. The Woods of Windsor is pretty high on the social ladder, as you probably noticed. It attracts some leadership personalities.”

Joe smiled. “Very diplomatic.”

“That’s the first thing you learn here.”

“He was a politician?” Joe asked disingenuously. “Agent Spinney and I were called in pretty abruptly, so we didn’t get a chance to dig into his past.”

“A Vermont senator,” Eastridge replied. “Although I got the sense that it was more than that.”

“A mover and a shaker?” Lester asked.

“That’s what I was led to believe,” she agreed, “although I never knew the details. I understood that he was the epitome of the glad-handing good ol’ boy. He certainly handled himself like that. He joined a bunch of committees early on and tended to make more of his responsibilities than perhaps they deserved.”

“In other words, a real jerk,” Lester said flatly.

Eastridge burst out laughing, making Echo look up at her. “I hope I can trust you not to get me in trouble, but of course you’re right.”

Joe was smiling when he suggested, “Sounds like he could’ve been pretty unpopular.”

But she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It does, doesn’t it? But with this group, things are often not what they appear. We’ve got more ex-CEOs and company presidents and retired chairmen than this county has horses, which is saying something. The type A’s among our residents tend to consider someone like Gorden Marshall as one of their own. For you or me, they can be pretty unpleasant, but in context, he was no nastier than a competitive tennis player on the pro tour. Half the time, what I might write off as pure orneriness is seen here as game playing. Just strolling the hallways, I witness as much combative psychology as I’ve heard they have in the Marines.”

“Sounds charming,” Joe said softly.

She leaned forward slightly in her chair, finally making Echo jump from her lap in search of quieter quarters. “That’s the interesting part. It mostly is. I’m no glutton for punishment. I get paid well, but if the job didn’t have its perks, I’d leave. I don’t come from the same world they do-the real extremists, I’m talking about-but because of my title, they pretty much treat me as an equal. All the stuff I’ve been telling you is what I see, not what I suffer at their hands. And the truth is, they can also be generous, supportive, and incredibly helpful at times-most of the time, in fact, if you know how to handle them.”

She stood up and moved to the door. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to head off to one of the forty or so committee meetings I regularly attend. I’ve arranged for someone-not George”-she smiled-“to take you to see Mr. Marshall’s body and then to the apartment, if you’re so inclined.”

They joined her at the door, where they shook hands once more.

Hannah Eastridge held on to Joe’s hand for a split second longer, in order to say, “So we’re clear, the people I just told you about represent twenty-five percent of our population-the equivalent of maybe one percent out there in the real world. That means seventy-five percent of The Woods of Windsor is made up of rich people-true enough-but who’re pretty regular, too. This is a nice place, filled with overwhelmingly decent people. Some of them just have too much time on their hands.”

“Okay,” Joe said, touching her shoulder to emphasize that he did get the point. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again for your help.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “It goes with the territory.”

* * *

Gorden Marshall was currently residing as far away from the rest of the facility as geography and architecture would allow. Eastridge’s guide took Joe and Lester on an impressive hike through the complex’s nether reaches until they arrived at last at a large refrigerated room to the rear of the terminal care unit-and one door shy of the loading dock.

“Kind of says it all, don’t it?” Spinney said appreciatively, looking around. “The high-end, industrial-housing version of ashes to ashes.”

Joe didn’t challenge him there, and headed to the one shrouded occupant of the room, now adorning a steel gurney and draped with a white sheet. On the way, he thanked their Sherpa and promised to find their own way back-although how, he wasn’t exactly sure.

He peeled off the sheet and folded it neatly, revealing a white-haired, oddly angry-looking man dressed in a pair of pajamas.

“Whoa,” Lester said, drawing near. “Not a man to piss off, even now. Want me to poke him with a stick first?”

Joe shook his head, but with a slight smile. “Who wound you up this morning?”

Lester didn’t answer, bending over to better scrutinize Marshall’s face. “He doesn’t look all that different from how he did in the old newspaper photo. Just older.”

Joe agreed. He reached for a convenient dispenser of latex gloves and sheathed his hands in electric blue rubber. Lester did likewise, in case Joe needed help.

“What’re we looking for?” he asked, positioning himself on the other side of the gurney.

Joe barely murmured, “Don’t know yet,” as he unbuttoned the pajama jacket.

It was cold in the room, but the body had obviously begun cooling before being moved here. The limbs and jaw were stiff, the anterior part of the body pale and its posterior mottled with pooled and congealed blood. Joe pressed his thumb firmly into a section of dark red skin and saw no blanching, indicating that livor mortis had already set in. On TV, fictional pathologists were always setting the time of death as if it were stamped on the body’s forehead. Joe and Lester knew better. Time of death was an elusive standard, camouflaged by the whims of temperature and circumstance, among others, and best established by someone reliable having seen the person die. Nevertheless, estimates could be reasonably assumed, as Joe demonstrated by saying, “Well, he didn’t die ten minutes ago.”

Lester glanced at his watch, taking a more serious stab at it. “Last night sometime? The pj’s suggest after he went to bed. If we find his sheets messed up when we check his apartment, that would support it.”

“He could’ve been a Hugh Hefner fan,” Joe said distractedly, his face inches above the body and his hands running along the man’s arms, checking for defects or abnormalities. He studied the fingernails for any signs of a struggle. Lester started doing the same thing from his side.

Slowly, they proceeded from scalp to toes, sometimes comparing notes, scrutinizing the body’s anatomy inch by inch and then flipping it over carefully to do the same along the discolored dorsal side.

Finally, not having found anything out of place, they returned Marshall to his original position, and Joe moved to his face. There, he delicately lifted up an eyelid.

“Any petechial hemorrhaging?” Lester asked, inquiring after the tiny blood bursts that often accompanied strangulation or asphyxia.