Archer Mayor - The Skeleton's knee

“Why did it blow, after all this time?”

He shrugged, much as I’d guessed Hillstrom had earlier to the same question. “That kind of aneurysm acts like a stretched-out water balloon. If either the pressure inside increases too much or the outer envelope weakens, it goes pow.” He retrieved the file from my lap and flipped it open. “His blood pressure was on the high side, probably due to the pain and anxiety. That alone might have been enough to do the trick.”

I let my eyes wander across the walls before me, registering but not reading the various diplomas and citations. A secretive man, admitting to no past, is forced by medical necessity to come out of his hole and then dies. I shook my head. This was turning out darker than I’d feared… and more intriguing.

“How did the Accounting Office deal with him? I notice he didn’t list any insurance.”

Brook chuckled. “Normally, I wouldn’t know, since it ain’t my department, as they say, but this guy really made history on that one. The whole hospital heard about it-unofficially, of course. He paid cash, and I mean real cash: greenbacks. At some point, after I’d started talking surgery, someone in Accounting got nervous-Fuller didn’t even have a Medicaid number, after all-and they went up to talk to him. He asked them how much they needed, told them to leave the room for a minute, and then handed them five thousand bucks. He told them to regard it either as a down payment or an amount to draw on, depending on the final amount due. They didn’t argue, and from what I heard, they didn’t ask for explanations.”

“Where was he keeping it? Did he have a bag or something?”

“Yeah, one of those small backpacks. I think the hospital still has it, along with his clothing and whatever else he left behind, unless somebody’s claimed them by now.”

My mind was humming with possibilities, most of them far from innocent, but I wanted to play out at least one straightforward angle before assuming the worst. “Maybe he was a hermit. Did you see him clothed, or did the ER staff have him stripped already?”

Michael paused before answering, thinking back. “He was still partly dressed. They were work clothes-standard JCPenney-type stuff. His hands were rough; he had the typical workingman’s suntan-forearms as black as walnut, the rest of him lilywhite. I don’t know… I guess initially I took him for what he looked like. Not a backwoods type, though. His speech didn’t fit that at all. He was pretty well educated, beyond high school. When I described what I’d found out about his back, he had no trouble following it, even asked some fairly sophisticated questions…”

“As if he’d had medical training?”

“No, nothing that fancy, but definitely a college background. He was also a health nut. A lot of construction workers and whatnot are tough as nails, but their eating habits are lousy. It usually shows up in their waistlines. This guy was as thin and hard as cable wire. Described himself as a lacto-vegetarian: no eggs, no meat, no fish, and no poultry. He gave strict instructions to the dietitian.”

“You think he took care of himself because he knew he had a touchy back?”

Brook shook his head. “I don’t know. He denied it to me-said he’d never had any trouble with it except when he’d fallen on the tree branch years ago, but who’s to know? The guy was obviously not too intimate with the truth.”

I thanked him and moments later passed through the umbilical-like corridor between the hospital and the office building, in search of the head of Accounting. I found her beyond a moderately crowded waiting room in a small, windowless, but cheery cubbyhole decorated with framed Georgia O’Keeffe posters and unusually healthy green plants.

She was an angular, white-haired woman with a flame-red dress and an animated face. The nameplate on her tidy desk read KATHY PARKER. She half rose from her chair as I entered and shook hands. “The receptionist said you’re from the police?”

I smiled and placed my credentials before her. “Yes. Lieutenant Joe Gunther.” She looked at me carefully then. “Oh, I’ve heard of you. My goodness, weren’t you almost killed a couple of months ago?” I smiled at the reference to a recent headline-grabbing case. “A dubious claim to fame. Yes, that was me.”

She returned my badge and gestured to me to sit. “Well, it’s an honor.” Her face acquired a carefully neutral cast. “I take it you’re here in a professional capacity?”

“Yes. I want to know about a small backpack belonging to a patient who died here a couple of days ago, an Abraham Fuller.” Kathy Parker’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh yes. I inventoried that myself. Would you like it?”

“I’d like to take a look at it.”

She turned toward a small floor safe behind her, opened its door, and retrieved an old red canvas bag, laying it on her desk. “I’m not surprised you’re here, actually. I mean, we’re obviously delighted when a patient pays for his treatment on the barrel, but using a bagful of cash did stir up a few comments.”

I picked up the knapsack and rested it in my lap for the moment. “Did anyone know him, or about him?”

“Mr. Fuller? Not that I heard. That’s what made it even more mysterious; paying cash is the kind of thing you see drug-runners do on TV.” She smiled at the soiled, much-used bag between my hands. “Of course, on TV they usually carry it around in a fancy briefcase. I guess that’s the Vermont touch.”

I smiled and fingered the material. “I know you didn’t mean it literally, but was there anything indicating he was into drugs?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, no, this was all just gossip; you know how it is, especially in a small place like this. People were also asking if Fuller was a pseudonym for an Italian name, as in Mafia. I never even saw the man.” She nodded toward the pack. “I didn’t get that until after he’d been shipped off to Burlington for autopsy. It was just… Well, open it and see for yourself. It is a little weird.”

I undid the knot at the throat of the bag and drew it open, taking a look before I reached in. There were some odds and ends: a toothbrush and paste, a comb, a paperback edition of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court , a balled-up pair of socks, some underwear, and a single change of clothes. But the attention grabbers were the banded bundles of hundred-dollar bills.

I gingerly pulled one out, holding it by the edges. “Did you count it all?”

“Yes. There’re five of them, a thousand dollars each.”

“And he’d already paid five thousand for his treatment, is that right?”

She nodded. “We deposited part of what he gave us, for services rendered. The difference is still in escrow, pending retrieval by next of kin.”

I looked at the bundle in my hand. The inner bills were new and crisp; the outer ones were unwrinkled but grimy, and the edges of all of them were faintly soiled. They also had an odd feel to them-almost slippery. I held it up to my nose and smelled.

“Mildew,” Kathy Parker suggested.

“Yeah. I think you’re right.” I lifted the knapsack to my nose and detected the same pungent odor. I looked at the face side of one of the cover bills and let out a small grunt, flipping through the others for confirmation.

“What?” Parker asked, presumably keen for more gossip.

I hesitated, then dropped the money back into the bag. “Nothing; I was just wondering about the mildew. If you could draw up a receipt, I think I’ll take this down to the Municipal Building and lock it in our evidence room.”

She did as I requested, half-curious and half-relieved to be rid of a potential headache. By proxy, I was allowing her to jerk her thumb down the line at us, should anyone later ask about the cash.