Jonathan Craig - The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“You'll live,” Stan said.

“Don't even know as I want to. Hey, what time did that girl get it, anyhow?”

“You know that better than anybody,” Stan said.

“No kidding, now. What time?”

“You should have remembered to look at your watch,” Stan said.

“Hell,” he said. “I bet you don't even know.”

“We know the time limits,” Stan said. “That's all we'll need, Farmer.”

“Like hell,” Farmer said. “You still need the guy that hit her. Was it before nine o'clock this morning?”

“Why nine?” I asked.

“Because if she got it before nine, I'm in the clear.”

I saw Stan glance up at the rear-view mirror. “What are you trying to pull?” he said.

“By Christ,” Farmer said, sitting up abruptly. “She did get it before then, didn't she?” He looked at me, his lips spreading back in a wide grin. “She sure did! I can tell just by the look on your stupid face.”

Neither Stan nor I said anything.

Farmer laughed. “Like I said, I set a new record today.”

“You trying to tell us you were in jail at nine o'clock this morning?” Stan said.

“I wouldn't try to tell a stupe like you anything,” Farmer said. “All I say is ask them about me at the Tombs. They didn't let me out of there until nine o'clock — right on the button.”

There was a long silence.

“When did you rob her apartment?” I asked.

“About a quarter after ten,” he said. “You know how it is. I didn't even have breakfast money.” He leaned forward to look at Stan's face. “Why, what's the matter?” he said mockingly. “Damned if you don't look a little sick yourself.”

IN THE muster room at the station house, a five-minute phone call to the Tombs confirmed Stan's and my foreboding that, as Stan put it later, Johnny Farmer's bad news had been much too bad not to be true.

He had been arrested yesterday afternoon on suspicion in connection with a two-month-old mugging, held in custody while a witness to the crime was summoned from Jersey, and released at 9:02 this morning. And although Johnny Farmer jeered at us incessantly during the entire time it took us to transfer him to the Burglary Squad, neither Stan nor I had very much to say, either to Farmer or to each other.

While Stan helped the Burglary detective arrange for the removal of the earrings, handbag and strongbox to Lost Property, I phoned Lost Property to ask for an expedited check on the handbag to determine its ownership. There was every likelihood Farmer had stolen it elsewhere and lied about finding it in the strongbox in an attempt to conceal still another burglary.

“Oh, that miserable damned Farmer,” Stan said, sitting down at his desk. “I'll never forget that bastard as long as I live.”

“He'll be thinking of you, too,” I said. “All the time he's up there in Sing Sing, making fifty cents a day.”

“You're a real big comfort to me,” he said. “You really are.”

There were several messages on my call spike. I separated the ones in connection with squeals upon which Stan and I had been working before we caught the homicide, and tossed them over to him.

“A little something to keep you occupied,” I said

“Thanks so much,” he said.

One of the remaining messages was from the tech chief and said that the two clear fingerprints found on the bottle in Nadine's apartment had been identified as her own.

A second message was from Ted Norton, the modus operandi expert, who notified me that a thorough search of the files had turned up no sex criminal whose M.O. satisfied the requirements I have given him.

There were two notes asking me to call back, one from BCI and the other from Dr. Vincent Baretti at Bellevue.

I decided to call Dr. Baretti first.

“Just got your message, Vince,” I said when he answered. “How's it going?”

“You can never find a policeman when you want one,” he said. “I left that message for you more than an hour ago.”

“New York cops are no damned good,” I said. “Everybody knows that.”

“It's a fact,” he said. “Next to M.E.'s, they're the worst”

“You got something for me, Vince?” I asked, signaling Stan to listen in on the extension.

“Nothing very interesting,” Vince said. “I just thought you might like to have a little preliminary pitch on the cause of death.”

“Off the record, of course?”

“Of course. Nothing's official yet, but at least you'll have something to work on.”

The official report of the autopsy sometimes takes as long as three or four days, and the reports of the toxicologists even longer.

“All set,” I said, opening my notebook. “How'd she die, Vince? Fractured larynx?”

“No,” he said. “Her larynx was fractured, all rights — and pretty thoroughly too. But that isn't what killed her, Pete. She died of a ruptured liver.”

“I'll be damned,” I said.

“Yes,” Vince said. “I made the same remark.”

“When you say ruptured, do you mean from a blow?”

“From a blow, Pete. From some kind of direct force.”

“But there wasn't a single mark on that girl's body,” I said. “Not a damned one.”

“It happens that way sometimes,” he said. “In fact, I might even go so far as to say it happens that way just about as often as not.”

“Without even so much as reddening up the skin a little?”

“Yes, Pete — without leaving any external evidence at all.”

“Wouldn't it take quite a bit of force, though?” Stan broke in. “Look at prizefighters, Doc. They soak up a terrific pounding down there every time they get in the ring.”

“That's true, Stan,” Vince said. “But this girl's no prizefighter. The same-blow that killed her probably wouldn't do any more to a fighter than make him grunt.”

“For God's sake,” Stan said. “Who'd have figured a thing like that?”

“Not I, frankly,” Vince said. “I was just as surprised as you are.”

“Any other indications of a beating, Vince?” I asked.

“No, none at all.”

“How about the alky count?”

“The tox men took care of that before they did anything else, Pete. She'd had two — maybe three — ounces; no more.”

“Hardly enough to know she'd been drinking.” I said.

“Hardly enough for her to know, chances are. Others might be able to see the effect. It would depend on how used she was to liquor.”

“How about dope?” Stan asked. “She didn't have any needle punctures; but how about the other stuff? Orals.”

“I very much doubt it,” Vince said. “The tox men may be able to give us a report on that before morning.”

“Any reason to think she was raped?” I asked.

“No, Pete. At least there's no positive evidence of it — not that that means very much.” He paused. “And for whatever it's worth to you, she's borne at least one child.”

“I know,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I think that's just about it, Pete. If we come up with anything more, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We'll appreciate it.”

“Ruptured liver,” I said as I hung up the phone. “That's the last thing that would have occurred to me.”

“Well, at least we know why she didn't put up any fight when somebody dropped that petticoat around her neck,” Stan said. “She was already dead.”

“Yeah. And if she was already dead, why wouldn't the guy just string her up on the rope? Why bother with the petticoat?”

“Let's don't start kicking that one around again, Pete. All it'll buy you is a headache.”

I dialed BCI and asked for the extension noted on the second message asking me to call back.