Paul Levine - To speak for the dead

"Him?"

"Roger, of course. Who else would do it, unless that little bitch daughter was involved."

Whoops. A tiny shiver went through me, an icicle dripping down my back. Let's find out what she knows.

"Why would Susan be involved? Why Roger? Why anybody?"

"I don't know, maybe they killed him together. Now they're disposing of the evidence."

"What about Sylvia Corrigan, why her body?"

Silence. Then, "Why don't you ask the good doctor?"

So many questions, so few answers. "Why are you calling me?"

"I thought I could hire you, retain you, as my lawyer."

Suddenly I'm in demand. The doctor, the daughter, the widow. "I don't think so. I'm not sure you need a lawyer, and anyway, my representation of Roger Salisbury disqualifies me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, sounding very. sorry indeed. "We could have worked well together."

There was a hint there, an unmistakably seductive hint, the striking of a tiny spark that could be fanned into a flame with a few more whispers or the friction of that firm, sleek body against mine. It was her petition for rehearing. I decided to let the ruling stand.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Corrigan," I said, as proper as a councilman declining a bribe. "It just wouldn't work."

"Then I guess I'll just do what I have to without your advice or assistance."

I let it hang there and we said our good-byes. I gave my conscience a pat on the back, the vision of Melanie Corri-gan's unsheathed body a shooting star across the black sky of my mind.

The appointment was for two o'clock but Roger Salisbury was ten minutes early. Unusual for a doctor. He wore a coat and tie. Unusual, too. Doctors hereabouts usually sport the open-collar look-white smock or lab coat-and scruffy sneakers. Not Roger. Blue blazer, gray slacks, penny loafers. A frat man look. He gave Cindy a big hello, peeked out the window at one of the cruise ships chugging out Government Cut, then settled in a cushioned chair next to a thirsty rubber plant.

Charlie Riggs trundled in twenty minutes later, apologizing for being late. Just came from his semiannual haircut and beard trim, a Miccosukee barber in the Everglades. You could hardly tell he used a sawtooth fishing knife, I told Charlie, and he thanked me. Then Charlie cleared his throat, stroked his newly pruned beard, and slid his warped glasses back up the bridge of his tiny nose. Which was a signal for me to start.

"Roger, this is awkward for Charlie and me."

Expressionless, Roger Salisbury looked at Charlie, then back at me, and I continued, "I have a confession to make-"

Roger laughed. "That's what clients usually do to their lawyers, right?"

"Right, but this case is different in a lot of ways. You know somebody broke into Philip Corrigan's crypt, stole the body?"

"Saw the story in the paper. Pretty bizarre. Antidevelop-ment nuts in the Keys, maybe."

Doc Riggs cleared his throat again. I swallowed and said, "A couple of nuts, all right. Charlie and I did it."

He raised his eyebrows. "No. Why?"

"Susan Corrigan wanted the body tested, Melanie Corrigan didn't. We chose sides. But I wanted to tell you before we deliver tissue samples to the lab. And I wanted to ask you, is there anything you want to tell us?"

Roger shrugged. "What would I want to say?"

If he was faking it, he must have taken some acting courses along with biology and chemistry. "Okay, Roger, here it is. Melanie told me you tried to get her to inject her husband with succinylcholine, and when she wouldn't do it, you did, murdered Corrigan in his hospital room."

A cloud crossed his face. A look more of bewilderment than anger. "Do you believe her?"

I paused long enough for Charlie Riggs to light his pipe. It took three matches. "No. I don't believe her. Since that day you brought the malpractice complaint to me, I've gotten to know you, and I don't believe you could kill."

Roger Salisbury beamed. I continued, "But what's been gnawing at me is that nothing about Corrigan's death makes sense. You didn't cause the aneurysm and, apparently, the sclerosis didn't either. The hospital charts show no injections in the buttocks but Charlie found one. Then there's the succinylcholine…"

Salisbury turned to Charlie Riggs. "Succinylcholine wouldn't be traceable, would it? Doesn't it break down into succinic acid and choline?"

I studied Roger while Charlie tamped his pipe and answered. "Yes, but those substances are detectable in various tissues. If there's too great a quantity, a reasonable inference would be that succinylcholine was injected shortly prior to death."

No reaction. Absolute calm. "You're the expert," Salisbury said in a neutral voice. "And if you want to test the tissues, I don't have a problem."

I was feeling good about Roger Salisbury. Confident in his innocence. Then he said, "Melanie knows the truth, and if you really want to know, I mean if it matters to you, Jake, just get her to tell you."

"And how do I do that?"

"I could inject her with thiopental sodium."

"Huh?"

Charlie chimed in. "Sodium five-ethyl-five-one-methylbu-tyl-two-thiobarbiturate. More commonly known by its trade name, Pentothal."

"Truth serum?" I asked, louder than necessary.

"A misnomer," Charlie said, "but you get the idea. A central nervous system depressant. In the right quantities, it induces hypnosis and, yes, the patient will tell the truth about past events."

"I could stick her, and we could snatch her," Roger said blithely, as if assault and abduction were standard topics of discussion. "Bring her someplace safe, and you could cross-examine her. You're so good at that, Jake. Then you'd learn the truth. I want you to believe me."

I looked at Charlie Riggs. He looked at me. In ninety seconds, my client had gone from innocent physician to lunatic kidnapper.

"Roger, I don't think we could do that," I said, gently.

He shrugged and said okay, then offered to take me bonefishing in the Keys sometimes. I made a bad joke about an orthopod bonefishing, and he headed for Mercy Hospital to do a knee replacement.

I put my feet up on my cluttered desk, and Charlie Riggs stoked his pipe. He didn't look at me, and I didn't look at him. I wanted him to say something, but he wouldn't. So I did. "Is it my imagination, or is my client sailing without a rudder?"

Charlie stood up and walked to the window. He squinte(into the brightness and looked due east over the ocean to ward Bimini. "Fantasies. I think Roger Salisbury has diffi culty distinguishing fantasy from reality. He wanted Melanie for himself and might have wished Philip dead. Maybe tol‹ Melanie so. But judging from his reaction today, I would say he didn't kill Philip Corrigan. And he wants you to know that. He respects you, Jake. He wants you to like him-"

"So we can be fishing buddies."

"Something like that. So he fantasizes about injecting her with Pentothal."

"All of which means he's a dreamer, not a killer."

Charlie Riggs sent me a swirl of cherry-flavored smoke. "Unless the fantasies take over. Unless they become reality. Then, Deus misereatur, may God have mercy…"

I read my mail, returned some calls, skipped a partners' meeting called to debate new artwork for the reception area-Andy Wyeth was a five-to-one favorite over Andy Warhol-and headed for The Miami Herald. Susan Corrigan was waiting for me on the bayfront walkway behind the building. She stood silently watching a barge unload'huge rolls of newsprint onto the dock. The drawbridge on the MacArthur Causeway was up, two hundred motorists waiting for one rich guy in a gussied up Hinckley to putt-putt underneath at three knots. A stiff, warm breeze from the east crackled an American flag flying above the walkway, and the Miami sun beat hard against the concrete.

Susan wore her reporter's uniform, running shoes, faded jeans with a notepad sticking out the back pocket. Her glasses were propped on top of her short black hair. On the barge a forklift kept picking up the newsprint and rolling it down a ramp onto the dock.