William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

“I just wanted to get my theory on the table so I could get input from the other geniuses in the department.”

“Other?”

And of course I wanted to show everyone that I wasn’t too inebriated to do my job. That O’Bannon hadn’t committed a spectacular error in judgment by involving me. I wanted to make sure I got credit. Even if my brilliant breakthrough was mostly attributable to a twenty-six-year-old autistic guy. “You read much Poe, Tony?”

He shrugged. “I’m more of an Anne Tyler man myself.”

“Just as well. Better for you.” I saw that Darcy was hovering over the grave site. The body was gone, of course, but the coffin was still where it had been found, the half lid open. I walked over to him. “Kind of spooky, isn’t it?”

His hands were flapping in tiny circles. “I think it’s strange that that one died. Do you think it’s strange that that one died?”

I didn’t quite grasp his line of reasoning. “I… think the whole scenario is strange.”

“In ‘The Premature Burial,’ the man gets away.”

I thought back to my reading the night before. It was all a bit hazy, but I could recall a few details. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“In ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ Madeline is buried alive.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She gets out, too.”

“Huh.” Hadn’t gotten to that one yet.

“In ‘Ligeia,’ a woman is buried alive.”

Jeez Louise. Poe was really hung up on this plot device, wasn’t he? “Does she get out?”

“Sorta.” He glanced down at the coffin. “But that one did not get out, did she?”

“No, Darcy. She didn’t.” Which raised an interesting point, at least in my head. If my killer was trying to re-create scenes from Poe, and the characters in the stories don’t die, why had he let this victim die? What purpose did he think the deaths would serve? “She must’ve been awake, though. Look how she clawed at the lid, trying to get out.”

“At the top. Not at the bottom.”

“I suppose it’s everyone’s first instinct to use your fists to try to pound your way out of something.”

Darcy’s head tilted to one side, as if that computerized brain of his was momentarily processing information. “Are your arms stronger than your legs?”

I thought for a moment. “I suppose not.”

He pointed to the coffin. “Were that one’s?”

“I don’t know for sure, but-”

“Did you know that men usually have more upper-body strength than women?”

“Well, I’ve won a few arm-wrestling matches in my time.”

“But girls sometimes have strong legs, don’t they? Especially young ones. How old was this one?”

“We’re not sure. Sixteen or so.”

His head tilted again. “Why do you think she did not use her legs?”

“I… guess she didn’t think of it.” Which sounded lame even as I said it. “Or she couldn’t.”

“Were her legs tied up?”

“No.”

“Then-”

“He’s using a drug.” Damn. It was obvious-once the kid fed it to you. “Some kind of paralytic agent. That’s how he controls his victims.” I pondered a moment. “But nothing showed up on the preliminary tox screen.”

Darcy jumped up and down eagerly. His voice sounded as if he were reciting at high speed. “Some paralytic drugs, like poisons, will not be detected by general screening procedures. Progressive laboratory screening from the general to the more specific is required. For example, an anion gap on the electrolyte panel combined with metabolic acidosis on arterial blood gases would prompt an inquiry into ASA, methanol, or ethylene glycol as potential etiologic agents.”

I stared at him, doing my best not to gape at this astounding feat of mimesis. Even if he didn’t understand everything he was saying, his memory was preternatural. “Did you go to medical school while your father wasn’t looking? How on earth do you know this?”

“My dad has books about criminology. Lots of them. When books at his office were replaced by newer editions, he always brought the old ones home.”

“For you to read. And memorize.” I began to get the picture. “Darcy, you’re a one-man forensic lab. I’m going to call the coroner. Patterson hates interference from detectives, but if I gently pass the word that a singular screen for paralytic agents before he files his report might be a good idea, he can do it and act as if it were his idea.”

I punched my cell and delivered the message. When I finished, I found Darcy staring at the double doors that led to the main hallway outside.

“That’s how the killer got in,” I explained. “Looks like he fired up an acetylene torch to weaken the chain, then used his spade to break it.”

Darcy didn’t respond. He continued staring at the door, the jamb, the place where the chain had been.

“We think he came in around two or three in the morning,” I continued. “The coroner should be able to nail the time for us. There’s a service driveway on the other side of the hallway. No one would’ve been out there early in the morning. He’d have the time and opportunity to drive up from wherever, break in, and do whatever he needed to do.”

Darcy was still staring at the door, doing that weird head-tilting thing.

“We’ve photographed the door, of course, and the chain is back in Evidence. I can take you to see it, if you like. I can show you the enlargements of the doorway-”

“That’s an ugly black spot.”

He was pointing to a longish horizontal mark, slightly triangular, that scarred the green paint at about the level of the doorknob. It was widest on our side, then narrowed toward the hallway.

“Yes, very unattractive. Hotel employees can be such slobs. Probably some workman carting in furniture in a big hurry.”

Darcy scraped the black place with the tip of his fingernail. It flaked off a bit. “It’s burnt.”

“Burnt?”

He nodded. “My dad works with a torch, in the garage. For his pottery.”

Okay, this time I had to do a triple take. “Your dad makes pottery?”

“Yeah. I like pottery. Do you like pottery? He’s good at it. He has a kiln for the big stuff, but he uses a torch on the ashtrays.”

“Let me make sure I’m getting this. Your dad makes ashtrays?”

“And bud vases.”

“Chief of Police Robert O’Bannon makes bud vases?”

“I think he is very good at it. He whistles while he does it, so I guess it makes him happy.”

I had no reason to doubt the guy. But I had a hard time conjuring a mental image of this big gruff cop straddling a potter’s wheel, much less baking dainty knickknacks.

Darcy redirected my attention to the black scar. “This is from the torch.” He tucked his chin, made that irresistibly silly face. “One time my dad made a mark like that on his workbench. He said some very bad words. I could tell you about them but he told me I was not to repeat them.”

“That’s quite all-”

“The only other time I heard my father talk like that was when I dropped his first-edition copy of Brideshead Revisited in the bathtub and-”

“Is there some significance to this, Darcy?”

He had no answer. I could tell something was bothering him. But the cranial computer hadn’t quite lined up all the data yet.

“Don’t sweat it, Darcy. You’ve been brilliant enough for one day. I can’t believe you know so much about toxicology.”

“Do you think that I know a lot of things? My dad says I know more stuff than an encyclopedia, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t have the sense to know what to do with it.”

“That’s okay, my friend,” I said, linking my arm around his. “Because I do. Let’s go to the next crime scene.”

Did I make her happy I think maybe I made her happy and she looked happy but I remember sometimes Mommy looked happy and it turned out she wasn’t. She made me go to those places I didn’t like and Susan brought me to this place I didn’t like but it’s okay if it makes Susan happy. I found out that Susan is not married anymore and if she’s not married then she could marry me and we could have babies. She doesn’t have any babies but she could I know she could and that would be even better than the day care center. An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. I don’t know why it made her so happy all I told her was what was obvious but her voice was faster and higher and she touched my arm so I think that means she was happy so I’m happy too. I wonder if my dad will be happy. I wonder if he will let me go out more. Maybe he would even let me be a policeman. He thinks I don’t want to be a policeman, but I do. I want to make him happy. I just don’t understand why people do all these things they do. People always think I act crazy but I think the things other people do are crazier and I don’t understand them.