James Swain - Bad News Travels

Sheriff Soares and his deputies pulled in moments later. Lancaster had been thinking how he wanted to handle this, and he pulled the sheriff aside.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk with him first,” he said.

Soares twirled the toothpick in his mouth. He was the epitome of a cracker, the back of his neck burned to a crisp by the unrelenting sun.

“What good is that going to do you?” Soares asked.

“We don’t know the whole truth. If I reason with him, maybe he’ll confess.”

“In my experience, guilty men don’t confess.”

“He may have been coerced into this. Let’s give him a chance to do the right thing. We have nothing to lose.”

“Except our precious time. What the hell. Okay, give it a shot.”

Soares told his deputies to wait by their cruisers. Then the sheriff and Lancaster entered the hospital and approached the main reception area. Soares was a man of manners, and he removed his black campaign hat before addressing the receptionist.

“Good afternoon. We’re here to see Dr. Peter Matoff. Is he in?”

“Why hello, Sheriff Soares. How have you been?” the receptionist asked.

“Fair to middling,” the sheriff replied.

“I can’t believe the things I read in the newspaper about Detective Sykes. Who would have known he was such a bad person?” the receptionist said.

Soares coughed into his hand. The receptionist caught his drift, and opened a three-ring binder on her desk. She ran her finger down the page. “Dr. Matoff alternates his days between his duties here, and his private practice. According to my log, he’s here today. Would you like me to call him, and let him know he has visitors?”

“Please don’t,” Soares said. “Where’s his office?”

A cloud passed over the receptionist’s face. Her eyes drifted to the wall of glass by the entrance, and to the deputies standing at stiff attention in the parking lot. It was then that she knew that something was terribly wrong.

The door to Matoff’s office was shut. Soares rapped loudly, then hitched his thumbs in his belt to wait. To Lancaster he said, “I still think you’re wasting our time.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong,” Lancaster said.

“But my gut tells me you’ll try and reason with him, while all I’m going to do is threaten the son of a bitch. So have at it.”

“Thank you.”

“How long were you a cop?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Do you miss it?”

The door swung in before he could reply. Matoff stood in the doorway, wearing a rumpled navy suit and a necktie with its knot undone. He was a thin man with a mop of unruly white hair and droopy eyes. Seeing the sheriff, he feigned surprise.

“Why hello, Sheriff Soares. What can I do for you today?” Matoff asked.

“We need to have a chat,” Soares said.

“I was just leaving. Can this wait until tomorrow? I’ve had a long day.”

“We need to talk now.”

Matoff swallowed a lump in his throat. “Should I assume this isn’t a social call?”

“You assume right.”

“May I ask who your friend is?”

“This is Jon Lancaster, and he’s assisting me with an investigation,” Soares said. “He’s got a couple of questions he’d like to ask you. It won’t take long.”

Matoff hesitated. He acted like he wanted to call a lawyer, only that would have been an admission of guilt, so instead he’d try to talk his way out of it. It was a classic mistake made by people who didn’t fully understand how the law worked.

“Well, all right. Come in, and make yourself comfortable,” Matoff said.

The blinds on the office windows were drawn, the air stuffy. Matoff sat at his cluttered desk, while Soares and Lancaster remained standing.

“Fire away,” Matoff said, forcing a smile.

Lancaster opened the blinds, flooding the room with light. The office faced a water fountain behind the building, where over a hundred patients had congregated. Many were in wheelchairs, while others used walkers to get around. The majority were old and frail, and appeared to be near their final hour.

Lancaster sat on the edge of the desk, his posture friendly.

“You’re the pathologist here at the VA, correct?” he asked.

“That’s right. I’ve held the position for twenty years,” Matoff said.

“And you also maintain a private practice in town.”

“Correct.”

“And, you also work for the sheriff’s department.”

“On occasion, I perform autopsies, as I’m sure Sheriff Soares has told you. I also assist in investigations when medical advice is necessary.”

“Are you the only pathologist who works with the police?”

“No, I’m not,” Matoff said. “I share that duty with another pathologist, Dr. Mark Torgove, as I’m sure Sheriff Soares also told you.”

“I believe that’s common practice, isn’t it? Most police departments work with two pathologists in case a problem arises.”

Matoff’s face turned to stone. He pretended not to understand.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Let me explain. When I was a detective, we had two pathologists on call. If a person died and an autopsy was needed, the pathologist would first find out who the deceased was. If the pathologist happened to know the person, he’d excuse himself, and the other pathologist would take over. You don’t want to be slicing open a person you know, even if they are dead. Does that sound about right?”

The blood had drained from Matoff’s face, his skin ghostly pale. When an answer was not forthcoming, Lancaster glanced at Soares.

“Is that how it works in Saint Augustine?”

“That’s standard operating procedure in the whole county,” the sheriff said. “We don’t expect pathologists to perform autopsies on friends. It’s too damn painful.”

Lancaster resumed looking at Matoff. “So that’s the deal. You don’t slice open people you know. But for some reason you did. Not once, but twice.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matoff said.

“Then let me refresh your memory. You performed an autopsy on Martin Daniels after he committed suicide, even though you and Martin were close friends, and belonged to a group that went fishing together. Correct?”

“But I didn’t know it was Martin!” Matoff protested. “When his body was brought into the hospital, his face had been eaten away by a coyote, and he was unrecognizable. It was only after I compared dental records that I knew it was him.”

“That wasn’t what Detective Sykes told me,” Lancaster said.

Matoff sank into his chair as the words took hold.

“I was present when Sykes was interviewed by the FBI. Sykes said that a car was discovered in the park where Martin’s body was found, and that Sykes ran a check on the plate, and he identified the vehicle as Martin’s. This happened well before the body was brought to the hospital. You’re telling us you didn’t know this?”

Matoff shut his eyes, then reopened them.

“No,” he said.

“You also did the autopsy on Sykes after the detective burned to death in his house,” Lancaster said. “Why didn’t you pass that off to the other pathologist?”

“Because I didn’t know Sykes,” Matoff said.

“Oh yes you did,” Lancaster said. “You were being blackmailed by the Sokolov brothers, who put a mummified hand on your doorstep. The Sokolovs were blackmailing several other prominent men, including Sykes. You were talking with each other, and trying to stop the Sokolovs from ruining your reputations. Isn’t that right?”

“No — I didn’t know Sykes,” Matoff said lamely.

“You’re lying. If the police look through your emails and cell phone records, they’ll find communications between you and Sykes. You knew him, just like you knew Martin Daniels. So why did you perform their autopsies?”