An Accidental Corpse Page 5

  “No apology necessary,” said Fitz. “The IDs are more important, and all this background is interesting. East Eighth Street is just outside my precinct—the border is Sixth Avenue—so I know the neighborhood well. Nita and I had our first date at the Cedar Tavern, when it was on West Eighth Street.”

  Nita poked her husband in the ribs. “It was supposed to be a business meeting, so I could report a development in the homicide case we were both working on at the time. I could have given him the information over the phone, but he insisted we meet in person.”

  “You’ve got a lousy memory,” he replied with a grin. “You were the one who suggested the meeting. I just named the place.” His arm went through hers. “We got the business part over with pretty quick. From then on it was pure pleasure, for me anyway.”

  She returned his smile. “The feeling was mutual. And still is. But please, Dr. Cooper, make your call. We can wait a bit longer. The housekeeper at the Sea Spray is looking after our son ’til we get back, but I don’t want to take advantage of her. And we made a date for him to go fishing up in Springs this afternoon.”

  “I’ll take Jim and Charlotte to my place,” said Ossorio, “and we can call Sande from there. There are others to be notified as well, people in the city who may not have heard.” He turned to Cooper. “When will you release Jackson’s body? I’d like to be able to tell them when the funeral will be.”

  “I’ll do the autopsy this afternoon. It should be routine, the cause of death is pretty evident. You say his wife will be back tomorrow? See if Fred can schedule the funeral for Wednesday. That should give folks enough time to make travel arrangements.”

  Ossorio thanked him, and left with Jim and Charlotte.

  “Interesting fellow, that Ossorio,” remarked Nita. “He looks Spanish, sounds English, yet he doesn’t seem to be exactly either.”

  “I’ve never met him before,” said Cooper, “but I’ve heard a lot about him. He’s Filipino—Spanish father, Chinese blood on his mother’s side. He bought a big estate out here a few years ago. His family’s very rich, the father owns a sugar mill. He went to boarding school in England, that’s where the accent comes from. But he’s something of a black sheep, turned up his nose at the family business to be an artist. And he’s a pansy, got a ballet dancer for a boyfriend, so I’m told. But let me get you out of here before your whole day is shot.” He motioned them back to their chairs by the desk.

  With a policeman’s precision, as if he were reading from notes, Fitz described the accident and its aftermath, his finding Pollock’s body, and Officer Finch’s discovery of Metzger’s body under the car. Nita gave an equally concise report of tending to Kligman, and of Dr. Abel’s ministrations.

  “I couldn’t tell right away if Pollock was dead,” said Fitz, “he looked like he might just be unconscious. He was lying on his side, so any visible injuries must have been on the side that was hidden. I didn’t want to move him, but I checked the carotid, and there was no pulse.”

  “The cranial and thoracic lacerations are on his right side,” said Cooper. “He’s still in rigor, but I can feel a severe skull fracture and broken ribs.”

  “Officer Finch must have told you how we got the dead girl out from under the car,” Fitz continued. “I didn’t think there was much chance of her being alive, and when I pulled her out I could tell her neck was broken. Of course I thought that was what killed her. It was pretty dark, and she was covered in dirt and leaves, but I should have noticed the neck bruises.”

  Cooper hastened to reassure him. “I didn’t see them myself at first. She also has bruising on her upper arms that could easily be mistaken for dirt smudges. Of course, under the circumstances, you would assume she died as a result of the crash. If she hadn’t already been dead, the broken neck certainly would have been fatal.

  “I hope the Kligman girl can shed some light on this,” he continued. “I’d better ring the hospital and see how she’s doing. Do you mind waiting just a few minutes more while I make the call?”

  Of course not, they said, and Cooper lifted the receiver and dialed a number he knew well.

  “Not good,” he told them, replacing the receiver. “No broken bones, but she’s still not conscious. She’s in severe shock, and they’re afraid she’s going to lapse into a coma. We need to locate her family. Metzger’s, too.”

  Fifteen.

  They were back at the Sea Spray a little after noontime. Nita and Fitz relieved Mrs. Green of their son and used the pay phone to call the Collins house in Springs.

  “Is young Mike still interested in giving our TJ a fishing lesson?” asked Fitz. “Yes? Well, that’s fine. I’ll bring him right over. Sure, we can meet Mike at the General Store in about fifteen minutes.”

  TJ had been ready to go for the past hour, so there was no delay heading out. It was a straight run up Ocean Avenue to Main Street, a left fork onto North Main just before the windmill, under the tracks to the right fork and onto Fireplace Road.

  As they came to the end of the concrete pavement, with its rhythmic thump-thump, and gained the smooth blacktop, the road curved to the left. Without really thinking about it, Fitz slowed the car, then realized where he was.

  On the right shoulder, a deep groove of chewed-up dirt marked the spot where Pollock’s tires had dug in, then swerved back onto the road surface. From there, skid marks ran for a couple hundred feet and ended at the woods on the left. The convertible had been towed away, and the victims’ shoes and other effects had been collected, so there was little evidence of what had happened there the night before. Only a few broken branches, a couple of crushed saplings, and a freshly disturbed patch of undergrowth.

  TJ, who was sitting between his parents on the front seat, craned his neck to try and look out Fitz’s window, but Nita put her arm around his shoulder and drew him back.

  “Nothing to see there now,” she said softly. Fitz put his foot down and the car picked up speed. They reached the General Store with time to spare.

  Mike was waiting on the porch, his fishing gear resting against the old church pew that served as a bench. A few well-weathered lawn chairs and a castoff picnic table were also there for the convenience of the morning kaffeeklatsch, lunchtime gossip fest, and afternoon political discussion group that gathered there daily, rain or shine. Today the weather was bright and calm, the humid air blanketing the little hamlet like damp silk.

  “Howdy,” said Mike, shaking TJ’s hand rather formally. He was taking his instructor’s role seriously. “You set here. Be right back.” He ducked into the store and emerged a few minutes later with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, two bottles of root beer, and a small pail of wriggling worms. TJ eyed them dubiously.

  “Let’s go. Fish won’t wait.” Mike handed the bait to TJ, silently enjoying his new friend’s squeamishness. Mike collected the tackle and marched his student into the side yard, where a couple of rowboats were tied up alongside a makeshift landing. TJ turned and waved to his parents as Mike launched one of the boats and they shoved off into Accabonac Creek.

  “Man of few words, young Mike,” observed Fitz.

  “Typical Bonacker,” said a voice behind him, “just like his old man, and his old man’s old man.” Fitz turned to find that the store’s proprietor, Dan Miller, had joined them. “Besides, he’s kinda upset about Jackson. They were pals. When Jackson had the Model A, he used to take Mike for rides in the rumble seat. He got on better with kids than with grown-ups. Nothin’ but an overgrown kid himself.

  “They’ll be gone a while,” Miller told them. “You folks want t’set a spell? Just made a fresh pot o’ coffee.” His pronunciation carried a reminder of the New England ancestors from whom he and his fellow Bonackers had descended.

  “Thanks, but I’d rather have a cold bottle of pop,” said Nita, fanning herself with her sun hat, and Fitz agreed.

  “How about some lunch?” he suggested. �
�Got any more of those sandwiches?”

  “You bet,” replied Miller. “Got ham—that’s what I gave the boys—or homemade chicken salad today. Got some coleslaw, too.” They ordered one of each sandwich, with coleslaw on the side, and two bottles of Hires root beer. “I’ll have un with you,” said Miller.

  “Let me pay for everything,” offered Fitz, but Miller said no. “The boys’ lunches, and the bait, are on the Collins family tab. Your son is their guest, you wouldn’t want to shame ’em. Bonackers are a prideful lot. But you can buy me a Hires if you like.” He winked at Fitz. “I ain’t proud.”

  Settled in the porch shade, food and drinks in hand, the trio surveyed all of downtown Springs in one wide glance. To the right, across the bridge that spanned the creek, was the Presbyterian chapel, with its small graveyard out back. To the left of it, on the other side of Accabonac Road, was Ashawagh Hall, the former Springs schoolhouse, now used for meetings, art shows, and all manner of community events like the Fishermen’s Fair. The only amenities not visible were the Parsons blacksmith shop, north on Fireplace Road, and the “new” Springs School, vintage 1909, hidden behind Clarence King’s house up ahead on School Street. From where they sat, if there hadn’t been buildings in the way, a strong pitcher could have hit either one with a rock.

  After satisfying his curiosity about their identities, Miller asked Nita and Fitz if they were the folks who witnessed the accident the night before. They confirmed it.

  Miller shook his head. “I hate t’say it, ’cause he was a friend o’ mine, but Jackson had it comin’. He was reckless, that’s all. Bound to happen sooner or later. Shame about those young ladies, though. One dead, and the other may not make it. No excuse for that. None at all.”

  The couple exchanged glances. Apparently the news that one woman had been killed before the crash had not yet leaked out.

  “Some folks ’round here didn’t take to Jackson, but we got along fine,” Miller continued. “He was a country boy at heart, grew up on farms out West, though he’d lived in New York since he was eighteen. That’s where all the artists are, the galleries, the collectors, so that’s where he had t’be, but after a while it started to wear him down. He told me more’n once that when he came to Springs he didn’t move to the country, he moved away from the city. He said the pace was killin’ him.” He paused, realizing the irony of his last remark.

  “He shoulda kept the Model A. That old rattletrap couldn’t go more’n thirty downhill. And we got no hills in Springs.”

  Just then a battered pickup truck pulled up and a man in a work shirt and overalls got out. It was Mike’s father, Tom Collins. Miller greeted him with the usual Bonac salute, “Howdy, bub,” and got the same in return.

  “Guess you know who these folks are,” said Miller, nodding at the Fitzgeralds. “Your Mike is out fishin’ with their boy.”

  “Met ’em last night,” replied Collins. “Glad t’see you. And I got a message for you. Seems you won the raffle yesterday. My sister-in-law was in charge o’ the drawin’. She was gonna call the Sea Spray, but I told her you’d be up to Dan’s so I’d let you know m’self.”

  “That’s the longest speech I heard outta you in decades, Tom,” teased Miller. “Congratulations, folks. What’s the prize?”

  Collins reached into the truck’s cab, picked up a cardboard tube from the passenger seat, and handed it to Fitz.

  “The Pollock picture,” he said. “Now ain’t that somethin’? You seein’ him die and all.”

  Sixteen.

  An East Hampton Town patrol car pulled in next to Collins’ truck.

  “What say, Earl?” asked Collins as Officer Finch emerged.

  “Howdy, Tom, Dan,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ for the Fitzgeralds, and I found ’em.” He turned to Nita and Fitz. “Doc Cooper told me you’d probably be up here. I got some news about the accident.”

  Fitz hoped he wasn’t going to spill the beans about Metzger, though maybe he didn’t know the details.

  “What’s cookin’?”

  “Doc found Pollock’s house key in his trouser pocket. I called Riverhead this morning, got a search warrant to enter the premises. I hope I can find some identification for the women. Thought it might be a good idea to take Detective Diaz along. Would that be okay, ma’am?”

  “Nita, please,” she advised, though she was delighted that he had addressed her by her official title. Working out of her precinct in Spanish Harlem, she had decided to keep her maiden name so the neighborhood folks would know she was one of them and not some Irish interloper from downtown.

  “I’ll be glad to go with you,” she told Finch. “Fitz can wait here for the boys.”

  Collins settled in next to Fitz, eager to hear a firsthand account of last night’s tragedy.

  “How fast yuh reckon he was goin’?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess at least fifty, maybe sixty. His lights came up on me pretty quick. I don’t mind telling you, I thought he was gonna hit us for sure, but he veered off into the woods just in time—for us, that is. Not for him, of course, or his passengers.”

  Collins nodded. “I hear the doc’s slicin’ him up now. Bet he’ll find more alcohol’n blood in his veins.”

  Fitz marveled at the speed of the Bonac telegraph system.

  “’Course he had no business foolin’ round with that young gal,” Collins continued. “Drivin’ his wife crazy. What that poor woman put up with, even ’fore he started cheatin’. Mind you, she’s a tough one—don’t take t’her m’self—but I got sympathy. She’ll be back t’morrow, I’m told.”

  Amazing, thought Fitz. There must be few secrets around here. I’d better be extra careful not to let anything slip.

  A couple of lunch customers arrived, so Miller excused himself and stepped inside the store. Fitz said he was comfortable where he was, and turned to watch his wife and Finch depart in the patrol car.

  When they pulled into the Pollock house driveway at 830 Fireplace Road, only a few hundred feet north of the General Store, there was already another car parked by the garage. Nita got out and headed to the front of the house, but Finch stopped her.

  “This way,” he said, pointing to the back porch. “House has no front door. They closed it off when they put in the plumbing a few years ago. Dick Talmage told me that in addition to the full bath upstairs Lee wanted a toilet downstairs, and the only place they could fit it in was the front hall.”

  Nita was surprised. “You mean the house had no bathroom when they moved in?”

  “That’s right. Had to use a hand pump in the kitchen sink for water, and a backhouse for the call of nature. Coal stoves for heat, cookin’ too. That’s real country livin’.”

  Nita was trying to imagine how she would manage with no running water, steam radiators, gas stove or flush toilet. Not well at all, she was certain. Especially after TJ came along. But apparently there were no children to complicate the Pollocks’ life, a blessing under the circumstances.

  She and Finch walked to the rear of the building and mounted the small porch that led to the back door. No need for the key, since it was already open.

  “Hello? Mrs. Pollock?” called Finch. He hadn’t expected to find anyone home, least of all the wife, who was supposed to be overseas, but maybe she’d smelled a rat and come back early.

  Silently, he began to speculate. Maybe Ossorio was just covering for her. He could have tipped her off about the girlfriend. What if she’d shown up on Saturday night, caught her husband with the women, got into a fight, and did one of them in? An enraged wife would likely have enough strength to strangle someone she thought was her husband’s lover. She certainly had the motive.

  The back door opened into the kitchen. Surprisingly, instead of the small rooms one would expect in an old farmhouse, the whole ground floor had been opened up to create a single space. The wall that had once separated the k
itchen from the back parlor had been demolished, and the double doors to the front parlor were removed. They could see right through the house to a pair of French doors that led to the front porch. The shades were drawn to keep out curious eyes.

  Moving into the back parlor, now a spacious living and dining area, they found the stark white walls covered with Pollock’s colorful abstract paintings. On the north wall behind the dining table, a huge canvas, nearly twelve feet wide, dominated the room. On the left side, a jumble of black lines reminded Nita of the print they had won in the raffle—suggestions of a figure, but scrambled and indistinct. On the right, a baleful face, blotched in blue and orange and fragmented like a patchwork quilt, stared out at them accusingly. How dare you invade my home, it seemed to say.

  They heard footsteps on the stairs, and a tall woman in her late twenties, wearing a T-shirt, paint-flecked jeans, and a kerchief around her head, came down to meet them.

  “Hello, there,” she said, apparently unconcerned to find a uniformed police officer and a strange woman in the house. She must have been expecting the law to turn up at some point, possibly with a relative of one of the girls in tow.

  “Who are you?” asked Finch.

  She introduced herself as Cile Downs, another of the many artists who had moved to the neighborhood at Jackson and Lee’s urging, bought up rundown farmhouses and converted the outbuildings into studios, turning Springs into Greenwich Village East. Some of the locals complained that they were displacing the old families, but others thought they fit right in with the community’s indigenous oddballs, of whom there were plenty.

  “I live up the road,” she told Finch. “Charlotte called to tell me that Lee is expected back tomorrow.”

  “How did you get in?” he wanted to know.

  “I got the key from the next-door neighbors. Lee asked them to keep an eye on the place while she was away. Obviously she couldn’t trust Jackson on his own. Of course she had no idea he wasn’t actually living alone.”