An Accidental Corpse Page 6

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ruth moved in the day Lee moved out. That’s why I’m here, to get rid of the evidence.” She corrected herself hastily. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Not that there was a crime or anything.”

  Nita glanced at Finch, who nodded almost imperceptibly. So he did know that Edith had met with foul play.

  “I meant I didn’t want Lee to see Ruth’s clothes hanging in her closet, Ruth’s makeup in her bathroom, and Edith’s things are here, too. How would that look? Lee has enough to face without that.” It was clear she was aware that two attractive young women were in residence, and was determined to do her best to lessen Lee’s inevitable humiliation.

  Nita understood perfectly. She identified herself and explained their mission. “Of course, you’re right. But let us have a look around first, then you can tidy up. We won’t be long. We’re looking for Kligman’s and Metzger’s addresses.”

  “There’s a handbag on the dining table,” said Cile, pointing to a purse lying next to a white scarf. Finch thanked her and began to search it, while the two women went upstairs.

  Cile had a suitcase open on the guest room’s unmade bed and was filling it with women’s clothing.

  “All these clothes are Ruth’s,” said Cile, indicating the heap of garments on the bed. “Lee wouldn’t be caught dead in this vulgar stuff. She has a real sense of style, used to model for a fashion illustrator when she was younger. Still has a great figure.”

  “Did you find any purse or wallet?” Nita asked.

  “I haven’t gone through the drawers yet, just the closet.” Cile pulled open the top drawer of the bureau.

  “Holy cow,” she exclaimed, “here’s her diaphragm.” She extracted a black plastic box, circular in shape, like a compact but larger and thicker. She popped it open. It was empty.

  Cile snickered. “She must be wearing it. What an optimist. Jackson was way too far gone to be any use in the sack.”

  The women exchanged knowing looks, but Nita needed to move on. “Let’s see if there’s anything in there that’s actually useful.” She pushed aside some underwear, handkerchiefs, and a tube of spermicidal cream, and came up with a red leather wallet. Inside, behind a clear plastic window, was a return request card with Ruth’s name and address.

  “Now that’s interesting,” Nita remarked, “she lives on West 13th Street, right in my husband’s jurisdiction. He’s a captain at the Sixth Precinct, just a few blocks south, on Charles Street. Where are Metzger’s things?”

  “He put her in the master bedroom,” said Cile. “She was going to use one of the twin beds. Lee and Jackson slept in separate beds.” She imparted that information without further comment, but it was apparent that Jackson had chosen to share the guest room with Ruth because it had a double bed.

  Cile led Nita into the sunny master bedroom on the right. The detective’s experienced eye scanned the room, looking for signs of a struggle. There were none. Edith’s overnight bag, still partly packed, lay on the bed nearest the door. The bathing suit that had never gotten wet was tossed on a chair, and a single sundress hung in the closet.

  A makeup case sat next to the portable vanity on a shelf by the window. Cile was about to scoop it up when Nita stopped her. “Let me look around first, then you can clear up in here. It won’t take me long.” Compared to Ruth’s elaborate wardrobe, Edith had brought much less clothing and fewer accessories. Unfortunately neither the suitcase nor the bureau contained any identification.

  She thanked Cile for her cooperation, took Ruth’s wallet and descended to the dining room, where Finch had finished with the handbag.

  “Looks like this belongs to Metzger,” he told Nita, “or rather it did.” He had spread the contents out on the table. “There’s a coin purse with eighty-nine cents in change, a hankie, a comb, lipstick, a compact, and a wallet with thirty-six dollars in it—probably cashed her paycheck on Friday—a return Long Island Rail Road ticket to Penn Station, and an ID card. She lived at 249 West 13th Street.”

  “That’s the same as Kligman’s address,” said Nita. “I bet they were roommates.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Finch. “Kligman can confirm that when she comes to. If she comes to, that is.”

  Seventeen.

  As Finch’s patrol car came to a stop in the General Store’s parking lot, he clicked on his radio to report in. “Finch here,” he told the dispatcher.

  “Where are you?”

  “At Dan Miller’s store in Springs. I got the IDs for the two women. I’ll bring ’em in now.”

  He shook Nita’s hand. “I’m real grateful you came along. I think the Downs woman was more cooperative with you than she woulda been with me.”

  “Well, there was some intimate stuff she wouldn’t have wanted to share with you, though I don’t think it has any bearing on the case. It’s too bad she got there before we did. I would have liked more time to go through the house undisturbed. There may be something we missed by not wanting to tip her about a possible homicide.”

  “I had a good look around downstairs while you were upstairs,” he said. “No sign of a scuffle, everything in place. Dirty dishes in the sink from dinner—Doc said Metzger had eaten not long before she died.”

  “I didn’t notice anything out of place upstairs. But Cile might have unknowingly tampered with evidence. Can’t help that now. Let’s hope Kligman comes to and sheds some light.”

  Finch headed out, and Nita was about to return to her seat beside Fitz when he rose and came out to the parking lot to meet her. “Let’s walk over to the landing,” he suggested. “Maybe we can see the boys from there.” His real motive was to get out of earshot of the customers lounging on the porch. Several more locals who had shown up in Nita’s absence were now feasting on Dan Miller’s sandwiches and their daily ration of gossip. No need to add any more tasty morsels.

  They strolled into the yard, and Nita filled him in on the discoveries at the house, including the fact that there was no apparent evidence of foul play.

  “Both women lived at the same address,” she said. “I’m guessing they shared an apartment, or knew each other from the building. But here’s an interesting coincidence—their address is on your patch, West Thirteenth, number 249.”

  “Well, son of a gun. Can’t say I recognized either of them from the neighborhood, but that would be unlikely unless they showed up at the station. When I was on the beat I used to know all the shopkeepers by name, and many of their customers as well, at least by sight. Sometimes I miss that, feel like I’m out of touch.”

  “Maybe they’re new in the area,” said Nita reassuringly. As a detective she had far more frequent contact with the residents in her precinct, while Captain Fitzgerald was often tied to his desk by administrative duties.

  The sight of a rowboat, drifting toward them with oars shipped, interrupted their talk. Although hardly an expert on inland waterways, Fitz knew enough to expect a river to run downstream from its source, but the creek was flowing toward Pussy’s Pond, bringing the little boat and its two young passengers effortlessly back toward the landing.

  As they neared the shore, Mike locked the starboard oar and expertly maneuvered into position for Fitz to grab the bow and pull them onto the small ramp. Both boys were grinning from ear to ear, and it was easy to see why. In the bottom of the boat were a dozen blowfish, flopping about and working their rubbery mouths.

  “Papá, Mamá, ver este, watch!” cried TJ. He picked up one of the fish by the tail and poked its belly. The creature gulped air and inflated its stomach, turning into a round ball. TJ squealed with laughter, both at the fish’s uncanny transformation and at his parents’ astonished expressions.

  Mike, who had seen this performance many times before, focused on the practical. “Ugly, but good eatin’. Only the tail end, mind. Nothin’ in the body. See?” He tapped the air sac to
emphasize his point.

  He hopped out of the boat, retrieved a bucket from behind the store, and handed it to TJ. “Fill ’er up while I get the gear,” he ordered.

  “How many of those did you catch?” Nita asked her son as he scooped the haul into the bucket.

  “Four,” he answered honestly. As a neophyte fisherman, he had not yet learned to exaggerate. “Mike showed me the trick. You just stick the hook through a worm, jiggle it in the water, and they go right for it. You have to be careful gettin’ the hook out, though. They’ve got sharp teeth. Spines on the back, too. It’s best to put a rag around them while you hold them,” he informed his parents with authority.

  “TJ learns fast,” said Mike with pride. “Finest kind.” He shook his student’s hand. “You keep the catch. Mr. Miller’ll wrap ’em for ya.”

  Nita was quick to decline the offer. “Oh, no, Mike, you take them. I wouldn’t know how to cook them, but I bet your mom does.”

  “Sure does,” he replied, “knows how to clean ’em, too, but she sure don’t like to. They got skin like sandpaper. Hasta wear gloves or she’ll scratch up her hands.” That news made Nita even more relieved that she’d turned him down.

  Fitz offered to run Mike home, but the boy said he’d walk, it was only down the road. As they thanked him for his kindness to TJ, Fitz couldn’t let him go without satisfying his curiosity about the creek.

  “She’s tidal,” Mike explained. “Connected to Gardiner’s Bay. Runs back’rds twice a day. Good timin’ for us, we got a free ride in.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Fitz as they waved goodbye to Mike, “we’d better ride on back to the cottage and get TJ cleaned up. We may not be taking the fish with us, but we’re sure taking their smell.”

  Eighteen.

  On the way back to the Sea Spray, Nita told TJ what was in the cardboard tube. “Yes, you won the Pollock picture,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I hope you don’t regret taking a chance on it.”

  “Oh, no!” he replied with gusto. “It’s sorta creepy that he’s dead, but the picture is sorta creepy, too.”

  Once again Fitz was dismayed at his son’s ghoulish streak. Was I like that at his age? he wondered. Probably. But at thirty-nine, with nearly twenty years on the force, he had seen things his most lurid childhood imaginings could not have prepared him for. Wifredo Lam’s body, back in ’forty-three, for one. Not that it had been gory—no visible wounds, in fact—but the monstrous getup was what had made it so unsettling.

  Fitz had broken up bloody fistfights, taken mutilated knifing victims to the hospital, waited for ambulances to pick up bodies maimed in traffic accidents, cordoned off the mangled remains of jumpers, and even once delivered a baby in the back of a squad car, all part of the job. But something about the Lam killing had gotten under his skin.

  It was the disfiguring aspect of it, the deliberate desecration. Even though he was well aware of the costume’s actual significance, it mocked the dead man in a way that offended Fitz’s sense of decency. Calling it an exquisite corpse made it even more bizarre.

  To the Surrealists, who invented the game, that was the point—the more bizarre, the better. Which was fine as long as the corpse was only a drawing. It was another story altogether when it was human.

  Fitz’s mind returned to the present when they arrived at the cottage, where a note was pinned to the door. Please call police headquarters, EA4-0024, and ask for Chief Steele, it read.

  “You get TJ out of those fishy clothes and into the outside shower,” suggested Nita. “I’ll run over to the inn and phone.”

  She was put through immediately, and the chief made his request without preliminaries. “I’d be much obliged if you and your husband would come to my office right away to discuss the Metzger case.” Nita agreed, and the chief gave them directions.

  Once again Emily Green was to be pressed into service, over TJ’s protests. “Why can’t I go with you? I won’t be in the way.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather go to the beach?” coaxed Fitz. “I’m sure Mrs. Green can persuade one of the lifeguards to keep an eye on you. Maybe he’ll even let you sit up on the bench with him, and blow the whistle if someone swims out too far. That would be a lot more fun than being stuck inside a dingy police station on such a beautiful day.” Fitz had no idea whether such a thing would be allowed, but the prospect seemed appealing to TJ, so they took him to the inn and left him in Mrs. Green’s care.

  “I have a passkey to the cottage,” she told them. “So I can let him in to change into his bathing suit and I’ll find him a beach towel. You folks get along to town.”

  Unlike Fitz’s imposing Sixth Precinct station house, built in the 1890s when Teddy Roosevelt was police commissioner, or Nita’s Twenty-third Precinct on East 104th Street, which looked more like an apartment building than a police station, the East Hampton Town police headquarters on Newtown Lane resembled a small professional office. The waiting room was furnished with a few comfortable chairs, a Motorola FM Dispatcher two-way radio, and a reception desk behind a gated railing.

  Instead of a uniformed sergeant behind the desk barking “Yeah, waddaya want,” a clerk in civilian clothes, who doubled as the dispatcher, asked politely how he could be of assistance. Nita relayed the summons from the chief, and they were ushered into his office, a pleasant room ventilated by wide-open screened windows and a ceiling fan. No hard wooden chairs or security bars here, they noted.

  Chief Harry M. Steele, white-haired and avuncular, wore his authority lightly. A thirty-three-year veteran of the force, he was a Springs native who knew every nook and cranny of his territory, and everyone in it, during the nine months of the year when East Hampton slept. During the high season, from Memorial Day to Labor Day, it was a different story. The town brimmed with strangers, and it was Steele’s job to see that those who broke any of the numerous summer rules and regulations paid their fines promptly. Parking violations and speeding tickets accounted for a hefty chunk of his annual budget.

  He thanked Nita and Fitz for coming, directed them to chairs with padded seats, and came straight to the point.

  “This Metzger business couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Not only is it our busiest time of year, when all my officers are coping with traffic and tourists—no disrespect intended—but there’s been a rash of auto accidents, with several fatalities. Now it looks like one of them was a homicide. Frankly, we don’t have the resources to investigate all the angles on that one, so I’m going to ask for your help. I know you’re on vacation, but I’m stuck or I wouldn’t impose.”

  “I’ll be glad to help,” said Fitz. “As Officer Finch must have told you, the Metzger-Kligman address is in my precinct in the West Village, so I can have inquiries made there. My men can also contact the women’s places of employment, and possibly trace the next of kin. One phone call will set that in motion.”

  “Good. I appreciate your cooperation. If you’ll give the number to Fred Tucker out front, he’ll put through the call for you.” Fitz rose and excused himself.

  “I’d like to impose on you as well, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the chief continued. “I’m told you’re a detective, so I hope you’ll agree to question the Kligman girl when she regains consciousness. There’s no detective on my force, and I don’t think any of my officers has the right, ah, technique. I think a woman’s touch is needed.”

  “I understand,” said Nita, ignoring his unintentional condescension. “And I’m an experienced interrogator. It has to be carefully handled. On the face of it, she and Pollock are both prime suspects in the strangling.

  Nita continued. “Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Metzger tried to seduce Pollock, and Kligman killed her in a jealous rage. In her condition, she might incriminate herself, say something she’ll deny later, when she’s not medicated. Or let’s say she saw Pollock do it, for reasons unknown—maybe even accidentally while he was drunk—an
d she doesn’t know he’s dead, so she tries to protect him, maybe invents some story about an intruder. Or maybe it was an intruder. I saw nothing in the house that looked suspicious, but if Metzger interrupted someone prowling around outside, that could account for it.”

  She sat back and reflected. “Of course this is all speculation. I wonder if Dr. Cooper can rule out the possibility of a woman doing it. He said her windpipe was crushed—that would take serious force. And maybe the size of the neck bruises would tell him how big the killer’s hands were.”

  Steele was impressed. He leaned over and flipped on his intercom. “Fred, do you have the Metzger autopsy report? Yes? Bring it in, will you?” The file arrived promptly, and Nita pulled her chair around the desk so she and Steele could study it together. The photographs showed the injuries clearly.

  “Looks like a classic case of deliberate strangulation,” Steele observed. “He grabbed her right around the throat and choked her to death.”

  In addition to a postmortem fracture of the third cervical vertebra and multiple lacerations to the upper body as a result of the car crash, the report described cutaneous bruising and abrasions to the neck, engorged tissues at and above the compression sites, fractured larynx, compressed cricoid cartilage, and ocular petechiae—broken blood vessels in and around the eyes. It also noted manual bruising on the upper arms, and the removal of skin fragments from under the index and middle fingernails on Metzger’s right hand.

  “She must have fought back, and scratched whoever did it,” said Steele. “Let’s hope it was on his face. Likely to be a man, isn’t it?”

  “Considering the amount of force needed to cause those injuries, I think it’s safe to assume the killer was male,” agreed Nita. “Assuming he came at her from in front—which is what it looks like from the bruise patterns—it’s probable that she scratched her killer on the left cheek or neck.