Read The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy for Free Online

days earlier and had checked in
at 11:30 A.M., Monday, the 22nd. The day before yesterday. He had
stayed there Monday night, but apparently not Tuesday night. No one
had seen him enter or leave on Tuesday. He had placed two long
distance calls to Pittsburgh, presumably home and office, and two
local calls,· me and presumably a customer, early Tuesday morning.
    "Was my message to him still in the box?" I
asked.
    "Yes." Cross handed it to Murphy. He
glanced at it and gave it back to her.
    Murphy told Mackey to lock and seal the room, Cross
remaining to go through it with the lab technicians she had called
from the desk.
    "C'mon," Murphy said to me. It seemed to be
one of his favorite phrases. We walked back through the lobby to his
car.
    "Unless the lab comes up with something, this
one's going down as what it appears to be."
    We were stopped at a light. I chose my answering
words carefully, the autopsy I had just witnessed still vivid in my
mind.
    "I still don't see it that way, Lieutenant. Al
wasn't gay."
    "Maybe he'd gotten a little drunk." The
light changed and we eased forward in the traffic that is a constant
of Boston driving during all daylight hours. "He gets a little
drunk, some guys talk about having a good time, he thinks combat zone
bar or hookers, realizes the real scene a little too late. Maybe he
gets insulting and somebody gets mad."
    "First, Al was too smart and experienced not to
recognize something like that. Second—" I was interrupted by
Murphy's horn as a bread truck tried to slam us broadside. I started
over. "Second, what was done to him is pretty extreme for
somebody getting mad."
    Murphy swung onto Boylston Street, bobbing his head.
"Agreed. So what's your view of it?"
    "I think he was tortured, the rest was red
herring."
    Murphy shot me a glance and nearly creamed a kid on a
moped. "Goddamned things shouldn't be allowed in the city!"
He snorted once. "You got any idea why a salesman for some
outtatown steel outfit would be tortured?"
    "None," I said, omitting Al's gambling
remark.
    We circumnavigated the Public Garden as we talked
about notifying Al's wife. Murphy gladly let me take that.
    The lieutenant turned down Charles Street to drop me
off at my apartment. As we were pulling to a stop, he said, "Could
it have anything to do with his left pinkie being broken'?"
    "His pinkie?" I said.
    "Yeah," he said, giving a false,
conspiratorial smile, "you know. The hand you were trying to
look at when you bumped me with your indignation routine."
    "I don't know."
    The smile faded. "You just told me a lie,
mister. One more lie in a murder investigation, and your license is
just a memory. Dig?"
    "Yes, sir. Thanks for letting me ride along."
    "Be seeing you," said Murphy as I closed
his door.
    My primary goal had been to confirm for myself that
Al's death was not what it seemed. The pinkie and the carefully
tossed room did that. My secondary goal had been to give Murphy
enough doubts to make him accept my eventual explanation. It was
important for him to have only a little doubt now because I did11't
want him investigating too deeply. Somehow I didn't think Murphy's
and my view of squaring things would be equally extreme.
    As I watched him pull away, however, I wondered if he
wasn't a step ahead of me in the doubt department.
 
 
    FIVE
-•-
    THE TELEPHONE RANG AT THE OTHER END OF THE LINE. I
glanced down at my watch. 4:35 P.M. A time of traffic tie-ups, Sesame
Street, and kids' afternoon snacks. A mundane time of day to tell
someone she's a widow.
    The fourth ring was interrupted by an adult female
voice. "Hello?"
    "Hello, Martha'?"
    "Yes, who is this?"
    There was a faint scratchiness on the line.
    "Martha, it's John Cuddy, Al's friend from the
army. From Boston."
    "Oh, yes, John, so good to finally talk with
you. Al said he was going to be seeing you. Is he with you now?"
    "No, he's not." I took a chance. "Al
told me you had a very close friend in your neighborhood," I
lied, "but I forget her