“Well, he’s on his back so we can assume he fell backward, right? No visible wounds to the front of the body. Who walks backward down a flight of stairs, especially someone with a bad leg? Maybe he turned because someone said something, called out his name?” Willoughby was scratching the back of his neck and shaking his head, not expecting an answer.
Just then, there was a knock at the stairwell door and the guard announced, “The ME’s here, Chief.”
Sanford “Sandy” Caldigate walked in and went immediately to the body, briefly nodding to Willoughby and Snavely. Caldigate was an experienced and efficient examiner. He had been with the office for ten years and did everything by the book. He had the authority to issue a death certificate which was routine when an autopsy wasn’t required. His report would concisely lay out the reasoning behind his decision.
Willoughby respected Caldigate and knew he didn’t like the cops – or anyone else, for that matter – hovering over him during his initial examination. Plus, he liked to work in silence so when Snavely started to talk, Willoughby stopped him with two fingers to his lips.
“Willoughby, help me rotate the body,” Caldigate said, looking up after a few minutes. The three men looked in amazement at the pulpy mess and swelling that used to be the back of Scatcherd’s skull.
“Time of death?” asked Willoughby, looking away. Caldigate checked Scatcherd again and said, “Don’t hold me to it but I’d guess around 2:30, give or take. I saw the ambulance when I arrived. We need to get him to the morgue for a complete examination. If he fell, it wasn’t from the last few steps but all the way from the top – or close to it. Damn bumpy ride” Caldigate said, pointing up the stairwell.
WILLOUGHBY, ACCOMPANIED BY the Security Chief, went to the clerical section on the second floor. People were whispering in small clusters, with only a few diligent workers back at their desks. The room went silent when the two men walked in. The Chief introduced Willoughby and then stepped back, underscoring the fact that the detective was in charge.
To save time, Willoughby addressed his questions to the group and there was general agreement that Scatcherd left the area around 2:00 after receiving a telephone call. Willoughby asked if anyone left with him or followed him either immediately or shortly thereafter. There were collective murmurs of “no” from some with others shaking their heads in agreement. Did anyone hear the voice of the caller or did Scatcherd mention a name before leaving? Again, the group response was negative.
As Willoughby and the Chief were leaving, they were followed out into the hallway by a saucer-eyed, freckle-faced girl with a strawberry blonde ponytail who introduced herself as Amanda Silverbridge. “If he fell down the stairs, why the need for a detective to investigate?” she asked, smiling broadly. “We investigate every death, young lady, even if it’s not suspicious, until an official cause is determined. Do you have some information that you didn’t want to share in front of your co-workers?” Willoughby asked in his most measured, polite voice.
“Scatcherd was a jerk. He tried to hit on me once. It was disgusting but I put him in his place. Still, I felt sorry for him, with the leg and all. But that sanctimonious stuffed shirt from downstairs, now there’s a real prick. I have no idea what she sees in him,” she said, scowling.
Willoughby’s eyebrows furrowed then he winced as the Chief suppressed a smile and looked away. The detective had a 19-year old daughter and he wondered if she talked this way when he wasn’t around. Amanda didn’t seem to notice his consternation and went on. “We had a security guard hanging around here a few days back and then Bellows came snooping around as if he had the right to lord over us. Word was that he had it in for Scatcherd. Like I said, a real prick. If you want to do some real detective work, start with him.”
Both men were silent and the girl continued as if she had been asked a question. “Viola Finch, of course. We went to high school together, then secretarial school. We have lunch in the cafeteria most days and all she does is heap praise on that creep. It’s disgusting.” Before Willoughby could react, the girl turned sharply, shaking her ponytail almost violently, and quickly walked away. “A saucy little thing, isn’t she?” said Snavely, looking wide-eyed at the detective. Willoughby liked her pluck even if her language offended him. He would like to have given her a lecture of the proper language to use around her elders, but moralizing wasn’t his style.
“YOU DON’T REALLY think he was lured to the stairwell and then pushed, do you Hank?” asked the Chief incredulously as they walked down the stairs to the first floor. “I don’t have a theory yet. We don’t even know if the phone call Scatcherd received has any connection to his death. Of course, the fact that he left right after receiving the call and was dead shortly thereafter, does make one curious, doesn’t it? Let’s see what the prick has to say,” Willoughby said, surprising himself and letting out a rare burst of laughter.
SNAVELY DIRECTED WILLOUGHBY to Bellows’ office and walked away. Viola Finch popped up when the detective walked in, fully prepared to prevent him from entering her boss’s office unannounced. If the detective were a speeding Mack truck bearing down on her, she would not have yielded. There was a pecking order in Viola Finch’s world and she was territorial, protective against any threats to her domain. “I’m Miss Finch, detective, Mr. Bellows’ assistant. I’ll tell him you’re here and see if he is available.” Willoughby was highly amused by her formality but said nothing and merely nodded his head in acknowledgement.
The chirping voice of Viola beyond his door carried into Bellows’ office and he assumed that someone was here to talk about Scatcherd. He was unsure what he wanted to reveal about his relationship with the clerk but was determined that if any specific questions about the Dumont file were raised, they had to be parried, at least until after he had met with Helga that evening.
When Bellows saw Willoughby, a contemptuous look formed on his face. The detective had seen it before, had experienced the condescension on many occasions. People gave him short shrift simply because he didn’t look impressive. He was “Cannon” before that actor created the TV role, Willoughby said to his wife one day, laughing in his self-deprecating manner that so endeared him to her.
“Did you see Leonard Scatcherd today?” Willoughby asked Bellows as soon as they shook hands, hoping to catch him off guard. “I did not, detective. We had a run in of sorts, of which you may be aware, but it has been a few days since I have seen him.”
“And the nature of this run in?” pursued Willoughby. “Oh, just a tiff over some archival business. We are consolidating and sealing files for our move to a new warehouse across the river and some documents got displaced temporarily while in Scatcherd’s possession. It all got straightened out a few days ago.” As Bellows was answering the detective, he made the decision to downplay the Scatcherd confrontation. How could the detective possibly challenge him? There was an uncomfortable silence as the two men looked at each other when Bellows added, “Terrible thing about the fall.” Bellows was hoping to sound sympathetic but knew immediately that his tone rang false.
“Yes, well that’s what we’re trying to sort through, Mr. Bellows. So, you’re certain that you neither had any conversation with nor saw Scatcherd today?” Willoughby pressed.
Bellows’ face reddened and he looked flustered. “Now see here, detective. I answered you truthfully the first time and I find this question impertinent and disrespectful. I had lunch at my desk and have not left my office all afternoon – not even to gawk at the body. My assistant can verify what I have just told you but I would hope that wouldn’t be necessary.”