As Willoughby started to leave, the manager smirked and said, “That other guy, detective, maybe he found what you’re looking for?” Willoughby turned back and his stare made the manager’s grin disappear. “About a week ago, some guy was in here and walked right up to Scatcherd’s apartment and let himself in. I figured he was a friend, him having a key and all. But it did strike me after he left that he didn’t look like the sort that would be a pal of Scatcherd. Well-groomed, nice tweed jacket and snappy bow tie. Real uppity type with the nose tilted up. Not sure how long he was up there. I got busy and didn’t see him leave. Now that I think of it, I never thought to mention it to Scatcherd. Well, no bother now, right?”
“Anything else you may have forgotten Mr. –?” Willoughby paused with his eyebrows raised again and the manager was quicker this time. “Cecil Lawrie, that’s me, detective, at your service. Nope, that’s about it.” Cecil involuntarily flashed a hideous, toothy smile and Willoughby was exposed to the rotting remains of jagged teeth that would test the fortitude and skill of any dentist.
Lawrie’s description of the visitor to Scatcherd’s apartment fit Addison Bellows to a tee, right down to the ubiquitous bow tie. The archivist had not been forthright with Willoughby and now had some explaining to do.
NIGEL LONGSTAFFE HEARD the voices in the hallway and opened his door just far enough to see Willoughby and Lawrie standing at the manager’s door. Scatcherd’s death had been in the morning newspaper and had been described as an accident. If so, why would a detective be snooping around, he wondered?
Longstaffe was not feeling any better. He had coughed up more blood than usual that morning and it was increasingly difficult for him to swallow what little food he nibbled on. He had soaked his toast in hot tea that morning but even with the honey and whiskey flavoring, it had not helped much.
Nigel looked sad as he gazed at his bookshelf with the dog-eared copies of his treasured classics with the notes and suggested emendations that he had added over the years. The works of Cicero sat alongside those of Virgil, Pliny and Ovid. He revered them all, they were his friends and lifelong companions, but there was a special place of honor for the Histories by Tacitus and Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Who would cherish them after he was gone?
Longstaffe had the shakes and was determined to go to Pudge McFadden’s for a liquid lunch. If it wasn’t for his books, the saloon would be as much a home to him as his dingy apartment.
WILLOUGHBY WALKED INTO the medical examiner offices and found Caldigate completing paperwork on Leonard Scatcherd. Everything on his desk was neatly organized and it reminded Willoughby of his grade school teacher. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” she said with pursed lips and a wagging finger whenever she walked past his cluttered desk. To this day, Willoughby didn’t know what it meant although Miss Prendergast insisted it was a Biblical quote. Whatever it did mean, Caldigate had certainly taken the message to heart. Miss Prendergast would have been proud of the examiner.
“Going to conduct an autopsy on Scatcherd, Sandy?” Willoughby asked. “Accidental death, Willoughby,” Caldigate said in a monotone without looking up from his writing. If anyone was more laconic than the detective, it was the medical examiner. For a while, it was a silent stand-off. Willoughby said nothing but stared down at Caldigate until the examiner finally raised his eyes in feigned surprise, as if he didn’t expect to see the detective still looming above him.
“Can I at least see the body, Sandy?” Willoughby pleaded, forced to speak and figuring that the examiner at least owed him this concession. Caldigate sighed and dropped his pen. “It won’t change anything, Hank, but if it will make you go away, let’s get it over with.”
SCATCHERD’S MUSCLES WERE stiff and his hair was standing up as if he had received an electric shock. The feet were purplish blue as blood had rushed to his extremities. “He’s just transitioning to another form,” Caldigate said matter of factly as if to ease Willoughby’s concerns that something unusual was occurring. “You know, Hank, that if no one claims him, he will go into the big oven. At 800 degrees, he will be turned into ashes within an hour.” Willoughby thought of Scatcherd’s landlord but said nothing.
Death bruising had commenced and Willoughby pointed to the distinct markings on Scatcherd’s chest, one bruise the size of a baseball but not quite as round and a smaller one just below it the shape of a dime. “Don’t these markings warrant ‘pending’ on your report instead of ‘accidental,’ at least for the time being?” Willoughby asked. “Okay, I’ll admit those marks made me curious but not enough to prompt an autopsy or change my report. Besides, and don’t repeat this or you’ll never get my cooperation again. I got a call first thing this morning to wrap this matter up quickly.”
“From whom?” Willoughby demanded. Caldigate put up his arms and stepped back. “I’m not telling, Hank, so don’t press me. All I’ll say is that it came from one of the big boys in Richmond. If I tell you and it gets back to any of them, they will know it was me.”
As they walked back to Caldigate’s office, Willoughby was silent and the examiner felt certain that the detective would not pressure him when he said, “I know you’re a stubborn guy, Hank, and a good man, too. But you’ve got to remember that the government still has a lot of war records stored in that old factory and I hear that some of them are pretty damn sensitive. My guess is that they don’t want any negative publicity, particularly right now. Take my advice and locate next of kin, anybody to claim the body. Let them bury Scatcherd and then you can bury this investigation at the same time. I’m not saying that anything is being covered up because I have no knowledge that’s the case. What I am saying is that there’s nothing here for you to pursue but trouble.” Caldigate gave Willoughby a friendly pat on the back. He had said more in the last few minutes than he normally did in an entire day and was now anxious for the solitude of his office.
WHEN WILLOUGHBY WALKED into Bellows’ office, he was still worked up from his meeting with Caldigate and the revelation by Scatcherd’s landlord. When she spotted him, Viola Finch popped up from her chair like bread out of a toaster. Bellows’ door was closed but Willoughby was in no mood for formalities. He pushed the door open with an exasperated Viola Finch right behind him, desperately flapping her arms.
Bellows waved her off with a resigned look when he saw the determined expression on Willoughby’s face. He wasn’t sure why Willoughby was back so soon and it made him nervous. “Yes, detective?” he said meekly, hoping to sound deferential but knowing that he sounded intimidated.
“You lied to me yesterday, Bellows. Do you want to tell me why you were in Leonard Scatcherd’s apartment and what you found there?” Bellows was caught off guard and tried to cover his surprise and buy some time by holding his hand in front of his mouth. “We can talk downtown, if you prefer,” Willoughby said fiercely, losing all patience.
Bellows motioned to a chair and Willoughby, skeptical but accepting the conciliatory gesture, decided to give the archivist a chance to explain himself. In carefully measured tones, Bellows said, “I had reason to believe that Scatcherd had stolen documents from an archive file. We’re talking about confidential government documents, detective. I confronted Scatcherd and he denied taking anything from the file. He told me if I needed convincing that I could search his apartment. I took him up on the offer and he gave me the key.”