“Medical Examiner’s office.”
“Hello? This is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. Who am I speaking to, please?”
“This is Dr. Stevens, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”
Reardon hesitated a moment and then plunged in. “You have a body in D-4, a Robert Cooke, supposedly an accident victim. Have you seen him yet? Examined him?”
“We looked at him the first thing this morning, Lieutenant. Why?”
“How does it look?”
Dr. Stevens’ voice was a bit puzzled. “It looks like a man hit and killed by an automobile. What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”
Reardon shook his head stubbornly at the telephone, almost as if the other could see him. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. There wasn’t anything queer about it?”
“Not a thing. We even talked to the garage. They hadn’t started on the car yet, but they described it to us. Do you have an idea there’s something fishy about it? Because I’d stake my reputation he was hit by that Buick and killed. The bumper caught him thigh-high and flung him. It broke his thigh bone and snapped his neck. I’ve seen a hundred the same way.”
Reardon thought a moment. “He still had his shoes on...”
“They don’t always lose their shoes, Lieutenant. Believe me.”
“Just one more thing, Doctor. Are you planning on doing an autopsy on him?”
There was a moment’s silence on the part of the other. When at last the doctor spoke his voice had become cooler.
“We are not. We have plenty of work without inventing any. If you have any reason for demanding an autopsy, you’ll have to present it through channels. All right, Lieutenant?”
“I suppose so,” Reardon said, and sighed. “Thanks, Doctor.”
He hung up, starting to drum his fingers on the desk again. Captain Tower would never agree to an autopsy, and even if he did, what could it possibly prove? From Penny’s story Cooke certainly didn’t sound drunk or doped, and even if he were, as Wilkins had pointed out, it made the argument for accident that much stronger. Still, a deck officer on a liner was usually a fairly alert character, if he wanted to stay alive, and it didn’t sound like a sober alert character would step off a curb without looking. Except, of course, all the evidence pointed to the fact that he did. And he hadn’t been alert one time on deck when whatever caught him in the mouth did a real job on his upper lip. So just why am I so bugged about this one? Reardon asked himself, and once again made up his mind. He dragged the phone over, dialing once again.
“Hello?”
“Garage here.” There was the sound of an engine racing in the background, the cheerful voice was raised above it. “Morrison speaking.”
“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. Have the technical boys started checking out that that 1940 Buick that was in that accident last night?”
“They’re just getting started now, Lieutenant. You’ll have the report before police court this afternoon, don’t worry.”
“Well, I am worried. Tell them to forget it for the time being.”
Morrison was mystified. “You mean they ain’t going to check her out, Lieutenant?”
“They’ll check her out, all right, but not today. That’s what I mean. Do you understand? They can check it tomorrow. Is that clear?”
“Well, sure, Lieutenant,” Morrison said in a voice that demonstrated that it wasn’t clear at all. “I’ll tell them right away. But—”
“That’s all,” Reardon said flatly. “Tomorrow. And no buts.”
He hung up and dialed a third number, happy to have a program to follow that satisfied him or at least kept him busy enough to ease some of the pressures of doubt he had regarding the case. “Hello?”
“Prosecutor’s office.”
“Let me talk to Merkel, will you? This is Lieutenant Reardon.” He waited, a faint smile on his lips. “Merkel? Jim Reardon here. You have a case coming up this afternoon in Municipal Court. An accident last night, a man killed. The victim was a Robert Cooke, downstairs in the morgue right now. Your man is a Ralph Crocker—”
“I know.” Merkel shrugged. “There isn’t much to it, though, that I can see. I have a copy of Wilkins’ report and it seems pretty cut and dried to me. We can’t ask for anything, not even a thirty-day suspension of his license. Not on the basis of that report.”
“Well,” Reardon said slowly, trailing the telephone cord through his fingers as he stared at the copy of the report on his desk, “there’s a little problem. We really should wait for the technical boys to finish going over the car before we release the man — certainly before we release the car. And it seems that the technical boys can’t get to it this morning. So I’d suggest a continuance of the case. Say, for just two or three days — until Friday. Day after tomorrow. How about it? Do you think you could talk the court into it?”
“Jim,” Merkel said suspiciously, “what do you think you know that I don’t know? Or that wasn’t in Frank Wilkins’ report? Other than the identification, of course?”
“Not a thing,” Reardon said honestly. “That’s the unfortunate truth. It’s just that I’d like to hold the car a few more days until the technical boys go over it. What the hell!” he said with a touch of irritation, “the man’ll still be free on his own cognizance. So let him rent a car for a few days and be damned happy it isn’t any worse!”
“His lawyer isn’t going to stand for a postponement. He has a right to see Wilkins’ report.”
“But what can he do if we haven’t been able to get to the car yet? For good and sufficient reasons?”
“Lump it, I guess,” Merkel said. “Or scream to the newspapers.”
“Yeah. I know.” Reardon pictured Captain Tower faced with a host of unfriendly reporters, and instantly shut the picture from his mind. “Look, I’m asking you as a favor. Let’s hope Crocker’s lawyer is a reasonable guy.”
Merkel sighed. “All right, Jim. I imagine you’ve got some reason for holding the boys off the car, because I know they started on it ten minutes ago. I phoned to find out when I’d get the report.”
“A lot can happen in ten minutes,” Reardon said. “In this case they all had to go to the bathroom.”
“I figured that’s where they were,” Merkel said dryly. “Are you planning on being in court this afternoon?”
“Is it necessary?”
“No. I’m sure the judge will give me a continuance until Friday, but I’d say that would be about the limit.”
“Well,” Reardon said judiciously, as if he had given the matter considerable thought, “I would imagine the boys ought to be out of the bathroom by then.”
“They’d better be,” Merkel said and hung up.
One more call, Reardon thought, and we ought to be on our way. Where to and why, were questions he preferred not to ask himself, because he didn’t know the answers, but he did know his next call would be pleasurable no matter what the result. He dialed the number he had gotten from Missing Persons and waited with less than his usual patience. Penny’s low voice finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Miss Wilkinson? Penny? This is Lieutenant Reardon. How are you this morning?”
“I hurt,” she said simply. “I feel numb and I still hurt. That doesn’t make any sense, does it? And I feel empty.”
“Well,” Reardon said, trying not to sound too light, “we can do something about the emptiness, because I was calling to ask if you’d have lunch with me today.”
“I really don’t think—”
“You see,” Reardon hurried on, “I’d like to bring you down to headquarters this afternoon to take a look at this man Crocker. And tell me if you’ve ever seen him before. With Bob Cooke, for example, or on the ship. Or anywhere else.”