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Authors: Ross MacDonald
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fluid.”
He made a shocked noise at the back of his palate.
“Just go away and leave me alone. I’m all right.”
I followed Leonard into the autopsy room. The dead man lay on an enameled table. I won’t describe him. His time in the earth, and on the table, had altered him for the worse. He bore no great resemblance to Burke Damis, and never had.
Dr. White was closing a butterfly incision in the body. His rubber-gloved hands looked like artificial hands. He was a bald-headed man with hound jowls drooping from under a tobacco-stained mustache. He had a burning cigarette in hismouth, and wagged his head slowly from side to side to keep the smoke out of his eyes. The smoke coiled and drifted in the brilliant overhead light.
I waited until he had finished what he was doing and had drawn a rubberized sheet up to the dead man’s chin.
“What did you find out, Doctor?”
“Heart puncture, in the left ventricle. Looks like an icepick wound.” He stripped off his rubber gloves and moved to the sink, saying above the noise of running water: “Those contusions on the head were inflicted after death, in my opinion—a long time after death.”
“By the bulldozer?”
“I assume so.”
“Just when was he dug up?”
“Friday, wasn’t it, Wesley?”
The Sergeant nodded. “Friday afternoon.”
“Did you make a preliminary examination then?”
Dr. White turned from the sink, drying his hands and arms. “None was ordered. The D.A. and the Sheriff, who’s also Coroner, are both in Sacramento at a convention.”
“Besides,” Leonard put in, eager to save face, “the icepick wound didn’t show from the outside hardly at all, It was just a little nick under the left breast.”
It wasn’t for me to tell them their business. I wanted cooperation. “Did you find the icepick?”
Leonard spread his hands loosely. “You couldn’t find anything out there after the ’dozers went through. Maybe you saw the mess on your way into town?”
“I saw it. Are you ready for Mrs. Simpson now?”
I was talking to the doctor and the Sergeant, but the question hung in the air as though it belonged to the dead man on the table. I even had a feeling that he might answer me. The room was getting me down.
I brought Vicky Simpson into it. The time by herself had calmed her. She had strength enough to walk across the roomand stand by the table and look down at the ruined head for a minute, for minutes on end.
“It’s him. It’s Ralph.”
She proved it by stroking his dusty hair.
She looked up at Leonard. “What happened to him?”
“He was icepicked, ma’am, a couple of months ago.”
“You mean he’s been dead all this time?”
“A couple of months.”
The two months of waiting seemed to rush across her eyes like dizzy film. She turned blindly. I took her back to the room where the night light burned.
“Do you know who killed him, Vicky?”
“How would I know? I’ve never even been in Citrus Junction—is that what they call this hole?”
“You mentioned that Ralph was paid by the police to gather information.”
“That’s what he said. I don’t know if it was true or not. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“Did Ralph have criminal connections?”
“No. He wasn’t that kind of a man.”
“You said he had a record.”
She shook her head.
“You might as well tell me, Vicky. It can’t hurt him now.”
“It didn’t amount to anything,” she said. “He was just a kid. He got in with a bad crowd in high school and they got caught smoking reefers one time and they all got sent to Juvie. That was all the record Ralph had.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Did he ever speak of a man named Burke Damis?”
“Burke Damis?”
“Damis is the man I met in Malibu, the one I described to you. He’s an artist, a painter, who apparently has been using your husband’s name.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps because he’s ashamed of his own name. I believe he used
He made a shocked noise at the back of his palate.
“Just go away and leave me alone. I’m all right.”
I followed Leonard into the autopsy room. The dead man lay on an enameled table. I won’t describe him. His time in the earth, and on the table, had altered him for the worse. He bore no great resemblance to Burke Damis, and never had.
Dr. White was closing a butterfly incision in the body. His rubber-gloved hands looked like artificial hands. He was a bald-headed man with hound jowls drooping from under a tobacco-stained mustache. He had a burning cigarette in hismouth, and wagged his head slowly from side to side to keep the smoke out of his eyes. The smoke coiled and drifted in the brilliant overhead light.
I waited until he had finished what he was doing and had drawn a rubberized sheet up to the dead man’s chin.
“What did you find out, Doctor?”
“Heart puncture, in the left ventricle. Looks like an icepick wound.” He stripped off his rubber gloves and moved to the sink, saying above the noise of running water: “Those contusions on the head were inflicted after death, in my opinion—a long time after death.”
“By the bulldozer?”
“I assume so.”
“Just when was he dug up?”
“Friday, wasn’t it, Wesley?”
The Sergeant nodded. “Friday afternoon.”
“Did you make a preliminary examination then?”
Dr. White turned from the sink, drying his hands and arms. “None was ordered. The D.A. and the Sheriff, who’s also Coroner, are both in Sacramento at a convention.”
“Besides,” Leonard put in, eager to save face, “the icepick wound didn’t show from the outside hardly at all, It was just a little nick under the left breast.”
It wasn’t for me to tell them their business. I wanted cooperation. “Did you find the icepick?”
Leonard spread his hands loosely. “You couldn’t find anything out there after the ’dozers went through. Maybe you saw the mess on your way into town?”
“I saw it. Are you ready for Mrs. Simpson now?”
I was talking to the doctor and the Sergeant, but the question hung in the air as though it belonged to the dead man on the table. I even had a feeling that he might answer me. The room was getting me down.
I brought Vicky Simpson into it. The time by herself had calmed her. She had strength enough to walk across the roomand stand by the table and look down at the ruined head for a minute, for minutes on end.
“It’s him. It’s Ralph.”
She proved it by stroking his dusty hair.
She looked up at Leonard. “What happened to him?”
“He was icepicked, ma’am, a couple of months ago.”
“You mean he’s been dead all this time?”
“A couple of months.”
The two months of waiting seemed to rush across her eyes like dizzy film. She turned blindly. I took her back to the room where the night light burned.
“Do you know who killed him, Vicky?”
“How would I know? I’ve never even been in Citrus Junction—is that what they call this hole?”
“You mentioned that Ralph was paid by the police to gather information.”
“That’s what he said. I don’t know if it was true or not. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“Did Ralph have criminal connections?”
“No. He wasn’t that kind of a man.”
“You said he had a record.”
She shook her head.
“You might as well tell me, Vicky. It can’t hurt him now.”
“It didn’t amount to anything,” she said. “He was just a kid. He got in with a bad crowd in high school and they got caught smoking reefers one time and they all got sent to Juvie. That was all the record Ralph had.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Did he ever speak of a man named Burke Damis?”
“Burke Damis?”
“Damis is the man I met in Malibu, the one I described to you. He’s an artist, a painter, who apparently has been using your husband’s name.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps because he’s ashamed of his own name. I believe he used
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