Free Only Make Believe by Elliott Mackle Page B

you see anything else out of place besides the bed and overturned chair?”
    “The table should be next to the bed.”
    “And the mattress appears to be askew.”
    “Exactly.”
    “The coverlet’s turned down,” Bud said. “But don’t look like nobody got under it. You figure they could of started fighting on the bed?”
    Fighting or something , I thought. “Diva was on the floor by the phone when we got here,” I said.
    Doc shot me a glance.
    “Mr. DiGennaro was down, that’s what I meant,” I said, correcting my mistake. “That’s where the medics were working on him.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Just the bed, the chair and the rug. Doesn’t even look like much of a fight. Except for the blood spots on the floor.”
    “Medics might have moved the bed to get to him,” Bud offered.
    “Or to get they stretcher in,” Mose suggested. “If you don’t mind me saying.”
    Doc nodded at Bud. “You may want to ask them. Good point, Mose. You’ve carried your share of stretchers over the years.”
    “Suh.”
    Doc moved to the other side of the bed and admired his own imposing image in the specially ordered full length mirror. “Having begun the post mortem at Lee Memorial, I can tell you that the deceased was hit in the face and kicked in the groin area and upper leg. There appears to be a heel mark on the left interior thigh. The gentleman’s left testicle and scrotal area were contused.”
    I felt a chill in my own scrotal area. “Doc Graves at the hospital said the beating probably didn’t kill him,” I said.
    “Not in itself, I don’t believe. He—hum-um—was punched in the face, and he may have fallen against some piece of furniture—the edge of the desk, right here, for example. I see a little dent and three—hmm, humm—three hairs. Would that be normal, Mr. Eeew-ing?”
    I crossed the room, careful to avoid the drops of blood on the floor. “The desk is two years old. Dings and dents happen. We can ask the maid. I don’t usually get involved in damages unless somebody tears the toilet out or sets the curtains on fire, that kind of thing.”
    Doc arched an eyebrow. “I had no idea.”
    “Assuming the guest is good for the cost of replacement, it’s not usually a problem.”
    “Ah-ah-amazing. In any case, something hit Mr. DiGennaro or he hit something hard enough to give him a concussion, crack his jaw, perhaps knock him out briefly, perhaps cause him to pass in and out of the conscious state.”
    “Which tallies with the phone call for help,” I said. “He spoke to Phil on the desk, asked for Carmen but dropped the phone. He was out cold when the bell boy entered the room.”
    “But he came to when the medics arrived.” Doc removed a knife from his bag, turned to the desk and carved out the dent, carefully preserving the sprig of hair.
    I winced. The desk would have to be replaced. “Yeah. One of them said they had to give him a needle to cut the pain.”
    “Ah ha,” Doc said. “That wasn’t in the report. I wonder what they gave him. Mose? Evidence bag, if you please.”
    “Morphine,” I said. “That’s what the medic told the nurse.”
    “Could it have any effect?” Bud said.
    “On the pain? Oh my, yes. Morphine—hum-um. With some individuals, it’s like turning a switch.” Doc wiped the knife on the arm of his suit and put it away.
    Bud rocked back on his heels. “I seen some real bad battle damage in the Pacific, Doc. Remember? I meant did it affect whether he lived or not.”
    “I believe I’m going to find an enlarged heart, history of cardiac involvement, lack of exercise, something like that. He might not have felt the infarction coming on. Can’t be sure. If Dr. Graves had had a medical history they might have given him something else in the ER.”
    “Ain’t no prints on this door, Suh,” Drackett announced. “Wiped as clean as Mrs. Roosevelt’s teacup. I be startin’ on the wallet and dresser now.”
    “That’s fine. Thank you.”
    “Fuck,”