Free Games of the Hangman by Victor O'Reilly Page A

Mr. von
Graffenlaub's mouth felt somewhat dry at the time."   Buckley reverted to his lecturer's monotone.   "You will observe that the zip of the
jeans if fully done up and the penis is not exposed.   That tends to eliminate the possibility of a
sexual perversion that went wrong."
    "Of
what?" said Fitzduane, taken aback.
    "Its'
part of the world of bondage, masochism, and similar perversions," said
Buckley mildly, "and it's not confined to high fliers in
London
or
Los Angeles
.   It happens wherever there are people, such as
in this good Catholic city of
Cork
.   You see, partial asphyxia can be a sexual
stimulant.   This is often discovered
accidentally, such as when schoolboys are wrestling.   The next thing you know some youngster is
locking himself in the bathroom or lavatory and
playing games with ropes or chains around his neck as an aid to
masturbation.   Then something goes wrong,
and he slips or puts the rope in the wrong place.   He just nicks the vagus, and that's it.   He's work for the likes of me.   His parents have forced the bathroom lock or
whatever, and there is little Johnny, cyanosed, looking just like Rudolf here
except for his penis hanging out and dribbling semen.   And often porno magazines
all over the place."
    "This is
all news to me," said Fitzduane, "and I never thought I lived a
sheltered existence."
    "Well,"
said Buckley, "to each his own.   Your average person knows more about football
than hanging."

     
    *           *           *           *           *

     
    Fitzduane
followed the pathologist's Volvo across the city, along
Macurtain Street
, and turned left up the
hill to the Arbutus Lodge.
    The box of
slides and a photocopy of the pathologist's file on the dead Bernese lay on the
seat beside him.   There seemed to be
little doubt that the hanging had, in fact, been suicide.   The matter of the motive was as obscure as
before.
    It never
seemed to be easy to park in
Cork
.   The cramped hotel forecourt jammed full of
cars made maneuvering difficult, and it took some minutes and rather more
frustration before they were able to squeeze through to the hotel's lower
parking lot, where a corner was still free.
    The sleet had stopped, thought the wind was viciously cold.   For a brief moment ,   after they had locked their cars,
Fitzduane and Buckley stood side by side and looked across to where the River
Lee rolled by below them.   Its route was
outlined by streetlights on its banks.   There was the occasional glint of reflected light on the black, oily
surface of the river, and below and to their right they could see the lights of
merchant ships tied up at the quays.
    "Many of
my customers are fished out of that river," said Buckley.   "
Cork
people do so love to drown themselves.   We had so many drownings last year that one of the mortuary attendants
suggested building a special quay for suicides and supplying them with marker
buoys and anchors."
    "I guess
it's the parking problem," said Fitzduane.

     
    *           *           *           *           *

     
    Buckley looked
at the last morsel of carefully aged Irish beef with a slight hint of
sadness.   With due
ceremony he matched it with the remaining sliver of buttered baked potato.   The carefully loaded fork made its final
journey.
    "There is
an end to everything," he said as he pushed his plate away.   He looked across the table at Fitzduane and
grinned benevolently.
    "What I'm
saying," said Buckley, "is that it doesn't do to make too much of a
suicide.   In the small patch of
Cork
I cover, I dealt
with about a hanging a fortnight last year.   There is some poor sod making his greatest gesture to the rest of
mankind, and all it adds up to is a few hours' work for us employees of the
state."
    Fitzduane
smiled.   "An
interesting perspective."
    "But
you're not persuaded?"
    Fitzduane
sipped at his port and took his time answering.   "I have a