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

tight focus," he said, "and it isn't how Rudolf
killed himself that primarily concerns me.   It's where and why.   He did   it on my
doorstep."
    Buckley
shrugged.   For the next few minutes the
cheese board became his primary concern; then he returned to the subject of
suicide.   "It's a funny
business," he said, "and we know nothing like enough about the
reasons."   He grinned.   "Dead people don't talk a lot.   One survey in
London
in the fifties analyzed nearly four
hundred suicides and estimated that either physical or mental illness was the
principal cause in about half the cases.   Well, I can tell you that Rudolf was in excellent health, there was no
evidence of early cancer or venereal disease or anything like that, and the
reports I received would tend to rule out mental illness.   So, according to the researchers, that leaves
what they term social and personal factors."
    "And what
exactly does that mean?"
    "Hanged if I know."
    "Jesus!"
groaned Fitzduane.
    "Suicide
statistics," continued Buckley, "leave a lot to be desired.   For instance, if I am to believe what I read,
Ireland
has a suicide rate so low as to be almost
irrelevant.   So where, I ask myself, do
all those bodies I work on come from?   Or
is
Cork
unusually suicide-prone?"   He shook
his head.   "The reality is that
people are embarrassed by suicide, so they fudge the figures.   A suicide in the family is considered a
disgrace.   As recently as 1823, for
example, a
London
suicide was buried at a
crossroads in
Chelsea
with a stake through his body.   Now,
there is a nice example of social disapproval."
    Fitzduane put
down his glass.   "Let's get back to
Rudi.   Is there anything — anything at
all — that you noticed about him or the circumstances of his death?"
    "Anything?"
said Buckley.
    Fitzduane
nodded.
    The port
decanter was finished.   They left the
now-empty dining room and retired to have a final brandy by the log fire in the
annex to the bar.   Fitzduane was glad
that he was staying the night.   How
Buckley remained upright with so much alcohol inside him was a minor
mystery.   The pathologist's face was more
flushed, and he was in high good humor; otherwise there was little overt sign
that he had been drinking.   His diction
was still perfect.   "Anything at
all?" he repeated.
    "Think of
it as the classic piece in the jigsaw," said Fitzduane.
    Buckley picked
up a fire iron and began poking the fire.   Fitzduane removed his jacket, rolled up his left sleeve, and thrust out
his arm.   For a moment, Fitzduane thought
that the pathologist was going to hit him and that he was unlucky enough to be
spending an evening with someone whom drink turns
violent.
    "Look at
this," said Buckley.
    Fitzduane
looked at the proffered arm.   A snarling
bulldog's head wearing a crushed military cap was tattooed on the forearm;
under it were the words “USMC 1945.”
    "The
Marine mascot," said Fitzduane.   "I saw it often enough in
Vietnam
."
    "You
don't have any tattoos?"
    "Not that
I've noticed," said Fitzduane.
    "Do you
know the significance of the bulldog to the Marines?"
    "Never
gave it much thought," said Fitzduane.
    Buckley
smiled.   "The choice of a bulldog as
their mascot goes back to the name the Germans gave the Marines in
France
in
1918.   They were called Teufelhunden , devil dogs.   It was a tribute to their fighting
qualities.   Well, jobs were scarce in
Ireland
when I
was a young lad, so I ended up serving a hitch in the U.S. Navy as a medic and
being attached to the Marines.   The
tattoo was a present from my unit.   It
means more to me than a Navy Cross."
    "Rudolf
had a tattoo?" asked Fitzduane.
    Buckley
rebuttoned his shirtsleeve.   "If
you've ever been tattooed yourself, you tend to be more interested in such
things.   They often have great
significance.   For a time I used to
collect photos of unusual tattoos off the cadavers as they paraded
through.   I built up quite a
collection.   Gave it up
years