Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 26: Post-Mortem
Virginia Moore’s corpse rested on a dissection table in a sub-basement of the county courthouse that served as a morgue. Gil Doyle’s remains occupied a nearby icebox. The sharp smell of formaldehyde and carbolic disinfectant mingled with the sickly sweet stench of death.
The medical examiner, Dr. Cooper, finished his job. The paunchy, red-nosed doctor turned from the dead woman to the autopsy attendees, Coroner Ives, Sheriff Ford, Marshal Rivers, and Max. Cooper gazed at them with eyes long inured to horror. “The young woman drowned in fresh water. Time of death was about twenty-four to forty-eight hours ago.”
“Fresh water?” the coroner said with a bewildered look on his face.
“That’s right, Mr. Ives. She was already dead when she was dumped in the tidal pool. What’s more, there’s no sign of a struggle. Drowning victims suffer mental and physical anguish, even if for a short period of time. They panic, thrash about violently, and leave noticeable injuries externally, and sometimes internally, too.
“This woman hasn’t a mark on her body. She was discovered in a shallow, salt water pool with fresh water in her lungs. That leads me to believe she was rendered unconscious, probably by a strong sedative like chloral hydrate, and drowned, perhaps in a bathtub. Then her dead body was taken to the cave and left face up in the pool. I’m sending specimens to a Los Angeles laboratory to test for drugs.”
“So we can rule out accident or suicide?” the coroner said.
“It’s possible she died accidentally or killed herself and someone moved the body to the cave. But why conceal the body? I’d say homicide is the most likely answer to that question, although not the only one. Anyway, we’ll know more when the laboratory results come in.”
Max listened attentively while focusing on the woman, her violated body lying cold, white and exposed under a powerful electric lamp. A woman he had kissed and held in his arms only a short time ago. He thought he was hard; he’d seen worse, much worse. If I’d left her alone, this probably wouldn’t have happened, he thought. Max was hard, but he was human. He was glad Eve wasn’t there.
“Well, gentlemen,” the coroner said to no one in particular, “looks like we’ve got another crime on our hands.”
“Yes, I reckon we do,” Sheriff Ford said. A former saloon owner, dapper, middle-aged and with a friendly manner, Ford was more politician than lawman. In such matters, he invariably deferred to the town marshal. “What do you think, Red?”
“What do I think?” the marshal said. “I think we’re up to our necks in steer manure.” Then to Coroner Ives and Dr. Cooper: “If you fellers will excuse us, me, the sheriff and Deputy Niemand need to go off for a confab.”
“Go ahead, Marshal,” the coroner said. “Doc Cooper and I are finished here, at least for the time being.”
Rivers, Ford and Max walked upstairs to the sheriff’s third floor office. The sheriff switched on the lights and opened a cabinet from which he retrieved a bottle of rye and three glasses. “After that autopsy, I sure need a drink. How about you fellows?” he said.
“A double for me,” the marshal said.
“Me too,” said Max.
Sheriff Ford filled three glasses, handed one each to Max and the marshal and took the remaining glass for himself. He removed his hat and the others did the same. “Before we drink and get down to business, I think it’s fitting we have a moment of silence for the poor woman.” They bowed their heads. Then Ford raised his glass. “To Miss Virginia Moore. May she rest in peace.”
“To Miss Moore,” Max and Rivers replied. They each downed their shots and placed their empty glasses on the sheriff’s desk. Then they sat eyeing one another inquisitively until Marshal Rivers broke the uneasy silence.
“Bob,” he said to Sheriff Ford, “our first job is to take down Placco and his gang for Doyle’s murder. Two of my deputies picked up Jack Short as he was coming out of Miss Daisy’s. They’re working on him now. The kid’s scared. I figure he’ll crack under questioning. As soon as we get a signed statement, I’ll take it to Judge Foster and he’ll issue warrants. It’ll be legal and proper, and we’re going to need a posse of good men to get the job done. We’ll come down hard and fast with a coordinated raid on the brothels, saloons and roadhouse. How many men can you deputize and assemble on short notice?”
“About twenty, I reckon. How about you, Red?”
“About the same. We’ll work in teams, and each team will have a leader and a number two man. Max and me will take the roadhouse. We’ll need fast automobiles and good drivers in case they try for a breakout and getaway. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” the sheriff replied. “Now, what about Miss Moore?”
The marshal looked to Max. “I think you have something to say, Deputy.”
“Yes, Marshal, I do,” Max said. “As you know, I used Miss Moore to gain entry to Dan Williams’ office. I suspected Williams had information in his files that would connect him to the Burgess murder. When I entered the office, Duke Placco was waiting with a sap. Miss Moore had tipped off her boss, and Williams brought in Placco and his gang. Placco worked me over to find out what I knew about Burgess and Phantom Point, but Roxy Blaine sprung me before Placco could make me talk.
“Hugo Van Dorn told me Miss Moore approached him in a public square in Santa Teresa. This was a couple of days ago, and Hugo didn’t think the meeting was entirely by chance. She seemed nervous, looked around as though she feared they were being watched. She thought Hugo might know where I was and asked him to give me a message. First, she apologized, presumably for tipping off Williams. She also said that she’d gone through the lawyer’s files and found the evidence I was looking for. I suspect Williams murdered Miss Moore because he feared she would turn on him and go to the marshal.”
“I’ll be damned,” the sheriff said. “You’re accusing Dan Williams of murder? Why, he’s one of our leading citizens.”
“He had a motive,” the marshal said, “and he and Mr. Merwin have been fighting over the Phantom Point oil rights for years.” He turned to Max. “Tell him about the map.”
“Burgess was killed because he had a map, a supplemental plat, that — according to John Merwin — would clear his title to the oil rights. I believe Burgess lifted the map from the county recorder’s office. I have a witness to a clandestine meeting in Santa Teresa between Burgess and Williams. Burgess had taken the map to Los Angeles; he told me where it was located. He asked me to take the map to his client in Santa Teresa, but he died before he could give me his client’s name. The client might have been Williams.”
“Why did Burgess bring the map to Los Angeles?” the sheriff asked.
Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought Burgess was clean, but it’s possible he was shaking down Williams for more money. Maybe he threatened to sell it to someone else. Anyway, the Los Angeles police are working on a lead that could bring in Burgess’s killer. If they catch the killer and he talks, we might get the answer to your question.”
“Where’s the map now?” the sheriff asked.
“In a safe place,” Max replied.
“Why haven’t you turned it over to the marshal or me?”
“When I first came to Santa Teresa I couldn’t trust anyone, including you and the marshal. Now, that’s changed. But I want to hang onto the map for a couple more days, for personal reasons.”
The sheriff frowned and turned to the marshal. “I don’t get it, Red. We could make him hand it over right now.”
“Hold on, Bob. Max is on the level. If he needs a couple of days to finish some business before he turns over the map, that’s all right with me.”
The sheriff paused as if to think it over before saying, “OK, Red. Anyway, we’re going to have our hands full rounding up the posse and taking care of the Placco gang. We can settle this matter about the map later. Now, what about the Moore investigation?”
“I’m going to put Riley and McGraw on it, which means they won’t be available for the posse. Miss Moore worked for Williams, so Riley will question him as a matter of routine. Then I want Williams watched. If he tries to leave town, we’ll pick him up for further questioning. Of course, we’ll have to be careful. We can’t treat the lawyer like one of Placco’s punks.
“We also need to question the kid who found the body. The kid’s father, Ed Petersen, is a fisherman, and Williams used to sail along the cove where the Petersens live. It’s a remote place, but it’s possible someone spotted Williams in the area around the time Miss Moore went missing. As you said, we’re going to have our hands full.”
The sheriff wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief, then glanced at the half-empty bottle. The former saloon keeper came up with a familiar solution to life’s problems: “How about another round before you go?”
* * *
“Quiet, ain’t it?” Duke Placco scanned the roadhouse barroom and counted a total of two customers.
“Yeah, boss. But maybe it’ll pick up later.” Joe the bartender’s reply lacked conviction. Following the disappearance of their star attraction, Roxy Blaine and the inexplicable, sudden change in management, Joe, like the other employees, was about to pick up stakes and try his luck elsewhere.
Placco grunted and lit a cigar. He spotted Pete coming through the bat-wing doors and gestured to him. Pete came over. Joe went back to arranging bottles and cleaning glasses.
“Where’s Jack?” Placco eyed his henchman with a grim frown.
“He went into town to make the weekly collections.”
“What’s his last stop?”
“Miss Daisy’s.”
“What’s taking him so long?”
“Uh... I dunno, boss.”
“Well, don’t you think you should find out?”
“All right, boss. I’ll phone Miss Daisy’s.”
“Do that. If the kid’s still there, tell him to get his ass back here. He can visit the whores on his own time. If he ain’t there, you go to town and find him.”
“Yeah, boss. Right away.” Pete made a beeline for the nearest telephone.
Placco watched Pete for a moment and then leaned back against the bar and puffed on his cigar. Where the hell is everyone? he thought. I don’t like it.
* * *
Jack Short hung his head over a rough pine table in the basement of the marshal’s lockup, his left hand chained to a table leg. A bright electric lamp highlighted the typed confession on the tabletop. The prisoner reeked of sweat. An hour earlier, Riley and McGraw had stripped the kid, handcuffed him to an iron pipe running along the basement wall, and worked him over with stout lengths of rubber hose. After a few minutes of the third degree, Jack started singing like a canary.
Jack trembled; he puffed nervously on a cigarette provided by Deputy Riley. His wide eyes darted from the deputies that beat him, to Max to Marshal Rivers. He put down the cigarette and picked up a fountain pen. The fearful eyes fixed on the marshal. “If...if I sign this, you promise I won’t hang?” He had visions of Pete strangling Boss Doyle with the garrote.
“That’s right, Jack,” the marshal said. “I already talked to the District Attorney. If you testify against Duke Placco and Pete and Augie, you’ll do time, but you won’t get the rope.”
“I’m awful dry. Can I have a drink?” Jack gulped and licked his lips.
“Here, kid, take a swig.” Riley pulled out a flask and handed it to Jack.
Jack swallowed some whiskey, coughed and muttered, “Thanks.” Then he put down the flask, picked up his pen and scratched out his signature.
Marshal Rivers picked up the signed statement and looked it over. Then he turned to Riley and McGraw. “All right, boys. You can take him back to his cell.”
The deputies unchained the prisoner and led him out of the basement.
“Come on, Max. We’re going to the judge. The warrants are ready for his signature. Then we can round up the posse and take this show on the road.”
Max could not help noticing the eager gleam in the old gunslinger’s eyes.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
