Chapter Seven
Perry and Della were both stunned and stricken by Hamilton's announcement. Jerry was bewildered.
"Why would she kill herself?" he burst out. "You would have got her off, Perry."
"I don't know," Perry frowned. He glanced at the clock. "I should get to the jail. I'm sorry, Jerry, I won't be able to go to Mrs. Germaine's with you."
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Why do you want to see Mignon?" he asked, shooting a bewildered glance at Jerry.
Now Jerry was embarrassed. "Oh . . . it's a long story," he said. "Nevermind about that." He looked to Perry. "It's alright, Perry. I'll go by myself. I'm sorry about your client."
"So am I," Perry said. "Della, let's go."
"I'm right with you, Chief," Della assured, trailing after him.
xxxx
Elaine Darrow's cell was eerie and cold. Della gasped when she, Perry, and Hamilton were shown to it. The body had already been removed, but that did little to alleviate the horror of the scene. A sheet had been tied around the top bars of the cell door. A police photographer was snapping pictures from the inside. Andy was standing by, grimly watching.
"Andy, what happened?" Perry demanded as they approached.
Andy looked up. "It looks like she tried to hang herself as best as she could under the circumstances," he said. "We haven't found a note." He sighed.
"Don't you find it strange that she would do this?" Perry asked.
"Yes," Andy returned. "But many suicides are strange, Perry. There doesn't seem to be a motive for them. And yet they happen."
Hamilton looked to Perry. "You're not suggesting that maybe Elaine Darrow was murdered," he said in surprise.
"No," Perry said. "I'm just wondering what could have prompted this." He stepped closer. "Was the door dusted for fingerprints?"
"Only Elaine's and a guard's are on the door," Andy said. "And only Elaine's on the top bars. There's absolutely no indication that it wasn't a suicide."
Della bit her lip, walking further away from the scene. She was terribly uncomfortable being here and seeing this. In all the years Perry had been an attorney, nothing such as this had ever happened to one of his clients. And Della had been fond of Elaine. They had talked just yesterday. How could this have happened? Why?
She stopped walking and turned back. Perry was still talking with Andy and Mr. Burger. He surely must be troubled too. It was horrible, suicide or not. And he had invested so much into trying to help Elaine. Why would she throw all of that away?
Perry looked up as Della came over again. Her restlessness had not been lost on him; he knew she must be badly shaken.
"You don't have to stay, Della," he said. "I'll call you a cab."
But she shook her head. "I'll stay," she said, firmly.
"Are you sure?" Hamilton asked in concern.
"Yes, Mr. Burger. I'm sure," Della nodded.
Perry searched her eyes with a frown, uncertain and concerned himself. But she met his gaze with the resolution that he knew all too well. She was indeed going to stay.
"Alright," he said at last.
xxxx
Mignon opened the door at the sound of the doorbell ringing. An eyebrow rose in surprise at the unknown man on the porch.
"You must be Major Reynolds," she said, taking in his uniform. "I am Mignon Germaine. Where is Mr. Mason? He said you were both coming."
Jerry sighed, holding out a hand to shake. "Mr. Mason couldn't come after all," he said. "Something happened with one of his cases. But thank you for agreeing to see me, Ms. Germaine, and on such short notice."
Mignon accepted his hand and gave it one brief shake. "Please come in, Major." She stepped aside, allowing Jerry into the parlor. "I hope Mr. Mason is well."
"Well . . ." Jerry hesitated. "I don't know if I'm supposed to discuss what happened."
"There's no need. Let's discuss your problem." Mignon walked ahead, leading him into the living room. "Mr. Mason said you were concerned about the state of the spirit after death."
"That's . . . simplifying it, but yes," Jerry said. He took off his hat as he followed. "More specifically I . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'm wondering what might happen if there was a man already dead, who had been dead for a while."
Mignon stopped but did not turn around. "How long is 'a while'?"
Jerry considered the question. "It couldn't have been that long," he realized. "A few hours, maybe. If they'd waited too long the body would have started to decompose." He shuddered in horror. With this idea, Caldwell probably would have been alive even as Jerry had been tried for his murder—or at least, at that point he certainly he would have been in the grasp of whoever had managed to bring him back.
Mignon was standing at a table now, leafing through the pages of a thick book. "You'll have to tell me more, Major Reynolds. I've never been able to read minds."
Jerry snapped back to the present. "Oh . . . of course. I'm sorry." He shifted. It was mortifying to even be talking about something so impossible. But he had to know. He had to know what she thought.
"What I'm trying to ask, Ms. Germaine, is what if the body fell into the hands of someone experimenting with reviving the dead. And what if this person or persons managed to get the body clinically alive again?" Jerry stepped closer. "Would the spirit go back in it? Would it be able to go back in it? Even if it had already crossed to the afterlife?"
Mignon finally looked up. "Are you familiar with near-death experiences, Major Reynolds?" she queried.
Jerry was surprised. "I . . . I've heard of them," he admitted. "I never knew whether to think they were real or not."
"Often the person's heart and breathing stop and they leave their bodies," Mignon said. "But if the heart begins again to beat, either from the medics' intervention or by a higher power, the spirit returns, as though called back. There are many accounts of this happening even while the spirit is in the afterlife."
Jerry frowned. "So it's like restarting the heart somehow jolts the spirit back into the body?"
"Something like that," Mignon said. "Perhaps it could be described as an invisible string between the heart and the spirit. When the heart stops, the string goes slack and the spirit leaves. If the heart restarts, the string jerks and pulls the spirit back from wherever it has wandered."
Jerry shook his head. "It's so strange to think about," he said. "So what you're saying is that these people working on the body wouldn't ever—couldn't ever—just have an empty shell? The spirit would have to be there?"
"I would think so," said Mignon. "Unless of course we're talking about zombies. Zombies are not alive. There is no breath, no heartbeat, in a reanimated corpse. It is little more than a puppet, under the control of whoever performed the ritual to summon it."
A chill went up Jerry's spine. "Zombies have all the damage from death, don't they?" he asked. "If the death was a violent one, I mean."
"I wouldn't see any valid reason for repairing it, even if someone could," Mignon said. "Those who practice the black magic of summoning zombies usually want them for the purpose of hurting someone. The corpses are manipulated without regard for decay or wounds. Since they are not operating under their own power, their physical state doesn't matter."
Jerry slumped back in partial relief. "I don't think we're talking about zombies."
"If you saw one, Major, I'm quite sure it would be impossible for you not to know it," Mignon returned. Her brown-eyed gaze bored into his troubled orbs. "Do you believe you've seen someone you thought was dead?"
"No!" Jerry exclaimed. "I mean, I . . . I know the person was dead. And now I'm not sure if I've been seeing him or an impostor."
Mignon considered that. "Is there something you could ask him that an impostor could never know?"
Jerry wavered. Was there? He and Caldwell had been friends long ago. There must be something, some secret just between them. But if there was, it had fled his mind.
He shook his head. "I can't think of anything, honestly."
Mignon did not seem concerned. "Sometimes the best guides are not memories, but feelings. What do you feel about this person? Deep in your heart, who do you feel he is?"
Jerry took a moment to analyze, wondering if his impressions would change. They did not.
"I feel he's Captain Michael Caldwell," he said at last. "Not an impostor, but the genuine article."
"Then, Major Reynolds," Mignon said, "that is the angle you should pursue first."
"But . . ." Jerry shook his head. "How is it even possible? That's what I keep coming back to. You see, the left side of his skull was crushed." He jabbed a finger at the general area on his own head. "A lot of brain tissue was damaged. Perry was right; there's no way anyone could come back from that. Not without being a vegetable. And this man is in perfect . . . well, almost perfect health!"
Mignon thought for a moment. "These people supposedly doing experiments," she said. "Perhaps they found a way to do the seemingly unthinkable and repair everything?"
"If the man I'm seeing is Caldwell, they would have had to," Jerry said. "He's fine, except for what looks like part of a scar on his left temple."
"Major Reynolds." Mignon stepped closer. "Don't think about the how at this point. If you believe this man is Captain Caldwell, then you need to find him again."
She paused. "Strangely enough, I saw a military man last night," she mused. "He may have been a captain; I don't know."
Jerry stared. "Did he say anything to you?"
"Not much," Mignon said. "And he didn't want to divulge his identity. He said it would be better if I didn't know it and that I wouldn't believe it anyway."
This was a stunning piece of news. And eerily enough, it would fit right in with the man being Captain Caldwell. Who would believe something like that?
Jerry swallowed hard. "What did he look like?"
Mignon's description only confirmed that it was the person who had stalked Jerry from Vandenberg to Los Angeles. Jerry fumbled with his hat, almost dropping it. "And you think that whoever it was, there was definitely a spirit in that body," he said.
"The man did not behave as a soulless husk." Mignon's response was immediate. "He was very much alive. But he was troubled; there's no question of that."
Jerry frowned. "He was troubled when I saw him too," he said. "And that's putting it mildly." He started to turn to leave. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Germaine. I really appreciate it."
"I hope you find the answers you're looking for, Major Reynolds," Mignon returned.
"So do I," Jerry declared.
xxxx
Paul sighed in exasperation. The day had been long and tedious, filled with fruitless searches for Jerry's stalker as well as information that would help clear Elaine. And then Perry had called him towards evening and told him that Elaine was dead. Paul had been shocked.
"Do you want me to come out there?" he had demanded.
"No," Perry had answered. "We still need whatever you might be able to find. Elaine needs to be cleared, even if only posthumously. What's more, now we need to know what led her to her death."
It was a tall order. From what else Perry had told him, no one had been seen going in or out of the cellblock. By all indications, Elaine had indeed killed herself. Even Perry did not know that he believed otherwise. And the reason for it might have existed in her mind and nowhere else. But somehow, Paul was supposed to find the motive.
Steve, albeit reluctant, had agreed to let Paul look through Elaine's impounded car—once the police were finished with it, of course. He had just called to let Paul know they were done and he could come out. So the impound yard was his next stop.
Or it would have been, if Lieutenant Tragg had not suddenly run across the street.
Paul slammed on the brakes. "What the . . . what's Tragg doing?" he exclaimed to nothing in particular. He got out of the car and chased down the veteran policeman. "Hey! Wait up!"
Tragg barely glanced over his shoulder. "I finally caught a glimpse of that fellow we've been after all day," he barked. "He went into that vacant house." He pointed to a darkened abode on the corner.
Paul stopped short, frowning at it in disbelief. "In there? No one's lived in that place for months!"
"The door was unlocked," Tragg said. "He just turned the knob and walked in." He drew his gun as he approached the edge of the property. "There's no telling what he might do. We were instructed that he's quite possibly dangerous."
"He probably is," Paul acknowledged. "Are you going to try taking him all by yourself?"
"That was the plan," Tragg said. "But if you want to play cops and robbers, you can swing around to the other side of the house in case he tries to make a break for it back there."
Paul frowned but complied. It was not every day that Tragg wanted him to do something. Either he just wanted to get Paul out of his way . . . or he thought maybe he really would need backup, no matter who it might be.
"This is the police!" he heard Tragg call sternly from the porch. "Open up!"
There was no response. At last Tragg kicked the door in and stepped over the threshold, his gun gripped in his hand.
Paul moved closer to the house, peering through the window in the backdoor. Everything was dark. The only thing moving was Tragg, advancing down the hall.
Paul took a handkerchief and turned the knob. The door opened without incident. He slipped inside, braced for any possible attack. Tragg frowned as he glanced over, but said nothing. Paul peered into first one back room, then another, without results. Up the hall, Tragg's luck was not any better.
"Are you sure the guy came in here?" Paul demanded when they met in the middle.
"Yeah," Tragg growled. "I'm just not sure he's the one we want."
"I'm not sure he's anyone at all," Paul said. "Maybe he already sneaked out."
"There's still the basement," Tragg retorted.
It also proved empty, as far as mysterious intruders were concerned. But something on the floor quickly captured Tragg's attention. "Eh? What's this?" He bent down with a handkerchief, not wanting to destroy any possible prints.
Paul perked up. "What is it?" he asked, coming over.
Tragg straightened. "A metal nameplate," he announced. "With quite a familiar name engraved in it." He held it out, handkerchief and all, in the palm of his hand.
Paul stared. "'Elaine Darrow'?"
Tragg nodded. "In light of this, I think that perhaps I'd better get the lab boys out here," he said. "Who knows what other interesting trinkets they might turn up?"
"Yeah," Paul said, dazed. "Who knows."
xxxx
Hamilton walked away from the scene at Elaine's cell with Perry and Della. There was little more that could be done there; the police had finished their examination of the scene without locating any clues. The lawyers' subsequent investigation had also revealed nothing of value.
"I'm sorry about this, Perry," Hamilton said. "I never thought this case would end with a suicide."
"Nor did I," Perry said. He shook his head. "Elaine seemed fine when we saw her last. I can hardly believe something such as this was in her mind."
"Well . . . that's what they say about a lot of suicides," Hamilton said.
"I know," Perry nodded. "But that doesn't change how surreal this feels."
"Is there any way it could have been murder?" Della spoke up from where she was walking on Perry's other side.
"It certainly doesn't seem so," Perry said. "Not that I would want it to be, but I hate to think of poor Elaine taking her own life."
Hamilton sighed. "Talk about locked-room murders. I just don't see how anything else is possible, Perry. Just suppose someone really was trying to kill her. Surely she'd try to fight them off. But the other inmates said they didn't hear anything."
"So she just tied the sheet to the top of the door and quietly strangled herself," Perry frowned. "I can't help feeling that we're missing an important piece of the puzzle somewhere. And I realize I might simply be in denial, Hamilton," he added, holding up a hand to silence any protests. "But I can't rest until I'm sure."
"Alright," Hamilton relented. "I know how you get. Do what you have to do."
"Are you going home, Mr. Burger?" Della asked.
"No," Hamilton said. "Not yet. I have to go back to the office for a while. But I don't have any intention of staying up as late as your boss probably will." He already looked tired.
"See that you don't, Hamilton," Perry said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."
Hamilton nodded, vaguely aware that he was bidding Perry and Della goodbye as he went off in another direction. He was already caught up in thoughts of what he needed to do back at his office. And, of course, he was worn out from the long and unexpected day.
The drive back was mostly a foggy blur, an automatic impulse. He spent the time pondering over what had taken place over the last few days, trying in vain desperation to make some sense out of it all. Major Reynolds, Captain Caldwell, Elaine Darrow, Dr. Portman. . . . How did they all connect? Why had Elaine killed herself? Were those mysterious chips really for controlling people's minds? That couldn't be possible. And yet . . . what if . . .
He muttered in frustration. This mystery, like what had happened last month, was filled with too many what ifs. And also like last time, he did not like having to consider those what ifs.
He came to attention when he arrived inside the building and got out of the elevator on the level of his office. All of the lights were off, even the dim ones meant to help the custodians. And the figure barreling towards him in the dark was most unusual.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Who . . ."
He never had a chance to get out more. The unknown person pushed him to the floor while tearing past and hopping into the elevator.
Hamilton started to rise, squinting at the numbers. Whoever it was seemed to be heading for the ground floor. He got up, fumbling for the light switch. He had to alert security now. Maybe they could stop the intruder when he arrived.
As the lights came on Hamilton surveyed the floor in shock. Both the doors to his outer and inner offices were stretching wide open. And beyond the second door, his office had been completely ransacked.
He hurried to Leon's desk and grabbed the telephone, pressing the button for security. "Hello? Seal off this building," he ordered. "There's been a break-in."
The man on the other end of the phone was starting to reply when a loud and painful punch resounded through the receiver. The security guard groaned, apparently dropping the phone and crashing to the floor. Now all that Hamilton could hear was the sound of echoing footsteps running away.
"Hello?" he called. "Hello?" But it was useless. The guard was probably unconscious and there was no one else nearby.
Hamilton pressed the dial tone button in frustration. He would have to call the police and hope that someone was near enough to apprehend the burglar. And after the police came and spent a lengthy time in his office, he would have to go over everything and figure out what was missing.
Why would anyone take something from there? If they were after a file, there were multiple copies of those, and not all of them in the building. But what else could they want?
The lights extinguished in the next moment, the phone following suit shortly after. Hamilton's jaw dropped. The intruder had paused to fiddle with the main breakers and the telephone line instead of just hurrying to leave.
Why?
