Griswold,” Poe said. “Rufus Griswold, too, is long from the world we both once knew. But what people see as the legend of me is largely through that man’s words. Yes, I could overdo. I was temperamental. I had an ego. I was prone to dive into alcohol. But I wasn’t a perpetual drunk! And I did join the temperance league, and I wouldn’t have gone against Sarah Elmira...”
“You think that Rufus Griswold murdered you?” Vickie demanded.
“Only on the page, my dear. Only on the page. I was somehow murdered. And while my thoughts on that pompous bastard with a total lack of imagination regarding coherent verbiage are dark, I don’t believe he murdered me. Did someone cause my death—other than myself, as sometimes assumed? Yes. But...even in death, I can’t find the truth. That’s why I feel that I must hound you and your lawman until the two of you find out what happened to Franklin Verne. If I can’t find justice for myself, I will strive to see that the words and opinions that cast ill on memories of me do not fall upon him as well. He mustn’t be maligned. For him, the truth of this matter will be known!”
* * *
There would never be anything nice about an autopsy.
The morgue was, however, as clean as one could imagine. The scent of decay was well washed in that of disinfectant. Stainless steel seemed to glint against tile, and while the dead lay silently upon their gurneys, the living moved among them with purpose and determination.
Franklin Verne was not the only corpse awaiting the tender mercies of the medical examiner.
At the moment, he was, however, the one who apparently commanded the most attention.
Photographers were still at work when Carl Morris and Griffin arrived; the body of the man had been stripped and cleaned and the first incisions had begun. Dr. Myron Hatfield spoke as he worked; he didn’t take notes by hand but rather had a microphone hanging above the body, recording. He acknowledged the arrival of Morris and Griffin, noting the time as well. He urged them forward, lifting a lock of Franklin Verne’s hair. “At this point, I am directing the detective and agent to notice the hematoma rising on the left side of the forehead. Such bruising does not appear to have formed as the result of any fall, but rather it appears to be the result of a strike by a hard, blunt object. Bruising is also beginning to appear around the mouth, specific points of such bruising appearing as if perhaps fingers and a thumb pressed the mouth open. Previous to the body being stripped and washed, the smell of wine was abundant upon the corpse and clothing, indicative of a great deal of wine being poured on the face and spilling over.”
Hatfield went on with his observations; then the typical Y incision had to be made. He continued to comment on the state of his subject.
Franklin Verne may have cleaned up his life, but he had done damage, and such damage Hatfield noted.
The heart was enlarged.
The liver bore witness to overindulgence.
But what cruel injury Franklin Verne had done himself in life had been on the mend. There was nothing visible that would have immediately taken his life. Samples were taken from the stomach, of the hair, and so on; they would be sent for analysis. An as-yet-unknown poison might have been the actual cause of death, but if so, that substance would be revealed with time.
The man’s heart had given out, perhaps due to the damage of an imbibed or otherwise ingested substance, perhaps due to the brutal strike on the head, or a combination thereof.
Finally, Hatfield fell silent. He looked down at the man he studied, his expression sad. He asked his assistant to please care for the body.
Then he turned off the microphone and stepped away with Griffin and Morris.
“So...no definitive cause of death?” Morris asked him.
“Well, there will be. As of right now...no. We’ll wait for the test results.”
“But what do you think?” Griffin asked him.
“What do I think?” Dr. Hatfield turned and looked at Griffin, studying him up and down for a moment. “Damn it, I don’t want to say anything official yet. If I were to suggest something, it could become rumor, and too many people take rumor as truth. Then you learn something different from forensic tests—and you have to explain what is proved far too many times. But between us? I think that some person or persons unknown set up Mr. Verne. I think that he was struck on the head with some blunt object. He was somehow spirited down to the cellar of that club, and wine and other substances were forced into him. Will I say this yet for the record? No. Yes, the man might have fallen, gotten up, stumbled in—and drank a ton of wine or whatever. His wife might have pinched his face. He might have pinched his own face shaving. I will not go on record yet. But neither would I have you waste your time assuming this to be the man’s own downfall or an accident. I suggest you begin your hunt for a killer now, gentlemen. And I believe, as in all such cases, the sooner one suspects the worse and seeks the truth, the better. Mrs. Monica Verne is no fool—her husband was murdered.”
* * *
Vickie waited outside the morgue for Griffin. She could have gone in; she chose not to do so. For one, Poe didn’t want to go in. She explained to him that there was a reception area that was corpse-free at most times, but he wasn’t interested.
For a ghost, he was pretty squeamish.
“Thankfully,” he told her, “there is something about the body and the tragedy of the decay that befalls us all. Rot is not, nor never has been appealing, as well I should know, since I have a talent for description of all that is foul and ghoulish in the extreme. That one can find the words to create the tremendous discomfort and fear to be found in such sadness does not mean that one enjoys...rot!”
And so they stood outside on the sidewalk.
At length, Griffin appeared, exiting the building with Detective Carl Morris. Morris noted her first, pointing her out to Griffin.
Griffin surely saw Poe at her side, but he barely batted an eye.
Griffin was skilled at seeing the dead—and not appearing as though anything strange was going on.
“Why, Vickie!” Morris said, smiling as he approached her. “There is a cool and comfortable vestibule, though I had thought—since you are about to enter the academy—you might have chosen to join us within.”
Vickie didn’t reply to his words but rather smiled and asked, “Did you learn anything?”
“Well, we learned that our illustrious ME believes that the man was murdered. He’s waiting on test results to discover just what caused the death,” Griffin offered. He kept from looking at Poe. “He was apparently struck on the head with a hard, blunt object.”
“And forced to drink,” Morris added. “Only tests will explain exactly what caused the damage to his organs,” he added, “and they’ll let us know what they discover.”
“He was somehow brought downstairs to the wine cellar of the restaurant—as we, of course, suspected. There—or perhaps to get him there—he was struck on the head. A good, hard blow. It might have rendered him temporarily unconscious. Wine—and possibly other substances—were forced into him. We saw the bruises on the cheeks that suggest his mouth was forced open. As far as poison or some other deadly substance being forced into him, yes, the tests will tell,” Griffin said.
