The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [54]
“He wasn’t real old. Had a mustache and a beard. Funny kind o’ glasses.” She gestured across her hair. “Kinda thin on top.”
It occurred to me that the description, cursory as it was, corresponded to the man with whom I had seen Turk argue at The Fatted Calf.
“Anyone else come here?”
“A couple of girls,” admitted Mrs. Fasanti.
I showed her the picture of Rebecca Lachtmann, but the woman shook her head. I tried one last question. “Tell me, Mrs. Fasanti, did Turk send word to the hospital last Friday that he was ill?” If he had not, how could the professor have known of his “gastrointestinal ailment”? Although it was likely delirium, Turk had, after all, told her that a doctor was out to kill him and, had Dr. Osler been in my place, he would certainly have asked the same question.
She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. He had me send a boy.”
“When? What time of day? Was it early?”
“Real early,” she confirmed to my relief, although I had not seriously suspected the answer would be otherwise. “He didn’t get home until after three the night before,” the woman went on, “and he was already sick. Woke me up comin’ in. Told me to send someone first thing.”
Three? Turk had dropped me at Mrs. Mooney’s no later than one. I sent Mrs. Fasanti on her way to the local precinct house and, as soon as she had gone, I pulled back the sheet and conducted a cursory postmortem examination on my former colleague. Poor Turk had been ravaged, the agony of his last days etched on his face. The immediate cause of death certainly appeared to be extreme dehydration. For the condition to become sufficiently acute to kill in such short time, cholera was the most obvious culprit.
As far as I was aware, there had been few cases of the disease in recent months, and those that had occurred were largely confined to the waterfront district, where Turk, I knew, was no stranger. Still, with cholera now a far less prevalent threat, what if Turk’s pronouncement to his landlady had not been delirium? It certainly no longer came as a surprise that Turk might have made enemies fierce enough to want him dead. But a doctor? It would be a simple matter to determine whether the death was as it seemed with an autopsy. Formad, pathologist or no, might be squeamish at dissecting a possible cholera case, but the Professor would leap at the opportunity. I completed my examination, scrubbed my hands in the basin with the bar of carbolic soap that Mrs. Fasanti had purchased at Turk’s direction, and then turned my attention to his possessions.
I was not sure what I was looking for—a notebook, perhaps, or other material to indicate the source of his extensive funds, or perhaps some piece of trivia that would establish a link with Rebecca Lachtmann. I had never had cause to search anyone’s rooms before, and I feared to be too obvious in my rummaging with the police on the way. I looked briefly through his desk and the large oak armoire that held an extensive and costly wardrobe, but could discover nothing untoward. In the sitting area was a bookcase filled with the works of Greek philosophers, particularly Plato. There were also an impressive number of medical books, as well as Bancroft’s ten-volume history of the United States. Here, away from the fleshpots, Turk apparently engaged in intellectual pursuits. As with Monique, I felt a melancholy that came with intimate revelations, in this case the portrait of a talented, highly intelligent, and in many ways admirable man, done in by bitterness and greed.
Three grim, burly, uniformed police officers arrived soon after, with a wagon to transport Turk’s body to the destination on the Blockley grounds with which he had been all too familiar in life. It was a small matter to avoid controversy with the authorities. I merely told the officers the truth about missing Turk at the hospital, seeking him out at the professor’s suggestion, the mislaid records, and my subsequent conversations with his acquaintances. As I promised, I saved Mrs. Fasanti any unpleasantness by noting that