The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [75]
She took a long look and laughed, “Oh, wow, a real ménage à twat. So you’re into amateurs, huh? I do think it’s better than the professional stuff, you know, where the bimbos fake like they’re really into it.”
“Actually, it’s evidence,” I said, regaining my composure. “The man being fellated is Professor Ossmann.”
“The one who got murdered?”
“Yes.” I hit the PLAY button.
“Too cool. So you’re not just getting your jollies.”
Or was I? I sat there, my heart in a wringer, reminding myself that Diantha was my daughter, my stepdaughter, it’s true, but still my daughter, as she sat next to me on the couch and as lust, in all its confusing eddies, swirled around in me.
26
I have had some good news that’s shocking in its own way. Lieutenant Tracy phoned this morning to tell me that Korky Kummerbund, in a state of near starvation and in considerable disorientation, was found staggering along a back road in Worthington State Park, some twenty-five miles north of Seaboard. I called Elsbeth immediately and gave her the good news, although lately she has been in such a weakened state, I’m not sure she understood the import of what I told her.
And what a different human being I found when I walked into Seaboard General, where they took Korky for tests and recovery. He recognized me, lifted his hand to shake mine, and said, “How’s Elsbeth?” His concern touched me nearly to tears, and I sat by his bed, reassuring the nurse that I would not stay long.
“You’re safe now, Korky,” I told him. “The worst is over.”
He nodded. “The worst thing was … the music.”
“Music? I thought you said it was noise on a loop?”
He nodded, and a look of horror crossed his wasted face. “They played it twenty-four hours a day, over and over.”
“What was it?”
He wavered a moment, as though reaching inwardly for courage. “Stockhausen,” he managed. Then, “Cage.” Then, “And the dodecaphonic works of Schoenberg. Over and over.”
“You poor man,” I said. “From the unspeakable to the unfortunate.”
I was still trying to comfort him when Lieutenant Tracy showed up with Sergeant Lemure in tow. The sergeant scowled at me, but the lieutenant asked me to stay.
He conducted his interrogation with an incisiveness and gentleness I found to be the epitome of investigative professionalism. In a halting voice, Korky told us that he indeed had gone to the White Trash Grill to meet a friend. When asked what friend, he replied, “Any friend.”
“You mean a pickup?” the sergeant put in rather bluntly.
Korky nodded.
“Did you meet anyone?” the lieutenant asked.
Korky nodded again.
“Can you describe him?”
“Yes. But I think he was in disguise.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wore dark glasses and a fake mustache.”
“Yeah but how big was he? What was he wearing?” The sergeant bulked over the bed.
Lieutenant Tracy waved him back. He asked, “Was it anyone you remember seeing before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then what happened?”
Korky shook his head. His voice was growing weak, as though powered by a fading battery. “I got into his car …”
“Do you remember the make?”
“No. Some kind of SUV … blue or gray …”
“So you got into the car.”
“Yes. Then someone in the backseat put a handkerchief over my mouth and held it there. I think it had chloroform on it.”
He told the detectives that the room he was kept in was as he had described it in his article. The only distinctive detail he could recall was that during the very infrequent times he was fed, the person who brought him his food was accompanied by one or two large dogs, because he thought he could hear, over the piped-in noise, the clack of their paws on the concrete floor of what he assumed to be a cellar.
When Sergeant Lemure started to follow up, I intervened, saying I thought Korky needed his rest. The sergeant looked like he wanted to punch me, but Lieutenant Tracy agreed. They would be able to be more thorough later on.
Out in the corridor, we held a brief conference. I repeated to the lieutenant