“Elmer Priddy,” he said. “Thanks for waiting around.”
Priddy looked troubled, as well he might, I guess. He was around an inch taller than Joe, but thin, and had a square jaw. I guessed his age at midfifties. His head had been shaved, rather than being naturally bald, and I could see the five o’clock shadow that marked the boundaries of where his hairline would have been. Most guys who shave their heads are almost bald anyway, I’ve noticed. They apparently just decide to give up the fight. But Priddy’s hair grew down low onto his forehead and when he ducked his head I saw that the five o’clock shadow looked even all over his skull.
“I’m a lawyer,” Joe said. “I’ve been involved with a couple of murder trials. I’m far from expert, but I didn’t like the way that apartment looked.”
Priddy shook his head. “If it weren’t for the eyelids, I might have said natural causes. And then I found that bump.”
Joe went on. “I guess the doctor agreed with you.”
“The administrator doesn’t like it, but there’s going to be an autopsy.”
“That’s smart,” Joe said. “Even if it shows natural causes . . .” We all nodded wisely.
“Any idea when he died?” Joe sounded idly curious.
“According to the body temp . . . I’d be guessing. But CPR wouldn’t have helped him.” Priddy looked at us closely. “You weren’t relatives of Van Hoosier’s?”
“No. We didn’t know him at all,” Joe said. “I’m city attorney over at Warner Pier. We were looking for a little information about an old case.”
Priddy’s head snapped toward Joe, and his eyes grew wide. But it was a moment before he spoke. “He probably wouldn’t have remembered,” he said. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”
He walked back the way I’d seen him come, down the hall that led to the nursing wing.
A few more minutes later one of the sheriff’s deputies came out. He checked with the receptionist first, consulting the check-in sheet we’d signed as we arrived. I felt relieved as I realized we had some sort of proof of when we got there.
Then he came over to talk to us. Joe’s prediction turned out to be fairly accurate. The deputy merely asked for our names and addresses. We each gave him a business card and told him we weren’t relatives of Van Hoosier’s. He seemed to assume that we’d dropped by on a social visit.
Joe fished for more details. He explained that he’d spent some time as a defense attorney and without saying too much made it clear that he’d recognized the symptoms of violent death in Carl Van Hoosier’s apartment.
“The furniture turned over,” he said, “and the eyelids.”
The deputy nodded. “Yeah, the doctor . . .” Then he apparently decided he was saying too much to witnesses, and he broke off. “But we won’t know anything until there’s an autopsy. You guys can go. We know where to find you.”
I hardly had to say a word, but I still managed to goof it up. “Good lie,” I said. “I mean, good-bye!”
The deputy blinked, but he let us go.
By then it was past six p.m., and the Michigan winter night had arrived. It was with great relief that I walked across Pleasant Creek’s brightly lit parking lot and climbed into Joe’s truck.
“I hope your friend Mac McKay isn’t a teetotaler,” I said. “I could sure use a drink.”
Joe laughed and put the truck into reverse. He backed up, then suddenly hit the brakes. A horn blasted.
A ramshackle pickup truck, its bed loaded with plastic garbage bags, was behind us. The driver was shaking her fist at us and her lips were moving. I assumed she was cursing.
In the bright lights of the lot, the driver was easy to see. She wore a white knit cap with a bright red pom-pom. It was Lovie Dykstra.
Joe and I watched as she drove away. “I guess Lovie’s got the concession for Pleasant Creek’s aluminum cans,” Joe said. He turned out of the parking lot and went on toward Dorinda.
Dorinda is a pleasant
Priddy looked troubled, as well he might, I guess. He was around an inch taller than Joe, but thin, and had a square jaw. I guessed his age at midfifties. His head had been shaved, rather than being naturally bald, and I could see the five o’clock shadow that marked the boundaries of where his hairline would have been. Most guys who shave their heads are almost bald anyway, I’ve noticed. They apparently just decide to give up the fight. But Priddy’s hair grew down low onto his forehead and when he ducked his head I saw that the five o’clock shadow looked even all over his skull.
“I’m a lawyer,” Joe said. “I’ve been involved with a couple of murder trials. I’m far from expert, but I didn’t like the way that apartment looked.”
Priddy shook his head. “If it weren’t for the eyelids, I might have said natural causes. And then I found that bump.”
Joe went on. “I guess the doctor agreed with you.”
“The administrator doesn’t like it, but there’s going to be an autopsy.”
“That’s smart,” Joe said. “Even if it shows natural causes . . .” We all nodded wisely.
“Any idea when he died?” Joe sounded idly curious.
“According to the body temp . . . I’d be guessing. But CPR wouldn’t have helped him.” Priddy looked at us closely. “You weren’t relatives of Van Hoosier’s?”
“No. We didn’t know him at all,” Joe said. “I’m city attorney over at Warner Pier. We were looking for a little information about an old case.”
Priddy’s head snapped toward Joe, and his eyes grew wide. But it was a moment before he spoke. “He probably wouldn’t have remembered,” he said. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”
He walked back the way I’d seen him come, down the hall that led to the nursing wing.
A few more minutes later one of the sheriff’s deputies came out. He checked with the receptionist first, consulting the check-in sheet we’d signed as we arrived. I felt relieved as I realized we had some sort of proof of when we got there.
Then he came over to talk to us. Joe’s prediction turned out to be fairly accurate. The deputy merely asked for our names and addresses. We each gave him a business card and told him we weren’t relatives of Van Hoosier’s. He seemed to assume that we’d dropped by on a social visit.
Joe fished for more details. He explained that he’d spent some time as a defense attorney and without saying too much made it clear that he’d recognized the symptoms of violent death in Carl Van Hoosier’s apartment.
“The furniture turned over,” he said, “and the eyelids.”
The deputy nodded. “Yeah, the doctor . . .” Then he apparently decided he was saying too much to witnesses, and he broke off. “But we won’t know anything until there’s an autopsy. You guys can go. We know where to find you.”
I hardly had to say a word, but I still managed to goof it up. “Good lie,” I said. “I mean, good-bye!”
The deputy blinked, but he let us go.
By then it was past six p.m., and the Michigan winter night had arrived. It was with great relief that I walked across Pleasant Creek’s brightly lit parking lot and climbed into Joe’s truck.
“I hope your friend Mac McKay isn’t a teetotaler,” I said. “I could sure use a drink.”
Joe laughed and put the truck into reverse. He backed up, then suddenly hit the brakes. A horn blasted.
A ramshackle pickup truck, its bed loaded with plastic garbage bags, was behind us. The driver was shaking her fist at us and her lips were moving. I assumed she was cursing.
In the bright lights of the lot, the driver was easy to see. She wore a white knit cap with a bright red pom-pom. It was Lovie Dykstra.
Joe and I watched as she drove away. “I guess Lovie’s got the concession for Pleasant Creek’s aluminum cans,” Joe said. He turned out of the parking lot and went on toward Dorinda.
Dorinda is a pleasant
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