The Boarding House Horror

2. The Spittle of Death

I unpacked the forensics kit and my notebook. Determinedly, I ignored the staring eyes and began unbuttoning the corpse's pajama shirt. The cool, dead skin felt slightly warmer than room temperature. My stomach flip-flopped, and I clenched my jaw against the urge to heave.

I squeezed my eyes shut until my heart thudded less violently and my stomach settled. My inability to attain a state of clinical detachment frustrates me. A mere Sergeant may be allowed time to whimper and moan, but not an Inspector. Thank goodness Flip didn't see.

I peeled the pajamas away from his chest. Blond hairs covered graying dead skin. From my kit I took a thermometer and shook its mercury to the bottom. I read the ambient temperature, then I inserted the thermometer into the dead man's underarm, and squeezed his elbow shut to hold it in place. He had died a few hours before, but when I had time to work out the figures I could estimate the time of death to within fifteen minutes. I glanced at my watch. 09:27.

I took refuge in the routine of it and held my pose, counting out a full minute to allow the thermometer to find equilibrium with the cooling body. I tried shutting my eyes, but I could see the mad stare even through closed lids.

The body was stiff enough so that the hands held their desperate claw shapes. That was odd. It was too soon for rigor mortis to set in. The flannel pajamas had no pockets. There was no obvious wound except the self-inflicted leg rakings. Still-shiny saliva trailed down the victim's chin. Shiny smears could also be seen among the streaks of blood on the leg.

Saliva? Dog bite? I wondered for a second. But, no. Bite wounds are distinctive. There was nothing here that indicated weapons other than desperate fingernails. Could he have spat upon his own leg? That made no sense.

Finally, the long minute was over. I read the thermometer and jotted the numbers into my notebook.

"Stop looking at me," I muttered to George Raptis, deceased. But his gaunt, accusatory, stare did not relent. It only grew in intensity. My imagination? Flip often said that imagination was a quality undesirable in a policeman.

Grateful to be able to leave the body alone, I canvassed the room. I could almost feel the pragmatism of Madame Groot as I surveyed the bed, dresser, and wardrobe. Every furnishing looked antique or secondhand. A few things struck me as untidy. A pencil with nervous nibble-marks resided on the floor next to the night stand. A roll of cigarette papers lay on the dresser, but I could see no tobacco tin. There were matches as a smoker would require, but there were also candles in the room. One candle was knocked down. The candlestick was under the bed, and the candle was half underneath the body.

As I crouched and moved, a soft gleam caught my eye. I looked closer. It was wavy line, drawn in wax, on the floor. It reminded me of the Egyptian hieroglyph for water. I exhaled sharply. "Water. And then he spat on his thigh and started to excavate there with his fingernails? This is crazy."

I opened the drawer by the bed. Inside, a high powered semiautomatic Colt and its shoulder holster lay atop a passport and a document case.

I sighed. "Well, he looks ghastly, but — was this even murder? Maybe it was just a heart attack accompanied by a madness. A peculiar, specific madness."

A sudden feeling of being watched made me look toward the window. Inscrutable gray eyes stared back through the wavy pane of glass.

"Shoo!" I said, making brushing motions with my hands.

The cat lightly leapt off the window sill.

I shivered.