The sheriff stood there for a moment, puffed furiously on his pipe. A smoky thunderhead rose from the bowl. “There’s something else I didn’t want to bring up, laddie...”
He took a deep breath, gestured at the four walls. “Look around this room. Here you have the entire staff of the Tecumseh County sheriff’s office. I have no deputies per se. Technically, as coroner, Cal is a deputy and can even act as sheriff in my absence.”
Cameron sighed. “Maybe someday our commissioners will hire me a deputy. But until now, you two are all I’ve got. There were dozens of people at that party...”
Plato wasn’t buying it. Rufus’s home was outside incorporated city limits. So it was in Ian’s jurisdiction. But the county sheriff could always turn the case over to the state police.
Unfortunately, Ian would never give up. The case would never be solved. They’d lose the next election and be driven from town in disgrace. All three would end up working in some two-bit Jersey doc-in-a-box. Ian would be night security and part-time maintenance. Cleaning toilets and scraping gum from floors.
Clearly, Plato was needed.
“In a minute,” he replied generously. “Just let me get changed.”
He dashed up the stairs, grabbed a clean shirt and tie, ran a comb across his receding hairline, and zipped down to the door. On the way, he caught a glimpse of Cal. She was awake, folding her blanket.
“What are you doing?” Plato asked. “You’re supposed to be sick.”
She flashed a wan smile. “I’ve got an autopsy to do.”
Beardmore Medical College was named after Dr. Elias Beardmore, whose political skills far outpaced his medical abilities. Good land was scarce even during the Depression, so the school was built on the scenic banks of the Tecumseh River. Property there was cheap because every two or three springs the river escaped the banks to claim the valley flat-lands.
Administration occupied the third floor, while computers and research facilities claimed the second. The first floor was mostly classrooms and sump pumps. No one had been in the basement for years.
Homer Thorndyke’s door was open, but a bank of files blocked most of the office from view. The hiss of a ventilator was accompanied by a sliding noise, then a thump. The sweet smell of ether made Plato slightly nauseated.
Cameron knocked hesitantly. “Dr. Thorndyke?”
“Yes?”
Slip-thump.
“Come on back here, please. I’m rather busy at the moment.”
Around the corner, Homer Thorndyke sat in his wheelchair, fiddling with something like a paper cutter. Or a tiny guillotine. A rush of disgusting animal lab memories swept over Plato. The sheriff stepped around the corner before his partner could warn him. On the counter beside the sink, eight rat bodies formed a neat line. Eight tiny heads were stacked in a gruesome pyramid nearby. A ninth subject slumbered beneath the blade.
Slip-thump. This time, the blade failed to make a clean slice. Instead, the animal squirmed sluggishly, like a sleepwalker with nightmares.
“Damn!” Thorndyke slapped the blade up and down again, driving it home. He tossed the severed parts into a waste can like a master chef who’d found a bad mushroom. “Cheap Japanese blades. A clean kill is
Still ignoring his visitors, he packed the sixteen specimens into a plastic casserole and stuffed it in the freezer. Gloves and goggles were tossed away, and he slid his wheelchair over to the sink.
While Thorndyke washed his hands, Plato glanced at the sheriff. He was down in a chair, eyes glazed, skin grayer than fish scales.
Surely, Plato thought, Ian has seen worse during his long career. “Are you all right?”
His voice was a thin squeak, and his Scotsman’s brogue thickened. “I hate rats. I keena why, but they make me sick as a dog.”
Thorndyke finally glanced at them. Dressed in a white coat, with pale skin and chalky hair, he resembled one of his subjects. A thin mustache drooped over his upper lip.
“The county sheriff.” He smiled mockingly. “How good of you to come. Has the Animal Protection Fellowship requested another tour of the dog lab?”
“No, Dr. Thorndyke. This is about something completely different.” Cameron bobbed to his feet like an underinflated balloon. But his voice was steadier. “It’s about your father.”
“My father?” Thorndyke shrugged. “Then I wouldn’t say it’s very different at all. We’re all animals, sheriff. Some more than others.”
“Then it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that your father was murdered.” The sheriff watched Thorndyke through narrowed eyes.
The reaction was disappointing. Another shrug. “No. I assure you, surprise would be my last reaction. I was at the party myself, you know. And I heard from the hospital. Are you planning to indict the caterer?”
From the boredom in his voice, his level tone, the researcher might have been discussing the Gram stain with a pair of high school students.
