The staked Goat

his car.
     
    ”Unless the lab comes up with something, this one’s going down as what it appears to be.”
    We were stopped at a light. I chose my answering words carefully, the autopsy I had just witnessed still vivid in my mind.
    ”I still don’t see it that way, Lieutenant. Al wasn’t
    gay-”
    ”Maybe he’d gotten a little drunk.” The light changed and we eased forward in the traffic that is a constant of Boston driving during all daylight hours. ”He gets a little drunk, some guys talk about having a good time, he thinks combat zone bar or hookers, realizes the real scene a little too late. Maybe he gets insulting and somebody gets mad.”
    ”First, Al was too smart and experienced not to recognize something like that. Second—” I was interrupted by Murphy’s horn as a bread truck tried to slam us broadside. I started over. ”Second, what was done to him is pretty extreme for somebody getting mad.”
    Murphy swung onto Boylston Street, bobbing his head. ”Agreed. So what’s your view of it?”
    ”I think he was tortured, the rest was red herring.” Murphy shot me a glance and nearly creamed a kid on a moped. ”Goddamned things shouldn’t be allowed in the city!” He snorted once. ”You got any idea why a salesman for some outtatown steel outfit would be tortured?”
    ”None,” I said, omitting Al’s gambling remark.
    We circumnavigated the Public Garden as we talked about notifying Al’s wife. Murphy gladly let me take that.
    The lieutenant tinned down Charles Street to drop me off at my apartment. As we were pulling to a stop, he said, ”Could it have anything to do with his left pinkie being broken?”
    ”His pinkie?” I said.
    ”Yeah,” he said, giving a false, conspiratorial smile, ”you know. The hand you were trying to look at when you bumped me with your indignation routine.”
    ”I don’t know.”
    The smile faded. ”You just told me a lie, mister. One more lie in a murder investigation, and your license is just a memory. Dig?”
    ”Yes, sir. Thanks for letting me ride along.”
    ”Be seeing you,” said Murphy as I closed his door. My primary goal had been to confirm for myself that Al’s death was not what it seemed. The pinkie and the carefully tossed room did that. My secondary goal had been to give Murphy enough doubts to make him accept my eventual explanation. It was important for him to have only a little doubt now because I didn’t want him investigating too deeply. Somehow I didn’t think Murphy’s and my view of squaring things would be equally extreme.
    As I watched him pull away, however, I wondered if he wasn’t a step ahead of me in the doubt department.
     

Five
     
     
     
    T HE TELEPHONE RANG AT THE OTHER END OF THE L INE. Iglanced down at my watch. 4:35 p.m. A time of traffic tie-ups, Sesame Street, and kids’ afternoon snacks. A mundane time of day to tell someone she’s a widow.
    The fourth ring was interrupted by an adult female voice. ”Hello?”
    ”Hello, Martha?”
    ”Yes, who is this?”
    There was a faint scratchiness on the line. ”Martha, it’s John Cuddy, Al’s friend from the army. From Boston.”
    ”Oh, yes, John, so good to finally talk with you. Al said he was going to be seeing you. Is he with you now?”
    ”No, he’s not.” I took a chance. ”Al told me you had a very close friend in your neighborhood,” I lied, ”but I forget her name.”
    ”Oh, you mean Carol. Carol Emmer. I mean, Krause. Emmer was her married name.” I could sense her thinking. She gave a little laugh. ”John, are we setting up some sort of long-distance blind date?”
    I clamped down hard on my jaw to retard the gagging reflex. ”I’m afraid not. Are you alone right now?”
    Her pause on the other end told me she thought it was an odd question. ”Yes, except for Al Junior, of course. He’s napping. I was afraid the phone might have woken him up, but I don’t hear him.” A darkening. ”John, what’s the matter?”
    ”Martha, when I’m finished talking with you, I want you to call Carol right away, and ask her to come stay with you...
    ”Why?”
    ”Martha, Al is dead. Somebody killed him, here in Boston. I was with the police....” But I was talking into a dead line. I hung up and dialed again. Busy. Twice. I called long-distance information.
    Pittsburgh directory assistance had eight ”C. Krauses” and three ”C. Emmers.” I explained the situation to the directory assistance operator, who said she could not help, but