Ch.4Ch.1 – Execution (3)

# 1929. 3. 24. AM 11:07

## Café Veritas

It was clear that Paul Eastman hadn’t received proper supplies. His notebook prominently displayed the “Massachusetts Express” logo, but the business card visible in his wallet when he took out money to tip the waiter was still from his Arkham Times days.

“I seem to have left my card behind.”

Eastman apologized politely. Crayfield took a sip of his coffee, sweetened with five sugar cubes.

“A man like you hardly needs a business card. When you walked out of the police station, I could practically see your halo.”

“I’ve heard about you.”

Eastman set down his teacup. He hadn’t added any sugar, and had steeped the tea leaves for a full four minutes. It was nearly cheap for British Darjeeling.

“From whom?”

“The reception desk. Officer Cathy Slide. Smokes Camels, wears a fedora with a slightly wide brim, taller than average. I was told she’d have a gun in her front pocket—and she did.”

“Damn it.”

Eastman smiled. Crayfield grimaced with one corner of his mouth and offered an excuse.

“They call that woman the Spider Lady. Former track athlete. Once she catches you, there’s no escape. And did you know? When spiders mate, the female sucks the male dry and then devours him, starting with the head.”

“You seem to be intact.”

“I’m empty inside. Not up here, but down there.”

Eastman silently raised his teacup. He seemed uninterested in this type of humor. Crayfield moved to the main point.

“I read your article. Excellent writing.”

“It has many shortcomings.”

“Ah. So that’s why you’ve graced us with your presence. A rising star.”

“Mr. Crayfield.”

Eastman pushed his teacup aside. He had left more than half of it, apparently finding it tasteless. The paper-wrapped sugar cube remained unopened.

“Please call me John.”

“Very well, John. I don’t particularly like this manner of speaking, but… I’m in a difficult position right now. As you can tell from my article, I’m very interested in mafia matters.”

“The mafia. Half the problems in America are blamed on the mafia. I suppose it’s a mandatory subject for any up-and-coming journalist.”

“I see it differently. Three-dimensionally… Did you just smile?”

Crayfield straightened his posture like a student startled awake from dozing. Eastman took a sip.

“…I believe we need to approach this from multiple angles. According to my theory, there’s something peculiar about Lawrence Lyman’s death.”

“What’s that?”

“I see a certain ‘exhibitionism’ in it.”

Crayfield squirmed as if he’d been called to solve a problem at the blackboard, though no one had asked him to. Fortunately, Eastman was a cultured man and calmly explained his theory.

“The mafia in our country falls into two categories: pre-European Great War and post-war. They’re completely different in nature.

The former are organized, value honor and discipline, and are essentially established powers. The latter are novices who came over because there was nothing to eat in devastated Europe—thugs who’ll jump at anything that makes money.”

“A penetrating observation. Cigarette?”

“I’ve quit. Anyway, it’s clear that Lawrence Lyman’s death was a kind of display. They hung him up like a hunting trophy. But why? If Italian mafia did this, there would certainly be precedent, given their emphasis on honor and tradition. But there are no cases of such ‘butchery’ that I know of.”

Crayfield pointed to his wristwatch, which hadn’t moved even slightly past 1.

“So you’re saying…”

“Please call me Paul.”

Neither Paul nor John seemed particularly friendly. It was merely conventional courtesy.

“You see this case as a challenge from emerging mafia to the established generation?”

“Exactly. It’s practically a declaration of war. ‘We can go this far. While you remain where you are, we can do such bold things!’ That’s the display. There’s no other way to explain it.”

This Eastman fellow seemed to have reached his conclusion even before investigating. And now he was trying to fit the facts to his conclusion.

It would help his career, after all. Of course, he was completely off track. The hand of the Doomsday Clock hadn’t moved a tick from 1.

Crayfield smiled with satisfaction. From his perspective, needing to prevent Eastman from achieving his goal, things were becoming easier.

“Good. I’ll help you enthusiastically. Where should we start?”

“The morgue.”

Crayfield straightened his neck like a startled ostrich.

“Where did you say?”

Eastman pronounced his verdict as if one plus one equals two.

“The morgue. Isn’t it obvious? We need to see how the corpse died.”

Click.

The clock hand pointed to 2.

Crayfield sighed, his legs trembling slightly, and shook his head a couple of times.

“In my opinion, there’s no reason for you to waste your time. First, the morgue won’t show a single hair without a request from family or law enforcement. Second, you must have heard the interim briefing on the investigation. There should have been an autopsy report.”

Eastman placed his interlocked hands on the table. The officer’s commissioning ring on his left ring finger gleamed in the sunlight.

“I understand there’s a working agreement between the police and Mr. John Crayfield. To quote Police Chief Josh Graham directly, ‘While we’d love to assist with your investigation, we apologize that our administrative limitations prevent us from providing personnel support. Instead…'”

“Instead?”

“‘We’ve sought prior consent from John Crayfield, a capable private detective with a renowned reputation among law enforcement and administrative bodies, who maintains deep and intimate ties with the Pollard community.'”

“Have you heard the saying, ‘Fame and infamy are just one step apart’?”

Surprisingly, the corners of Eastman’s mouth turned upward. The right side rose much higher than the left, which seemed natural to him.

“That sounds like a compliment to your abilities. If your infamy is so widespread yet you haven’t lost your detective license, it means you know how to get what you need without crossing the line. So surely you can easily access the original autopsy report?”

“You’re quite the politician.”

Eastman’s smile deepened as his cheeks hollowed.

“Above all, the interim briefing was nonsense. It was verbose, technical, and full of administrative jargon, but ultimately only said ‘Lawrence Lyman was found hanging upside down in an abandoned whale processing facility.’

That particular section had unnecessarily lengthy descriptions, which is typical evidence of lying. The truth was buried under unnecessary details. Do you still think viewing the original autopsy report would be a waste of time?”

The sunlight reflecting off Eastman’s ring stabbed at Crayfield’s eyes.

“Crayfield, I really want to solve this case. The conflict between Mayor Arthur Black, who wants to develop Pollard Island into a tourist destination, and Chief Constable Lawrence Lyman, who wanted to maintain fishing traditions, is quite famous among journalists.

More reporters will come sniffing around. And most of them are the type who were milking cows yesterday and hauling manure this morning. How many do you think can even spell correctly?”

“What’s your point?”

“A properly trained journalist from an influential newspaper has arrived. One who upholds impartiality and principled reporting as life values, who will report only the truth. Right here. If reports are going to come out anyway, wouldn’t it be better if they were accurate?”

Eastman leaned further forward. His deep green eyes blazed as he inclined his body forward.

“Trust me. I’m now a journalist with Massachusetts’ premier newspaper. I’m still a contributor, but if I nail this case, I can become a staff reporter. I’ll make sure to mention your name in the article.

Crayfield, let’s head for bigger waters together. This is about gaining honor! Don’t you have ambitions to play in bigger waters, to become nationally recognized?”

His words now sounded like sweet whispers. Biting his lower lip, Crayfield didn’t answer promptly. Eventually, he took out his wallet and placed a few coins on the table.

“Fine. Let’s go. My car is in the police station parking lot. And let’s discuss additional arrangements on our way to the morgue. Assistant! You can take notes in a moving car, right? Good. I don’t expect beautiful handwriting, just make it legible. And be sure to get Mr. Eastman’s confirmation!”

* * * * *

# 1929. 3. 24. AM 11:32

## Pollard Municipal Hospital Morgue Lobby

“Crayfield, my love!”

A plump white nurse sitting behind the reception desk ran out with open arms.

“Molly!”

Crayfield likewise opened his arms, embraced her, and rubbed cheeks with her. Nurse Molly gave Crayfield’s bottom a light slap.

“Always the sly one! What brings you here? Oh my, you’re not alone? Who’s this gentleman? Not a Pollard Islander, right? From Arkham? Or Providence?”

“This gentleman is from the mainland. The rising star of the Massachusetts Express, journalist Paul Eastman.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Eastman seemed to be in a good mood. Molly clasped his hand.

“My, what thick yet beautiful hands. I like them! So, how can I help you, sir from the mainland?”

“I’m covering the Lawrence Lyman case. I’d like to see the original autopsy report. How might I go about that?”

Molly smiled, making her already ample cheeks puff out even more.

“What to do? That’s confidential, not something I share with just anyone.”

“You can show it. Chief Detective Josh authorized it.”

Crayfield interjected. But Molly shook her head.

“Still can’t. That bad Josh. He thinks too highly of me. Not every woman has the strong will of his wife. Is he still under Margaret’s thumb these days? I hear she grabs him by the collar in the morning and by the thigh at night.”

“I wouldn’t know. Whenever the lady sees me, she tries to grab me by the hair for rent money, so I’m too busy running away. Why not, Molly?”

“The attending medical examiner is Dr. Gregory Hugh. And I don’t like asking Dr. Hugh for favors.”

“Hallelujah.”

Crayfield made the sign of the cross.

“Who is Gregory Hugh?”

Eastman opened his notebook. Crayfield put a Camel cigarette in his mouth.

“He’s a diagnostic medicine doctor, military physician, and forensic expert. Kind to children, friendly to adults, and respectful to the elderly. He enjoys striking up conversations with anyone, regardless of who they are. With his exceptional insight, he reads people well and knows how to respond appropriately.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that he only treats corpses that way.”

As Crayfield was about to take out a matchbox to light up, the sound of a metal rod tapping the floor was heard. Crayfield grimaced and extinguished the match.

“I thought I heard a crow, but it’s the corpse vulture.”

Hunched shoulders. A half-bald head with a forward-drooping neck. A man with a beard, slowly shaking his head from side to side, leaning on a cane in his right hand, stood in the middle of the corridor.

“I clearly told you to quit smoking. Corpse vulture!”

“It’s Crayfield.”

“Right. The con man. Specialist in backstabbing. The one who shoots his colleagues and throws them into rivers or swamps to use as stepping stones. John Crayfield, isn’t it?”

A sneer was visible on Dr. Hugh’s face even from a distance.

“And Molly! I told you to drive away vermin!”

“You want me to chase away a bird the size of a man with my bare hands? Give me a gun first!”

Molly shouted defiantly, but Dr. Hugh was unmoved. The doctor struck the floor a couple of times with his cane.

“Scoundrel. And who’s that beside you, the umpteenth one? No, not that short outsider! Put away that hideous ring! I buried dozens of officers with my own hands during the last war!”

“If you mean my assistant, he’s the sixth.”

While Crayfield responded gruffly, Paul Eastman stepped forward.

“What’s this? Are you trying to shake my hand? My hands are busy!”

Dr. Hugh waved his cane, but Eastman paid no attention. Instead, he straightened his posture and slowly saluted.

A formal, calm posture like one might see at a commissioning ceremony. When Hugh reluctantly waved his left hand, Eastman finally returned to a normal stance.

“Thanks to your dedication, many have found peace. I thank you in the name of the Officers’ Association.”

“Yes. I was dedicated enough to lose a leg, so of course you should be grateful. If I’d been dedicated twice over, I might have become a hero! Perhaps I should have offered my head like everyone else!”

“We all lost something. Myself included. Every officer on the battlefield loses something, don’t they?”

Eastman’s tone was utterly calm, but Dr. Hugh was not.

“Ah, so you want to compete over who lost more? Do you know something? The people lying asleep here have lost everything.”

“This is about a man’s honor, sir.”

Dr. Hugh’s eyebrows twitched.

“You’re right, sir. There’s no greater loss than losing one’s life. But I believe there is something greater. Honor. Dignity. Reputation. Name. Right now, a man lies here, having been insulted in all these ways. Sir, please help me.”

“Do you know what honor is?”

Though his words were gruff, Dr. Hugh tilted his left ear toward Eastman, as if wanting to hear more clearly.

“Unsavory rumors are circulating about the deceased. Speculation, hearsay, conspiracy theories. Lawrence Lyman may not have been a veteran, but I know he was a strong man who spent his life at sea.

How many Americans were fed by his sturdy arms? How many children were nourished by each drop of his sweat? The contribution of whalers like him to this world is immense. Such a man’s end should not be miserable. That’s what I believe.”

“Lawrence Lyman isn’t worth such value.”

Dr. Hugh lowered his gaze.

“He’s worth even less than you think. But I like your manner of speaking. Even if he was a scoundrel in life, he shouldn’t remain so in death. Everyone dies, after all. Fine. You may enter the morgue. However.”

“However?”

“That corpse vulture must come in too. And his assistant.”

Dr. Hugh banged his cane on the floor.

“Officer who returned alive. I’m saying this for your sake! Don’t trust that corpse vulture! He’s like a trench rat, a puddle of blood in a shell hole, a barrage falling on the wilderness!”

* * * * *

# 1929. 3. 24. AM 11:48

## Inside the Morgue

“So you’re what? A journalist?”

“That’s right.”

“Did that fool Josh throw away my report?”

“He didn’t show it to me.”

Dr. Gregory Hugh sighed. He had just unsealed the cold storage compartment after much struggling.

“I thought as much. Hey, you two. Pull this. And if you’re going to vomit, get out.”

The door opened, and with a “one, two, three” and a grunt of effort, the shelf with the body slid out. With a “urgh,” Crayfield ran out the door. It was a flight without even looking back, as if he shouldn’t have seen it.

“I knew he’d do that.”

Dr. Hugh cackled.