Today is the 272nd Anniversary of the birth of Antonio Salieri. Unfortunately, today's post has nothing to do with Antonio Salieri... (To read about the visit to Salieri's hometown, Legnago, read the 2nd section of the 3rd Installment, here.)
In Chapter 7, we'd met Rose Philips, a middle-aged piano teacher in Sanza, Missouri, where she wonders about the potential level of talent in one of her students, fondly reminiscing about how one of her former students, Dexter Shoad, has recently become a talented composer, thanks to his studies through the Allegro Conservatory.
It also turns out, Dr. Kerr is contemplating what is known and not known about the tenuous relationship between established court composer Antonio Salieri and newly-arrived outsider Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and what implications there could be in the letters he has recently unearthed, wondering if maybe they could shed some light on the "not known" parts of that relationship. That's when Tom receives a call from Sheriff Betty Diddon in Iowa that they've discovered a body...
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CHAPTER 8
“Yes,” Sheriff Diddon told me as we walked into the cramped motel lobby, “I got your boss' phone call, thank you, but I don't need any 'consultant' from whatever the International Music Police is.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I thought, extending my hand, the animosity anticipated. Unflinching, she regarded me with an icy stare.
“I'm Dr. Richard Kerr,” I said, “and this is Cameron Pierce, my assistant.” None of them shook my hand or even nodded any sense of recognition, nothing remotely identifiable as a sign of welcome.
“Since I'm supposed to 'keep you in the loop,' I'll talk to you, but there's no reason to include your 'assistant'.”
“Well, you see, we're something of a team and we always work together.”
“I wouldn't say that too loud around here, Agent Kerr, we aren't keen on Big City ways overlooking your basic sinfullness.”
I wouldn't call it a smile spreading across the other's faces, more of a smirk, though nothing changed on Sheriff Diddon's. Her young deputy was the last one who seemed to get the innuendo.
It was probably best not to explain anything. I was almost sure I heard dueling banjos somewhere off in the distance.
“I'm not officially an IMP agent – you can address me as Dr. Kerr. I have no badge, just this consultancy card.”
She said, “with any luck, I won't need to 'address' you at all.”
The motel lobby was not designed to accommodate many people at one time, but beyond the man behind the check-in desk, the manager I supposed, there were five other people including the local sheriff. Next to her was clearly her deputy, but I wasn't sure about the other three, town leaders, perhaps, none looking friendly. Only one of them was old enough to have been involved in the original investigation when Trazmo disappeared back in 1983. Maybe the others were kids then; the deputy looked like a kid now.
The room itself looked like a set left over from an old TV western, barely redecorated for the Age of Color, the furniture less than basic and faded photographs hung on equally faded walls. If it wasn't quite the Motel that Time Forgot, it certainly hadn't changed much from the old motel that Tom remembered.
The sheriff, the only woman, was also the tallest of the bunch, except maybe for the manager slouching over the register. Her uniform did nothing for her appearance other than make her more ominous. Capt. Ritard told me the locals called Sheriff Betty Diddon “Injun Bess” though only behind her formidable back, and then quietly. Well over six foot tall, she wore her black hair in a long braid, accentuating her “nativeness,” proud of her heritage. Town Councilman Longbottom had described her as being “stiff as a cigar-store Indian.”
Ritard warned me, while liked by the locals, she was barely tolerated by the town officials who'd frequently mention Orient did not vote for her in what had been an otherwise very close election. The assumption was – I fully understood that, now – if she needed to make an example of me, she would. “Tread lightly.”
Diddon, without moving, said Capt. Ritard, whom she continued referring to as my boss, indicated the IMP was not claiming “jurisdiction,” but a consultant “aware of artistic nuances” might prove helpful in reading evidence.
“Do you artsy types think we in the Heartland aren't capable of 'reading'?”
“It's more a question of interpreting clues that...”
“Thanks, Would-be Consultant Kerr, but my work history and Cases Solved record speak for themselves,” Sheriff Diddon responded, cutting me off. “Sorry you traveled all the way out here to the Boonies for nothing.”
Cameron and I had made arrangements as soon as I called Bond and Ritard after Tom received word from Sheriff Diddon. There was no way I could now tell Tom I couldn't help him. But I wasn't sure how I could be involved even if the IMP agreed to send me in as a consultant. As a “Friend of Tom's,” wouldn't I automatically be considered biased and couldn't they – normal law enforcement and any prosecuting attorney – throw out any evidence Cameron and I might've come in direct contact with?
So far, Tom wasn't being charged with anything but what if he's being considered a suspect in whatever case they'd have? Wouldn't the Iowa police see me as “nuancing” the evidence in Tom's favor? Was there any way – and I was having trouble imagining this – I could serve Tom as a private investigator, working independently?
Because this was a “special case” involving composers, Ritard informed Diddon as the local police's lead in the investigation, the IMP's role was no different than calling in the FBI or a SWAT team. When she debated his explanation, he added it's like having access to a hostage negotiator, someone who understood the psychological mindset.
I told Bond initially I wanted to be there only as an observer, an interested party, not the Official IMP Consultant. As long as Purdue was not yet charged, they agreed it shouldn't matter.
Still, Sheriff Diddon resisted any assistance until more was known about the case, but since that could change quickly – and soon – Ritard authorized an “emergency deployment,” despite Diddon's objections, for both Cameron and me. With Bond's approval, he could now allocate the necessary transportation funds, including an official red vest with the “IMP Consultant” logo.
We barely made the flight from Bangor to New York, almost missed the connection to O'Hare and the one to Omaha. We had to take a cab to Orient, and arrived shortly after sunset.
Meanwhile, one of Ritard's assistants had made reservations for us at the Express Motel, specifically for Room #12 which, 34 years earlier, had been Trazmo's room, easy enough since the motel was practically empty.
When we finally arrived and they discovered who we were, the manager said there'd been a mistake: “Sorry, bud, motel's full.”
Everybody else wandered out onto the covered sidewalk, but the sheriff remained behind and nonchalantly leaned against the soda machine by the door, not really watching us but waiting for the others to leave. When the deputy looked back for her to follow, she waved him off. I could hear them moving further away, laughing.
“Sorry,” I told the manager, hoping to sound more irritated than apologetic, “but earlier, you'd told an IMP agent you'd reserved a room for two, #12 specifically; even said the place was nearly empty.”
“Come on, Buck, you know full well you're full of it, this place's nearly as empty as the prairie is wide.” It was unexpected, coming from Sheriff Diddon. “You'd promised they'd have a room.” She strolled back toward the counter and leaned over to face the manager. “So why don't you give them a room?”
“Well, no, I didn't exactly 'promise,' but yeah...” He straightened up to his full height, nearly as tall as the sheriff, and, swinging the register around toward us, motioned for us to sign in. “#12's occupied, that was a mistake, my assistant forgot to write it down – guest showed up minutes before your agent called.”
Since #10 was empty, I said we'd take it: no need to mention it had been Tom's room back in 1983. What would the benefits be of staying in Trazmo's room, anyway, atmosphere aside?
“Buck, while you're at it,” Sheriff Diddon said as she mosied – I could only think of it as “mosied” – back toward the door, “you had better find another room for your guest in #12. If I'm going to be opening up this investigation again, we'll need to clear the former crime scene, check it over.”
The manager's brow furrowed deeply at the thought of the inconvenience plus I wasn't sure which woman he was more concerned about having to face, the sheriff or whoever the woman was in #12.
“But how's that worthwhile?” I blurted out. “It's not like there'd still be evidence there that'd been overlooked thirty-some years ago.”
“He's right, you know,” the manager said. “Not only has the place been cleaned a few times – well, I mean, regularly – I'd even had the whole place renovated after I bought it in '89.”
Sheriff Diddon lowered her gaze as if she were looking at the manager over imaginary glasses and didn't say a word. Raised eyebrows set in motion a number of sun-dried wrinkles and frown lines.
“Right,” he said, picking up the phone. “If you guys are in #10, I'll move her to #11, that's still empty.”
“Buck, I would imagine most of your rooms are still empty,” Diddon said. “It's not like it's peak tourist season, right?”
Unlike Diddon's, Buck's frown lines made him seem older than his middle-aged years.
Lips tightly pursed, setting about an unpleasant but obviously unnecessary task, he punched in a number and waited till someone answered.
“Uh, Miss... uhm, Piltdown?” he asked, after checking the register, “in Room 12?”
The conversation was almost entirely one-sided and unpleasant, Buck wincing a few times before he mumbled an apology and hung up.
“Turns out, it don't matter,” Buck told the sheriff. Dr. Piltdown, as he'd been corrected, said, after having met some friends of hers for dinner, she'd made other arrangements with them “for the duration.”
He handed me the key – I checked to make sure it was #10 – and Cameron picked up the luggage and left.
As I walked past the sheriff, she said quietly, “let's talk – once you're settled in your room?” I nodded and left.
A nondescript middle-aged woman, possibly the displaced Dr. Piltdown, passed me without notice.
Our cab, which had come in from the west when we'd arrived, dropped us off at the “West End” of town. Whatever part of Orient stretched eastward beyond the motel, we had yet to see more of it, the motel our first and so far only impression. Cameron stood waiting at the door to #10.
The motel wasn't very big but then demand probably wasn't very big either. There were six even-numbered rooms facing the street. Presumably, six odd-numbered rooms across the back looked out over... what, I wondered.
Unlocking the door, relieved it was the right key, I told Cameron about Sheriff Diddon's suggestion we “talk.” He mentioned having passed this tall woman with long black hair as he'd left the lobby. She carried three small pieces of luggage but paid no attention to him, so he guessed that was probably Dr. Piltdown.
When I flipped the light switch, there was a blue flash and a crackling disappointment, the room still bathed in darkness. Fortunately, I could see the silhouette of a floor lamp near the window. Without stumbling over any intervening furniture, I turned the lamp on but was met by another, only slightly less crackling disappointment.
Maybe the “express” in The Express Motel referred to the speed with which anyone staying here hoped to vacate the premises? Our mutual silence implied this was not the place to overstay one's welcome.
The room, not large, felt cramped because of its massive king-sized bed, better suited to a couple, rather than two singles. A small dressing table minus its mirror stood in front of the window. Rather than hidden in the drawer of what passed for a dresser, a Bible had been placed prominently on the table. A stuffed chair to its left faced the bed, with a straight-backed chair stuffed between the bed and the bathroom wall. A TV on a box-like stand completed what could be called the furniture.
Two faded prints of sunflowers – sunflowers I gathered must've had some local significance – hung off-kilter on either side of the bed. The closet had only two hangars. I was afraid to check the bathroom.
It lacked only flashing neon signs across the street to complete the seediness.
“Well,” I said, “the Palazzo Barbaro it ain't...”
Not knowing if #12 was any different – hadn't Tom said it was a larger room but only for a single occupancy? – I understood why Dr. Piltdown decided to make “other arrangements for the duration.” It also made me think how quickly I'd hoped to solve this case. This wasn't something I'd want to drag on.
Cameron set the suitcases on top of the dresser (given little room, otherwise) and flopped himself, groaning suitably, onto the bed. “I figure you'd rather have the side closer to the bathroom.”
“Very funny.”
He suggested calling the Front Desk for room service, if they could send up a large pizza with sausage and pepperoni plus a soda and, with any luck, a side order of 60-watt bulb.
However, when the manager answered, I lost my nerve, merely asking if he could replace the burned-out bulb sometime tomorrow afternoon.
When I said nothing beyond that, expecting him to apologize for the inconvenience or at least make some excuse that it had only been replaced a week ago, he said, “Okay,” and hung up. As I closed the blinds on the completely darkened void across the street, I wondered how long this case would take.
I glanced over at Cameron, relatively comfortable after a challenging day of travel, and envied him his calm youth and resilience.
There was a sharp knock at the door: apparently, Sheriff Diddon had arrived.
She stood silhouetted in the doorway, and when she walked into the room, I saw she was holding a light bulb.
“I understand you ordered something from room service?” and she held it forward.
It made me laugh, considering her attitude toward us earlier in the lobby.
“Folks expect me to act a certain way...”
Sheriff Diddon apologized for that and put the bulb down on the table. “This case is not what we'd want to be known for, and now, here it is again,” and shrugged her shoulders.
She had her concerns, re-opening this cold case under the circumstances, especially since they didn't have the technology to examine evidence they didn't have yet. “I guess,” she continued, “any assistance might be helpful.” She wasn't sure how a musician could offer “insights” into solving crimes because they involve musicians, but she's willing to listen.
She pulled a screwdriver out of her back pocket, then reached up to undo a small recess in the drop ceiling. “I'd forgotten how seedy this place is,” she said, unscrewing the old bulb. “It really wasn't too bad until about ten years ago. Well, this bad. That's when Buck started losing interest, I guess.”
Sheriff Diddon was tall enough that she didn't need a stepladder, but it surprised me she was doing this at all. “Hand me that bulb, why don't you, and let's see if it works.”
Cameron flipped the switch and there was light. A bit too much, to be honest, but I wasn't going to suggest she find a lower-watt bulb. I doubted that's part of her job description. Besides, an hour ago, she sounded ready to ride us out of town. Whatever happens, let's stay on her good side.
“The coroner's preliminary report,” she started out of nowhere, “puts the death between the late-1970s and the late-1980s, no obvious CoD. Whatever clothing he may have been wearing at the time had long decomposed.
“Here's the thing: what's left is a belt buckle, different types of buttons, and a pair of boots matching photos taken of this guy, Hawthorne, at the White Hill Colony, days before he disappeared.”
But there were inconsistencies with the remains, so she suggested we stop by Femorsen's lab tomorrow morning, then gave us directions.
Turns out the coroner's lab was located in a hospital basement in Greenfield, a town nine miles north, so we tried renting a car but the closest agency was in Fontanelle west of Greenfield. When we asked about local cabs, Buck matter-of-factly told us the closest was in Atlantic, about an hour west of Greenfield.
“Not much call for people 'round here to need cabs or car rentals.” I could imagine Buck standing there behind his counter in his usual laconic state, chewing contentedly on a piece of wheat.
But then, as we were ready to head back to our room, not sure what to do next – hitchhike to Greenfield? – Buck recalled Alice, “lives up on 4th Street, one of them Uber drivers.” I wondered if she could drive us to Greenfield, would the rental place in Fontanelle deliver a car to us there?
Several phone calls and various arrangements later, Alice Hubbard agreed to meet us at the motel in half an hour and Pronto Rentals would deliver a car for us while we visited the hospital. I'd given the Pronto guy my credit card number but let Cameron, who'd be driving it, choose from the available cars.
It was startling to be greeted by a pale, middle-aged woman with thinning orange-red hair, a hooked nose, and thin lips. Even Cameron was disconcerted to run into two American Ciapollos in four days.
Consequently I decided to let him handle the ritual of socially acceptable smalltalk while I pretended to watch the fields fly past, alternately brown or beginning to turn green with the promise of spring. Mostly, I was preoccupied with thoughts about why I was being hounded by the upper branches of Dionisio Ciapollo's family tree.
Once past the sharp right curve off Orient's main street, the road, unwavering as an arrow past changelessly flat land, implied miles of endless boredom, a challenge for drivers (and passengers) to stay awake.
And all the while, Alice talked about life with her old mother, her late father the best-known cobbler in the county. She dropped us off at the hospital's entrance and offered us good luck, presuming I was coming in for some tests. Excellent timing: the man from Pronto pulled up behind us with the rental.
Moments later, as Cameron returned from parking the car, I saw the recognizable figure of Sheriff Diddon approach the hospital lobby, paging through two thin manila folders which she stuffed into a shoulder bag. Without any further greeting, she nodded and said Dr. Femorsen had faxed her his initial autopsy report, what little there was.
“There's also not a lot in the original case file, so whatever you can fill in for me might be helpful. That is, if your friend might've told you things he'd remembered since then?”
I wasn't sure what Tom might've told the sheriff then or hadn't: initially, it was only a case of someone not showing up when the bus left before becoming an official “missing persons” case.
The difficulty, Diddon added, would be finding any “casual witnesses” from thirty years ago who could accurately remember what they'd seen.
“I'll need to interview your friend Purdue myself, anyway,” she said, “since what you think he may or may not have said might not jive with earlier statements made... – , well, a generation ago.”
Part of the problem, she said, holding up one old file and a new one, is there's already a major discrepancy.
“It seems the body we have now, discovered just yesterday morning, does not match Phillips Hawthorne a.k.a. Trazmo's description from 1983. That would make a positive identification unlikely except for one thing: his boots.”
Given how slowly the hospital's elevator was traveling, grinding away as if it weren't a new, sleek cube of polished aluminum, it surprised me Femorsen's autopsy room was only one floor below the lobby. Well, as it turned out, one floor and what felt like several additional miles of featureless winding corridors below the lobby.
As I contemplated the need for breadcrumbs to find our way back, the sheriff still wasn't entirely keen on our involvement. It may be the only link to the Trazmo Case is the boots.
“If the coroner's right about the age of these remains, this probably won't be Trazmo, so we're back to Square One. And,” Diddon added, “if not, then there's no reason for the IMP's involvement.”
“Except for one thing: the boots link this person to Trazmo. And don't forget, Trazmo's still unaccounted for. Okay, two things...”
If this body is now officially John Doe rather than Phillips Hawthorne a.k.a. Trazmo, it might get Tom off the hook, at least as far as a murder charge is concerned – a good thing. But as long as Trazmo's still missing, Tom will never be off the hook – and that is not a good thing.
“On the other hand – or foot – there's still the mystery of what Mr. Doe, here, is doing with Phillips Hawthorne's boots. So,” I said, “he's still tied to the case: perhaps he'd murdered Trazmo.”
As we entered the room, an old and rather myopic-looking white-haired gentleman looked up from examining one of the leg bones, and Sheriff Diddon introduced me to Dr. Ulnar Femorsen, the county Medical Examiner. To his left stood the young policeman I'd encountered at the motel last night, this time introduced as Deputy Roger Dett.
“Well, as I was explaining to young Dett, here, the amount of arthritis evident in the hips and in the knees,” he said, pointing to each location, “isn't typical of someone in their mid-20s.”
“So that's why you think he's in his late-40s to late-50s?” Diddon frowned.
“Maybe mid-60s, given the extent of the arthritis.”
There was also the anomaly, Femorsen called it, the body belonged to someone a few inches taller than Hawthorne's official description.
“Hard to tell, though, given the possible compression of the spine with age.”
Diddon passed me a photograph of the dozen resident artists taken at White Hill during the weeks Tom was in residence, unmistakable but unsmiling, holding down the far right end of the second row. Dead center – perhaps a poor choice of words – was a younger man with long blonde hair and the only one smiling.
“Let me guess, that's Trazmo in the center, there, in the front row?” There was such arrogance about him I disliked him immediately, like he's the only one who'd laughed at his own joke.
Diddon nodded, then pointing out Tom, I passed it on to Cameron who took a long but silent look at it. I'd forgotten he only knew Tom in the days since his heart attack. It occurred to me Trazmo then was the same age Cameron was now, and undoubtedly the coincidence wasn't lost on him.
Diddon continued, following the photo's path from one to the other, explaining in that photo, taken days before their departure from the colony, Trazmo was wearing these boots and a belt with this buckle. “The question is how did those boots and presumably those pants, maybe more, end up thirty-some years later on this body?”
“Judging from fibers found near the remains,” Femorsen said, “he wore traditional denim jeans and/or denim shirt with pressed metal buttons. The boots are deteriorated but also elaborate, still identifiable, not a common design.”
The boots stood centered on a table behind the coroner who now stepped aside as if drawing a curtain on Exhibit-A. Looking at Diddon's photograph, even without a magnifying glass I realized these were the boots Trazmo had worn at the colony. Coincidence? It would be difficult to explain, especially adding Exhibit-B, the belt buckle.
There was a small object, a river-washed stone that could be called Exhibit-C which Femorsen noticed I was squinting to see. He held the thing up between us, a small lump of polished turquoise.
“It's unlikely this would've washed up when recent rains unearthed a body buried for over thirty years,” going on to name the various kind of rocks (I recognized “shale”) common to the immediate area.
It jarred a memory loose in some corner of my brain, but why? Beyond, of course, turquoise being my favorite gemstone.
“Or, if this isn't Trazmo,” the sheriff continued, since Femorsen thought he's in his 40s to 60s (still waiting on DNA), “were Trazmo and Purdue in on this guy's murder together – for whatever reason?”
“Everybody else on the bus was accounted for,” I said. “Why would Trazmo and Tom, basically strangers, collaborate on murdering anyone?”
“Maybe he was a common enemy who threatened them both, another rival composer...?”
“That's silly – Trazmo still disappeared...”
Deputy Dett spoke up for the first time. “Unless Purdue killed him to keep him quiet?”
“Or,” Cameron began, hand held up to his chin to emphasize thoughtful theorizing, “what if John Doe breaks into Trazmo's motel room, abducts him because his dad is this rich big-shot with political connections? Then, when Dad refuses to pay the ransom, kills him, disposes of the body, but keeps his clothes because they fit?”
“Good man,” I thought, “I've trained you well.” Nothing like countering the implausible with the ridiculous, plus a side of sarcasm. Anything to make a jury consider the option of Reasonable (however unreasonable) Doubt.
“That doesn't make any sense,” Diddon said, clearly rattled. “There was never any indication a ransom demand had ever been made.”
“None that we know of, a cover-up aside. But,” I suggested, “what about the possibility Trazmo died only ten years ago? He'd've been in his late-40s, hiding nearby to get away from it all?”
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©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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