1 The Question of the Missing Head by E. J. Copperman Read Free Book Online Page A

obvious. “This is not a murder investigation,” I said. “The police are investigating the murder of Dr. Springer. I am simply attempting to answer Dr. Ackerman’s question about the missing head.”
    Ms. Washburn did not take her eyes off the road, which was re assuring to me. Many people act emotionally behind the wheel, not realizing the enormous risk they take each time they travel in a motor vehicle of any kind. Throughout the life of an average seventy-
eight-year-old, the odds of dying in an automobile crash are approximately one in eighty-three; the odds of dying in an airplane accident are approximately one in fifty-two million.
    But she did open her mouth a little. I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, so I stayed silent.
    “So you’re not going to look into the murder of Dr. Springer, even though you know that the cops will treat it as natural causes?” she asked.
    “I assume that the medical examiner will corroborate my findings,” I answered. “And then either the North Brunswick Police or the Middlesex County prosecutor’s Major Crimes unit will handle the investigation. No one has asked me who killed Dr. Springer.”
    “Isn’t that a little callous? Don’t you think Dr. Springer deserves the ultimate justice of having her murderer found, exposed, and punished?”
    This was puzzling; it seemed Ms. Washburn was trying to encourage me to investigate the murder, when just a moment ago, she was threatening to end our association because she assumed I would be taking up that cause. “I don’t understand,” I told her. “Do you want me to find out who killed Dr. Springer?”
    The question seemed to baffle Ms. Washburn; she thought for a moment and said, “Yes. I do. But I don’t want to be involved with it.”
    “Because you’re afraid.”
    Her lips tightened. I’ve found this is often a sign of irritation or embarrassment. “Yes. Because I’m afraid,” she said briskly without separating her teeth.
    “It makes sense to be afraid,” I told her. “The person or people who did that to Dr. Springer are clearly violent and unpredictable. They killed someone, probably deliberately, and that means they are dangerous. I would not want to be involved with people like that.”
    This time, she did steal a glance—a very brief one—toward me. “So, you’re afraid, too?” she asked.
    “No, but I would be if I were going to investigate the murder.”
    Ms. Washburn nodded and did not speak again until we reached the house.
    _____
    “Of course you’re coming in,” Mother said when Ms. Washburn tried to beg off. “When Samuel said he was bringing a guest, I made enough for three. You can’t leave me with all that extra food.” And she smiled her best smile, which she once told me was designed to get her out of trouble with police officers when she inadvertently exceeded the speed limit.
    It seemed to work on Ms. Washburn, as well, since she acquiesced and walked into the house. Mother can be very persuasive.
    The house, of course, was immaculate—Mother never allows anything other than that in her home. Mother is a short woman, somewhat stout but not dangerously heavy. I silently chided myself for not drinking enough water today, due to the distraction of Ackerman’s question. Luckily, I had been on my feet for much of the morning, so my exercise was quite within my daily quota.
    “It’s a lovely home, Mrs. Hoenig,” Ms. Washburn said to her as she surveyed the living room.
    “I do what I can.” Mother very rarely accepts a compliment to herself, but I have noticed that she can be downright vain about any accomplishment of my own. “Come in and eat. You must be famished. And you call me Vivian.” I don’t know why she believed that our activity of the morning would translate into hunger, but I have found it best not to question Mother when she says such things. She will explain, but her explanation rarely helps me to understand more fully.
    While we ate (Mother had