Death at Charity's Point by William G. Tapply Read Free Book Online

note, isn’t it?”
    He shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen plenty in my line of work, of course. Too many. Most of them, actually, are addressed to somebody specific—a husband or wife, a parent perhaps. Suicides don’t generally announce their intentions to the world. Some of them are pretty cruel. ‘You made me do it. I hope you’re happy now.’ That was one we had. A teen-aged boy wrote that one to his father before he hanged himself. Try living with that.”
    “God!”
    “Yes.” Dr. Clapp inclined his head. “Others, you know, are actually quite touching. ‘I’ll meet you in Heaven,’ or just ‘I love you.’ And some, to be sure, are long, rambling, incoherent discourses.”
    “This one,” I said, tapping the paper I held, “it’s…”
    “Epigrammatic.” Dr. Clapp finished my thought. “Yes. It’s eloquent, too. Poetic, really.”
    “Very sad,” I said. Then I had another thought. “You found this in his jacket pocket, you said?”
    He nodded, his eyebrows arched.
    “Maybe,” I continued, “it had nothing to do with his fall. Maybe it was just a coincidence. A sad poem he had written. A life of regrets. Middle-aged ennui, that sort of thing.”
    He nodded slowly. “It’s possible, of course. But you must admit, Mr. Coyne, most unlikely. In any case, that’s my verdict, and if the evidence seems circumstantial to you, well, it’s all the evidence we have, you see. Besides, there was the matter of Mr. Gresham’s father.”
    “Dudley,” I said.
    “He took his own life several years ago, you know. And that—statistically, at least—is very significant.”
    I nodded. “It does all seem to fit.”
    “Yes, I’m afraid it does.” Dr. Clapp began rustling the papers on his desk. I accepted the hint and rose, extending my hand.
    “Thank you, Doctor, for your time. And for the most enlightening discussion.”
    His handshake was firm. “Sorry if I lectured at you.”
    I shook my head and smiled. “It was fascinating. Wish I could say I enjoyed it.”
    He moved from behind his desk and walked with me the few steps to the door. “You know,” he said, “if you’re really concerned about Mr. Gresham’s frame of mind—if you want to try to understand this tragic thing—you should talk to the people who knew him, who he worked with, who were around him before he did this. There are so many things we scientists can’t know.”
    I opened the door. “I suppose I’ll do that. At least on behalf of my client, I have to remain skeptical about the suicide. Not,” I added with a smile, “that I don’t trust you.”
    His eyes wrinkled playfully. “Don’t trust anybody, Mr. Coyne. That’s one thing that both of our professions teach us. Don’t trust anybody.”
    “I try not to,” I said.

CHAPTER 3
    I GOT BACK TO the office a little after two that afternoon. Julie was on the telephone. She lifted her eyebrows at me when I entered, then quickly put a finger to her lips. I nodded. She was holding a client off for me. She knew it wasn’t urgent. Maybe not even important. My clients tend to call just to chat. They usually seem content to chat with Julie. I consider that valid client service.
    I grinned at her. She blew me a kiss, and then spoke into the telephone, her tone soothing. Her free hand twirled absently in her glossy, dark hair.
    I went into my office and sat down heavily behind my desk. I had had no lunch, and I discovered that my stomach had hardened into a tight knot. It felt like a barrel knot. At least a clove hitch. As if I’d swallowed a double shot of Liquid-plumr. I was not used to being close up to death. Contracts, separation agreements, wills, citations, I was used to. But glossy photographs of cadaveric spasms and empty eye sockets were out of my line. Suicide notes didn’t seem to lend themselves to loophole-picking rational analysis.
    Julie rapped softly at the half-open door to my office. “May I come in?”
    I nodded, and she sat in the chair near my