Thin Air by George Simpson, Neal Burger Read Free Book Online Page B

Hammond asked.
    "Classic."
    Hammond's eyes fell on the overturned ashtray. He knelt down, slid a finger under, and flipped it over. It was spotless.       
    Medacre caught the startled look on Hammond's face. "Something wrong?"
    Hammond's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. Doctor Brody, how long do you think Fletcher's been dead?"
    Reworking the toothpick in his mouth, Brody looked at Hammond, slightly annoyed. "Can't tell for sure, but I'll give you an educated guess. Condition of the body—say maybe ten, twelve hours. I'll know more after the autopsy."
    Hammond was still looking at the ashtray. "Medacre, what about his movements yesterday? When did he come back to the apartment?"
    The detective pulled out a notebook, flipped some pages. "That's locked in. Fletcher spent all of yesterday in business meetings at the Tri-State office. He had dinner last night at Billy Martin's in Georgetown with, among others, a Mr. Charles Rankin, a close associate of his. Afterwards, the two of them returned here for a nightcap. Rankin left shortly after nine p.m. Security desk confirms their arrival and Rankin's departure." Medacre closed the notebook. "Took that statement from Rankin. He's the one Tri-State sent over....Found the body....Claims Fletcher was fine last night."       
    Hammond was trying to assemble his thoughts. He stared at the ashtray and then at the coffee table. The cards were arranged in columns, in sequence, and by suit. Fletcher had been having a game of solitaire. He died twelve hours ago; that would have been around two a.m. His friend had left at nine p.m. There were five hours when Fletcher had been totally alone. And he hadn't smoked a single cigarette?
    A chain-smoker?
    There wasn't even a half-empty drink on the table. Nothing to indicate that poor, nervous, distraught Harold Fletcher had actually spent five hours alone in this room. Hammond thought back to that last peculiar phone call he'd had with the man, when he'd seemed so different, so changed. Was this part of the change? Had he suddenly given up drink and smoke? If so, why?
    Had Fletcher met with his psychiatrist? Doctor what's-his-name? McCarthy. Could McCarthy have influenced him, caused this improvement in behavior? Hammond didn't know any psychiatrist that good.
    "All done, Lieutenant," said the photographer as he returned from the bedroom, packing his gear.
    "Terrific," drawled Medacre. "Make me some nice blowups. Brody, it's your party."
    Brody nodded and his pudgy fingers reached for the phone. He ordered the security desk to send up his ambulance attendants with the stretcher.
    "Will you consider the possibility of suicide, Lieutenant?" Hammond asked.
    Medacre's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
    "Mr. Fletcher had emotional problems. He was under the care of a Navy psychiatrist."
    Medacre opened his coat and thrust his hands on his hips. He looked squarely at Hammond. "What the hell is your interest in thus?"
    "I'm a friend."
    "You said before it was Navy business."
    "It's that, too."
    "You're playing close to the vest, Commander. How about turning up a card?"
    "I'm only asking one thing. Don't treat this as an open-and-shut case."  
    "I'd need cause to treat it otherwise. Have you spoken to the man's shrink?"
    "No."
    "Why not?"
    "Haven't located him—yet."
    A faint smile creased Medacre's ample jaw. "You're with NIS and you can't find a Navy psychiatrist? Isn't that a little strange?"
    "I'll handle that end of it, Lieutenant. Just send me the autopsy report."       
    Medacre turned away, indicating he was through being polite, then turned back suddenly. "Twenty years I've been on the force and I've never heard of anyone committing suicide by heart attack!"
    Hammond was expressionless as he pulled a card and gave it to Medacre. 'Thanks for your time, Lieutenant."
     
    By the time Hammond returned to the Pentagon, his anger had subsided. He expected little from Medacre and his coroner, but he still sensed something out of kilter. Maybe it was