The lidless wicker coffin, bearing a sheet, arrived with Doc Miller — looking disheveled in a rumpled brown suit and no tie — at a handle on one side and Tulley on the other. York made room for them to set the basket down near the body.
The heavyset little physician, his white hair sleep askew, got right down there and had a look at the deceased; Tulley lit yet another kitchen match. The doctor glanced up at York, catching some of the flame’s orange. “I don’t think you need a medical opinion on this one, Caleb.”
“Oh but I do. I think he was moved. Shot somewhere else. Dumped here. What’s your expert opinion?”
Having to work at it a little, the doc got back on his feet. “He was moved, all right. No blood in his face. Starting to settle.”
York gestured to the dry ground at the victim’s back. “And where’s the blood that came out of him? If this happened here, that patch would be drenched with it.”
The doc nodded. “Mr. Upton got shot and bled out. But not here.” He shook his head, his expression glum — as much tragedy as this doctor had seen, Miller was still the kind of man who felt it. “Friend Upton died hard. He didn’t pass out, either. Look at that expression.”
York nodded, hands on his haunches. “All the pain in the world caught up with him. How long dead, you think?”
The stubby physician shrugged. “Somewhere between two and six hours.”
“How d’you come up with that, Doc?”
“Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. That’s how long it takes — two to six hours. And in a few more hours, we can prove he was moved by where the blood settles.”
“How so?”
The medical man gestured vaguely. “Way he was shot, right in the guts, a man doesn’t land on his side, but on his backside. That’s where the blood would gather. But if he was moved while the blood was still settling, we’ll before long see the bruising look of it, on the side he’s resting on.”
York narrowed his eyes at Miller. “Then let’s not wake up the undertaker just yet. Let’s haul Mr. Upton to your surgery... place him on his side, just like that, in the wicker basket... and then ease him onto your table the same way. And see how your theory holds.”
The doc found that a good enough plan.
Taking all this in, Tulley said, “I don’t know doodlely-do about blood settlin’, but I can just about gar-on-tee that this here bank clerk weren’t killed in this alley. Or anywheres else outdoors in this town.”
Genuinely interested, the doctor asked, “Why do you say that, Tulley?”
A many-hued grin blossomed in the bearded face. “Comes to gunfire, ol’ undertaker Perkins has the devil’s own hearin’. Betcha he sleeps in that there top hat and frock coat, so’s he can git hisself to the scene of dyin’ in a hell of a hurry.”
Tulley was, of course, half-joking, but it got York to thinking.
He did some of it out loud: “Our undertaker friend is just a few doors down. And folks live in the spaces above these shops, all along here. Somebody would have heard the gunshot, if Upton got it anywhere around here.”
“Even indoors,” the doctor said, nodding. “Walls aren’t exactly thick in these flimsy structures.”
York frowned. “You think people maybe heard it, and decided to mind their own business?”
“In Trinidad?” The doc snorted a laugh. “The occasional shooting’s the best entertainment this town can boast. Beats a musical recital at the Grange, don’t you think? Anyway, did you hear a shot tonight?”
“No,” York said.
“Me neither,” Tulley said, “and I was out here walkin’ patrol. How about you, Doc?”
“I heard no shot, but much of the evening I was out at the Watkins farm, lancing a boil on the middle boy’s behind.” The doc winced in thought, scratching his head. “Of course, I guess I wouldn’t have heard it even if I’d been in.”
“Why so?” York asked.
Miller shrugged. “Well, I live in the bank building, after all. Those walls are triple-thick. Reinforced.”
“So they are,” York said, looking in that direction. “So they are.”
The next morning, Caleb York again knocked on the wood by the glass of one of First Bank’s double doors a good half hour before those portals were to open for business. This time, however, he was not let in by Herbert Upton, who was at the funeral parlor at the moment, Doc Miller having turned him over to undertaker Perkins after the doctor and York witnessed the blue bruised effect of blood settling along the dead man’s side.
On his third knock, York saw the bank janitor, Charley Morton — tall, thin, in his fifties, two white eyebrows the only hair on his head — come shambling over to see who was making such a racket. A friendly, googly-eyed skeleton of a man, Charley — in a work shirt a little too big and canvas trousers a little too short — bared his big yellow teeth in a smile, recognizing the sheriff.
Charley was the kind of guy who smiled whenever he recognized somebody.
“We ain’t open, Sheriff,” Charley said through the glass, grinning as if he’d just delivered good news.
“I know, Charley. Official business. Let me in.”
Charley nodded and did so, locking the door behind them.
“You want to talk to me?” Charley said, with several nods that answered his own question.
The two men faced each other just inside the doors.
“Yes,” York said, “we haven’t had a chance to chat yet, have we, Charley? About the robbery?”
He shook his head, frowning. “That was a bad thing. I weren’t here for that.”
“I know, but I’m talking to all the bank employees about it. But right now I need to talk to Mr. Carter.”
Carter was seated over at his desk, looking up from his ever-present ledger, clearly wondering why the sheriff had come around again, his frown landing just this side of irritated.
The janitor pointed. “Mr. Carter is seated over at his desk.”
Charley’s Adam’s apple was prominent and moved up and down when he spoke.
“Yes, I can see that, Charley,” York said pleasantly. “Say, you aren’t usually here in the mornings, are you?”
“No, sir. I work in the afternoons and into the evening. When they’s no customers around.”
“Did you work yesterday evening?”
“No, sir. They’s a church meeting Mr. Carter lets me off so’s I can attend. Every Wednesday night, it is.”
“That’s kind of him.”
“He is a God-fearing man, Mr. Carter is. He’s over at his desk, Sheriff.”
“Yes, Charley. Are you going to be around for a while?”
“Gotta finish up some cleaning back of the cashier cages, then I can go. We could talk then, iffen you like.”
York patted him on a bony shoulder. “Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee at the café, Charley.”
The janitor smiled, eyes lighting up. “Or maybe a drink at the Victory? Beer maybe? People say I do some of my best talkin’ after a beer at the Victory.”
“Little early for that.”
“Well, they’s open!”
“I guess they are. You finish up and then wait till I’ve spoken to Mr. Carter, okay? And we’ll have a beer at the Victory. A beer for breakfast.”
“I already et my breakfast, Sheriff. But I can have a beer while you take sustenance.”
“Great, Charley. Don’t forget.”
Charley grinned and shook his head. “I surely won’t. Anyway, I got to get back to my mop and bucket.”