Inspector of the Dead by David Morrell

Author:David Morrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2015-03-24T04:00:00+00:00

Ryan and Becker hurried from a cab, avoiding shards from a broken window that protruded from the slush. Someone sagged against a wall, his head down, moaning. Somebody else was carried from the tavern.

A tall man with a military bearing approached them. Until now, Ryan had seen him only in uniform and might have taken longer to recognize him, if not for the sling on his right arm.

“Colonel Trask, thanks for sending your message.”

“My offices aren’t far from here—on Water Lane. When I heard the commotion, I came to learn what caused it. I quickly realized that you needed to be told.”

A police sergeant finished questioning members of the crowd and walked toward them. The insignia on his brass buckle made clear that he belonged to the business district’s police force, separate from the Metropolitan Police to which Ryan and Becker belonged.

“You understand that you’re guests,” the sergeant said.

“We’re here to help, not try to take over,” Ryan told him.

“Well, if you can make sense of this, you’re welcome.”

The sergeant led them inside.

The shadows of the Wheel of Fortune were pierced by daylight through the shattered windows. The place had a stale odor of beer and gin.

Ryan and Becker surveyed the damage. Tables had been broken, chairs destroyed, bottles, glasses, and a mirror smashed. Blood colored the sand on the floor. Two policemen helped a groaning victim limp away.

In a corner, a man with an injured forehead stared at the scene, his hands pressed to the sides of his face in shock.

“That’s the owner—Thaddeus Mitchell,” the sergeant said. “He admits to hiring a drink doctor to dilute his beer and gin so they last longer.”

“And the man he hired added more than the usual chemicals,” Ryan concluded. “Something so powerful that people who drank it either passed out or suffered visions of monsters trying to attack them.”

“How this happened I can understand,” the sergeant said. “But the why of it doesn’t come to me. What would possess someone to do this?”

“To keep people from feeling safe in places like this, where they normally feel relaxed,” Becker answered. “The same as they no longer feel safe in churches or parks—or even in their homes.”

Colonel Trask pointed toward the counter. “What I mentioned in my note is over there.”

They spread out, studying what stretched before them. Someone had stuck his fingers in blood from one of the wounded and used it to write a name along the counter.

Ryan turned again toward the owner. “Mr. Mitchell, when did the drink doctor come here?”

Not accustomed to being addressed with a term of respect, the dazed man lowered his hands from his cheeks. He worked to focus his thoughts. “Last night. A little after midnight.”

“Excuse us for a moment,” Ryan told the owner.

He motioned for Becker, Colonel Trask, and the constable to step a distance away.

Keeping his voice low so that the owner couldn’t hear, he asked Becker, “Do you understand?”

“A little after midnight. That’s the same time Commissioner Mayne and his family were attacked,” Becker answered.

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