Autumn Maze Read Free Page A

Malone had the feeling that the big man saw Romy as his superior. Which was wrong: in his own way Russ Clements was as competent, or more than that, as Romy.
    â€œWe won’t know till we find out who they stole.”
    Malone raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
    â€œIt was a male, unknown,” said Romy. “Middle-aged, Mediterranean look, no identification at all on him. He’d worn two rings, one on his left wedding finger, the other on his right little finger. They’d been pulled off, the skin was scraped on the little finger. His clothes are in a bag outside, but I gather they’ll tell you nothing.”
    â€œAll good stuff,” said Clements, “but off the rack. It could of been bought anywhere.”
    â€œWhere was the body found?”
    â€œIn a park by Cook’s River, out at Canterbury. Some kid and his girlfriend found him last night, about eight p.m. They called the locals, the Campsie D’s are in charge of it.”
    â€œSo why are we in on it? Have they asked for us?” Local police protected their turf jealously.
    â€œNot so far. But whoever took the body, took all the records of it.”
    â€œThey even wiped out all our data on the computer,” said Romy. “Whoever it was knew their way around a morgue. But they forgot one thing. The cops who picked up the body still have their notes. I called them earlier.”
    â€œCould it have been an inside job?”
    Romy shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t think anyone here would have killed Frank Minto.”
    Malone looked at Clements. The big man was still uncharacteristically quiet, his attention more on Romy than on Malone. Had they had a row, were together now only because of their work? “Russ? Russ?”
    Clements gathered himself together. “I’ll start questioning the staff, but like Romy says, I don’t think it’s an inside job. Too obvious. You asked me why we’re in on this. Tell him, hon.”
    Romy smiled at him, as if she enjoyed being called hon , even on duty. But there was something wrong with the smile, a wryness that took the affection out of it. Then she looked back at Malone.
    â€œThere was a note in Frank’s pocket, a scribble addressed to me. Frank took his job more seriously than it looked—he was thinking of studying pathology, though I don’t think he really had the education for it. Anyhow, he would often do a more thorough examination of a body than just checking it in.”
    â€œWhat did his note say?”
    â€œHe found a puncture at the base of the skull of the body that’s missing. This morning I did an autopsy, a preliminary one, on a body that came in last night about two hours before the other was brought in. He was supposed to have jumped or been pushed off a balcony twenty storeys up—the body was a mess. But I think he was dead before they tossed him off the balcony. There was a puncture at the base of his skull, too. It’s a subtle way of killing, but it would have to be done by someone who had some medical knowledge. You flex the head forward as far as it will go, then you push a broad needle or a thin scalpel into what we call the atlas, the first cervical vertebra. That’s what they did to Mr. Sweden and, from Frank’s note, I’d say the same was done to our unknown male from Canterbury.”
    â€œWho is Mr. Sweden?” Malone asked Clements, all at once wondering if the big man and Romy were playing some sick joke on him. “Not our—”
    â€œ That’s why I called you in. No, he’s not our new Police Minister. He’s Derek’s son.”
    Malone swore under his breath; he belonged to a dying school that didn’t swear in front of women. Even some of the hookers he knew respected him for it, since they met few gentlemen in bed or the back seat of a car, even a Mercedes.
    â€œI think I’ll go on sick leave.”

2
    I
    AS THEY walked out