The Longest Second Read Free Page B

me.”
    “Yeah,” agreed Jensen, “that’s the dame who found him. Gorman gave her a hypo, but it hasn’t taken effect yet.”
    “We’ll have to talk to her in the morning,” Burrows replied.
    “Sure. If we’re lucky. By that time her own doctor will probably put us off for a week.”
    The wail trailed away lonesomely into the night.
    Burrows picked up their conversation. “You think the shoes mean something? A symbol of some kind?”
    “It could be. Remember the guy ... what’s the name ... Clinton, who strangled three dames and always insisted on using a pair of smoke-gray nylon stockings?”
    Burrows said slowly, “It could be that sort of thing but maybe it might be done to conceal the identity.” He turned partly away, and cupping his hands lit a match. The flame burned yellow against the fullness of his face, etching and molding his features with shadows.
    “It’s pretty hard to conceal an identity these days,” Jensen said in part agreement, “but it isn’t impossible. Or possibly the idea is not to conceal who it is, but just to gain a little time by slowing up the identification.”
    Burrows dragged on the cigarette, the tip glowing red. “Or, I suppose, there’s even another way to look at it. Maybe, being stripped is supposed to make for a quick identification, to mean something to somebody.” He shrugged, half-humorously. “That’s pretty damned farfetched, though.”
    Jensen neither agreed nor disagreed. He stepped around the screen and watched Gorman for an instant, then returned to join Burrows. “How’s the doc getting along?” Burrows asked.
    “He’s still at it,” Jensen replied.

5
    SANT1NI followed Doctor Minor into the room. “There’s something about a hospital that always gets me,” the detective said. “It isn’t the smell, it’s the feeling. You know, everybody waiting for something to happen. Waiting to get well, or go ahead and die.”
    “You get used to it,” replied Minor. He looked at me, winked slowly, and turned back to Santini. “Take it easy with him again today,” the doctor told him.
    I thought about the wink. I didn’t like the idea that Minor believed he was conferring any favors on me.
    Santini said, “I’ll take it easy, but before you go, Doc, give me a little run down on how his throat is.”
    Minor automatically reached for my wrist. Momentarily he seemed to sink within himself; whether he was counting my pulse or considering Santini’s question, I couldn’t decide. Then Minor dropped my hand, straightened his white jacket, and began to explain slowly. “The carotid arteries are on each side of the throat—on the far sides, that is—and are crossed by the jugular veins. The recurrent laryngeal nerve, one on both sides of the larynx, controls the vocal cords to the larynx. The larynx, as you probably know, is the voice box. Located below the larynx is the trachea ... the windpipe.”
    Santini was following the doctor’s description carefully. He nodded his understanding. Minor continued, “The patient, here, received the main force of the blow across the trachea, nearly severing it, although it was still possible for him to receive some air through his wound. He could not have continued indefinitely to breathe in such a manner, but he would not asphyxiate immediately. The force of the blow deteriorated at the sides of his neck, but not without severing one laryngeal nerve completely and badly damaging the other. His immediate danger was from loss of blood resulting from the wounds in the carotid arteries. Local application of aid where he was found prevented his bleeding to death quickly, and when he arrived at the hospital immediate surgery was indicated and completed.”
    “In other words,” said Santini, “if the blow had cut him just a little deeper, he’d have died right away. As it is, he can’t talk. Will he ever be able to?”
    “Sometimes,” Minor replied, “patients can recover the use, or partial use, of damaged