Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

I mean. And I have seldom seen such a deep, rich, selfless love as that which Franklin Verne bore his wife, and which she bore him in return. He told her he would not drink. I told Sarah Elmira that I would not drink. I meant it—so did Franklin Verne. I came to you because the truth must be proved for him—he did not run down to a wine cellar and drown himself in a vat of wine!”

      “No,” Vickie said.

      “You must understand—”

      “I do.”

      “What?” He frowned. “You really believe that?”

      “I believe he was murdered. I met Franklin Verne a few times. I also write. History.”

      “Ah, nonfiction.” He studied her. “Not poetic at all, but...”

      “Excuse me! It’s not easy, laying down facts and figures, making it interesting and keeping the reader going. Well, okay, sometimes history is so bizarre that it is all quite intriguing, but...”

      “Back to me! And Franklin, of course. How are you going to prove the truth?”

      “Griffin will find the truth. Griffin and the FBI and the police,” Vickie said. “I’m not an agent yet. I have no real power.”

      “You don’t need power,” he told her.

      “No?”

      He lifted a hand into the air dismissively. “I am credited with creating the first mystery novel, you know. Detective novel. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”

      “Yes, I know the story. But Franklin Verne wasn’t killed by an ape.”

      “Neither was I, my dear, neither was I. The point is this—one needs to merely follow the clues to discover the truth.”

      “And you know how to follow the clues?”

      “Indeed, I do. My dear Miss Preston, I did not write the first such novel without having some knowledge of the quest for such forensic knowledge.”

      Vickie smiled. “Well, then.” She turned the key in the ignition once again.

      “Where are we going?” he asked her.

      “To the morgue.”

      “I will not go in.”

      “I’m not going in,” she told him. “Griffin is there. And I believe that Dr. Hatfield is very good at what he does. If there is something that we need to know, we’ll know it.”

      “Yes.” The ghost of Poe looked thoughtful and concerned. “If Verne drank, someone forced that drink into him!”

      “Possibly.” Vickie hesitated. “He did smell like wine.”

      Poe lifted his hands. “I don’t—I can’t smell anymore, so...” He smiled at her. “I would think, Miss Preston, that you wear the sweetest perfume.”

      “Well, thank you. I think,” she murmured. “We’ll go and get Griffin. He’s seen you, of course, you know.”

      “How rare. How delightfully rare. Two of you! And it’s almost as if...”

      “As if?”

      “As if I were living again. If only...” He paused again, then seemed to straighten. “But we will not be waylaid in our quest. We will find the truth. Franklin Verne was a fine man. I believe that too often in life, he received slings and arrows for reviews. I think others were jealous of him.”

      “Everyone gets bad reviews now and then,” Vickie said, and chuckled softly. “Anyone can review a book now and so many people do. I can’t think of an author who doesn’t get a bad review somewhere along the line—even if out of jealousy or sour grapes. Perhaps deserved—perhaps not. Books being digital and reviews online mean that... Well, like I said. Everyone gets a bad review now and then.”

      “Rufus Griswold,” Poe said. “Rufus Griswold, too, is long from the world we both once knew. But what people see as the legend of me is largely through that man’s words. Yes, I could overdo. I was temperamental. I had an ego. I was prone to dive into alcohol. But I wasn’t a perpetual drunk! And I did join the temperance league, and I wouldn’t have gone against Sarah Elmira...”

      “You think that Rufus Griswold murdered you?” Vickie demanded.

      “Only on the page, my dear. Only on the page. I was somehow murdered. And while my thoughts on that pompous bastard with a total lack of imagination regarding coherent verbiage are dark, I don’t believe he murdered me. Did someone cause my death—other than myself, as sometimes assumed? Yes. But...even in death, I can’t find the truth. That’s why I feel that I must hound you and your lawman until the two of you find out what happened to Franklin Verne. If I can’t find justice for myself, I will strive to see that the words and opinions that cast ill on memories of me do not fall upon him as well. He mustn’t be maligned. For him, the truth of this matter will be known!”

      * * *

      There would never be anything nice about an autopsy.

      The morgue was, however, as clean as one could imagine. The scent of decay was well washed in that of disinfectant. Stainless steel seemed to glint against tile, and while the dead lay silently upon their gurneys, the living moved among them with purpose and determination.

      Franklin Verne was not the only corpse awaiting the tender mercies of the medical examiner.

      At the moment, he was, however, the one who apparently commanded the most attention.

      Photographers were still at work when Carl Morris and Griffin arrived; the body of the man had been stripped and cleaned and the first incisions had begun. Dr. Myron Hatfield spoke as he worked; he didn’t take notes by hand but rather had a microphone hanging above the body, recording. He acknowledged the arrival of Morris and Griffin, noting the time as well. He urged them forward, lifting a lock of Franklin Verne’s hair. “At this point, I am directing the detective and agent to notice the hematoma rising on the left side of the forehead. Such bruising does not appear to have formed as the result of any fall, but rather it appears to be the result of a strike by a hard, blunt object. Bruising is also beginning to appear around the mouth, specific points of such bruising appearing as if perhaps fingers and a thumb pressed the mouth open. Previous to the body being stripped and washed, the smell of wine was abundant upon the corpse and clothing, indicative of a great deal of wine being poured on the face and spilling over.”

      Hatfield went on with his observations; then the typical Y incision had to be made. He continued to comment on the state of his subject.

      Franklin Verne may have cleaned up his life, but he had done damage, and such damage Hatfield noted.

      The heart was enlarged.

      The liver bore witness to overindulgence.

      But what cruel injury Franklin Verne had done himself in life had been on the mend. There was nothing visible that would have immediately taken his life. Samples were taken from the stomach, of the hair, and so on; they would be sent for analysis. An as-yet-unknown poison might have been the actual cause of death, but if so, that substance would be revealed with time.

      The man’s heart had given out, perhaps due to the damage of an imbibed or otherwise ingested substance, perhaps due to the brutal strike on the head, or a combination thereof.

      Finally, Hatfield fell silent. He looked down at the man he studied, his expression sad. He asked his assistant to please care for the body.

      Then he turned off the microphone and stepped away with Griffin and Morris.

      “So...no definitive cause of death?” Morris asked him.

      “Well, there will be. As of right now...no. We’ll wait for the test results.”

      “But what do you think?” Griffin asked him.

      “What do I think?” Dr. Hatfield turned and looked at Griffin, studying him up and down for