The Case of the Murdered MacKenzie: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Seven) Read Online Free PDF Page B

that?”
    â€œI figured she was desperate,” Beckman said. “Just pulled something from out of the hat.”
    â€œIt would be a lunatic kind of desperation, and she’s no lunatic. The reality is always there, but we refuse to look at it. Or we look at it and refuse to see it. If she insists that the dead man is not her husband and everyone else insists that he is, then we must look at the reality as she does. By the way, from the way the press reacted today, I would suppose that you’ve kept that business quiet.”
    â€œAbout the corpse not being Mackenzie?”
    Masuto nodded.
    â€œShe kept it quiet after her first statement.”
    â€œAh, so,” Masuto said softly. “We come to the first bit of sanity in an otherwise senseless picture. If she were under the illusion that she would have a real trial, then it would be very smart indeed to keep that bit of information quiet. Then Cassell puts her on the stand and she proves that the dead man is not Mackenzie. Thus, no motive. Thus, she is on trial for killing a man who may not be dead. Thus, down the drain with the case. But neither she nor Cassell could have anticipated a real trial. After all, Cassell is a smart lawyer.”
    â€œAnd how was she going to prove that Mackenzie was not Mackenzie?” Beckman was smiling.
    â€œYou couldn’t get his fingerprints,” Masuto said.
    â€œExactly. Fenwick builds missile components and the plumbing for atomic bombs. All that top secret crap. I asked for a comparison with the dead man’s prints, and they said to send them a set of his prints. I asked for a Xerox of the prints card from their records, and they said they don’t do things that way, but to send them a set of prints and they’d make the comparison.”
    â€œYou did it, and they said it was Mackenzie.”
    â€œMasao, I’m a damn fool, and maybe I’d give every cent I got to spend a weekend with Eve Mackenzie, but that’s not why when she says it’s not her husband I believe her. You said before that we should look at the reality as she does. What do you mean by that?”
    â€œEveryone else who looked at the corpse said it was Mackenzie. But when Eve Mackenzie looked at the body she saw something that was meaningless to the others. She saw a naked man. None of the others had ever seen Mackenzie naked—”
    â€œScott?”
    â€œBelieve me, whatever goes on there, Scott is in on it. Her testimony is tainted. But the others identified a man clothed. Only Eve knew the naked Mackenzie, and she saw something, perhaps a birthmark, that made her certain. Was there a birthmark?”
    â€œI just don’t know. I wasn’t looking for one. But if it wasn’t Mackenzie—”
    â€œIt was someone who looked enough like him to be his twin brother. And that’s precisely what we have, a corpse that is Mackenzie’s twin brother.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense either,” Beckman said. “But at this point, maybe none of it does.” He looked at his watch. “Time’s up. You coming back to court with me?”
    â€œNo. I think I’ll talk to Doc Baxter.”
    â€œThe pleasure is all yours,” Beckman said.

It took Masuto about twenty minutes to drive from Santa Monica to All Saints Hospital. The pathology room was in the basement, where the odor of formaldehyde substituted for air and where two grinning, bearded young men assisted Dr. Baxter. Baxter himself, short, waspish, astringent, always worked up his general state of unpleasantness at the sight of a policeman. He considered it an act of ungenerous fate that chose All Saints as the Beverly Hills replacement for a real morgue and himself as a part-time medical examiner; and now he regarded Masuto sourly.
    â€œI heard you had gone off to the home of your ancestors. What brings you back?”
    Masuto resisted the impulse to say that it was an ill wind or Pan Am.