"Gilbert, Derek P - Piece Of Cod" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilbert Derek P)

= Piece of Cod
by Derek P. Gilbert


You don't normally find human heads inside cod. But they had at Morgan's Fish Wholesalers, in the gut of a four-footer they were cutting up for market.

Portchester Police Chief Paul Mansbridge scowled as he looked at the fish, lying on its side with its head removed and belly slit. The smell in the warehouse hit his Midwestern nose like a fist.

I know how you feel, pal, Mansbridge thought, looking into the cod's dead, staring eyes.

Turning his attention to the warehouse manager, he asked, "Who sold you this one?"

"Hard to say. Could be one of three or four brought in their catch from the weekend." Joe Mayne was a small, thin man with a pinched face, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a Budweiser cap. He looked uncomfortable, but Mansbridge couldn't decide if it was because of the human head on the table between them, the chill in the building, or perhaps because the chief wasn't a local.

"I need names and phone numbers, any other contact information you've got." Mayne nodded and quickly walked out of the warehouse.

Mansbridge turned to the county coroner, Al Schumacher. "What do you think?"

Schumacher, a heavy, balding man whose shoulders were stooped from too many years of leaning over his work, squinted through thick, square-framed glasses as he studied the head.

"This," he said slowly, "is the piece of cod, which passeth all understanding."

Mansbridge allowed himself half a grin. "I don't think that's how the letter read when it got to Philippi."

"Ah! A man who knows his epistles," Schumacher said, straightening up. "Well, you know, generations of nearsighted monks, copying dusty texts over and over in dimly-lit monasteries; one monk gets a letter wrong, and there you are."

"Hmph." Closing his notepad, Mansbridge said, "Well, besides finding out who he is, the obvious question is how the poor bastard's head came off."

Schumacher nodded. "I suppose we can rule out the first recorded cod attack in history." Noticing the chief's raised eyebrow, he pointed at the fish's head. "Not with those teeth."

"Ah." And once again, the chief was reminded of just how far he was from Terre Haute, Indiana.

* * *

Entrusting his grisly charge to Schumacher, Mansbridge left the warehouse and stepped into brilliant sunshine. Taking a deep breath, he was thankful for an inland breeze that flushed the smell of fish from his sinuses.

He glanced at his watch and noted with satisfaction that he'd be back at the station before the school bus dropped off his ten-year-old daughter, Julie. She'd be okay until he got there--officer Mike Lonski was on duty--but it was a matter of pride to be there on time every day.

His ex-wife made it clear toward the end of their ten-year marriage that she didn't think much of him as a husband. Angela complained long and loud every time work kept him away from home. Of course, Mansbridge thought, when I was home, she always had somewhere else that she needed to be.

It was a bright Monday afternoon, the sunlight and warmth a sharp contrast to the chief's darkening mood. The move to Portchester the year before was supposed to have helped his marriage. Angela had had enough of the Midwest, so Mansbridge thought landing the job as chief of Portchester's two-man police force a godsend. Portchester was only seven miles from her home town of Cold Harbor, where most of her family still lived.

By coincidence, Cold Harbor was also home to Angela's high school boyfriend, with whom she now shared an address.

Mansbridge laughed bitterly to himself. Coincidence? He knew his ex-wife better than that. He did the shopping, washed the clothes, fixed the meals, set the rules, and helped with the homework. She got to be the "fun" parent three weekends a month. And thanks to the family court judge, he couldn't go home to Indiana without Angela's permission-- unless he left Julie behind.

Mansbridge shook his head, took a deep breath, and tried to drag himself out of the quicksand of self-pity. He'd won primary physical custody, at least; there were thousands of divorced fathers who'd trade places with him in a heartbeat.

* * *