Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

Community Effort by Wade Mosby

Steiner was dead, and there were some people who thought this was as it should be. The eulogy was understandably short.

Nobody, but nobody, worked harder at being an arrogant boor than Philip Steiner III (“call me Phil”), who rode around town in a ragtop Jag (nobody could remember seeing the top up), his stringy hair flapping in the wind and his hi-fi stereo at max volume.

Steiner had a regular box at the baseball park, was overbearingly egocentric at cocktail parties and attended all of the county Republican meetings, although he was never invited. Thanks to an industrious father, he had more money than he could spend. But even so, he refused to contribute to the Community Fund on grounds that the poor didn’t know how to handle money.

The truth was that Steiner could have funded all of the city’s charities for a year if he had just offered his backside as a target in a kicking contest, at about a dollar a kick.

Steiner occasionally sensed that people disliked him, but, being unfamiliar with human insights, he paid no attention to his own. Steiner was handsome, in his own way. His regular features, too early criss-crossed with lines etched by alcohol and varnished by sun and wind, gave him a devilish mask that appealed to some women.

His wife, Carrie, had long since ceased to care. Steiner did as he pleased, and it pleased him to see how many young women in the Community he could defoliate. Carrie’s only feeling toward him was dull hatred. She wanted to end the marriage, but her attorney — who was on Steiner’s payroll — advised against it.

Thus there was shock, but no deep feeling of community loss, when Steiner and his Jag were found at the bottom of a steep embankment early one morning. Both were quite beyond repair.

Deputy Gerald Huber reported to his office that he had come upon the wreckage, one headlight still shining crazily into the leaves above it and the radio still blaring rock ‘n’ roll music on an all-night FM station.

The coroner, Cassius Skates, was awakened by the phone, and after listening to a briefed-down version of Huber’s report, quickly dressed, checked his medical bag and drove to the scene.

Huber was still there, and waved Skates to the shoulder behind his squad car.

“Sorry to get you out, Cass. It’s Phil Steiner. I think he’s dead.”

Skates was a general practitioner who didn’t particularly relish being coroner, especially in cases like this one, but he resolutely picked his way down the rocky hillside. No point in breaking an ankle.

He could hardly recognize Steiner’s gaunt features through the multiple lacerations. The music distracted him, and he switched off the radio and the ignition. Huber should have done that. He examined Steiner’s eyes with his flashlight, and put his fingers to his neck. There was a faint pulse. Skates hesitated for a moment, then scurried back up the hill for his medical kit.

“Dead, ain’t he, Doc?” Huber asked.

“I’m not sure,” Skates replied. “Stay here, Jerry, and keep the other zanies from coming down on my head.”

Doc got back to Steiner, fussed over him for a few minutes, then slowly closed his bag and climbed back up the hill.

“He’s dead,” he said to Huber.

An ambulance pulled up.

“No sweat,” Huber said to the driver. “Guy’s dead. Phil Steiner. Don’t know what we’ll do for rock ‘n’ roll music around here, now.”

The attendants laughed.

“Take him to the morgue,” Doc said. “I’ll want another look in the morning. But it’s fairly obvious what happened. I’m not going to suggest an inquest.”

“Should I tell his wife, Cass?” Huber asked.

“No need. I’ll tell her. She’s one of my patients.”

Cass skates mulled over what he had seen as he drove home. Steiner undoubtedly was boozed up, but he often was and still was able to drive. Fast. If he had mixed booze with drugs, for instance one of the benzodiazepines, he would have been in a stupor.

Steiner wasn’t a junkie, but tranquilizers were easy enough to get. Must be a bushel of ’em prescribed every year in the county.

Carrie answered her telephone on the second ring.

“This is Cass Skates, Carrie. I’m afraid I have some bad news. About Philip. He had an accident in his car and, yes... he’s gone. Nothing could be done for him... Are you OK?... Well, don’t hesitate to call. Good night.”

He wondered if she had any tranquilizers from her last prescription. Probably wouldn’t need any more, with that son of a bitch out of her life.

The funeral of Philip Steiner III Was not one of the major social events of the season. Carrie, his parents, a handful of other relatives and Cassius Skates were there. Deputy Huber, who had been assigned to escort the procession to the cemetery, was in a back pew.

The eulogy was short, even though Father Gilligan had spent the last two days trying to think of nice things to say about the departed soul (whose contributions to the church made the widow’s mite look lavish). But what with music and passages from the Scriptures, it was a respectable sendoff...

“ ‘He leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul...’ ”

Carrie Steiner, somehow managing to look chic in a dark suit and veil, kept her head bowed... It’s odd, she told herself, but I feel no remorse. I feel nothing. Maybe relief, that’s what I feel. Like I’ve been led beside still waters.

I tried to understand Phil and his drinking. And his women. I even tried after he struck me with his fist the first time. He was drunk. But he usually was, when he was with me. And then he’d get in that car and go tomcatting. He thought he had it made when I started making his drinks for him. He became accustomed to it. He didn’t notice when I started adding a new ingredient. I wonder if Doc Skates really knows how much his pills helped me?

Am I a murderer? Murderess?... I don’t even care. Maybe I should get a medal. I’m not going to worry about it...

Father Gilligan was still reading from the Bible...

“ ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...” ’

In his rear pew, deputy Huber thought it was ironic that the priest would mention valleys. That was some valley Steiner rode into. Bastard never would walk any place. He was out so cold in that Jaguar when I found him that I couldn’t slap him awake. Maybe. I should have hauled him off to the jail... But, no... he would have gotten off... Steiner money... Sonbitch didn’t even care that he got my daughter in trouble, didn’t know of the agony she went through after her visit to that quack abortionist he sent her to... No, I did the right thing. Just pushed good old Phil and his Jag over the edge into the “valley of the shadow of death.” That makes me a murderer, I guess. Hell, I should get a medal...

Cass Skates and his wife sat directly behind the family.

“ ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...’ ”

Lord help us all, thought Doc Skates. Poor Carrie, sitting there full of guilt, thinks her tranquilizers did him in. Sure had a load of ’em in his stomach. But she just put the poor boob to sleep.

And Huber, back there, thinks he finished the job. Should have been more careful about his car tracks, but by the time the ambulance guys finished, no one was to know. Except me.

Can’t say I can fault him for what he tried to do. I’ll never forget what a mess that abortionist made of his kid’s insides. And I saw others who had fallen for Steiner’s money and his damned car.

Tough buzzard, though. Cut all to hell in that valley and still alive when I got there. Probably could have pulled his through, although he was close to the edge. I thought I had messed it up when I had to go back for my bag... One extra little cut with a scalpel was all it took... Well, doctors hold lives in their hands every day. Maybe I can be excused for dropping one...

“ ‘...and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ”