memorize all 30, in alphabetical order, from Age of Victim to Wound Patterns. As I mentally worked my way through the list now, I knew that there were still a lot of unanswered questions.
Silently, I padded around the room, looking for things the police might’ve missed, reconstructing the events of the morning in my mind. From what I could remember when I first found the man on the floor, nothing had been amiss with either the victim’s clothing or his office. The only thing askew was the trash can, and its contents had since been removed by the police. The papers that had been on Wendell’s desk were gone now, too, as were his appointment calendar and the hard drive from his computer. I went through his drawers but found nothing unusual. I flipped through his Rolodex and noted that he did seem to have a lot of medical-type phone listings, from drug supply stores to dialysis centers. I made a note to ask Marion about any chronic medical conditions that he might have had other than his diabetes, knowing these numbers could either be work-related or personal.
Because I needed to see an appointment calendar, I headed back out to Gwen’s office and easily located hers. It was still open on the desk, the notebook-sized pages heavily penciled on, scribbled through, and otherwise edited. Flipping back a few days, I could see that previous entries were much neater. Turning back to today, however, which was a Monday, I saw that this entire week was kind of a mess. Though Wendell had had appointments scheduled every day this week, Gwen had drawn a large “X” on each day after today, and there were notations next to many of the names, like “left message,” “appt. cxed.” and “resched.”Obviously, she had been canceling and rescheduling his appointments for the week. I remembered her saying something earlier on the phone about Wendell going in for surgery. I wondered what the surgery was for, and I made a note to ask Marion about it later.
Reading Gwen’s calendar, I jotted down names and numbers that I thought might be relevant. When I had gleaned all I could from the calendar, I put it back on the desk the way I found it; then I turned and went through Wendell’s office to the private bathroom that was attached. This was where the killer had been when I first arrived, but there was nothing notable about the room now; it was just a nice bathroom. Police had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints in here as well, especially around doorknobs and the sink and faucets.
I looked at the door I had run through earlier, the door to the short hallway that led to the stairs. I retraced my steps now, wishing that this sort of work could be easier, wishing that killers dropped calling cards on their way out. I stepped into the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and looked down the center of six flights of stairs, all the way to the ground floor. Something about that frantic chase down the stairs was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I closed my eyes, trying to recall sights, sounds, smells. Nothing in particular came back to me.
I returned to the hallway and headed back to the bathroom, but as I opened the door and stepped through, I could hear a noise in Wendell’s office. I hesitated just inside the bathroom.
Someone was out there, looking for something. I chanced leaning forward to take a glimpse, and I saw the back of a smartly dressed woman who was digging through the files in Wendell’s desk. I stayed where I was, listening as she finally slammed the drawer and then picked up the telephone.
“I don’t see anything here,” she said into the phone after only a moment’s pause. “It looks like the cops took anything of any importance.”
She was quiet for a moment, listening.
“But they took the hard drive, too.”
I wondered who she was and what she was looking for. Her demeanor was more than simply concerned; she seemed nearly frantic.
“What do you mean, ‘cross that bridge when we
Silently, I padded around the room, looking for things the police might’ve missed, reconstructing the events of the morning in my mind. From what I could remember when I first found the man on the floor, nothing had been amiss with either the victim’s clothing or his office. The only thing askew was the trash can, and its contents had since been removed by the police. The papers that had been on Wendell’s desk were gone now, too, as were his appointment calendar and the hard drive from his computer. I went through his drawers but found nothing unusual. I flipped through his Rolodex and noted that he did seem to have a lot of medical-type phone listings, from drug supply stores to dialysis centers. I made a note to ask Marion about any chronic medical conditions that he might have had other than his diabetes, knowing these numbers could either be work-related or personal.
Because I needed to see an appointment calendar, I headed back out to Gwen’s office and easily located hers. It was still open on the desk, the notebook-sized pages heavily penciled on, scribbled through, and otherwise edited. Flipping back a few days, I could see that previous entries were much neater. Turning back to today, however, which was a Monday, I saw that this entire week was kind of a mess. Though Wendell had had appointments scheduled every day this week, Gwen had drawn a large “X” on each day after today, and there were notations next to many of the names, like “left message,” “appt. cxed.” and “resched.”Obviously, she had been canceling and rescheduling his appointments for the week. I remembered her saying something earlier on the phone about Wendell going in for surgery. I wondered what the surgery was for, and I made a note to ask Marion about it later.
Reading Gwen’s calendar, I jotted down names and numbers that I thought might be relevant. When I had gleaned all I could from the calendar, I put it back on the desk the way I found it; then I turned and went through Wendell’s office to the private bathroom that was attached. This was where the killer had been when I first arrived, but there was nothing notable about the room now; it was just a nice bathroom. Police had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints in here as well, especially around doorknobs and the sink and faucets.
I looked at the door I had run through earlier, the door to the short hallway that led to the stairs. I retraced my steps now, wishing that this sort of work could be easier, wishing that killers dropped calling cards on their way out. I stepped into the stairwell, leaned over the rail, and looked down the center of six flights of stairs, all the way to the ground floor. Something about that frantic chase down the stairs was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I closed my eyes, trying to recall sights, sounds, smells. Nothing in particular came back to me.
I returned to the hallway and headed back to the bathroom, but as I opened the door and stepped through, I could hear a noise in Wendell’s office. I hesitated just inside the bathroom.
Someone was out there, looking for something. I chanced leaning forward to take a glimpse, and I saw the back of a smartly dressed woman who was digging through the files in Wendell’s desk. I stayed where I was, listening as she finally slammed the drawer and then picked up the telephone.
“I don’t see anything here,” she said into the phone after only a moment’s pause. “It looks like the cops took anything of any importance.”
She was quiet for a moment, listening.
“But they took the hard drive, too.”
I wondered who she was and what she was looking for. Her demeanor was more than simply concerned; she seemed nearly frantic.
“What do you mean, ‘cross that bridge when we
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