Fletch and the Man Who by Gregory McDonald Page B

to sleep. A middle-aged couple, nicely dressed, was standing over the girl. The man was just taking off his overcoat to cover the body. I asked him not to do that. I wanted to examine her.”
    “Was she still alive at that point?”
    “No. I would say death was nearly instantaneous the moment she hit the pavement.”
    “Not before?”
    “I don’t think so. My guess is that she landed on the back of her head, breaking her neck, then crashed on her back.”
    “What evidence did you see that the girl had been beaten before she fell or was pushed?”
    “Her face was badly bruised. Banged eye—her left, I think—blood from her nose, blood from lips, two broken front teeth, two or three badly fractured ribs on her left side. Compound fractures, I mean.”
    “The coroner announced this morning she had not been raped.”
    “So what motive? Robbery? Who’d want to steal her clothes? Certainly a beaten, naked female suggests rape.”
    “Would you say she was a good-looking woman?”
    Again Dr. Thom studied the ceiling. “Not beautified, in any way. Not much makeup, if any. A slim build, well-proportioned body, good muscle tone. A plain woman, I’d say.”
    “While you were examining the girl, a crowd collected?”
    “A small crowd. Mostly the press.”
    “Do you remember who was in the crowd?”
    “I did glance through the crowd, to make sure no small children were there. That Arbuthnot woman was there. Now, there’s a handsome woman. Fenella Baker had followed me out from the bar. I will not comment on her beauty, or lack thereof. One or two others, I’m not sure who. A truck driver from the bar was the only one who really tried to be helpful.”
    “I understand you had seen the Shields woman before.”
    “Yes. I had noticed her the last few days—in the hotel elevators, lobbies.”
    “Why did you notice her?”
    “I noticed her because she was one place one day and the next place the next day. She didn’t appear to have anything to do with the campaign. Although I did see her breakfasting with Betsy Ginsberg one morning.”
    “Did you ever see her with any men?”
    “Not that I remember. I think she drove herself in a little two-door Volkswagen.”
    “Why do you think a woman like that would traipse after a political campaign the way she did?”
    “It’s a candidate’s job to be attractive, isn’t it? That’s why they wear those glue-on tans. Power attracts. They attract all sorts of creatures. Even you and me.”
    The engine of the bus roared. Immediately the bus began to move.
    “Hey!” Fletch stood up. “I’m supposed to be on the other bus.”
    With his finger holding his reading place, Dr. Thom closed his book. “Guess I should let the patient use the bed.” He sat up on the bunk, swinging his legs over the side.
    Fletch was rubbing the steam off the window.
    Taking off his red-and-black checked hunting jacket, Governor Wheeler opened the stateroom door.
    “How do,” he said to the two men using his stateroom.
    “How many cups of coffee did you have, Caxton?” Dr. Thom asked.
    “Just two. But they were black.” The candidate smiled as if he had gotten away with something.
    “Don’t blame me if you jitter.”
    “What am I supposed to do, ask for skim milk everywhere I go? Caffeine’s important to these guys.”
    In the door behind the governor, Walsh said, “Vic Robbins drove himself off a bridge this morning in Pennsylvania. Dead.”
    “Yeah?” The governor was putting his hunting jacket on a hanger, and the hanger back in the closet. “He was a real weasel. Have I made a statement?”
    “Yup.”
    “Sent a wreath?”
    “Will as soon as we know where to send it. You’d better hit somethingbig and hard in Winslow, or you’ll get zilch on the nightly news. The accident will make good, easy television film.”
    “Yeah. Like what?”
    “Phil and Paul are trying to come up with something.”
    “What have they got so far?”
    “Pentagon spending.”
    “Hell, anything