Carl told her with an angry jerk of his head toward where the body lay in the decaying mansion. “That's who the ReverendBob Wing is trying to save from the electric chair. So do you get it now?”
The expression on her face told him she got it now.
“When's Orbach scheduled to die?” she asked him.
“Not soon enough.”
When they walked back up to the house together, they discovered that the body had already been removed and that apparently the killer had covered his shoes in plastic to keep from leaving prints. That spelled premeditation to Carl. It suggested that a killer so careful would also cover his hands, taking pains to leave as clean a trail as possible. But one axiom of crime-scene investigation, as even young Martina Levin knew, was that every criminal leaves something of himself behind, even if it's only fibers or hair.
Carl learned they had not found a wedding ring to match the gold and diamond engagement ring and so it was assumed the killer had taken it. Later, when the cops found the victim's rings at home in her jewelry box, the notched ring was determined not to be hers. Neither would it be tied to the female defendant. Once the case was closed, the rings were forgotten. They were just one of the several unsolved puzzles that crop up in any homicide. “You don't have to find every little piece,” cops will tell you, “if you can see the big picture without them.”
Susanna
4
I wonder: Did I put in too much about the Tobias murder? I think I had good reason—it shows why the Bahia cops hate Bob Wing so much and it sets up the irony of the fact that he landed on death row right next to the very man he'd been lobbying to liberate. But I've got so much about it you'd almost think I should have written about that murder instead of Susanna's.
Well, too late now.
As if my telephone hasn't already tortured me enough with its demand for an audience with Tony Delano and its complaints from Bob Wing's supporters, it rings. Damn, and there's somebody I really do want to call. I feel weak-kneed just thinking about making that call, about seeing him again. Well, he'll just have to wait a little longer. For the first time in three weeks, I pick up a receiver, instead of letting the call shunt to the automatic answering mechanism.
“Marie?” A familiar bass voice inquires.
“Hi, George,” I say, with some foreboding. It's George Pullen, up at the guardhouse at the front gate of the housing complex where I live in luxurious paranoia.
“You taking calls now?” he asks. “You surprised me, picking up like this. I expected to hear the recording. Well, say, you'vegot a couple of visitors who aren't on your list, and I'm calling to see should I send them on up to you?”
Just what I feared, visitors. There's no other reason he would be calling, except to announce the delivery of some package or other. Visitors. Damn. Just what I want in my disheveled condition—drop-ins.
“Who is it, George?”
When he tells me their names, I am slightly amazed at the coincidence of this event. “Send them up,” I tell him, feeling resigned. “How's your asthma?”
“Not so good, thank you for asking. I'm trying not to use my inhaler so much, though. Afraid of the long-term effects.”
“What are they?”
“Nobody knows.” He chuckles. “That's what scares me.”
“I see your point. There's nothing so dangerous as unintended consequences, is there? In the short-term, though, a man's got to breathe.”
“That he do. How 'bout you? Finish that book?”
I hate that question until a book is done. “I did, indeed, thank you. Not an hour ago. That's why the Federal Express truck was here.”
“Congratulations! Did you put me in your book?”
“Not this time. I'm sorry, George. But listen, if you'd just kill a few people in an interesting way, I'd write a whole book about you. Can't you do that for me, huh?”
“I can think of a few people I wouldn't mind—”
I laugh. “Yeah, can't we
The expression on her face told him she got it now.
“When's Orbach scheduled to die?” she asked him.
“Not soon enough.”
When they walked back up to the house together, they discovered that the body had already been removed and that apparently the killer had covered his shoes in plastic to keep from leaving prints. That spelled premeditation to Carl. It suggested that a killer so careful would also cover his hands, taking pains to leave as clean a trail as possible. But one axiom of crime-scene investigation, as even young Martina Levin knew, was that every criminal leaves something of himself behind, even if it's only fibers or hair.
Carl learned they had not found a wedding ring to match the gold and diamond engagement ring and so it was assumed the killer had taken it. Later, when the cops found the victim's rings at home in her jewelry box, the notched ring was determined not to be hers. Neither would it be tied to the female defendant. Once the case was closed, the rings were forgotten. They were just one of the several unsolved puzzles that crop up in any homicide. “You don't have to find every little piece,” cops will tell you, “if you can see the big picture without them.”
Susanna
4
I wonder: Did I put in too much about the Tobias murder? I think I had good reason—it shows why the Bahia cops hate Bob Wing so much and it sets up the irony of the fact that he landed on death row right next to the very man he'd been lobbying to liberate. But I've got so much about it you'd almost think I should have written about that murder instead of Susanna's.
Well, too late now.
As if my telephone hasn't already tortured me enough with its demand for an audience with Tony Delano and its complaints from Bob Wing's supporters, it rings. Damn, and there's somebody I really do want to call. I feel weak-kneed just thinking about making that call, about seeing him again. Well, he'll just have to wait a little longer. For the first time in three weeks, I pick up a receiver, instead of letting the call shunt to the automatic answering mechanism.
“Marie?” A familiar bass voice inquires.
“Hi, George,” I say, with some foreboding. It's George Pullen, up at the guardhouse at the front gate of the housing complex where I live in luxurious paranoia.
“You taking calls now?” he asks. “You surprised me, picking up like this. I expected to hear the recording. Well, say, you'vegot a couple of visitors who aren't on your list, and I'm calling to see should I send them on up to you?”
Just what I feared, visitors. There's no other reason he would be calling, except to announce the delivery of some package or other. Visitors. Damn. Just what I want in my disheveled condition—drop-ins.
“Who is it, George?”
When he tells me their names, I am slightly amazed at the coincidence of this event. “Send them up,” I tell him, feeling resigned. “How's your asthma?”
“Not so good, thank you for asking. I'm trying not to use my inhaler so much, though. Afraid of the long-term effects.”
“What are they?”
“Nobody knows.” He chuckles. “That's what scares me.”
“I see your point. There's nothing so dangerous as unintended consequences, is there? In the short-term, though, a man's got to breathe.”
“That he do. How 'bout you? Finish that book?”
I hate that question until a book is done. “I did, indeed, thank you. Not an hour ago. That's why the Federal Express truck was here.”
“Congratulations! Did you put me in your book?”
“Not this time. I'm sorry, George. But listen, if you'd just kill a few people in an interesting way, I'd write a whole book about you. Can't you do that for me, huh?”
“I can think of a few people I wouldn't mind—”
I laugh. “Yeah, can't we
Similar Books
