Silent Witness by Michael Norman

listening to my tape recorded interview with Walter Bradshaw hoping that I missed some small but important detail or subtlety in our conversation. When I reached the part where Bradshaw talked about Ginsberg and Joiner, something he said stopped me cold. I rewound the tape and played it again, and then once more. Maybe I’d found something. It was a small thing and it would take some digging.
    Eventually sheer exhaustion overtook my ability to listen or think. I spent the next two hours dozing on an old leather couch in the corner of my office until the first rays of sunshine touched the wood blinds and woke me.

Chapter Nine
    I found my way into the kitchen intent on fixing a pot of coffee, then banana waffles for Sara and me. Raisin Bran with berries or a banana was Aunt June’s daily fare, and, unless we were all going out for breakfast, she seldom varied it.
    I decided not to say anything to Sara about the child custody issue until I had more information. That meant finding an attorney to represent us in Atlanta, no small feat in itself, and talking to my ex, Nicole. At the moment, I was angry at Nicole and wasn’t sure whether I could have a civil conversation with her. I guess I felt that she should have given me a heads-up about what she planned to do. But maybe she had, and I’d just missed the signals.
    Anger aside, I had to admit that Nicole was only doing what she believed was in Sara’s best interest. Yet I couldn’t reconcile how Nicole had arrived at the conclusion that moving Sara across the country, away from all her friends and everything familiar to her, was preferable to a stable home with a full-time dad and the loving presence of Aunt June. It just didn’t make sense. Unless Nicole planned to hire a live-in nanny, Sara would have to be shuffled to the home of her grandparents every time Nicole flew. And because of her seniority with the airline and her desire to visit far off places, Nicole frequently traveled abroad.
    After breakfast and a quick review of the words on her spelling test scheduled for later in the day, I dropped Sara at school and headed to my office at the state prison.
    ***
    I made it into the office before Terry Burnham arrived. I had devised a get-even scheme for the assortment of auto air fresheners Burnham had planted in my office prior to Ginsberg’s autopsy. He was late, and this gave me the perfect opportunity to implement my plan.
    I grabbed the master key that would unlock his desk and a bottle of glue. At the risk of ending up charged with the destruction of state property, I resisted the temptation to use Super Glue and stuck to the ordinary kind. With the deft touch of Van Gogh, who was only slightly crazier than I am, I slapped a coat of the stuff along the lip of the middle drawer of Burnham’s desk. I did the same to each of his side drawers.
    Patti, my secretary, and Marcy Everest, one of my investigators, hardly glanced in my direction as they hovered over the office coffee maker like a pair of addicts waiting in line at the local crack house. Finally, Marcy looked over and said, “What the hell kind of mischief are you up to now?”
    I smiled. “Wait and see.”
    When I finished, I relocked his desk and hustled back to my office to await his arrival and the show that would surely follow.
    A few minutes later, Burnham rolled in looking haggard and thoroughly hung over. He avoided eye contact with everyone and barely grumbled a hello at Marcy who had spoken to him. Keys in hand, he plopped down at his desk, and unlocked it. He gave the middle drawer a tug—nothing happened. He pulled again, still nothing.
    In a half whisper, he muttered, “What the fuck?” Then he gave the drawer a major pull and still nothing happened. The laughter around him started with a soft chuckle and quickly built to a crescendo.
    â€œOkay, I get it. Who fucked with my desk?”
    At that moment, I walked past him on my way out of the