The Blackbird Papers by Ian Smith

brother.”
    “Lieutenant Sergio Wiley from the Hanover Police Department,” the short man said, offering a stiff right hand. He was even smaller up close, but his grip was firm. His face was serious, and unlike the other men, who wore big felt Stetson hats, he wore a dark blue Red Sox hat. The visor had been curled in the front the way the college students liked to sport their lids. A heavy black mustache hid his upper lip, and for a minute, Sterling thought it could've been fake. Wiley's compact body showed off a web of knotted muscles, straining the uniform across his chest. Sterling guessed he had been a wrestler in his younger days.
    “Glad to meet you,” Sterling replied. “Just wish it could've been under better circumstances.”
    “We all do,” Wiley replied. “Your brother's a star on this campus, Agent Bledsoe. Never met him myself, but my neighbor's son took one of his courses a few years back and hasn't stopped talking about it since.”
    “Wilson's a good man,” Sterling agreed. He suddenly felt an incredible urge to cry. “There must be some explanation for this.”
    Wiley got down to business. “One of the security officers spotted the car on his rounds earlier this morning. He didn't make much of it at first, because it's not uncommon for the medical students and faculty to leave their cars here over the weekend when they're carpooling out of town.”
    Sterling looked at the red Mercedes. He and Wilson hadn't spoken much over the years, but he vividly remembered their conversation about this car. Wilson had found it in the classifieds and purchased it from a doctor's widow in Windsor, Vermont, some thirty miles away. Poor eyesight had finally forced the old woman to give up her license, so she decided to sell the car. Before she signed the papers, she made Wilson promise that he would be mindful of the car's upkeep, something her husband had placed second only to the care of his patients. The car had only thirty-five thousand original miles on it, and the interior was in mint condition. Wilson would carry on about it for hours if you let him. Sterling glanced at the tires. The rims were shiny and except for a few splotches where mud had dried, the whitewalls looked like they had just been scrubbed. A smile flickered across Sterling's lips, then died. Keeping their cars spotless was one trait the Bledsoe men shared.
    “When did the security officer first notice the car?” Sterling asked. He kept his eyes on the Mercedes.
    “Oh three hundred this morning,” Wiley returned. “There's not much activity back here, so they only make rounds every three hours. They do more patrols on the other parts of the campus where most people come and go.”
    “May I?” Sterling asked, nodding in the direction of the Mercedes.
    “Sure, but don't touch it yet,” Wiley said. “We're still waiting for state to come down and scrub for prints.”
    “Can't someone from your department lift the prints?”
    “We could, but our guy is away this weekend,” Wiley said. It seemed to embarrass him to admit there was only one man on the force who was proficient at dusting for prints. “State guys have more experience anyway.”
    “Understood,” Sterling said. “There's a camera posted on the corner of one of the buildings back there,” he said, kneeling down and examining the rear tires. “Does it work?”
    Wiley and Stangle looked back at Kellogg Auditorium, then at each other. Wiley turned to one of the officers. “What's the surveillance back here?” he barked as if it was his idea.
    “Not much beyond the patrols,” one of the officers responded. He had a buzz cut that made his head look like it was covered in spikes and a stomach that hung so low he probably had to lift it to reach his belt buckle.
    Sterling flipped on his back and examined underneath the car. “Anyone have a flashlight?” he asked. One of the officers placed a long metal light in his open hand. “Now can someone give me a definitive