into things like that forty years later.”
“I understand. But there are people with names that might still be living.”
“Possibly.” He looked at his watch, and I was afraid he would tell me he had other things to do. “Why don’t we go out to lunch and talk?”
“Thank you, I have a sandwich in the car.”
“Leave it for supper. C’mon.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
“I guess I could.”
“Sure you can.” He started walking, pausing at an occupied desk to say something quick.
When we were out on the street we walked two blocks to a small restaurant and went inside. The waitress knew him and teased him about not having been around for a while.
I read the menu. When the waitress came for our order, I said, “Tuna fish on rye, please, with lettuce and tomato.”
Sergeant Brooks stopped her from writing and turned to me. “That’s what you’ve got in your car for supper. Live it up a little.”
I’m sure I blushed. He was exactly right about what I had in my car. “Eggplant parmigiana,” I mumbled, and sipped a glass of ice water. “And a glass of iced coffee,” I added before she took the sergeant’s order.
Frankly, I was about as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life. I was sitting at a table with a man I found attractive in a very nice way. He had a ready smile, an easy manner, curly hair that I expected defied both brush and comb and looked as if it rarely saw either, rather pale eyes that didn’t avoid mine but invited confidence. He had been kind to me. He had helped me in ways I could not have helped myself.
And in all of my thirty years I had never found myself in—don’t laugh—so intimate a situation. I was close enough to touch him, I who did not touch men. But I think I realized then for the first time in my life that when a man and a woman are near each other, the idea of touching arises quite naturally. It didn’t do much to calm me.
When the waitress had left, he felt in a couple of pockets and then pulled out a much-folded piece of paper—it turned out to be several sheets—and started to unfold it. He had written on many of the folded surfaces so that as he talked, he had to turn it this way and that to retrieve information. It seemed to me a disorganized and inefficient method of taking notes, but to my surprise, he found what he was looking for very quickly. So much for organization.
“I’ve been through the highlights of the Talley file,” he said. “It’s pretty clear the guys working on the case were sure who did it the minute they walked in that apartment. And there’s a lot of reason to think they were right. But as I said at the precinct, it’s possible they were wrong. If they were, I have to tell you it’s an almost impossible task to prove anything at this point.”
“But we can explore some possibilities,” I said.
“We can explore anything.”
“We talked about the gas man. That’s one of the possibilities, isn’t it?”
“It always is. A guy gets in the building for some legitimate reason—he reads a meter or delivers a package—and then looks around for an apartment to burglarize. He could’ve gone up to the fifth floor, rung the doorbell, gotten in, and killed her. But there’s a lot wrong with that.”
“Tell me.”
“First of all, he killed her with her bread knife. Guys don’t carry bread knives, and the one that was used was identified by the girl who worked for her.” He looked at his notes.
“Magda,” I said.
“Right. Wandowska. And suppose the gas man did it. Why didn’t he steal anything?”
“You mean nothing was missing or disturbed?”
“Disturbed, yes, but by the twins. Missing, probably not. There was jewelry in her dresser, some good stuff, a diamond ring. And there’s something else. A guy like that doesn’t stop with one. Sooner or later he’s caught and they match his fingerprints with others where the MO is the same.”
“But they were sure they had a killer here.”
“True, but
“I understand. But there are people with names that might still be living.”
“Possibly.” He looked at his watch, and I was afraid he would tell me he had other things to do. “Why don’t we go out to lunch and talk?”
“Thank you, I have a sandwich in the car.”
“Leave it for supper. C’mon.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
“I guess I could.”
“Sure you can.” He started walking, pausing at an occupied desk to say something quick.
When we were out on the street we walked two blocks to a small restaurant and went inside. The waitress knew him and teased him about not having been around for a while.
I read the menu. When the waitress came for our order, I said, “Tuna fish on rye, please, with lettuce and tomato.”
Sergeant Brooks stopped her from writing and turned to me. “That’s what you’ve got in your car for supper. Live it up a little.”
I’m sure I blushed. He was exactly right about what I had in my car. “Eggplant parmigiana,” I mumbled, and sipped a glass of ice water. “And a glass of iced coffee,” I added before she took the sergeant’s order.
Frankly, I was about as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life. I was sitting at a table with a man I found attractive in a very nice way. He had a ready smile, an easy manner, curly hair that I expected defied both brush and comb and looked as if it rarely saw either, rather pale eyes that didn’t avoid mine but invited confidence. He had been kind to me. He had helped me in ways I could not have helped myself.
And in all of my thirty years I had never found myself in—don’t laugh—so intimate a situation. I was close enough to touch him, I who did not touch men. But I think I realized then for the first time in my life that when a man and a woman are near each other, the idea of touching arises quite naturally. It didn’t do much to calm me.
When the waitress had left, he felt in a couple of pockets and then pulled out a much-folded piece of paper—it turned out to be several sheets—and started to unfold it. He had written on many of the folded surfaces so that as he talked, he had to turn it this way and that to retrieve information. It seemed to me a disorganized and inefficient method of taking notes, but to my surprise, he found what he was looking for very quickly. So much for organization.
“I’ve been through the highlights of the Talley file,” he said. “It’s pretty clear the guys working on the case were sure who did it the minute they walked in that apartment. And there’s a lot of reason to think they were right. But as I said at the precinct, it’s possible they were wrong. If they were, I have to tell you it’s an almost impossible task to prove anything at this point.”
“But we can explore some possibilities,” I said.
“We can explore anything.”
“We talked about the gas man. That’s one of the possibilities, isn’t it?”
“It always is. A guy gets in the building for some legitimate reason—he reads a meter or delivers a package—and then looks around for an apartment to burglarize. He could’ve gone up to the fifth floor, rung the doorbell, gotten in, and killed her. But there’s a lot wrong with that.”
“Tell me.”
“First of all, he killed her with her bread knife. Guys don’t carry bread knives, and the one that was used was identified by the girl who worked for her.” He looked at his notes.
“Magda,” I said.
“Right. Wandowska. And suppose the gas man did it. Why didn’t he steal anything?”
“You mean nothing was missing or disturbed?”
“Disturbed, yes, but by the twins. Missing, probably not. There was jewelry in her dresser, some good stuff, a diamond ring. And there’s something else. A guy like that doesn’t stop with one. Sooner or later he’s caught and they match his fingerprints with others where the MO is the same.”
“But they were sure they had a killer here.”
“True, but
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