Leona Fuller rose from her chair. Widmer rushed to help her. To Perry she said, “Please tell them Martin put most of the things that are important in the first third of the book.”
Widmer, holding her arm, saw the relief on Perry’s face. To Leona he said, “He knew this might happen?”
“Of course, my dear,” she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Detective Cooper was glad April had come. People didn’t realize how much outside work a detective had to do. Just writing down license numbers of cars was a pain in glove weather. He didn’t need gloves to write down the numbers of the cars parked outside the Fuller house. Federal types ought to bodyguard the President or whatever else they did and stay off his turf.
He rang the doorbell twice, and engaged in his most common reflex, pushing his belly up with the back of both hands. Detective Cooper had been at least thirty pounds overweight for more than half of his forty-four years. The door was opened for him. He dropped his cigarette on the stone step outside and crushed it with his shoe before stepping into the house. He knew by heart what the surgeon general had said about cigarettes, but continued to smoke two packs a day. At night, in bed, he’d sometimes have conversations with the surgeon general. “If I stop,” he said, “I’ll be sixty pounds overweight.”
Cooper showed his ID to Randall, then asked to see theirs.
Randall produced his.
Cooper said, “I thought you guys were all in Washington. Where’s yours?” He was looking directly at Perry.
“He’s my boss,” Randall said.
“Where’s yours?” Cooper asked Widmer.
“I’m the family lawyer,” Widmer said.
“How come the lawyer gets called before the cops?” Cooper asked.
Cooper had blue eyes and black hair, a combination his wife, Meg, found attractive. She kept telling him he was really a very good-looking guy except for his overweight. Once she gave him a clipping from the paper about some new low carbohydrate-something-or-other diet and he’d said, “My mother was fat, my father was fat, it’s genetic. My mother liked herself so she married a guy who looked like her. If she’d hated herself she’d have married a real skinny like you, Meg, so I’d have had a chance. I married, you, skinny, to give our kids a chance.” His problem insoluble, he concentrated on solving other people’s problems.
“Who’s in the house?” Cooper asked.
“Mrs. Fuller,” Randall said.
“Anybody besides Mrs. Fuller?”
Randall told him about the three overnight guests.
“The deceased work for you guys?” he asked.
“He worked for Columbia University,” Randall said.
“You fellows always show up when a teacher dies?” Cooper asked.
Perry looked at Randall.
Randall shrugged. It’s not my fault this cop is a pain in the ass.
Perry, his voice resonant with senior reason, said, “What we have here, Mr. Cooper, is a tragic accident in which perhaps the most accomplished man in his field, in the middle of important work, had his life cut short. It’s a blow to his wife, of course, but also to the people counting on his finishing the work. However, what happened happened, nothing will reverse it, and the sooner we tidy this up, the better for all concerned.”
“Nice speech,” Cooper said. “What’s this work Fuller was doing?”
“It’s really not relevant to the fact of his accident, is it, Mr. Cooper?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Cooper said. “Or do you? I don’t have to be a doctor to tell you he didn’t die of smoke inhalation. I saw the body in the hospital. He wasn’t singed. Parts of him looked like grilled steak. A guy don’t stay to get third-degree burns unless he can’t help it or unless it gets him all over at once, like in an explosion. I talked to the medical examiner. I ordered an autopsy.”
Cooper went to the door. Beyond the parked cars in the driveway, two policemen in uniform waited. Cooper motioned them to come in, stepped aside so they could
Widmer, holding her arm, saw the relief on Perry’s face. To Leona he said, “He knew this might happen?”
“Of course, my dear,” she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Detective Cooper was glad April had come. People didn’t realize how much outside work a detective had to do. Just writing down license numbers of cars was a pain in glove weather. He didn’t need gloves to write down the numbers of the cars parked outside the Fuller house. Federal types ought to bodyguard the President or whatever else they did and stay off his turf.
He rang the doorbell twice, and engaged in his most common reflex, pushing his belly up with the back of both hands. Detective Cooper had been at least thirty pounds overweight for more than half of his forty-four years. The door was opened for him. He dropped his cigarette on the stone step outside and crushed it with his shoe before stepping into the house. He knew by heart what the surgeon general had said about cigarettes, but continued to smoke two packs a day. At night, in bed, he’d sometimes have conversations with the surgeon general. “If I stop,” he said, “I’ll be sixty pounds overweight.”
Cooper showed his ID to Randall, then asked to see theirs.
Randall produced his.
Cooper said, “I thought you guys were all in Washington. Where’s yours?” He was looking directly at Perry.
“He’s my boss,” Randall said.
“Where’s yours?” Cooper asked Widmer.
“I’m the family lawyer,” Widmer said.
“How come the lawyer gets called before the cops?” Cooper asked.
Cooper had blue eyes and black hair, a combination his wife, Meg, found attractive. She kept telling him he was really a very good-looking guy except for his overweight. Once she gave him a clipping from the paper about some new low carbohydrate-something-or-other diet and he’d said, “My mother was fat, my father was fat, it’s genetic. My mother liked herself so she married a guy who looked like her. If she’d hated herself she’d have married a real skinny like you, Meg, so I’d have had a chance. I married, you, skinny, to give our kids a chance.” His problem insoluble, he concentrated on solving other people’s problems.
“Who’s in the house?” Cooper asked.
“Mrs. Fuller,” Randall said.
“Anybody besides Mrs. Fuller?”
Randall told him about the three overnight guests.
“The deceased work for you guys?” he asked.
“He worked for Columbia University,” Randall said.
“You fellows always show up when a teacher dies?” Cooper asked.
Perry looked at Randall.
Randall shrugged. It’s not my fault this cop is a pain in the ass.
Perry, his voice resonant with senior reason, said, “What we have here, Mr. Cooper, is a tragic accident in which perhaps the most accomplished man in his field, in the middle of important work, had his life cut short. It’s a blow to his wife, of course, but also to the people counting on his finishing the work. However, what happened happened, nothing will reverse it, and the sooner we tidy this up, the better for all concerned.”
“Nice speech,” Cooper said. “What’s this work Fuller was doing?”
“It’s really not relevant to the fact of his accident, is it, Mr. Cooper?”
“We don’t know that yet,” Cooper said. “Or do you? I don’t have to be a doctor to tell you he didn’t die of smoke inhalation. I saw the body in the hospital. He wasn’t singed. Parts of him looked like grilled steak. A guy don’t stay to get third-degree burns unless he can’t help it or unless it gets him all over at once, like in an explosion. I talked to the medical examiner. I ordered an autopsy.”
Cooper went to the door. Beyond the parked cars in the driveway, two policemen in uniform waited. Cooper motioned them to come in, stepped aside so they could
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