Rush to Judgment

                                                                                     

Harper's Weekly: How we got gold in California. 1860. Public domain.

I wasn’t particularly fazed by the old prospector’s remark.  He wasn’t the first person to call me a thief.  As I had done so many times before, I simply explained that a thief takes your money without your knowledge or permission, and I was guilty of no such thing. Besides, Sam Brannan’s store at Sutter’s Fort was selling supplies at seven times the normal cost; mine were only triple.

Grumbling, he shoved a callused hand into his pocket, then fished out a double eagle, which he plunked down on the counter.  He was maybe sixty, with a bushy white beard, deep blue eyes and brown, crinkled skin.  He wore old black brogans, a pair of blue overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat.  His son, a monstrous cretin about twenty years younger and a foot taller, stood beside him, scowling at me.  

I handed the old man his change.  “Thank you for your purchase at Sharp’s Hardware and General Store,” I chimed cheerily, not without the slightest touch of sarcasm.

“Twelve dollars,” the old man muttered as he shuffled out the door, followed by Goliath, who was holding the shiny new shovel.  

I looked at my watch.  Half past one.  I hadn’t eaten all day.  When business was good, which was usually the case, I often forgot to eat.  But I was awfully hungry.  “Isaac,” I called to my stock boy.  

I met Isaac nearly two years ago, while unloading a case of hammers, picks and shovels that had just arrived by steamship from San Francisco. A week after losing both his parents and an older sister to cholera, Isaac chanced to wander into my store, and asked me if I needed any help. I studied this 11-year old urchin, who was wearing a pair of old gray trousers, suspenders, a dirty yellow shirt and oversized brown shoes.  Feeling optimistic and altruistic at the same time, I told him, “Sure, son.”

     He came out of the back room, wearing a dusty white apron and holding a broom in both hands.  

     

       “Yes, Mr. Sharp?”

“I’m going to get some lunch.  Keep an eye on the place.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stepped outside into a warm, sunny late September afternoon, a soft easterly breeze at my back as I walked down J Street to Second. Clara’s Kitchen, operated by Clara Brandish, sat across from the Union Hotel.  The place wasn’t fancy, a simple wooden building that looked too small from the outside.  But inside was a clean, comfortable room with eight round wooden tables and a small counter, above which was mounted the head of a 12-point buck.  A back room served as the kitchen. Clara made the best soups, stews and roasts in town, in my humble opinion, an opinion shared by numerous others.  Passers-by were also drawn inside by the aroma of black bread baking, or pastries fresh out of the oven.

The first sight that greeted patrons of Clara’s Kitchen was not an especially welcoming one.  Miguel, a large, muscular Mexican with a pock-marked face and rotten teeth, sat stretched out in a chair in the corner, lackadaisically whittling a pine branch with a Bowie knife.  Miguel was an ex-vaquero once employed at the ranch of Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, the fabulously-wealthy Californio who lost everything after the Mexican War.  Clara paid Miguel twenty dollars a week to ensure that there was no trouble in her establishment, and there never was.  Being that they were three women in a town full of rowdy, drunken and licentious men, Clara and her two cooks apparently took some comfort in Miguel’s intimidating appearance.  He made me think of a eunuch in a harem, but of course I never told him that.

I bought a bowl of potato chowder, two corn muffins, a slice of apple pie, and a pot of black coffee.  I sat near the counter, next to a pair of Indian men who were probably laborers.  Clara was talking to a gentleman seated at a table near the door. Clara was a tall, well-proportioned woman of about thirty, with long, dirty blonde hair and wild green eyes.  

     

     Clara’s gentleman friend wore a light blue pinstripe suit with a red pocket handkerchief, and a matching tie with a silver stickpin.  A black derby completed him.  I recognized the fellow.  He was Absalom McCrae, former partner of Clara’s husband, Bradford.  Absalom and Bradford came to Sacramento in fifty-one, after traveling for three months with a wagon train from Independence, Missouri.  But most of the surface gold had been harvested by then, and the pair soon discovered that they had neither the patience nor the endurance that serious mining required.  Subsequently, they dissolved their partnership.  Bradford set out for San Francisco in March of ‘fifty-two, leaving his new bride, and no one had seen or heard from him since.  Clara didn’t seem to particularly care, since she was doing just fine on her own.  Absalom stayed in town, mostly drinking and gambling.  

Just as I was sipping the last of my coffee, the door opened, and a lanky man about Clara’s age entered, with a bag of letters slung over his shoulder.  I had seen him before delivering the mail which came twice a month by steamship at the Embarcadero.  He dropped an envelope onto the table, nodded briefly to Clara, turned around, and in a second was out the door.  Picking up the piece of mail, Clara walked back to the kitchen.  Tearing open the envelope, she pulled out the letter with one hand and read.  Her expression suggested ill tidings.  Folding the single sheet of paper, she stuck it back into the envelope, which she stuffed into her shirt.  Susan, one of Clara’s cooks, watched intently.  

“Are you all right, Clara?” she asked.

“Yeah, I- I’m all right,” Clara stammered.  “It’s from my sister in Wichita.  She says our Aunt Belinda has consumption.”  

“I’m so sorry,” Susan offered.

Miguel suddenly paused from his whittling and looked at the two women, curious.  I finished my coffee and left.

The following day, after I had closed the store, I was headed for a drink at Balder’s Tavern, when I noticed a small crowd gathered along Ninth Street, between H and I streets.  Peering over the thirty or so heads before me, I saw a man and a woman, about fifteen feet apart from each other, standing on the porch of an abandoned building.  She was a petite Chinese lady with a pair of chop sticks crossed through her black hair, which was tied into a bun.  She wore a blue silk outfit with pearl buttons and floral designs on the blouse.  She stood with her back to a thick wooden board, which was wedged between a pair of empty ship cargo containers, and buttressed by four or five smaller planks nailed into the wood at both ends.   From the board behind her protruded half a dozen steel throwing knives, outlining the entire left side of her tiny frame. Throwing the deadly projectiles with uncanny accuracy was a Chinese man, dressed in baggy white shirt and pants, a kepi, and a pair of wooden shoes.  A thin, braided black ponytail dangled to his waist.  

Reaching into his pocket, the man withdrew a shiny object, pulled back his right arm and hurled.  I started as a blade sprouted from the wood above the woman’s head and quivered momentarily after a solid thump. This spectacle was followed by loud cheering and shouting.  A minute later the show was over, at which point a rotund, middle-aged man in a black tuxedo and top hat announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, give a big round of applause for the amazing Ko Kwan and his lovely wife, Ping!”  He passed the top hat around to the audience members, some of whom deposited a coin or two.   A few waved the hat away derisively.

I sat in Balder’s an hour later, sharing a bottle of whiskey with Charlie Tanner, the local marshal.  Charlie was a grizzled Mexican War veteran who had lost his left pinky at Palo Alto.  He was a friendly sort who knew most of the merchants and business folks in town, though he wasn’t the most vigilant lawman.  Still, he tried to keep some semblance of order in a thoroughly disorderly town.  I mentioned the Chinese knife-thrower and his wife, and Charlie nodded.

“I seen him before,” Charlie said.  “Always wears them white pajamas.”

“Something like that,” I replied, and took another sip from my glass of whiskey.

“I liked them French dancing ladies better,” Charlie said thoughtfully.  “The ones who was at the Eagle Theater a couple years ago.”

The sound of  breaking glass caught my attention, and Charlie and I both turned to see a man with long, greasy blond hair and a three-day beard, standing up at a table with four other men, all of whom held a hand of cards.  A small pile of money and an oil lamp sat roughly in the center of the table, and each man had a glass of whiskey within easy reach.  Clutched in the right hand of the fellow standing up was half a bottle, its jagged edges gleaming like a grizzly’s teeth.  Sitting directly across from the irate gambler was good old Absalom McCrae, who appeared surprisingly calm.

“Let’s see what you’re hidin’ in your right hand,” the man with the broken bottle snarled drunkenly.  “Turn it over!”

On Absalom’s right hand was a gold, V-shaped ring, its point facing inward.  Making a semi-circle in the air, Absalom turned his hand over, resting his knuckles against the table, and exposed his empty palm.

“Whatever you say, friend,” Absalom replied.

The disgruntled poker player was solidly perplexed, almost disappointed at having to curtail his tirade.  

At this point, Charlie stood up and faced the group of card players, his right hand poised above the holstered Colt Navy revolver on his belt.  

“That’s enough, Colin,” he told the man.  “Now either sit down and play nice, or get out.”

Then just as quickly as the fit of temper had come upon him it passed, and Colin sat back down, set the broken bottle on the table, and resumed his game of cards.  Absalom was as cool as ever.  He shuffled the deck expertly, the cards flying from his left to his right hand.  

“Do you think McCrae cheats at cards?” I asked Charlie discreetly.

“Hell, yes,” Charlie said.  “One of these days he’s gonna get caught red-handed, and I won’t be here to save him.  But apparently not tonight.”

That wasn’t the end of the evening’s entertainment.  Just 15 minutes had passed when the place got really quiet.  This time the source of the disturbance was the amazing Ko Kwan, sans the missus.  He entered the place and walked right up to the bar, ignoring the stares that followed his every step.  

“Please give to me one beer,” he said.  

The bar tender regarded him coldly for a few moments, saying nothing.  Finally he complied.  “One dollar,” he told Kwan.  The regular price was fifty cents.  

Kwan paid.  The whole time, a young woman with thick red curls and a long blue dress had been studying him. She continued to observe as Kwan downed the entire beer with one gulp, and set the empty glass down.  Then she asked him, “How do you see with them eyes?” 

Kwan ignored the remark, turned and started to go.  He walked past the table where Absalom and his associates were playing poker.  As he did, Colin stuck out his foot, tripping him.  Absalom rushed to help the Chinaman to his feet.  Kwan brushed himself off, clenched his fists, and glared fiercely at Colin.    

“What’re you gonna do?” Colin challenged him.  

Absalom intervened.  “Colin, leave him alone.”

“Butt out, Abbie,” Colin said.

Charlie sighed loudly, and stood up again.  “Damn it, Colin, ain’t you caused enough trouble for one night?”  

Colin regarded the marshal scornfully.  “He oughta watch where he’s goin’.”  

Another killing had thus been averted by our sometimes-vigilant marshal.  At least until later that evening.

I headed to my habitual dining establishment at noon the following day, this time promising to bring back some shepherd’s pie for Isaac.  When I arrived at Clara’s Kitchen, though, a closed sign hung on the door.  Puzzled, I tried to think of where else I might go.  Suddenly I heard Charlie Tanner’s voice behind me.

“Sherman,” he said.  “Good afternoon.  I guess you didn’t hear yet.”

Charlie approached me from across the street, flanked by Dan Colliton and Roy Cartwright, his two deputies.  

“No, Charlie, I didn’t hear anything,” I replied.  

“Bradford Brandish arrived last night,” he informed me.  “Somewhere between eight and ten, we figure.”

“And Clara is spending some time with him now?” I asked.

“Well, sort of,” Charlie said hesitantly.  “But not exactly.” He drew a deep breath.            

      “Somebody found him about a mile outside of town, with a knife stuck through his heart.”

I shouldn’t have been particularly shocked.  Murder wasn’t uncommon in Sacramento.  But who wanted Bradford dead?  Charlie told me that the murder weapon was a throwing knife that matched 12 others found in Ko Kwan’s possession.  The six-inch blade was buried almost completely in Bradford’s chest, right through his leather vest.  Robbery was apparently the motive, as all of his pockets had been turned inside out, and his saddle bags were empty.  Bradford’s mule was found standing a few yards away.  Apparently, questioning the mule had produced no results.

“Where’s Kwan right now?” I asked.

“He’s in the jail,” Charlie answered, his tone implying stupidity on my part.  “Says he didn’t do it, of course, and that he was at home, but he was awful mad when he left the saloon last night, and the way I figure, he just attacked some white fellow at random.  Just happened to be Bradford.  I got Arnie Bellington guarding him, but there’s a crowd outside that wants to lynch Kwan.  I figure we’ll try to get a jury together by tomorrow afternoon for a trial, then hang him on Friday.”

I shook my head.  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.  “Why would Kwan kill Bradford, and why would he leave the knife stuck in the body?  That’s just plain stupid.”

“Maybe he panicked, got scared and forgot his knife,” Deputy Dan suggested.

“But he wasn’t too scared to go through Bradford’s pockets and saddlebags?” I said.

“Look, Sherman,” said Charlie.  “I don’t know why a Chinaman does what he does.  But his knife was the murder weapon, and we all seen what he can do with them knives of his.”

But I still wasn’t satisfied.  “Does Kwan’s wife corroborate his alibi?”

“Does she cooperate what?” Charlie said.

“Does she say that her husband was at home with her at the time?”

“She don’t speak no English,” Charlie replied.  

I nodded.  “Okay, Charlie, I’ll see you later.”  I turned to go.  Then I remembered something.  “Oh, Charlie, just one more thing.”

Charlie sighed in exasperation.  “What is it, Sherman?”

“Was Kwan wearing the same clothing that he wore last night at the bar?”

Charlie was nonplussed.  “You mean them white pajamas?  Yeah, he was. Why?”

“No reason,” I said.  “Thanks, Charlie.”  

     I returned to my shop and asked Isaac to cover for me the rest of the afternoon, in return for which I’d give him tomorrow off.  I was going to play a little poker at Balder’s.

As a rule, I never drank nor gambled when I was supposed to be running the store, but this was a rule that I needed to break today.  Balder’s was fairly busy, even at two in the afternoon, and I found Absalom and three of his poker pals sitting at the same table, like they had never left.  Except for Colin, whose seat was conspicuously vacant.  

“Afternoon, Abbie, gentlemen,” I said, waving my hand at the group.  “Have room for a fifth?”

Absalom, chewing on a thick black cigar, gestured toward the empty chair.  “Penny ante,” he informed me.  I took a seat.

“Where’s your friend Colin today?”  I began, setting a stack of coins in front of me.

Absalom finished dealing the current hand, neatly tossing me my fifth card.  “Don’t know,” he replied.  “Haven’t seen him since last night.  He left right after that Chinaman did.  Guess you heard what Kwan did to my old pal Brad?”

For someone who had just lost an “old pal,” Absalom seemed quite composed.

“Murderin’ yellow bastard,” said the player to my left, a red-faced old man with a nose like a garlic bulb.

“You just can’t be nice to some folks,” Absalom said, plucking a stray hair from a gray tweed suit coat that he was wearing.

I remarked that Colin hadn’t been particularly nice to Kwan, to which Absalom replied that that didn’t give Kwan any reason to kill Bradford. 

I then turned my attention to the cards in my hand.  A pair of twos –hearts and clubs- and a three, four and five of spades.  If I wanted to be incredibly daring, as well as stupid, I could ditch one of the twos and hope for an outside straight, or stupider still, discard the pair and hope for a straight-flush.  But I wasn’t that stupid.  I tossed three cards onto the table.

The man to my right, Earl, apparently was that stupid.   He asked for one card, bluffed for a couple rounds, then cursing, tossed down a five, ten, jack, queen and ace.  Absalom won that hand, and the next three in a row.  

After Earl repeated his folly a few minutes later, Garlic Bulb Nose, whose name was Minter, laughed riotously.  “Earl,” he gasped. “I don’t know why your wife lets you have any money,” he said.  

After playing for a half an hour, I was down only two dollars.  If Absalom cheated, as Charlie had maintained, he was smart enough to show some restraint.  He even bought everyone at the table a round of drinks.  When the serving girl arrived at our table, Absalom produced a three-cent silver trime from his pocket, and displayed the coin in his open palm.

“Wanna see something?” he asked her.

“Sure,” she replied.

He closed his hand, then rubbed his fingertips against his palm.  When he opened his hand again, the coin had disappeared.

I gave a low whistle.  

“Where’d it go?” the girl asked.  

Absalom then reached for her ear, seemingly pulling out the coin.

“That is amazing!” she exclaimed, genuinely impressed.  

I played two more hands, winning the second one.  Then excusing myself, I thanked Absalom and company, and headed to the marshal’s office as fast as I could.

If Charlie had been fed up with me earlier that afternoon, that was nothing compared to how he felt toward me now.  He sat at this desk with his hands out in front of him, shaking his head.

“What do you mean Absalom McCrae killed Bradford Brandish?” he asked.  “We found Kwan’s knife in the body.  That’s good enough for me.”

“Because McCrae stole Kwan’s knife,” I replied.  “Look at the facts, Charlie.  “The knife was stuck deep in Bradford’s chest, right through his leather vest.  And he was killed at night.  How could Kwan have thrown a knife right into his heart in the dark, and with enough force to go that deep?” For emphasis, I leaned forward, and pounded my fist on Charlie’s desk.  I immediately realized that this last action was a mistake.

“Sorry,” I said, in response to the irritation evident on Charlie’s face.  “But there’s no way that Kwan’s knife could’ve been thrown into Bradford’s chest.”

Charlie shrugged.  “So Kwan stabbed him.”

“You remember what Bradford used to say about the Chinese?  That he wished they would all go back where they came from instead of stealing our gold?”

Charlie just nodded.

“Why would he let a strange Chinaman get close enough to knife him? Bradford always carried a loaded gun.  The killer was someone who knew Bradford, well enough that Bradford dismounted his mule, approached the killer, and shook his hand.  That’s when it 

happened. . .wham!”  I made a sudden stabbing gesture, which startled Charlie.

“Sorry,” I said again.  “And since everybody shakes with his right hand, the killer, who was left-handed, stabbed Bradford with his left hand.  McCrae’s left-handed.”

Charlie wasn’t convinced.  “Just because McCrae is left-handed don’t make him a killer,” he said.  “Dan’s left-handed,” he added, referring to his deputy.  “That don’t mean he killed Bradford.”

“How about the blood on the killer’s clothes?” I said.

“There was no blood,” said Charlie.

“Exactly,” I pointed out.  “If Kwan stabbed Bradford through the heart, how come there were no blood stains on his ‘white pajamas,’ the ones that he always wears?  And how come McCrae is wearing a gray tweed coat today, instead of the one that matches his pinstripe suit?”

Charlie was perplexed now.  That was a start.  “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.  “Why would Abbie kill his old pard?  There wasn’t no bad blood between them.”

“Maybe there was,” I suggested.  “And I think that maybe Clara had something to do with this whole business.  She got a letter two days ago, which she claimed was from her sister in Wichita. Only this letter came in by steamship, at the dock, and a letter from Wichita would’ve come by stagecoach or by mule, first through Fort Laramie, then on to Salt Lake City, then here.  I think that letter was from her husband in San Francisco.”

“Fine, fine,” Charlie conceded.  “But how did McCrae get hold of Kwan’s knife?”

“McCrae’s fast with this hands, has to be,” I explained.  “That’s how he cheats at cards. This afternoon, he entertained us with an impressive bit of legerdemain.”

“Of what?” Charlie said.

“A really good parlor trick,” I said.  “Worthy of a magician, which I suspect is in his background somewhere.  “He sometimes hides cards in his hand, with the help of that V-shaped ring.  After Colin tripped him, McCrae helped Kwan to his feet, ostensibly to be polite.  That’s when he took Kwan’s knife.”

Charlie stood up.  “All right,” he said.  “Dan and me will go have a talk with McCrae.” He pointed at me.  “But if you’re wrong on this, Sherman, I will be most displeased.”

“Fair enough, Charlie,” I agreed.

Fortunately for me, I was right, and Charlie’s veiled threat was never carried out.  Either hubris or negligence was Absalom’s undoing: when Charlie and Dan searched his room they found the incriminating pinstriped suit coat stuffed in a drawer –its left sleeve stained with blood- along with Bradford’s loaded pistol.  The stolen money Absalom had already parlayed into poker winnings.  When Clara was questioned, she confessed to paying Absalom two hundred dollars to get rid of her husband, after she read in the letter that her husband was coming to town.  Bradford had left for San Francisco with nearly all of the couple’s money, which he eventually lost there, too.  “I would’ve been a fool to let him do it all over again,” she said.

About a week later, everything had settled down as much as possible.  Kwan, once again a free man, left with his wife for Los Angeles, never to grace our humble city with his presence again.  Not that I blamed him.  Isaac and I were about to close shop for the day when a familiar face appeared at the counter, two familiar faces, albeit not the friendliest.  The old prospector and his prodigious progeny.

The old man glared at me hard.  “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said.

“Look sir,” I told him.  “I’m sorry if you’re not happy with my prices, but there are no refunds or exchanges, except in the unlikely event that my merchandise is defective.  That was a brand new shovel.”

“Shovel be damned!” he shouted.  “Thanks to you, I have to walk two miles outta my way to get an apple pie, ever since they closed Clara’s place.”  With that, he and his son departed, slamming the door in their wake.

I turned to a wide-eyed Isaac and smiled. “You just can’t be nice to some folks,” I said.

Stones in a Creek

                                  Photo: ForestWander.

Noises that I hear sometimes get louder and turn into voices -talking to me, whispering to me, even shouting at me.  Other days are really quiet.  Once before morning meds, I felt someone tickling my stomach really hard, and the fingers were churning inside my belly, so I told Nurse Claussen.  “Does it hurt, Erbid?” she asked, and I said “No, not really.”  “Then don’t worry about it,” she said, and she gave me my meds and a little white paper cup filled with cold water.  We have morning meds at 8:30 a.m. every day.

Last week I was in the arts and crafts room, making a lanyard, twisting the green and white cords together when I heard a growling from out in the hall, and I was scared because I thought that it was Pepper, the neighbor’s dog who bit me on my right arm when I was nine, 28 years ago, on Wednesday, September 3, 1958.  Kenny was in the room too, but I don’t think that he heard it, because he was coloring with a big red marker and he didn’t look up, and the marker kept going squeak-squeak-squeak.  Anthony, one of the security guards, was also there, but he just sat there smoking a cigarette, which he isn’t supposed to do, but he does anyway.

Then I put down my half-finished lanyard, stood up, and started walking toward the hall, because even though I was still scared, I wanted to make sure that Pepper wasn’t there, and that it was just another bad sound. 

 “Walker!” Anthony said.  “Where you goin’?”

“To see if Pepper is in the hall,” I explained.

Then Anthony got a really strange look on his face, like a mixture of what’re you talking about? and I don’t even care at the same time, and he pointed a long black finger at me and he said, “Don’t you give me no trouble, you hear?”

Then I remembered on Monday, July 1, 1985, five years after I came here, when I was in the arts and crafts room, painting a picture of a ship on the ocean, and Abraham Lincoln’s ghost tried to possess me, and I started screaming, “Get away from me!  Get out of my body!” and I was throwing brushes and jars of paint.  Anthony, Jimmy –another security guard- and one of the orderlies tied me to my bed for two days, and they wouldn’t even let me up to go to the bathroom, and I wet myself.  So this time I just said, “Okay,” and I sat back down to finish my lanyard, and I didn’t hear any more bad noises that day, which was Tuesday, December 9, 1986.

A week later, right after breakfast, I was sitting in the Van de Meer Lounge watching TV, and I heard a really high-pitched shrieking from behind me, almost like a baby’s whine, but not quite as irritating, but still pretty irritating.  Then I heard it again, and again, about every 10 seconds, but I tried to ignore it, and just keep watching TV.  Then Oakley, who was sitting on one of the couches and also watching TV, yelled “Will you shut up?” and I turned around and saw a tall, thin man with a long, bald, oval head, which was kind of pointy, and I didn’t know who he was, but I saw that he was the one who was shrieking, but then he stopped.  Oakley’s really big and sometimes he’s mean, and most people are afraid of him.

Then when a commercial came on I heard whispering, and the words were really angry words, about hurting Nurse Claussen.  Oakley didn’t hear anything this time, so I decided myself to turn around and tell the tall, thin man with the long, bald, oval head to shut up, but he was gone. I went to the nurses’ station to tell Nurse Claussen what I heard, because she isn’t so bad, one of the better ones, not like some of them. But when I tried to tell her she just said that I needed to relax, and after I kept on telling her she got angry and told me that she didn’t have time for this nonsense and to go away.

So I sat back down in the Van de Meer Lounge and I waited until 4:57 p.m., because that’s when Nurse Claussen leaves every day.  Then I opened the back door and went out to the landing on the second floor, and Nurse Claussen was holding her keys in her right hand, and standing at the top of the stairs.  I remembered how on Friday, June 13, six months ago, a man named Eric fell down the steps and died.  Anthony said that Eric had no business being there anyway.

Then I thought that maybe someone was behind Nurse Claussen, even though I couldn’t see them, waiting to push her down the stairs and break her neck or crack her head open.  I ran up, shouting “Get away from her!” and I grabbed Nurse Claussen’s arm and pulled her back away from the stairs.  

“It’s okay,” I told her.  “You’re safe now.”

She didn’t thank me for saving her, though, instead she started screaming until Anthony and Jimmy came out onto the landing, and ran up and tackled me.  Nurse Claussen was very upset, and she was shouting, “How did he get through that door?  That door is supposed to lock behind me!” and Anthony said that he was very sorry, and that it wouldn’t happen again, and Nurse Claussen said it had better not. 

Nobody tied me to my bed this time, but Dr. Gardener stuck a needle in my arm, and I got really tired.  I slept for a long time.  When I woke up I was in my bed, and everything was dark and quiet, then somebody was knocking on my door.  So I got out of bed and went to the door, but I almost fell because I was really wobbly.  There wasn’t anybody there, so I got back into bed.  

I had to mop the floor in the Brandenburg Wing the next day, even though my shoulder hurt from where Anthony and Jimmy had tackled me. I didn’t mind because I like mopping the floor, dipping the mop head into the warm, soapy water and making circles on the floor, polishing my reflection in the shiny tan tiles. Once an old man named Marshall urinated on the floor in the Brandenburg Wing, and Jimmy and Anthony yelled and cursed and him, and they made him mop it up.  Then Anthony pushed Marshall when he was mopping the floor, and Marshall fell down and couldn’t get back up, and Anthony and Jimmy got really scared, but I didn’t want to watch, so I walked away.  A few days later I asked Nurse Clonnick where Marshall was, and she said that Marshall got better and was allowed to leave.

Down the hall, where the four corridors meet, I heard footsteps clomping, and there was Bradley, one of the maintenance men, in his heavy black boots, and he was carrying a stepladder under one arm and a long, white fluorescent tube under the other as he walked past.  I heard a banging sound, then six thumps of booted feet climbing up the stepladder.  Then something dark and blurry crept past the intersection down the hallway.  I thought that maybe I should just forget it this time, mind my own business, the way that Delray, an orderly, told me to mind my own business when Darby was having a seizure once and I tried to tell Delray.  But something made me walk down the hall this time, gripping the mop tight in my hands, one foot in front of the other, and the heel of my right shoe kept clicking as I walked, like I had stepped on something and it was stuck in the bottom of my shoe.  When I was about halfway down the hall I heard metal scraping against the linoleum floor tiles, a crash like breaking glass, then a thump.  There was gagging and choking, like somebody was being strangled, and I dropped the mop on the floor and ran all the way to the intersection, and I turned the corner.  
Bradley was standing on the fourth step of the stepladder, and he had his arms stretched way above his head, and his hands were grabbing the sides of the plastic cover over the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling.  The fluorescent tube was lying on the floor under the stepladder.  He looked down at me, kind of surprised then kind of disgusted, and said, “What do you want?”

“I heard bad sounds,” I told him, and I was shaking a little because the sounds scared me.

“I didn’t hear nothing,” Bradley said.

On Monday Hector, the other maintenance man, was painting the metal stalls in the bathroom, because people had written a lot of very bad words on them with black markers and red markers and even paint.  He was sitting on a little metal stool, and next to him on the floor was an open bucket of light blue paint, and lots of newspapers underneath.  Without looking, he just dipped the brush in the light blue paint and slapped the brush hard against the stall, like he was angry, trying to hurt it.  Then again, dip and slap, dip and slap, dip and slap.  Then he started shouting in Spanish I think, and I thought that maybe I should leave, so I did, and then Anthony came in.  I heard them yelling, and finally Anthony walked out, looking kind of angry but kind of satisfied. 

Right before Nurse Claussen left at 4:57 that afternoon she and Anthony were near the office talking, and I heard Nurse Claussen say “He’s on thin ice,” and I wondered if they meant me, but I guess that they probably didn’t.  Later that night when I was in bed, I heard Bradley talking to me, and he kept saying “What do you want?  What do you want?  What do you want?” louder and louder, then he just stopped.  Then I heard a woman saying “We’ll just poison Erbid, we’ll poison him.”  

I didn’t want to take my meds the next morning, because I thought that there was cyanide in them, and Nurse Claussen told Dr. Abramoff, and he talked to me for a very long time, and he told me that everything was all right, and he promised me that there was no cyanide.  

“The doctors and the nurses and everyone at Burberry want you to be well,” Dr. Abramoff said, and he talked to me like I was a little kid, but I believed him that there was no cyanide, and I took my meds.  Then Dr. Abramoff and Nurse Claussen told me to open my mouth really wide, and stick my tongue out, then lift up my tongue, then move my tongue to the left and to the right.  

Once in group, Dr. Abramoff told us to be stones in a creek.  Stones don’t fight the current, he said, they just lie in the sand and let the water wash over them, taking away all of the bumps and jagged edges until they are smooth and round.  Dr. Abramoff is right, I thought.   I’ll just be a stone in a creek.  We  have group Mondays and Wednesdays from 3:30 ‘til 4:30 p.m.

The smell of fresh paint coming from the bathroom on Thursday made me think of gasoline and of thick ink markers, which I always thought smelled kind of good, but I know are bad for you to breathe them.  But I went into the bathroom anyway, even though I didn’t have to go, and I saw Bradley painting the stalls, and he was almost finished, and he looked kind of angry.  I asked him where Hector was, and he said that he didn’t know, and I talked to him a little more, but he wouldn’t answer me, so I left.  

Later that day, from 12:42 p.m. until 4:31 p.m., I heard music playing very softly, like in the background, but I didn’t know what song it was, and nobody else said anything, so I didn’t either.   I just tried to be a stone. A couple of hours later I went back to the bathroom, and just sat there in the stall with the door closed, staring at and smelling the light blue paint.  I felt relaxed, and everything was so quiet. 

They sometimes show us movies on Friday nights, in the Community Room, but last time they showed us The Cowboys with John Wayne, and after that, I think that Bruce Dern started putting ground up glass in my food.  I wrote him a letter and told him to stop it, but I don’t know if Nurse Claussen ever mailed it for me.  I was sitting in the back this Friday, so when the movie, which was Casablanca, started, I snuck out and went to my room.

I was sitting in my room reading a Richie Rich comic book, and I got bored and wanted to go to the bathroom to smell the light blue paint, even though I know that it isn’t good to breathe it too much.  So I was walking down the hall and I heard shouting from the bathroom, two voices that sounded like Anthony’s and Hector’s, and I stopped.  But I knew that it was just another bad sound, and that it couldn’t really hurt me, like Dr. Abramoff had told me lots of times before, and I started walking toward the bathroom again.  

Then the voices were shouting, and very loud, so I covered my ears with my hands and I whispered, “Go away, go away, go away,” and there were two popping sounds, then another popping sound, and everything was quiet again.  Finally I heard Anthony, but not really Anthony, saying “Help me.  Somebody, help me.” I didn’t want to smell the paint anymore, so I just covered my ears, and kept saying “I’m a stone, I’m a stone, I’m a stone in a creek.”  And I walked back to the Community Room and watched Casablanca.  


I woke up really early this morning, Saturday, December 20, because I heard voices in the hall, and at first I wasn’t going to look, but then I did.  There were lots of police, and Nurse Claussen was talking to one of them, and she looked very upset, and a man was taking pictures, and there were thick yellow pieces of tape in front of the bathroom door.  Then I saw two ambulance men carrying a long, zippered plastic bag on a stretcher, then they came back and took another one.   I hope that they let me go back into the bathroom soon.  I can’t get Peter Lorre’s voice out of my head, and I need to sit in the stall with the light blue paint. 

The Case of the Querulous Hack

Azerbijani actress Maya Davudova as Desdemona. Public domain.


As Richard Bishop stood in the aisles between shelves 500 to 513 and 513.1 to 529, he wondered if somehow, Malachi Ezekiel Mortensen appreciated the fact that the library bore his name. Hardly anyone knew that the late Episcopal minister had founded the Chester County, Pennsylvania town of Bellwether in 1777. Having a library named after him 100 years following his death was the closest he came to achieving immortality. 
     
     Richard glanced at the title of one of the books that he was putting back on the shelf. Science and the Imagination. He found himself drifting once again, this time back to a song by the Temptations.
     
     . . .but it was just my imagination, runnin’ away with me. It was just my imagin-a-ation, runnin’ away with me. 

“Richard!” boomed the voice of head librarian Jane Braxton. 

“Would you please stop?”

Richard stopped, and looked at her. He blinked like a deer staring into headlights. “Stop what? he asked.

The middle-aged woman stood sternly several feet away, her arms folded like an impatient school marm. “You know what,” she chided succinctly. “You were doing it again. Last week you subjected the women’s rotary to your rendition of You Ain’t Nothin' But a Hound Dog.” 

 “I’ll try and be more conscious of it,” he replied sheepishly.

 “Please do,” Jane said. She turned to walk away, then remembered something. “Did you set up the reading room downstairs?”

"25 chairs and two full coffee pots," Richard replied.

"The seminar starts at noon," she informed him. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Richard muttered.

His sarcasm was not lost on Jane. “Being that you’re a man, I don’t imagine that you could appreciate sensitive and poignant literature. Have you ever read anything by Alyce Law?”

“Two of her books,” Richard admitted. “On Bonnie’s recommendation.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t impressed.”

“Well, I think if a woman writes 23 books in five years, they are definitely worth reading,” Jane said. “Your wife is a better judge of literature than you.” 

“That may be,” Richard acquiesced, returning to the pile of books on the cart next to him. He failed to see what relevance gender had to literary merit, but declined to debate feminism with Jane. Satisfied that she had made her point, his stuffy boss headed back to her office.

Richard waited downstairs in the reading room, seated next to an easel with a poster that proclaimed "Writing the Romance Novel. With Chester County's own Alyce Law. Sunday at noon." He opened Whispers at Midnight, by his favorite mystery writer Sam Stamm. The ticking of his wristwatch seemed especially loud and distracting, but as he turned one page, then another, the noise dissipated into the surrounding silence.

Pullington descended the stairs slowly, feeling the dust of four years clearing away as his hand slid cautiously down the banister. Petrified of stepping on a creaky board, he held his breath until he finally came to the bottom of the steps. Four feet in front of him dangled a string for an overhead light bulb. With agonizing slowness, he reached up and pulled it with his thumb and forefinger. As he did so, a cry rang out from the darkness, a voice clear and filled with despair.

What are you doing?

What was he doing?

Richard!

Richard?

"Richard, would you please answer me?" Jane's voice punctured his solitude.

Alarmed, he nearly dropped his paperback. "Yes?" he replied, looking up at her awkwardly.

"What are you doing?" she repeated. "You don't plan to sit there reading through the whole seminar, do you?"

"No, of course not," Richard replied. "I'll go upstairs to my desk."

"No you won't," Jane insisted. "That would be an insult to Mrs. Law. I'd like you to wait by the entrance and greet her when she arrives. Lucretia should be here in a few minutes. She can handle the reference desk."

By 11:55, Jane had herded the twenty attendees –17 women and three men- downstairs. Two of the men had been dragged there by their wives. If Bonnie hadn't been visiting her mother, she would have come as well, and probably forced Richard to pay attention.

Richard remained dutifully at his post at the main entrance. The automatic door slid open to a admit a thin, blonde woman of 31, clad in a flowing green dress and stiletto heels. Richard caught a potent whiff of perfume as she swaggered by him.

Extending his hand he began, "Hello. You must be Alyce Law. I'm Richard Bishop, the assistant librarian here at-"

"Arnold, the girl is lazy and dumb. . .Because I don't have time for household chores."

Puzzled by the incongruous response, Richard finally observed that she had a cell phone glued to her right ear.

". . . Yes, I suppose that I can put up with her, but I don't want to hear any more of her smart remarks. . .She's coming in at 12:30 today, right?"

Alyce Law continued her conversation as she took the steps down to the reading room. Shaking his head, Richard followed. Terminating her conversation brusquely, she stuffed the phone into a white pocketbook. 

Brimming with adulation, Jane accosted Alyce.

"Welcome to Mortensen Public Library, Mrs. Law. I'm Jane Braxton. I love your books. I've read all 23," she gushed.

"Actually, I've written 24," Alyce informed her.

“Oh, well, I’ve read all 24, then,” Jane stammered. Clasping her hands together in front of her chest, Jane said, “I guess you’re ready to get started?”

Jane stepped behind the podium, while Alyce waited beside her. “We are very fortunate to have with us today Alyce Law, president of the Chester County Romance Writers’ Association. As her readers will know, Mrs. Law received the prestigious Ruth Rice Richardson Award in 1999 for best romance novel, and her latest book, The Chambers of My Heart, won the 2002 Pewter Prize. Today, she has generously agreed to give us an hour out of her busy schedule. Please give her a warm round of applause.”




Generously agreed? Richard thought as he clapped half-heartedly. Sure, after Jane managed to convince the Bellwether board of supervisors to take $1,000 from the budget to pay her. Still, he thought it prudent to curtail his daydreaming this time. 
He could imagine Jane’s reaction if he started singing in the middle of Alyce’s seminar.

Without so much as acknowledging Jane, Alyce began. Richard wasn’t expecting any great literary insight, and he was not disappointed. Aside from the vague replies to Jane’s occasional questions about such trivialities as character, setting and mood, Alyce spent the first half hour explaining how she summoned her muse by soaking in a bubble bath laced with frankincense, jasmine and Epsom salt, while Mozart’s violin concertos wafted in the background. Then she recounted in excruciating detail her childhood love affair with romance novels, and how she dreamed of writing them one day. She skillfully deflected a question about who her favorite author was, saying that by singling out one, she was disparaging the rest. Jane was non-plussed. The audience was enthralled. Richard was bored.

Then after the longest half-hour of Richard’s life, something wonderful happened. Glancing at her watch, Alyce announced that she would have to cut the seminar short. “This is very embarrassing,” she explained to her bewildered fans. “but I’m afraid I’ve left the oven on at home.”

"Again, I'm very sorry," she said, amid murmurs of disbelief and disappointment.

"Could you call home to see if anyone's there?" Jane suggested. "Maybe your husband's home."

Alyce opened her mouth to reply, then looked at Richard out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, I suppose I could." She reached down and picked up her pocketbook, which she had placed on a shelf on the inside of the podium. As she pulled out her cell phone, Richard noticed that she was shaking slightly. Alyce hesitated for a second, as if trying to remember something. Then she pushed ten buttons, 22 pairs of eyes on her. Alyce waited on the line. Ten seconds. 15. 30. Finally she terminated the call.

"I had a girl coming in to clean today," she told everyone. "She should've been there by now, but there's no answer."

With another brief apology, Alyce headed back up the stairs, Jane following close behind. "Please give me a ring to let me know if everything's all right," Jane called after her. "We'll be open till 5:00 p.m."

Alyce didn't reply. Jane watched in disbelief as her abrupt guest slid into a brand new Toyota Corolla and sped off.

Richard was engrossed in the Arts and Leisure section of The Bellwether, a 12-ounce cup of cold coffee in front of him. He had been trying to find a review of Our Sisters and Brothers, which was playing at the Omnibus Theater in Haversham. In the process, he had read three other articles, and now didn’t even remember why he had opened to the Arts and Leisure section first, without even glancing at the front page. 

As happened so many other mornings at about 9:00, the loud voice of Jane Braxton jarred him back to the here and now.


“It’s terrible, Richard! My God, can you believe it?”

Richard looked up sympathetically from his paper. “I know Jane,” he replied gently. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”

Jane shook her head. “I wonder how safe any of us are.”

Richard laughed politely. “Jane, I’m sure we’re all perfectly safe. Life is full of little disappointments. Just don’t blame yourself.”
Jane was taken aback. “Why would I blame myself?” she said. “Richard, do you have the faintest idea what I’m talking about?”

Now Richard was taken aback. “Well, I, I’m not sure now. No,” he admitted.

“You must live in a void,” she snapped. “Look at the front page.”

Richard did. WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN HOME OF CHESTER COUNTY WRITER. Shocked, Richard read. 

DORRINGTON-A 25 year-old woman who was employed as a maid was found dead in the home of Chester County romance writer Alyce Law Sunday afternoon. The victim, Desdemona Harris, had been struck over the head with a large crystal paperweight. Mrs. Law, returning from a seminar at the Mortensen Public Library, discovered the body at approximately 12:50 p.m. and called police. Chester County detectives are questioning Ms. Harris’ ex-boyfriend, 29 year-old Chip Maslow, against whom she had a restraining order.

Richard put down the paper. “My God,” he whispered. “She rushed out of here to find that. Unbelievable.”

“I hope they hang that creep,” Jane said.

“What creep?” Richard asked.

“The ex-boyfriend,” Jane replied. “The one who killed her.”

“But they don’t know who killed her,” Richard answered. “They’re just questioning him. Maybe it was a burglar.”

“I doubt it,” Jane huffed. 

Richard read the entire story twice. The crime scene showed signs of forced entry -a broken window pane on one of the patio doors. According to Alyce, she heard a window being opened in the master bedroom, and ran down the hall to see who was there. That was when she found the maid. There was no mention of whether the oven was on. 

Later that day, after spending a half-hour explaining the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature to a skinny, pimply-faced 19 year-old coed, Richard was returning to his desk when he noticed Jane talking earnestly to two men. One was about 45, dressed in a tan raincoat and taking notes attentively. The other man was about 35, very tall and thin, and dressed in a blue suit with a pinstripe tie. He wasn’t saying much. Richard watched the conversation for about five minutes, though he couldn’t hear a word. Finally, the one in the tan raincoat nodded to Jane, who turned to Richard and pointed directly at him. The pair headed his way.

“Mr. Bishop,” the man in the raincoat announced. “Detective Tom Cornwell, Chester County Homicide.” He gestured towards his tall friend. “This is my partner, Eddie Baker.” Baker nodded.


They didn’t talk to Richard very long, nor ask him too many questions. Just protocol, he supposed. They didn’t want theories or impressions or opinions. Like Joe Friday –just the facts. Richard asked if they had any leads, but Cornwell declined to air any speculations. He gave Richard his card, and asked him to call if he found out anything. 

Richard sat at his desk in Reference, staring at the photograph of Desdemona Harris on the front page of Sunday's paper. He didn't find her especially attractive, but wondered if Arnold Law had. She wasn't a homely girl, but a wealthy attorney like Arnold could have done better. Maybe this had been an affair of convenience. Maybe Desde had something he liked. Maybe Richard was totally on the wrong track.

"Excuse me, sir."

Richard jumped. Embarrassed, he looked up to find a short, nervous, bespectacled man of about 50 standing at his desk.

"Yes, hello. How can I help you?" Richard replied.

The man fidgeted. "I'm looking for some software," he said in a whining, nasal voice. "Can you take out software?"

Richard nodded. "Sure," he said. "But can you be a little more specific?"
"The software for PC's," Mr. Milquetoast said. "The three and a half inch floppy disks, the ones that fit into that slot underneath the CD ROM drive."

Richard stifled an exasperated sigh. "Yes, I know," he said. "But what kind of software? Music? Games? Spreadsheets?"
"Oh, that," the man replied with a self-conscious laugh. "Screenwriting software. "Like Filmo-rama by Superscripters. It formats the screenplay for your, lists character surnames, even comes up with plot ideas."

Richard laughed. "Doesn't it let you do any of the writing?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, it just points you in the right direction."

Richard thought. "Is there any other kind of software for writers?" 

"Oh, yes," came the high-pitched response. "Some of it even randomly generates stories. Like the old saying about a room full of chimpanzees with typewriters. I don't think they're very good stories, though. So, are you going to help me?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Richard admitted.

"You can't?"

"No," Richard said. "We don't have anything like that. It 
doesn't sound like something that would be freely distributed, like in a library. I'd try the Barnes and Noble in the Mall."

"Okay," the man answered meekly. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Richard said softly as the man walked away. "Thank you."

Richard looked both ways as he stood in the hallway, not wanting to seem too conspicuous. A 40 year-old man in a college dormitory would probably look like a professor. That's what he would say if anyone asked him. He rapped on the door five times quickly.

A thin, pale, scruffy face decked with crooked glasses peeked out at him. The hair stood on end, a carefully-orchestrated tangle of black wires.


"Dude, do you know what time it is?"

"12:30 a.m.," Richard replied. "Are you up, Dave?"

"Yeah, man, I was just. . .studying."

"I need to talk to you."

"Sure, okay," the kid said, opening the door and letting Richard into the cramped, cluttered room. Two beds, both unmade, sat on either side. Opposite the door a computer occupied a small desk underneath a window. Richard did his best to avoid stepping on piles of clothes, books and paper. Dave closed the door.

"What's wrong, man?" Dave asked. "Your hard drive didn't crash again, did it?"

"No, nothing like that," Richard assured him. "You did a good job. I just need to ask you a few questions."

"A few questions?" Dave repeated. "At 12:30 in the morning?"

"Yes," Richard told him.

"Okay."

Richard took a deep breath. "Dave, are there programs that keep track of the date and time that you spend on the computer? I mean, a files that act like a time clock, almost."

Dave nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said. "A lot of companies have them to make sure their employees aren't surfing the 'Net on work time." He laughed. "Big brother, you know."

"But I'm talking about a PC that would be in somebody's home," Richard explained. "Not an office machine."

"Yes," Dave said. "A lot of them have that. Most people don't even know it." 

He looked at Richard strangely. "Is that what you came out here to ask me? I don't mind, but you should've just called, man."

Richard paused. "You're a pretty good hacker, aren't you?"

Dave was alarmed. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Dave, it's me. Be on the level here."

"I suppose so."

Richard thrust a wad of $200 at Dave. "I need a favor," he said.

Dave stared in amazement at the cash. $200 to a college kid.

"Is it something that could get us in trouble?" he asked.

"Yes," Richard said.

"Okay." 

Richard casually leafed through the pile of envelopes that lay in the outgoing mail bin. Overdue notices. A letter to the township. A birthday card for Jane's sister in Wyoming. Something addressed to Alyce Law. Richard stopped. After examining the envelope, he discreetly tucked it into his back pocket. Then he walked out of the building, and went to the pay phone in the parking lot. He placed two quarters into the coin slot and called.

"Hello," he said finally. "It's Richard Bishop."

Stopping by 2128 Willow Lane seemed like a risky proposition to Richard, but he did, anyway. He rapped on the door five times, feeling like a pesky reporter.

The door opened and there stood a man of 36, dressed in black loafers, gray slacks and a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. He had obviously been wearing a tie most of the day. Richard looked at him in confusion, saying nothing. 

“Yes?” he asked Richard. “What do you want?”

“Oh, hi,” Richard stammered. “I’m Richard Bishop, assistant librarian at the Mortensen Public Library. I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I wanted to stop by and give Alyce this check." He pulled the envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to the man. "$1,000, as agreed."

"Oh, well, thanks," the man said. "Won't you come in? Have a cup of coffee or something?"

"Yes, that'd be great," Richard replied.

Stepping back, he held the door open for Richard. “I’m Alyce’s husband Arnold. 

Richard stepped inside. “Thank you very much,” he said. 

Arnold walked over to the staircase. “Alyce,” he called. “Come on downstairs, honey.” He said to Richard, “She’s always on the computer. I guess that’s why she’s so prolific.”

A door closed on the second floor, and moments later, Alyce came down the stairs. She was wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans, and had traded her stiletto heels for a pair of white tennis shoes. She looked at Richard.

“Hello,” she said, with faint mistrust.

“Hello, Mrs. Law,” Richard said. “Nice to see you again. Sorry it has to be under such circumstances.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Alyce replied flatly.

Richard was momentarily caught off guard, but Arnold stepped in. "Honey, this is the guy from the library," he explained. "He brought your check. For the seminar."

Arnold waved the envelope in front of her.

"Oh, right," Alyce said. "How do you do?"

"I'm well, "Richard replied, taking a seat on a black leather sofa. "So sorry about that nasty business on Sunday."

"I'll go make some coffee," Arnold said, disappearing into the kitchen.

They began talking. Alyce confessed that personally, she had never liked nor trusted "Desde," a girl with a checkered past and dubious upbringing. Her friends were thugs and drug addicts, her ex-boyfriend was practically on a first name basis with the guards at the Chester County Jail. Rather Arnold had hired Desde, insisting that his wife's misgivings about her were unfounded. As he had remarked with self-deprecating humor, "Nobody's perfect, honey. After all, I'm a personal injury attorney."

Arnold returned from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray with three coffee cups and saucers, which he set down on a glass table in the middle of the room. Richard took a cup.

"But I feel terrible about what happened to her," Alyce concluded. "Particularly in my house. It's kind of. . .eerie." What a paragon of sympathy, Richard thought.

While sipping his coffee, Richard noticed a square of cardboard taped over one of the window panes in the patio door. 

"What happened there?" he pointed.

"That's where he broke in," Alyce replied. 

Richard set down his cup and saucer, walked over to the patio door, and knelt by the broken window. He examined the cardboard, then ran two fingers along the wooden floor, and studied the residue.

"What are you doing?" Arnold asked.

"Glass fragments," Richard explained. "Tiny ones." 

"Well, that makes sense," Alyce nearly snapped. "I just told you that he broke the window."

Richard looked at her. "Who broke the window?"

"Her boyfriend," Alyce said. "To could get inside. If he had rang the doorbell, she would've called the cops. Or maybe she would've let him in, knowing her. I guess he didn't want to take any chances." 

"Apparently, he's taken a big one now," Richard said. He stood up. "It's strange, though, that there are glass fragments so close to the wall. Almost as if the door were opened when he broke the window."

"That wouldn't make any sense," Alyce said.

"I guess not," Richard said, returning to his cup of coffee. To Alyce he said, "What exactly happened again on Sunday when you came home?"

Alyce sighed. "I walked in the door, thinking that I had to turn off the oven." 

She hesitated briefly, then continued. "I heard a window being opened in the master bedroom. So I ran down the hall to find out what was going on, and that's when I noticed that the window was open, the screen had been knocked out, and Desde was on the floor bleeding."

"You ran down the hallway?" Richard asked.

"Yes," Alyce said. "That's what I just told you. Now I don't-"

"If I recall, you were wearing high-heeled shoes that day."

Alyce glared at him. "What does that-?" She paused. "Yes, but I guess I kicked them off. I don't remember."

"Bishop, what are you implying?" Arnold demanded.

"Nothing at all," Richard replied calmly. "I'm just trying to get the story straight." To Alyce he said, "The police identified the murder weapon as a crystal ziggurat."

"A what?" she asked.

"A step pyramid, sort of, " Richard explained. "Whoever killed her hit her over the head with this ziggurat paperweight, and didn't leave any finger prints."

"No," Alyce said. "There were no finger prints."

Richard stood up. "So there were no finger prints on the ziggurat paperweight?"

"Why are you making me repeat everything?" Alyce snapped.

"I want to make sure I understand," Richard said. "So whoever broke in and killed her was wearing gloves."

"Or maybe he just wiped his prints off the paperweight," Arnold suggested.

"Maybe," Richard replied. "But would he have had time to wipe his prints off of the window that he had just opened to escape when he heard Mrs. Law come home? Whoever it was left in an awful hurry."

"Then he was wearing gloves," Alyce said impatiently.

"So maybe," Richard began. "it was a burglar, and he was wearing gloves. He would've most likely been carrying some sort of weapon, in case he was confronted by an irate homeowner or a watchdog, right?"

"What is your point?" Arnold said.

Richard moved away from the table, and backed towards the door. "My point is that the crystal paperweight had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and since the burglar would have been wearing gloves and probably carrying his own knife or gun, he wouldn't have bothered to do that. Did you ever use the paperweight, Mrs. Law?"

"Of course," Alyce told him. "It was my paperweight."

"So the only fingerprints that would've been on it were," he paused dramatically. "yours."

"But there were no fingerprints on it," Arnold said.

"Yes," Richard replied. "I know." He looked directly at Alyce. 

"You called home from the library on your cell phone, to see if anyone was there who could turn off the oven."

"Yes," Alyce hissed.

"Do you have speed dial on your cell phone?" Richard pressed.

Arnold took a menacing step towards him. "I don't think I like your interrogation," he growled.

Richard didn't move. 

"Yes," Alyce said, in answer to Richard's question.

"I watched you press ten buttons when you made the call," Richard said. "Why didn't you just hit the one or two-digit code for speed dialing? Don't you have your home number on speed dial?"

"Get out of here!" Arnold shouted. "You're upsetting my wife."

Richard ignored him. 

"I don't know!" Alyce exploded. "I was nervous, and I forgot."

"Nervous about what?" Richard hammered. "That Desde was going to see something you left on your computer? That she'd blackmail you, or something like that? What number did you really call from your cell phone that afternoon, Mrs. Law?"

Standing up suddenly, Arnold crossed the room and stood nearly face to face with Richard. "I'm going to give you until the count of five to get out of here," he snarled. "One."

"What number did you call that day, Mrs. Law?" Richard pressed.


"Two." Arnold took a step forward, and Richard a step back.


"I had Detective Tom Cornwell check your cell phone records," Richard said. "You called 610-TI6-1212. The time."






"Three."

"You're a liar!" Alyce shrieked.


"Am I? You're on that computer all the time, like your husband says. Probably have all kinds of programs, don't you?"

"Four."

"Get out of here!" Alyce yelled.

"How many books did you actually write, Mrs. Law?" Richard goaded her. "Have you ever written any?"

"Five." Arnold lunged at Richard, just as the front door flew open. Arnold stopped abruptly, nearly bumping into detectives Tom Cornwell and Eddie Baker.

Like a bar, the Mortensen public library had regulars who showed up every day. Some were even waiting when Richard opened at 8:00 a.m. Old Mrs. Cooper came at the same time every morning, spent exactly 37 minutes surfing the Internet, then left without saying a word to anyone. Tom Jaeckel always headed straight for the Audio-Visual Department downstairs, checked out a video, and returned it the same afternoon. He had seen several of the movies two or three times. Occasionally, he would chat with Sabrina, who worked in that department. Richard was intrigued most of all by the grungy hippy with the old army jacket. He arrived every morning at about 9:00 and read the previous day's Wall Street Journal. Richard surmised he was either a former executive or a derelict with big dreams. 

That morning, Richard noticed Jane in the parking lot, getting out of her Volvo. As he watched her head towards the entrance, he flipped the front page over and quickly turned to the Arts and Leisure section, pretending to be engrossed in some movie review. He counted to himself: One. . .Two. . .Three-

"Good lord, Richard," came the shriek. "Can you believe it?"

Richard looked up from his paper patiently. Adjusting his reading glasses, he replied, "I am surprised, Jane. The Bellwether's movie critic gave Tom Cruise's performance five stars. I thought he really did a lackluster job."

Jane's face fell. "What?" she said. "Richard, have you seen the front page today?"

"No," Richard lied.

"They've charged Alyce Law with the murder of that maid, that Delilah girl."

"Desdemona?" Richard suggested.

"Whatever," Jane said. "Go ahead, look."

Richard flipped the paper over to the front page. Pretending to read through the story, he gave a low whistle. "Wow, Jane," he remarked. "You're right. That is something. Seems Mrs. Law was not the person, nor the author, she claimed to be."

"She's made us all look like fools," Jane moaned. "I was actually going to ask her for her autograph after the seminar."

"Don't feel too bad," Richard tried to console her. "I never would have guessed, either."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have," Jane replied. "You seem to be off in your own little world most of the time." Then patting him on the shoulder, she added, "No offense, Richard. You are a good assistant librarian."

"Thanks, Jane," Richard obliged her. "Coming from you, that means a lot." Then doing his utmost to suppress a grin, he turned back to the Arts and Leisure section to see what the Bellwether's movie critic really thought of Tom Cruise's latest film.