When David got back to 10 Oak Lane, his favorite tree had offered silent support to his rhetorical question, "Not a bad spot for a single guy, right?" Inside, he tossed his case, Friday, on the sofa, ignored a blinking answering machine and circled around the four rooms which were laid out in an unimaginative square. He and Kathy had combined to dub the front living room: "Lush and Plush"; the den: "The Nest"; the rear kitchen: "Lean and Mean"; and the bedroom: "No Comment." A one-car garage was attached to the den.
Like a new buyer, he inspected each of three rooms and its contents before moving to the next: soft Drexel pieces before the living room's fireplace; the table-dominated kitchen surrounded by blue counter-tops and canary yellow appliances; the den with computer, martial arts trophies, miniature deer figurines and collection of opera CD's. There, piles and rows of books engulfed his computer corner: Bulfinch's Mythology, Police Procedural, Body Trauma, Scene of the Crime, Complete Crime Reference Book, and Dr. Henry Lee's Manual of Forensic Science.
Kathy's words, "the little house," rang in his ears. Little, but cozy. Maybe too dimly lit, even sloppy. She should sleep over more often.
There were nine phone messages from state newspapers. He decided not to answer any and vowed not to help sell newspapers, then or ever, having soured on the print media long ago. Something to do with misquotes and inaccurate reporting. He went to his computer in the pine-paneled den, one of two rooms separated from the main street by a thirty-foot-deep yard. He entered:
Tuesday, January 13.
MURDERS
Chas. Bugles-hacked in O.R.
Raphael Cortez-stabbed in surgeons' locker room.
Witnessed Bugles' killing from observatory balcony.
Both most likely killed by same person.
Killer knows some anatomy and? surgery. Blood trail leads to Tanarkle's dept.? suspect. Ambushed in parking garage.
Kathy and new supervisor assigned from Homicide. Gave me blank check incl. forensic support. Bowie County pissed we got Certificate of Need for transplant program.
David stopped short to listen to a car idling out front. He heard a thud against the house. He ducked. Again, the screech of tires. In one motion, he hit the floor and withdrew the Minx which was still holstered to his shoulder.
Scrambling to his feet, he dashed to the back of the house, his breath stalled in his throat. An eternal five minutes brought no explosion so he eased back through the den to the front door. He widened a crack slowly, looking from side to side, the grip of his pistol pressed against his chin. Slipping out, he maneuvered behind a foundation shrub to the base of his bay window where he spotted an egg-like object embedded in the superficial snow cover. He rolled it over with the barrel of the Minx, covered it with a handkerchief and picked it up. It was a rock bound by two crossed adhesive strips. In the light streaming from the window, he rotated the rock in his beefy hands as he read the precise lettering on one of the strips:
LET COPS HANDLE THIS
David felt a heat surge at his temples. Bullshit to you, buddy. He looked at the window and wanted to throw the rock through it himself. He ran to the street. Vague remnants of tire tracks had been obliterated by the persistent snow.
Inside, he put the rock in a plastic bag, placed it in Friday and marched with it to the basement. He stood thinking in the center of a room circumscribed by gun cabinets, their metallic odor unchecked by glass doors. All sizes. All heights. All filled. There was a cabinet for weapons according to manufacturer: Colt, Ruger, Smith and Wesson, Charter Arms, Dan Wesson. According to calibers:.25, 32, 38, 45. Cabinets for pistols, for revolvers, for rifles and carbines and machine guns and shotguns. One was engorged with spare parts and ammunition.
On a table near the Ruger cabinet, David opened Friday and replaced the.38 Special with a Super Blackhawk.44 Magnum.