I broke the momentary silence by asking, “A paper calendar? This guy worked for Benton Dynamics. He’d have a digital calendar on his office computer, as well as one on his phone. This would be his third calendar. What do you make of that?”
“For personal stuff, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Benton Dynamics is a defense contractor. Research and development of highly classified weapon systems. The company probably monitors its employees’ office calendars. Cellphones aren’t secure. But nobody could see what’s in a paper calendar.”
She seemed disinterested in what I was saying about the pocket calendar and instead turned toward a deputy standing near overgrown cattails along the shore of Opossum Creek. The drifting fog started to thin out. The rumble of an outboard motor broke the misty stillness. From the mouth of the creek, a small aluminum boat approached in a slow zig-zag pattern. A search light peered into the recesses along the banks. Long tree roots drooped into the water like stalactites. Two men in scuba gear sat in the front of the small boat. Sheriff Tompkins and I headed toward the water, which smelled swampy, thick, and dank.
The sheriff spoke into the police radio clipped to her jacket lapel. “Hey, Bill, anything farther out? Over.”
After a buzz of static, the pilot of the aluminum boat replied over the radio, “Copy that. Nothing floating on the surface. Nothing on sonar. Over.”
The sheriff ordered the boat and divers back to the docks. They were done here.
I reached into my blazer for my car keys when Sheriff Tompkins faced me again and asked, “So what else can you tell me about the lawsuit against Kostas?”
“Benton Dynamics claimed that he copied computer files without authorization. They want them back, originals and all copies. Probably didn’t want him taking all that to a new employer. I’ll be happy to photocopy the complaint for you.”
She nodded slightly, but did not reply one way or the other. The Sheriff’s Department was across the street from the Circuit Court of Chester County, so she would probably get the clerks to copy the entire file instead of trusting a private attorney like me for the documents.
High above, the silvery glow of moonlight illuminated the remaining fog. The night seemed to press into us, and a lone horn echoed across the bay. A question gnawed at me, so I asked Sheriff Tompkins, “How did he die?”
“The coroner will figure that out.”
“Chester Hospital Center?”
“No,” she replied. “He’s heading straight to Baltimore.”
I could have continued asking questions, but I stopped there, not wanting to annoy the sheriff and get tossed off the crime scene. A coroner wearing a yellow windbreaker with his title printed across the back stood near the ambulance. He could sign a death certificate at Chester Hospital Center if Richard Kostas had died from accidental or natural causes. State law required the police and local coroners to report all suicides and homicides to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore. A staff doctor there would decide if the circumstances warranted an autopsy at OCME. Apparently, that decision had already been made. The sheriff was holding back something that ruled out an accident or natural causes. This was either a suicide or a murder.
I pressed my luck and said, “Kostas got fired, was being sued, and would probably lose his security clearance. He had a tough road ahead of him. My guess is suicide.”
“Possibly,” she replied, but not convincingly.
The sheriff gestured sharply to the paramedics waiting at the back of the ambulance. They slammed the back doors shut and climbed into the front seats. The sheriff and I watched the ambulance pull slowly down the country lane toward Route 417 without turning on its flashing lights or siren.
Sheriff Tompkins asked me, “So who else was in your office this afternoon?”
“Nobody. Got back from District Court after the morning docket and had a paperwork day. Did some catching up.”
“I really appreciate your cooperation tonight, Mr. Seagraves. You’ve helped fill me in on some of this. Maybe you’d come down to the station while my team pieces it all together. Won’t take long. There’re some other questions in my head, and maybe you can help with our investigation some more. We got this new coffeemaker. Espressos, cappuccinos, if you like that kind of stuff.”
“Sounds fancy, but no thanks, Sheriff. It’s been a long day. My offer to copy all of the court papers stands. I’ve told you all I really know, so I’m heading home.”
“Mr. Seagraves, we’re in the process of notifying family and all that. I’d appreciate it if you’d be discreet about tonight for a while.”
“No problem.”
“And can I get your home address and email?”
I handed her my business card. “The same as my office.”
She tucked my card into a jacket pocket without looking at it. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Seagraves.”
I got in my Barracuda and fired up the ignition. There was no way I could blame Sheriff Tompkins for having more questions. I supposed that was what you got in this world for doing the right thing and telling the truth. On the surface, I had previous contact with the dead man, no explanation why he missed his appointment, and no one around this afternoon to substantiate my alibi. The sheriff did not think it was an accident or a suicide, but she would not tell me why. A first-year law student who slept through half the lectures could have figured out what the sheriff had to be thinking.
I was a suspect.
2
The next morning, I walked past the front windows of the Sheriff’s Department on my way to the courthouse. Normally, the deputies stared into their computer screens and spoke on the phone, but the staff was darting between desks. During my short time
