'Unless she wasn't really in Nevada,” Gideon said. He told them about his talk with Julie and raised the possibility of Callie's trip being faked.
John was more receptive than he'd expected. “It's possible,” he said reasonably. “She could have fudged it. Julian Minor's going to give me a hand from up in Seattle. He loves to get into stuff like that. If there's anything funny about it, he'll dig it out.'
Gideon agreed. Julian Minor was another special agent who was often teamed with John. A reserved, methodical black man of fifty who spoke like a 1910 secretary's handbook ('At the present time...” “At a later date...” “In regard to your request...'), he was a whiz at unearthing facts and pinpointing contradictions. And somehow, he did it best from his desk on the seventh floor of the Federal Building in downtown Seattle.
Tilton had followed the conversation restlessly. “Who's Callie, one of your anthropologists?'
'That's right,” Gideon said, “one of the few who was here for both murders.'
'Nape, uh-uh, forget it. If a forensic anthropologist did this, I'll eat my hat. My fur-lined hat with earflaps, the one I wear when it snows.'
'What makes you say that?” Gideon asked.
'Well, the method,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I mean, really—simple blunt-force trauma?” His mouth curled contemptuously around the toothpick. “What kind of way is that for a forensic scientist to kill somebody?'
'Too unsubtle?” Gideon asked.
'Too physical, too risky, too much likelihood of getting caught. All that blood. Whoo.” He shook his head. “No, sir, these people are trained, just like you and me. They know things your everyday killer doesn't.” He leaned forward, jiggling the gum between his front teeth. “Knowing what I know, I could come up with half-a-dozen ways to commit an absolutely perfect murder if I had to. Untraceable. Couldn't you? And don't tell me you haven't thought about it.'
'I haven't,” Gideon said truthfully, “but I see what you're getting at. If I wanted to get away with murder, I certainly wouldn't bludgeon somebody with an old table leg and then just leave him sitting in his chair, waiting to be found. Along with the table leg.'
'You're darn tootin’ you wouldn't. And neither would any of the rest of them.” Tilton twirled his toothpick, brushed popcorn from his paunch, and got to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, I leave you to it. John, I'll have a report to you by tomorrow afternoon.'
'Okay, thanks, Dr. Tilton. I'll be in touch.'
John watched him go. “Doc, you buy this expert-murderer bit?'
'I think he's got a point.'
'Well, I don't.” He stood up and yawned, stretching. “Let me tell you, smart people do the goddamn dumbest things all the time.'
'You said a mouthful there,” Gideon said with a smile. “Great God-o-mighty.'
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER 18
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'No, the last time I saw Harlow would have been...oh...” Callie jutted her long chin out and up, and whooshed a sizable lungful of smoke at the ceiling. “...a little after noon. Probably about twelve-fifteen.'
'This was Tuesday?” John asked.
'Tuesday. In his cottage.'
'Would you mind telling me what you were talking about?'
'No, why should I mind? We were discussing his reason for not flying back with me for the curriculum meeting.” “Which was?'
She looked at her hands, running her thumb over the tips of her polished fingernails. “He said he wasn't feeling well.'
'What was the matter with him?'
'What was always the matter with him. His stomach.” The guy's just been murdered, John thought, and she's mad because he didn't make it to a meeting.
'Did he seem pretty sick to you?'
'Do you mean generally speaking, or Tuesday afternoon in particular?'
'Both.'
'No and no.'
John didn't like it when interviewees got cute. It led to misunderstandings. “You want to explain, please?'
'Frankly, I think the main thing wrong with his stomach was all the worrying he did about it. He didn't have anything worse than an intermittent generalized gastritis.'
That sounded bad enough to John. “Are you saying he could have made the meeting if he wanted to?'
'If he wanted to,” she said.
