'They told him what to say,' I said.
'Sure,' Belson said. He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at it for a moment and threw it hard into the wastebasket.
'What about the rope being wrong, and the gun being different, and no semen?'
Quirk grinned. 'Guy from the mayor's office says it proves he's the one. Says if he was a copycat he'd have got it right. Says because it was his wife he couldn't ejaculate.'
'The gun too?'
'Says he probably got rid of it to cover himself and got another one.'
Quirk said.
'Can't be a dope and work in the mayor's office,' I said. 'What about Washburn?'
'Managed a hamburger joint over on Huntington Ave. No connection with the cops, no record of a registered gun except the murder weapon. No previous record, except one DWI.'
'What did he do with the previous gun?' I said.
'Took a cruise on the Jazz Boat, dropped it over the middle of the harbor.'
'He know you?'
Quirk shook his head. 'Nope. Says he looked up my address after he saw my name in the paper, but he forgot it.'
'Why'd he claim to be a cop?'
'Wanted to confuse us,' Belson said.
We were quiet in the room. There was an elongated rectangle of sun sprawling across Quirk's nearly empty desk. On the desk was a picture of Quirk's wife, three children, and dog. There was a desk clock that told you the time all over the world. It was never clear why Quirk wanted to know. Quirk was leaning back in his swivel chair, sucking on his lower lip.
'Susan doesn't say absolutely that her guy can't be the guy, does she?'
Belson said.
'Shrinks don't say absolutely anything,' I said.
'She think he'll come back?'
'Shrinks don't know what people are going to do. They only know why they did it,' I said.
'Like cops,' Quirk said.
'Except they don't usually know why they did it,' I said.
'True,' Quirk said. He picked up the picture of his dog from his desk and placed it half an inch closer to the pictures of his children. The rhomboid of sun across his desktop had shifted slightly toward me.
'We've got to know about this guy that left the rose for Susan,' Quirk said.
'Yes,' I said.
'Washburn was into his second aria for the brass when this guy dropped the rose,' Belson said.
'So if he is Red Rose, who the hell is this guy?' Quirk said.
'And if Washburn isn't Red Rose,' Belson said.
'Yes,' I said.
The three of us sat quietly looking at nothing.
'It isn't Washburn,' Quirk said.
I looked at Belson.
'Washburn did his wife,' Belson said. 'He didn't do the rest.'
'Maybe.'
I said.
'Probably,' Quirk said.
'It ain't Washburn,' Belson said. 'Hawk with Susan?' Quirk said.
'Yeah.'
'Good.'
Washburn was famous by morning. His name was on the lips of Jane Pauley and his face was on the front page of everyone's morning paper. The mayor was on CNN congratulating the police commissioner, and the police commissioner was generously crediting hard work by the entire department. Six paragraphs into the front page story in the Globe was an allusion to Police Lieutenant Martin Quirk, the homicide commander, who expressed some reservations. In paragraph ten it was mentioned that a Boston private detective who had been working on the case with the police was unavailable for comment.
'I'm available,' I said.
