“Sure. You want a Lipitor with that?”
“Coffee, black. Get a receipt.”
Lou Tripani made his way down the spiral staircase, and I asked Officer Rourke, “What do you think?”
He replied, “With all due respect for other opinions, I’m just not buying that this bookcase tipped over by itself.” He added, “Or that it tipped over at the exact time when this guy was at his desk-when the store was empty with no witnesses to see it and no one around who could’ve helped him.”
I informed him, “Shit happens.” I did concede, “Could be more than bad luck.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you interview the clerk?”
“Sure.” He informed me, “He seemed not quite right.”
“Meaning?”
“Something off there. Like he seemed more nervous than shocked.”
I don’t like to be prejudiced before I do an interview, but the clerk’s reaction, close to the time he discovered the body, was important and interesting. By now Scott had calmed down and I might see another emotion. I said to Rourke, “Stick around. Put the OPEN sign on the door, and if by some miracle there’s a customer, let them in and give me a holler.”
“Right.”
“And if and when Mrs. Parker shows up, let me handle the notification.”
He nodded.
“And let me know when my breakfast arrives.”
Officer Rourke went down the staircase. Not every uniformed cop wants to be a detective, but most of them have good instincts and experience, and a lot of cases have been solved or advanced because of the cop who first came on the scene. Rourke seemed smart, and he had a suspicious nature. I wouldn’t want to be Mrs. Rourke.
I looked at the bookcase again. It looked like an antique, like most of the expensive junk in this office. It was one of those…let’s say, ponderous Victorian pieces that decorators hate but men like.
I looked back at the deceased and mentally pictured the bookcase falling on top of him while he worked at his desk. The force of the object would be increased by its falling speed, like that apple that hit Sir Isaac on the head. But if this was murder, it was a risky way to do it. I mean, there was no guarantee that the bookcase would kill him. Score one against homicide.
But if it was murder, how was it done? It would take two people-or maybe one strong guy-to topple this bookcase. And obviously it would be someone he knew who was in his office at this hour. And the person or persons would say to him, “You just sit there, Otis, while we stand behind you and admire your books.” Then, “Okay, one, two, three-timber!”
Maybe. But without the one, two, three.
I noticed that the ten-foot-high bookcase was taller than it was wide, and the depth of the bookcase at the bottom was the same as the top, making it inherently unstable. Score another point against the bookcase being a murder weapon; it was, as Tripani said, an accident waiting to happen.
I looked at the spatter pattern of the books, the way you look at blood spatter, and I noticed that most of the books were lying near the front of the desk, with only a few toward the rear, indicating to me that the shelves had held more books toward the top, adding to the instability. Mr. Parker, who seemed smart to me, was not too smart about the danger of top-heavy objects.
I looked at the wall behind the bookcase and at the solid back of the piece to see if there were any screws or bolts that had pulled loose from the wood paneling. But there was nothing securing this massive piece of furniture to the wall-though I did see some old holes in the bookcase, indicating that previous owners had screwed this monster to something solid.
Most accidents, I’m convinced, are God’s way of getting rid of stupid people. Or if you believe in Darwinism, you wonder why there are any stupid people left in the world. Well, I guess they can reproduce before they remove themselves from the gene pool.
I also noticed that the oak floor had a slope to it, not uncommon in these creaky old buildings. The floor pitched a bit toward the desk and toward the edge of the loft. I’ve been in a thousand buildings like this, built in the last century, and the wooden rafters that hold up the floors are uneven, bowed, or warped, giving the floors some interesting tilts.
But what was it that caused this stationary object to suddenly topple away from the wall? Objects at rest, and all that. Well, if not human hands, then a few other things could have done it, the most obvious being the building settling. This can happen even after a hundred years. That’s how these places collapse now and then. Also, you get some heavy truck rumbling by on the street, and that can cause a vibration that would topple an unstable object. Same with construction equipment and guys working underground. Vibrations are also caused by heating and air conditioning units starting up. Even badly vented plumbing or steam pipes could cause a bang in the pipes that could possibly topple something that was on the verge of toppling. That’s exactly what happened in my old East Side tenement building to my mother’s prized Waterford crystal vase that her rich aunt gave her. Actually, I broke it. But that’s another story.
I was about to rule this a dumbicide, but then something caught my eye. I noticed on the oak floor that there was a faint outline where the bookcase had sat for some years, caused obviously by the fact that no one had washed or waxed the floor under the bookcase since it had been there. And I also noticed that there were outlines of two small objects that had sat on the floor and protruded from the front of the bookcase. You don’t have to be a detective to determine that these two outlines were made by furniture chocks or wedges-wood or rubber-that tipped the tall, heavy piece back against the wall for safety. So Mr. Parker was not so stupid-though I would have also shot some big bolts into the wall.
Point was the bookcase was probably not on the verge of toppling forward by itself if those wedges were there. And they were there. But where were they now? Not on the floor. I looked around the room, but I couldn’t find them.
I went to the rail and saw Officer Rourke sitting behind the counter reading a borrowed book. I called down to him, “Hey, did you see any furniture wedges on the floor when you got up here?”
“Any…? What?”
I explained and he replied, “No. Simmons and I ran up the stairs with the clerk, and we lifted the bookcase and leaned it back against the wall where you see it. I didn’t notice any furniture wedges on the floor.” He let me know, “Other than feeling for a pulse and heartbeat, we didn’t touch anything.” He added, “EMS arrived about three minutes later.”
“Okay.” So this has become the Case of the Missing Furniture Wedges. Let’s assume that no one who responded to the 911 call stole two furniture wedges. Let’s assume instead that the killer took them. Right. This was no accident. Otis Parker was murdered.
I said to Rourke, “Mum’s the word on furniture wedges.”
I turned away from the rail and stared at Otis Parker and the bookcase. Someone was in this room with him, someone he probably knew, and that person-or persons-had previously removed the two wedges from under the bookcase. Right. Two people. One to tip the heavy bookcase back a bit and the other to slide the wedges out and pocket them. Now the bookcase is unstable, and maybe made more so if someone transferred some of the books from the lower shelves to the higher ones. Maybe this was done yesterday, or a few days ago. And unfortunately for Otis Parker, he hadn’t noticed the slight lean of his bookcase away from the wall or that the wedges were missing.
So, early this morning, Otis Parker arrives and sits at his desk. Someone accompanied him, or met him here, probably by appointment. That person-or persons-goes to his bookcase to admire his leather-bound collection or maybe get a book. And while they’re at it, he, she, or they cause-in a manner not yet known-the bookcase to topple away from the wall, and the expected trajectory of the falling bookcase intersects with the seated victim. Splat! No contest.
I looked around the room. Now that I suspected murder, everything looked different. And everything and anything could be a clue. Stuff in the wastebasket, the victim’s datebook, his cell phone, the contents of his pockets and the contents of his stomach, and on and on. Hundreds of things that needed to be looked at, bagged, tagged, and parceled out to the forensic labs, the evidence storage room, and so forth, while Otis Parker himself was sliced and diced by Dr. Hines. What a difference a few minutes can make.
