I surveyed the office, noting its masculine, old clubby feel. There was a large leather couch to the right of the bookcase, a few book-themed prints on the walls, and a rolling bar near the spiral staircase. I pictured Mr. Parker in here, entertaining an author, or even a lady friend, after hours.
On the far side of the room was a long table stacked with books, and I realized that all the books were the same. Beneath the table were five open boxes that had obviously held the books. I walked to the table and saw that the book title was Death Knocks Once, and the author was Jay K. Lawrence, an author whom I’d read once or twice. I also noticed a box of Sharpies on the table, and I deduced that Jay K. Lawrence was going to be here today or in the very near future to sign his new book for the store. Or he’d already done so.
I snapped on my latex gloves and opened one of the books, but there was no autograph on the title page. Too bad. I would have liked to buy a signed copy. But maybe Jay Lawrence would be arriving shortly, and in anticipation of this I opened to the back flap where there was a bio and photo of Jay K. Lawrence. Most male crime writers look like they used their mug shots for the book jackets, but Mr. Lawrence was a bit of a pretty boy with well-coiffed hair, maybe a touch of makeup, and a little airbrushing. Jay Lawrence’s main character, I recalled, was a tough Los Angeles homicide detective named Rick Strong, and I wondered where in Mr. Lawrence’s pretty head this tough guy lived.
I read the short bio under the photo and learned that Jay Lawrence lived in LA. There was no mention of a wife and family, so he probably lived with his mommy and ten cats, and he loved to cook.
The next thing I had to do was call Lieutenant Ruiz. But if I did that, then this place would get real crowded. I needed to talk to Scott the clerk and to Mrs. Parker before this was announced as a homicide investigation, because when you say “homicide,” the whole game changes and people get weird or they get a lawyer. So, for the record, I didn’t see anything suspicious, and this is still an accident investigation.
I heard the door open below, and I looked down to see if it was Mrs. Parker, or maybe Jay Lawrence. But it was Officer Conner with my egg sandwich, which made me just as happy. I asked Conner to leave the bag on the counter.
My tummy was growling, but I needed to get as much done here as I could before Ruiz called me to ask what the story was. I called down to Rourke, “There may be an author coming in to sign books. Jay Lawrence. Just say there’s been an accident. I want to talk to him.”
He nodded and I turned back to the office.
I’m not supposed to touch or move too many things, but I did eyeball everything while my mind was in overdrive.
There was a door to the left of the bookcase, and I opened it and walked into a small room filled with file cabinets. To the right was an open bathroom door, and I stepped inside. The lights were on, and the toilet seat was down, indicating that a lady had used it last or that Otis Parker had a bowel movement. I also noticed that the sink was wet, and there was a damp paper towel in the trash can, and that paper towel would have lots of someone’s DNA on it. It’s amazing how much evidence is left behind in a bathroom. I’d have the CSU people start here.
I also noticed a toilet plunger standing on the floor in the corner. In the back of my mind I’d been looking for something…I didn’t know what it was, but I was sure I’d know it when I saw it. And this could be it.
Somebody-a Greek guy-once said, “Give me a lever long enough, and a place to stand, and I can move the world.” Or a bookcase.
Still wearing my latex gloves, I picked up the plunger and examined the wooden handle. One side of the rounded tip was slightly discolored, and there was a small dent or crease about halfway up the handle, on the opposite side of the discoloration.
I carried the plunger into the office and stood on the left side of the bookcase. I now noticed two things-a small dimple in the wood paneling and a small crease in the back edge of the bookcase, both about chest high. These marks were barely noticeable in the hard, dark wood, but they would match perfectly with the marks on the lighter and softer wood of the plunger handle. So it was obvious to me, as it would be obvious to the CSU team, the DA, and hopefully a jury, that the killer, after excusing him or herself to use the bathroom, returned quietly to the office and quickly slipped the plunger handle between the bookcase and the wood-paneled wall. Then that person pulled on the handle, using it as a lever to tilt the unbalanced bookcase an inch or so forward until gravity took over. For every action, said Sir Isaac Newton, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
I returned Part B of the murder weapon to the bathroom.
Now I knew two things: Otis Parker was murdered, and I also knew how he was murdered.
The only thing left to discover was who murdered him. And why. If you get the why, you usually get the who. As I’ve discovered in this business, when motive and opportunity coalesce, you get a crime. And when the crime is made to look like an accident, you look for someone close to the victim.
I needed a lot more time in this office, but the office wasn’t going anywhere and someone close to the victim-Scott the clerk-was cooling his heels in the stockroom and needed to be interviewed.
I removed my gloves and went down the stairs. I asked Rourke, “Where’s the stockroom?”
He indicated a closed door in the rear of the long bookstore. My ham and egg on a roll was calling my name, but it’s not professional to interview a witness with your mouth full, so I just grabbed the coffee and went through the door into the stockroom.
It was a fluorescent-lit space lined with metal shelving that held hundreds of books. The deep shelves looked stable enough, but after seeing what happened to poor Mr. Parker, the place made me nervous.
There was a long table in the center of the room, also stacked with books and paperwork, and at the table sat a uniformed officer-Simmons-and a young gent who must be Scott. I thought I may have seen him once or twice in the store.
There was a metal security door that led out to the back, and I opened the door and looked out into a paved yard surrounded by a brick wall about ten feet high. There were no gates leading to the adjoining backyards, but the walls could be scaled if you had something to stand on-or if you had a cop hot on your tail. Been there, done that-on both sides of the law. There was also a fire escape leading up to the top floor.
I closed the door and turned to Scott. I identified myself, pointing to my shield-the way the lady cop did in Fargo. Funny scene.
Officer Simmons, who’d been babysitting the witness as per procedure, asked, “Do you need me?”
“No. But stick around.”
He nodded, got up, and left.
I smiled at Scott, who did not return my smile. He still looked nervous and unhappy, maybe concerned about his future at the Dead End Bookstore.
My coffee was tepid, but I spotted a microwave sitting on a small table wedged between two bookcases, and I put my paper cup in the microwave. Twenty seconds? Maybe thirty.
There was a bulletin board above the table with a work schedule, and I saw that Scott was scheduled to come in at eight thirty a.m. today, and someone named Jennifer had a few afternoon hours scheduled this week. Not much of a staff, which meant not many people to interview. There was also a Post-it note saying, “J. Lawrence-10:00 a.m. Tuesday.” Today.
I retrieved my coffee from the microwave and sat across from Scott. He was a soft-looking guy in his midtwenties, short black hair, black T-shirt and pants, and a diamond stud in his left earlobe, which I think means he’s a Republican. Maybe I got that wrong. Anyway, I did remember him now-more for his almost surly attitude than his helpfulness.
I flipped through the dozen or so pages of Scott’s handwritten statement and saw he hadn’t yet finished with his account of who, what, where, and when. In this business, short statements are made by people with nothing to hide; long statements are a little suspicious, and this was a long statement.
As I perused his tight, neat handwriting, I said to him, “This seems to be a very helpful account of what happened here.”
“Thank you.”
I asked him, “Do you think the police arrived promptly?”
He nodded.
“Good. And the EMS?”
“Yeah…”
“Good.” And are you now thinking I’m here to evaluate the response to your 911 call? I’m not. I dropped his written statement on the table and asked him, “How you doin’?”
