There was a long pause.
The chief leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused, and I imagined he was picturing his secretary looking around to be certain no one was in earshot.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Colleen’s voice was barely audible. “Cougar.” I perched on the edge of his desk, looked at the screen. There was a line for a password, followed by asterisks. Curious.
“Cougar.” He made no effort to be quiet. “Thanks, Colleen.” He lifted his hands to the keyboard, typed.
I’d been a first-rate typist. I followed his fingers. He typed
To: Chief Cobb
From: Jacob Brandt, M.D.
Subject: Autopsy Report Daryl Murdoch Autopsy file attached. Cutting to the chase: Death resulted from gunshot to the left temple. .22 slug recovered, sent to OSBI laboratory. Probable time of death between 4 and 6:30
P.M. Preliminary survey shows no evidence drug use. Definitive toxicology tests under way. Victim right-handed. No trace of gunpowder residue on hand(s) of deceased. Suicide improbable.
The chief clicked. Information appeared on the screen superim-posed on the message, instructions on how to print. Another click.
Paper edged from a small square machine on the floor. The chief clicked again. The message disappeared. I studied the legend to the left of the screen. Apparently, the messages came into an in-box. One click and they appeared. Another click, a message was printed. Another click, the message disappeared. The chief reached down for the sheet, placed it in a folder.
Who would have thought such marvels were possible? I remembered how excited I’d been to have an electric typewriter. To think Wiggins still depended upon a Teletype. I would have to bring him up-to-date.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
Chief Cobb pressed a key and the message from the medical examiner disappeared. He swung a meaty hand toward his telephone, punched a couple of buttons, and leaned back in his chair.
I bent nearer the luminous screen. One
Suddenly a dour voice sounded. “Lab.” As I turned toward the sound, I accidentally touched the chief’s shoulder.
Chief Cobb’s head jerked. Looking puzzled, he lifted a hand and brushed his shoulder. He peered behind him.
I eased away.
The chief shrugged and spoke in the general direction of his telephone. “Sam here. What you got on the Murdoch slug?”
“Slammed into bone.” A gloomy voice, turgid as a silt-laden river, emanated from the squat rectangular plastic box beneath the telephone.
Conversing over a telephone without picking up the receiver. Another wonder.
The chief wrinkled his nose. “Too damaged to make an ID?”
“Yeah.”
“Twenty-two?”
“Yeah.”
Cobb’s eyes slitted. “You got anything helpful, Felix?”
“Some dust balls on the back of his suit coat. No dust balls in cemeteries.” A hoarse chuckle. “At least, not aboveground.”
“Dust balls?” Cobb glanced toward a register near the ceiling.
Little clumps of dirt wavered between vents.
“Yeah. Like when you clean up an attic or closet. House dirt.”
“Anything special about it?”
“Nope. Ordinary, everyday dirt fluff. Got some cat fur in it. He either wallowed around on a floor somewhere just before he got wasted or the body was moved to the cemetery. Look for a dusty floor and a black cat.”
G h o s t at Wo r k
I pictured the rectory back porch. Certainly there could have been dust on the tarp. Perhaps it was a favorite spot for Spoofer to nap.
“Yeah.” Chief Cobb grasped a pencil and drew a woolly blob.
“Thanks, Felix.” He reached forward, poked a button. His face was thoughtful as he turned to his desk. He pulled a notebook near.
I looked over his shoulder.
He wrote,
