doorway and I heard the distant slam of a door. Still, I was careful. I slithered along the floor to the hall and on to the kitchen. As I poured the soda into the sink, the soft gurgle sounded in my ears as loud as Niagara.
I now faced the difficult challenge of transporting the can safely without blemish to the police station. I would likely have to appear at one point or another since a can of Coke wafting through the air, brilliantly visible against a bright blue sky, might provoke unfortunate attention.
I needed a plastic bag. When I appeared, I wanted to be sure I didn’t add my fingerprints or muss those on the can. I opened a cabinet and the hinges squeaked. The kitchen door opened.
Just in time, I placed the Coke behind a trash can.
The footsteps didn’t pause, though I scarcely heard them over the thud of my heart. When the room was empty, I opened other cabinets and on the fourth try found a container of gallon-size plastic bags. I unzipped a bag and dropped in the can. I opened the back door and stepped outside. I swooped as fast as possible to take cover within the dangling fronds of a willow.
I appeared and with one hurried glance over my shoulder walked fast. As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I waited until a pickup truck rattled past. I disappeared and joined a large German shepherd intelligently riding on a folded moving pad on the hot aluminum flatbed. I scratched behind his ears and rode until we reached downtown. A block from the police station, I zoomed up thirty feet. I hoped no eagle-eyed passersby would note the traveling can in the plastic bag. I reached the station without any startled cries from below.
I knew from past experience—I had a fleeting memory of a chilly October night and a rope ladder—that Chief Cobb’s office windows opened and closed, unlike some in more modern buildings. I pressed against the window shaded by a cottonwood.
Chief Cobb sat at his battered oak desk, his back to the windows. He was in his shirtsleeves, his suit jacket hanging from a coat tree.
Detective Sergeant Price perched on a corner of the desk. Price’s rugged features creased in concentration. He tapped a folder, then thrust it toward the chief.
Cobb flipped the folder open and looked down at the contents. His left hand pulled out a side drawer, fumbled in it, and emerged with a handful of M&M’s.
I looked at my watch. It had taken me twenty-four minutes to achieve my first objective and arrive here with my trophy. I placed the plastic bag with its precious contents on the window ledge. The minutes were ticking past.
I flowed into the chief’s office.
“…no fingerprints on the gun. Nothing on the dog bone.” Price grinned. “Didn’t make me popular in the lab. Slimier than algae.”
“Any luck on dog-bone sales?”
Price shook his head. “I’m supposed to get a buzz if they find anything.”
Time, time, time, I had so little time. I moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. I came up behind Hal Price and held the chalk above his head.
The chief looked up. He stiffened.
I pointed the chalk at Hal, then at the door.
The chief gobbled a half-dozen M&M’s. “Hey, Hal, print out the Phillipses’ autopsies. And make some calls and find out who takes care of Evelyn Hume’s eyes. I’d like a report on how well she sees.”
As the door closed behind Detective Sergeant Price, I was at the window and pulling up the sash. I grabbed the plastic bag.
Chief Cobb watched the plastic bag approach his desk and land squarely in front of him.
“I don’t like sodas.”
“You’ll like this one. Here’s what you need to do…”
In midstream I paused. “You don’t look well.”
He pointed at the plastic bag. “How did you get that can?”
“I took it. I needed it. You need it.”
“I’ll be fired. You can’t steal somebody’s fingerprints.”
I felt impatient. Men are so literal. “Don’t worry about it. Once you get these prints, then it will be easy to see if they are also at The Castle. I am absolutely sure they are. Then”—I spoke slowly—“you’ll know. Once you know, you can go about getting evidence the way you usually do.”
“Good.” His voice had a strangled sound. “I’d be all in favor of getting evidence the old-fashioned—” He stopped, his heavy face suddenly excited. “Yeah. If we know, I can either make an arrest or use the knowledge to get big-time cooperation. Threat of arrest on first-degree murder may get me a little canary song.”
“Exactly. You’ll also need an art expert. That won’t be hard.” I pulled his legal pad to one side of the desk, began to write. “I have a plan.”
Chief Cobb punched his intercom. “I need prints made from a Coke can. ASAP.” He frowned in thought, then affixed a piece of tape to the plastic bag, identifying the contents and assigning the case number.
His door opened in less than three minutes. A slender woman in a beige smock and blue slacks took the plastic bag. “Fifteen minutes, Chief.”
“Thanks.” He reached for his phone.
When Detective Sergeant Price returned, Chief Cobb waved away the autopsy reports. “I got a tip. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He dispatched Price to pick up the expert.
True to her word, the technician returned with a sheet of fingerprints in fifteen minutes.
