Al picked up the phone and made the call to the Department of Licensing while I wrote up my report. People think that in this world of computers, the information police jurisdictions need is readily and instantly available. We should be able to feed minimal details into a machine and have the information back in a flash, right? Wrong.
The nature of bureaucracy is that things can only happen on schedule, and partial plate inquiries are printed only at night and mailed out the next day. Big Al finally made a deal so someone could at least come down to Olympia and pick the list up when it was ready. Then we’d be able to do the fun part, the physical labor of going through the list one at a time, by hand. Don’t tell me about computers being labor saving devices. I’m not convinced.
We sorted our way through the maze of bureaucratic bullshit and afterward, on our way to lunch, took a side trip through the crime lab, where we picked up a facsimile of the shoe print Bill Foster had gotten from the crime scene. By two-thirty we were on our way to the Arnold Medical Pavilion. For a change, traffic was light. We walked into the good doctor’s office right at three o’clock.
We were there. Dr. Leonard wasn’t. As soon as I gave the receptionist my name, she started apologizing.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t have a number, so I couldn’t get back to you. There’s been an accident. Dr. Leonard is back in surgery. We canceled all her appointments for the afternoon, and I didn’t know how to get ahold of you.”
“What about tomorrow morning?” I asked.
“Tomorrow looks good,” she said. “If you could be here by eight-thirty, I’ll try to get you in before the first patient.”
It was the best of a bad bargain.
We went back to the department and scrounged through what information we had, but nothing new turned up. After work, I went home and called the restaurant to make dinner reservations for Amy and Peters. I didn’t ask to speak to Darlene-I wasn’t up to that kind of mental sparring.
Once I was off the phone, I felt lonely, at loose ends. I finally went downstairs to see the girls. Trade and Heather were already tucked in bed, but they weren’t asleep. Mrs. Edwards was reading to them. She handed me the book, and I took over.
The book was
Little House on the Prairie.
The trials and tribulations of the Ingalls family were tame, pristine almost, when stacked up against the Nielsens and the Rushes of this world. Reading the story made me homesick for a saner, less sordid planet-one I’ve never lived on.
And never will.
CHAPTER 20
Nobody called me Friday morning, so naturally I overslept. It was already five to eight when I opened my eyes. I called the department and left word with Margie for Big Al to call me as soon as he got in, then I jumped into the shower.
My phone was ringing by the time I turned off the water. “You’re late,” Big Al groused when I answered.
“I noticed. Pick up a car and come get me,” I said.
“What do you think I am, your personal chauffeur? Do you want I should bring the limo?”
“Come on, Al. Get off it. I overslept. Come get me so we don’t miss our chance to see the lady doctor.”
I went outside to wait for him and was surprised to find there had been a definite change in the weather. Summers in Seattle are like that-hot one day and chilly the next. What visitors don’t understand is that too many days without rain, too many hours of uninterrupted sunshine, cause Seattlites to get crabby. They welcome the return of cool cloudy days. Several passersby smiled and nodded cheerful hellos as they walked by, bending into the chill wind tunnel that swirled around the base of my building.
Big Al picked me up in front of Belltown Terrace at 8:23, giving us just under seven minutes to drive through traffic and make it to the top of Madison for our appointment with Dr. W. Leonard. As he threaded his way through traffic, Al glanced in my direction.
“I’m just going to drop you off, if that’s all right with you.”
“Why?” I asked. “What are you up to?”
“Olympia,” he answered. “The Department of Licensing has our printout ready. They’re waiting for someone to come pick it up. I’m volunteering for the job.”
I didn’t object. Al had first dibs. He was the one who had checked out the car. He dropped me in front of the Arnold Medical Pavilion a few minutes late, but when I stepped off the elevator, the door to Dr. Leonard’s office was still locked. I knocked. A latch clicked and the door opened.
A squat, stocky woman with short-cropped yellowish gray hair and a pugnacious nose opened the door. She looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She was vital and alert. “What can I do for you?” she asked curtly.
“I’m looking for Dr. Leonard.”
“What do you want her for?”
“I need to discuss one of her patients.” I had already gone over this ground with the air-headed receptionist and I resented having to do it again with someone who was probably a cleaning lady.
“Which one?” the woman asked.
“Look,” I said, “couldn’t I just speak with the doctor? It would save a lot of time.”
“I am the doctor,“ she answered sharply. ”Now, which one of my patients do you want to discuss?“
From the severity of her tone, I knew I’d been reprimanded. Dr. Leonard and I weren’t exactly getting off on the right foot.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Leonard,” I apologized. “The patient is a woman by the name of Dorothy Nielsen. Her only son was murdered last Saturday.”
“Really!” she exclaimed, her shaggy eyebrows arching in surprise. With that, Dr. Wilhelmina Leonard swept open the door and motioned me into a waiting room. “My receptionist isn’t here yet. Let’s go back to my office, shall we?”
I followed her through a small suite of examining rooms and into a cramped, untidy office. Unlike Dr. Nielsen’s compulsively clean quarters, this one looked as if it had been bombed. The desk was littered with a jumbled mound of papers, files, and open magazines. Had she sat behind the desk, I doubt she would have been able to see over the top of it. Several sweaters and jackets were strewn around the room, and on a hook behind the door hung at least three tired lab jackets.
Dr. Leonard walked in, cleared one side chair of clothing and general debris, and casually tossed the resulting armload into one corner of the room. “Won’t you sit down?” she suggested, offering me the chair.
I sat. She perched on the front of the desk, while I worried about whether or not she would start an avalanche.
“Adele mentioned you to me yesterday. I seem to recall that she said something about you’re being a police officer. Is that true?” she asked suspiciously.
I nodded and gave her my identification, which she examined with exaggerated care. When she finished, she handed it back to me with a flourish. Then she leaned back on the desk, folding her arms across an ample waist.
“All right, then,” she said. “Now that I know you’re a legitimate police officer, what can I do for you?”
“As I said, I’d like to talk with you about Dorothy Nielsen.”
“First, maybe you’d better tell me about what happened to her son.”
That seemed fair enough. “Dr. Frederick Nielsen was murdered in his downtown office on Saturday afternoon by person or persons unknown.”
Dr. Leonard had sharp hazel eyes and a face that betrayed nothing of what was going on behind it. “How was he murdered?” she asked.
“Someone stabbed him with a dental pick. He bled to death.”
