campus that occupied several full blocks. The building numbered 1841 was surrounded on three sides by a border of parking lots while the back with its waist-high loading dock butted up against a Burlington Northern railroad track. The main entryway was marked by two tall wrought-iron gates that opened onto a small interior courtyard and garden. A six-foot-high SPACE FOR LEASE sign had been tacked onto the wall next to the gate.
A small group of civilians, presumably workers from the building who had been displaced by the investigation, stood clustered on the far side of the first line of cars. Numerous Seattle P.D. patrol cars were scattered near the front entrance while a King County Medical Examiner's van, directed by a uniformed police officer, was just backing up to the opening.
'How come they're here before we are? I asked, nodding toward the M.E.'s van.
'Their people must have been awake when the call came in. Big Al's response was liberally laced with sarcasm, but I knew he had covered for me with Sergeant Watkins, and I let the dig pass without comment. Struggling to open the car door with my gimpy hand, I got out and started toward the van. As I came around the side of it, I almost ran over a little round-faced bald-headed guy. Startled, we both zigged and zagged, trying unsuccessfully to stay out of each other's way.
The uniformed officer looked up, saw me, and nodded briefly in my direction, but he spoke to the man in front of me. 'So you're going to have to stay back, Mr. Rennermann, at least until we finish getting people and equipment in and out.
'But this is my property! Rennermann objected, backing away a step or two. His already florid face reddened to a slightly brighter shade. 'You've got no right…
'We have every right in the world, the officer replied calmly. 'This is a police investigation.
He turned to me while the two technicians from the Medical Examiner's van hurried through the gate carrying a stretcher between them. 'Hello there, Detective Beaumont. The body's upstairs. Doc Baker said to send you up as soon as you got here.
'Who's he? I asked, nodding in Rennermann's direction. 'The landlord?
'That's right. He's the one who found the body.
I fumbled a notebook out of my pocket. One abortive attempt at writing was enough to convince me it was a lost cause. As long as the splints were on my fingers, holding a writing implement of any kind was out of the question. I stuffed the useless notebook back in my jacket, got out my ID, and flashed it in the landlord's direction.
Rennermann looked like the sales-crazed manager of a disreputable used car lot. He paced back and forth, his unbuttoned orange plaid sports coat jacket flapping wildly with every bouncing step. His tie was knotted slightly to the left of center, and he was perspiring heavily.
'Hello, Mr. Rennermann, I said, finally getting him to hold still. 'I'm Detective J.P. Beaumont of the Seattle Police Department. My partner, Detective Lindstrom, and I will be handling this case.
Big Al reached my side just in time to nod a brief acknowledgment to my introduction. 'This is the guy who found the body, Al. Do you mind taking down his information? My hand won't work.
Disgustedly, Al got out his own notebook. 'Give me your name, he said.
'Rennermann. Bernard Rennermann. My friends call me Bernie.
'And where can we find you when we finish up here?
'Over there. In the next building. That's where my office is.
Big Al jotted down Bernard Rennermann's name and phone number and snapped his notebook shut. 'You'll be there all morning?
'Yes, but-
'We'll come see you just as soon as we finish up here, Big Al said. 'We'll need to ask you some questions.
A panicked look washed over Bernard Rennermann's flushed face. 'But the new tenant is coming to look the place over today. What am I going to tell him?
'Tell him he's going to have to wait. Big Al, running low on patience, started moving away while he was still speaking. He pushed past Rennermann as a second uniformed cop appeared at the gate. 'Which way? Al asked.
'Upstairs, the officer replied. 'The elevator is just inside, right around the corner.
Al disappeared through the gate, but I wasn't ready to follow. 'Did you say new tenant? I asked, as Rennermann stared after Big Al's retreating figure. 'Does that mean this one was moving out?
Rennermann nodded, a little uneasily, I thought, although it was only a fleeting impression with nothing to back it up.
'He was in Chapter Seven, Bernard Rennermann continued. 'You know, involuntary bankruptcy. It's been in all the papers.
'I don't read papers.
'Oh, Rennermann said. 'Well, there was a long court fight, something about patent infringement. I guess the lawyers cost him an arm and a leg and ate up all the cash flow. Lawyers are like that. He lost anyway. In court. Lost the whole ball of wax. Kurobashi was scheduled to be out of here by the end of the month. In this market I was lucky as hell to find someone in the same kind of business who was willing to come in and take over the space without my having to do a whole lot of tenant improvements.
Big Al poked his head back through the gate. 'Are you coming or not? he demanded impatiently.
'I'll be right there. You be sure to stay in your office so we'll be able to find you, Mr. Rennermann. We won't be that long.
'But what about all these people out here who work for my other tenants in the building? When are they going to be able to go inside and start work?
I glanced across the parking lot where a mobile food vendor was making an unscheduled stop, unloading a batch of undrinkable coffee and stale Danish.
'The roach coach is here, so at least they won't starve, I said. 'They're going to have to wait outside until we give the word. Nobody's allowed in the building until after the crime-scene investigators have finished up, understand?
Rennermann sighed, nodded his head, and swiped at his damp forehead with a dingy, wrinkled hanky. 'This is real bad for business, you know. Bad public relations.
I left him standing there, still mopping his face. As the cop had said, the entrance to the building's elevator was just around the corner from the wrought-iron gates. Al was holding the buzzing elevator door open for me while the second uniformed patrolman, Officer Camden, waited patiently inside.
'What took you so long?
'I was talking to the landlord. He said the dead guy was losing his business.
'No wonder, Camden said.
'No wonder what?
'That he killed himself then. It's ugly in there, he added. 'He did a hell of a job of it.
'What did he use? A gun?
'Knife. Some kind of dagger. Cut himself up pretty badly.
'The M.E.'s pretty sure it's suicide then?
The officer nodded. 'So far, he said.
Once off the elevator on the second floor, we made our way down a short corridor and into a small reception area.
'He's in there, Camden told us, pointing toward a half-open door and making no attempt to accompany us through it.
The black-and-gold nameplate on the door said TADEO KUROBASHI, PRESIDENT. Through the narrow opening I could see the periodic flash of a police photographer's camera. Big Al and I went inside.
The room seemed smaller than it actually was. There was a desk with a gray computer terminal on it and next to the computer, facing into the room, was a tall gold-plated trophy of a woman on horseback. I read the inscription: Kimiko Kurobashi, Best All Around Cowgirl, U.S. Intercollegiate Rodeo Championship, 1982. The only other items on the desk were two pieces of a slender rosewood container, slightly curved and less than two feet long, a swatch of shiny black silk, and a bill to MicroBridge in the amount of $1,712.19 from a company called DataDump.
