Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [31]
“I’m Detective Shorter,” he said. He consulted a notebook. “You’re Mrs. Reed-Smith?”
“That’s right.”
“You were the one who discovered the body?”
“Yes. I’d forgotten something on my desk and … my desk is next to the one used by Mr. Paul.”
“You knew him?”
“Not well. I’ve really only had one conversation with him.” Annabel saw Dr. Broadhurst and Mary Beth Mullin being escorted into the room by LC’s director of security.
“When was the last time you saw him alive?” the detective asked.
Annabel judged Shorter to be in his early thirties, a light-skinned black man with clear green eyes and close-cropped curly black hair. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, and plain maroon knit tie. His manner was calm and seemingly detached, as though taking a political poll rather than asking about murder.
“I saw him briefly at a party on the terrace outside the Librarian’s office,” Annabel said. “That was maybe forty-five minutes ago. Could have been an hour.”
“Who was he with? You?”
“No. I don’t think he was with anyone in particular. We exchanged a few words, that was all.”
“Would you describe for me how you came to discover his body, Mrs. Reed-Smith?”
“Sure.”
Annabel provided a step-by-step description of having left the party, starting to leave the building, then realizing she’d left her notes and coming to the Hispanic room to retrieve them. Shorter took notes while she spoke.
“That’s about it for now,” he said, closing the notebook and slipping it into his jacket’s breast pocket.
“Is there any indication how he died?” Annabel asked.
Shorter ignored her question.
“Oh, when I arrived at the Hispanic room this evening, I heard someone over on that side of the room.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone, just heard movement.”
“I see. Well, I’m sure we’ll want to speak with you again. I have your address and phone number.”
“Am I free to leave?”
“I’ll ask my case supervisor.”
“Can I call my husband?” she asked, pulling her cell phone from her bag.
“Sure.”
The Washington, D.C., medical examiner arrived while Annabel called Mac in their car. The ME was accompanied by medical emergency personnel wearing white lab coats who guided a hospital stretcher on wheels through the reading room’s tables to the door leading to the stairs to the upper gallery.
“I suspect they’ll let me leave any minute,” Annabel told her husband.
Five minutes later, Detective Shorter and another man, who introduced himself as Detective Nastasi, came to Annabel and told her she was free to leave. She again called Mac before leaving the building. She spotted the Buick parked on the opposite side of First Street, away from the knot of official vehicles blocking the front of the library.
“Hell of a night for you,” he said, pulling away after she’d joined him.
“Certainly not what we’d planned.”
“How was he killed?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see any blood when I discovered him. I mean, I wasn’t looking for it. All I wanted to do was get out of there and find help. Not much of a witness.”
“Of course you wanted to get out of there.”
They stopped at a Chinese take-out restaurant and brought the food to their apartment in the Watergate complex. After Mac walked Rufus, and they’d changed for bed, they settled in chairs in front of the television set. The death led the ten o’clock newscast.
“One of the nation’s leading scholars on Christopher Columbus, Dr. Michele Paul, who worked at the Library of Congress, was found dead tonight in his office at the Jefferson Building. According to a spokesman for the Metropolitan Police Department, who requested anonymity, the cause of death appears to have been a blow to the head. We’ll report more details as we receive them.”
“Murder,” Annabel said to the room. “Guess I’ve been resisting the idea.”
“Unless he hit himself in the head. You said you heard someone when you walked into the Hispanic room?”
“Yes, but didn’t see anyone.”
“No hint of perfume trailing behind, no male smoker’s cough?”
“No. I fail the test.”
“Not with me. I’m off to bed.