Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [132]
“I don’t think Charlotte did this,” Lee said, looking at the body. “She wasn’t angry—she was frightened.”
“Okay,” Butts replied. “But I’d sure like to know where she is.”
“So would I,” Lee agreed. “Let’s have a look at his patient files. Perkins is dead now—we don’t need a warrant,” he added in response to Officer Anderson’s inquiring look.
“Yeah—yeah, I guess you’re right,” the young policeman agreed. “Where do you suppose they’d be?”
“Well, I kept mine in a filing cabinet in my office,” Lee answered.
“So all we gotta to do is go back to his office,” Butts remarked, leading the way back downstairs to the consulting room at the back of the house.
The room’s proximity to the kitchen made Lee guess it was originally a maid’s bedroom. Though not as large as the upstairs bedrooms, it was a decent size, as elegantly furnished as the rest of the house, and with the same obsessive sense of order. The books were lined up on the built-in bookcase so that the spines were exactly even, and on the desk, not a thing was out of place. Lee’s office was full of mismatched pens, pencils of different lengths and various stages of working order, all tossed in with dried-up Magic Markers and paper clips. Perkins’s desk had two pewter mugs (antique, no doubt): one for pens, and one for pencils. All the pencils were exactly the same length, sharpened to perfect points, a circle of tiny spears jabbing toward the ceiling.
“Jeez,” Butts said, looking around. “Was this guy anal or what?”
“I wonder if his underwear is alphabetized,” Diesel remarked, and Officer Anderson giggled nervously.
“Yes, it does appear he had a case of OCD,” he said.
“Try not to touch anything,” Butts admonished Anderson as he ran a finger over the shiny surface of a table, apparently amazed at the lack of dust. The young cop jumped as though he’d been stung, and gave another nervous laugh.
“Yeah, right,” he said, and pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his uniform pocket.
“Got any more of those?” Butts asked.
“Uh, no—sorry,” Anderson said.
“Go into the kitchen and see if you can find more rubber gloves,” Butts instructed him. “Surgical would be best, but kitchen gloves are okay.”
“You think that’s necessary?” Lee asked.
“The whole house is a crime scene,” Butts replied. “We have to avoid destroying evidence of any kind, and that includes prints, trace evidence, that kind of thing.” He regarded Diesel, chewing on his lip. “You shouldn’t be in here at all. You said your dad was a cop?”
“Yes, he was,” Diesel replied, crossing his powerful arms over his chest.
“Okay, tell you what,” Butts said. “Why don’t you go out and stand guard and make sure no one gets into the house? And when the boys from Trenton arrive, you can explain things to them, okay?”
“You don’t have to treat me as though I’m ten,” Diesel replied, frowning. “I can just sit in the car.”
“No, no—it’d be really helpful,” Butts said earnestly. “I don’t want the locals getting too curious, y’know?”
“Very well,” Diesel said. Drawing himself up with a dignified scowl, he left the room.
Officer Anderson appeared with a box of surgical gloves, holding them out to Butts with the pride of a child who has done a very clever thing. “Will these do?” he said eagerly. “I found these under the sink—a whole box of them!”
“Fine,” Butts said, taking the box and handing a pair to Lee, while he put on another himself.
Officer Anderson looked disappointed, as if he had expected a pat on the back, or perhaps a lollipop.
Butts started looking through desk drawers, while Lee went to the wooden filing cabinet next to the desk. Starting at the top, he slid open the heavy oak drawer, and studied the folders inside. The top drawer was mainly about finances: the tabs, perfectly organized—and alphabetized—read, BANKING, followed by BILLS, PAID, and BILLS, UNPAID, and so on.
Meanwhile, Officer Anderson roamed the room restlessly, not touching anything, looking out of place and apprehensive.
“Any luck?” Butts grunted as he rifled through desk drawers, which Lee thought