The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [51]
“We heard some of that, too,” said Hester, pressing her fork through a slice of lemon meringue. “Do you know who these men were?”
“I think one was a Grossman … hired man or something,” said Nancy. “I’d have to look around for the second one’s name …” She carefully balanced large red cherries on the end of her fork, with fragments of a beautifully crumbly sugared crust clinging to the thick syrup.
“We don’t know where that came from,” I said, which was pretty much true. Just who might have started it when they were interrupted in a burglary. But they hadn’t told anybody, that was for sure. So I wasn’t really lying.
“They were sure convinced,” said Shamrock. She took a bite of French Silk, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
“Well, there weren’t cops killed. So I don’t know how that got going,” I said, again. I fiddled with my pumpkin pie, sans whipped cream. My diet program.
“Maybe somebody thought they were cops?” asked Nancy. “Good lead story, any way you cut it.”
Ah. The stick.
“Wouldn’t something more accurate be better?” asked Hester.
Of course it would. But what could we do?
My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress. “Phone for you, Carl.”
I excused myself, and took the call at the phone in the kitchen. It was Sally. The bodies were thawed and Dr. Peters was ready to do the autopsies. Would an officer be available at the Manchester Hospital in the next hour or so? Art was still busy, so it was going to have to be somebody from our department. Right. If I knew Art, he was ducking the autopsy, the same way he did when he was a deputy sheriff. He’d hated autopsies as long as I’d known him …
I walked back to the table. “Shamrock, I don’t have my camera with me. Could we hire you to do some shots for us. In Manchester?”
Nancy knew an opening when she saw one. “Sure, she will,” she said. “I’ll come, too.”
Hester shot me a glance, and mouthed “autopsy.” I nodded. She grinned. We do think alike.
The deal was, the department got professional, first-class autopsy shots, for a reasonable price. Shamrock got to take two cameras in, taking whatever shots for herself that she thought she’d need. I’d provide death-related information, and they’d get to hear the comments of Dr. Peters. Just the latter, in itself, was one hell of a lot. I let on as if I was really sticking my neck out, but the truth was we had used professional photographers many times before. Although it was true that the Maitland Examiner newspaper was usually the provider. Nonetheless, it was a precedent, and I felt covered. There was a chance that Lamar would be pissed, but if the results justified this …
In exchange, Nancy and Shamrock would latch on to the folks who thought the victims had been cops, and find out what the hell was going on with them. Especially the older male subject at the Borglan place. For us. They’d tell us just the information that was in regard to the cop bit. No obligation to say anything else. Deal? You bet.
“So, how soon do we get to release this stuff?” Nancy got out her notebook, a pen, and poised.
“Not sure,” I said, “but I can guarantee you get it before anybody else.”
“Gotta have at least twenty-four hours on everybody, or no deal. ‘Before anybody else’ won’t cut it.”
“Okay. But there has to be at least one critical detail held back,” I said. “Number of shots, for example. Or caliber.”
“Number of shots?” said Nancy. “Oooh, I like it when you talk like that.”
I turned to Shamrock. “You ever do an autopsy before? I don’t want to have to get you a wastebasket …”
“All the time. Bread and butter since fourth grade.”
“No distractions for the doc,” I said. “I’m serious. If you start to quease out on us, just excuse yourself, and leave me the camera.”
“Sure, boss,” said Shamrock. “No problem.”
As we left Hester, she gave me some of the best advice I’d ever had on a case.
“Houseman,” she said, “the Art business is distracting you from the case. You try too hard to get along with him, you’ll end up with a mess.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. And keep in touch.”
We headed off to