slight blush came to Ms. Orwell’s face. She was embarrassed for Wistrom. Elliot couldn’t help but wonder why.
“I don’t know,” she said. “The grass is freshly cut. Maybe it was the last property he worked at.” She paused briefly, seeming to search for the right words. “Douglass might seem a little off-color at first,” she continued, “but he’s very dependable and always does an excellent job. He loves computers. That’s probably why he told you that. It’s what he wishes he did. He’s actually quite intelligent, when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Ms. Orwell rummaged through a leather bag slung over her shoulder. “He’s even published some articles,” she said, pulling two magazines from the bag and holding them out. “Here. I brought these for you.”
Elliot doubted a high-tech computer magazine and a backwoods survival publication could possibly relate to his investigation, but he took them anyway. At the very least, he might gain some insight into Wistrom. “Thanks.”
She nodded, her face taking on a serious tone. “Is Douglass in some kind of trouble?”
Elliot thought about that for a moment then said, “He was seen in the vicinity of a crime scene. We’re questioning everyone whom we suspect might have been there or seen something. Have you ever known him to become violent or enraged?”
She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He’s quiet, always does what we ask of him, never complains. You couldn’t ask for a better employee. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever missed a day of work.”
Elliot gazed through the windows for a moment then turned back. “How well do you know Douglass Wistrom, Ms. Orwell, and what’s the nature of your relationship?”
The same flash of color Elliot had seen earlier returned to Ms. Orwell’s face, her hand darting upward to fuss with her hair.
“There is no relationship. I can’t even say we’re friends and keep a straight face. I mean I’d be bordering on a lie, wouldn’t I. But he talks to me. He doesn’t do that with just anyone. Hardly anyone would be more accurate.”
Ms. Orwell glanced at the floor and straightened the leather bag she’d slung back over her shoulder. “I hope I’m not talking out of turn here, trying to do your job for you, but there’s a lot more to that man than he lets on.”
Douglass Wistrom had given Elliot the same impression, on the surface a cougar posing as a house cat. But Wistrom wasn’t Little Red Riding Hood’s nemesis, someone pretending to be what he was not. He was more like an actor who dresses as a man on one side and a woman on the other; though his act wasn’t one of gender, but one of character, Don Knotts on one side and Carey Grant on the other, and the line didn’t run down the middle, but swirled like the red and white of a peppermint stick.
Elliot’s phone rang, and he slapped it to his ear. It was Captain Harry Lundsford. Someone had been shot on St. Louis Avenue, just a few hundred feet from Douglass Wistrom’s apartment.
A young woman among the crowd briefly caught Elliot’s attention, moving around the edges of his vision. When he turned for a better look, she was gone, and a brief dizziness threatened his balance, leaving him unsettled and lightheaded. He walked clumsily past the police officers and knelt beside the body, an unnerving sensation sweeping through him, a sort of kinship, even an attraction to this fragile and complex female, as if her spirit had not grasped its fate and still hovered close by, and in its reaching out had touched Elliot in some ethereal and intimate way.
Several of the officers were leaning close together, talking about what they saw, and one of them remarked, “What a waste.”
This angered Elliot more than it should have, and almost before he realized his actions, he rose to his feet and clamped his hand tightly around the officer’s wrist.
Sergeant Conley appeared. He put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder and shook
“I don’t know,” she said. “The grass is freshly cut. Maybe it was the last property he worked at.” She paused briefly, seeming to search for the right words. “Douglass might seem a little off-color at first,” she continued, “but he’s very dependable and always does an excellent job. He loves computers. That’s probably why he told you that. It’s what he wishes he did. He’s actually quite intelligent, when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Ms. Orwell rummaged through a leather bag slung over her shoulder. “He’s even published some articles,” she said, pulling two magazines from the bag and holding them out. “Here. I brought these for you.”
Elliot doubted a high-tech computer magazine and a backwoods survival publication could possibly relate to his investigation, but he took them anyway. At the very least, he might gain some insight into Wistrom. “Thanks.”
She nodded, her face taking on a serious tone. “Is Douglass in some kind of trouble?”
Elliot thought about that for a moment then said, “He was seen in the vicinity of a crime scene. We’re questioning everyone whom we suspect might have been there or seen something. Have you ever known him to become violent or enraged?”
She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He’s quiet, always does what we ask of him, never complains. You couldn’t ask for a better employee. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever missed a day of work.”
Elliot gazed through the windows for a moment then turned back. “How well do you know Douglass Wistrom, Ms. Orwell, and what’s the nature of your relationship?”
The same flash of color Elliot had seen earlier returned to Ms. Orwell’s face, her hand darting upward to fuss with her hair.
“There is no relationship. I can’t even say we’re friends and keep a straight face. I mean I’d be bordering on a lie, wouldn’t I. But he talks to me. He doesn’t do that with just anyone. Hardly anyone would be more accurate.”
Ms. Orwell glanced at the floor and straightened the leather bag she’d slung back over her shoulder. “I hope I’m not talking out of turn here, trying to do your job for you, but there’s a lot more to that man than he lets on.”
Douglass Wistrom had given Elliot the same impression, on the surface a cougar posing as a house cat. But Wistrom wasn’t Little Red Riding Hood’s nemesis, someone pretending to be what he was not. He was more like an actor who dresses as a man on one side and a woman on the other; though his act wasn’t one of gender, but one of character, Don Knotts on one side and Carey Grant on the other, and the line didn’t run down the middle, but swirled like the red and white of a peppermint stick.
Elliot’s phone rang, and he slapped it to his ear. It was Captain Harry Lundsford. Someone had been shot on St. Louis Avenue, just a few hundred feet from Douglass Wistrom’s apartment.
A young woman among the crowd briefly caught Elliot’s attention, moving around the edges of his vision. When he turned for a better look, she was gone, and a brief dizziness threatened his balance, leaving him unsettled and lightheaded. He walked clumsily past the police officers and knelt beside the body, an unnerving sensation sweeping through him, a sort of kinship, even an attraction to this fragile and complex female, as if her spirit had not grasped its fate and still hovered close by, and in its reaching out had touched Elliot in some ethereal and intimate way.
Several of the officers were leaning close together, talking about what they saw, and one of them remarked, “What a waste.”
This angered Elliot more than it should have, and almost before he realized his actions, he rose to his feet and clamped his hand tightly around the officer’s wrist.
Sergeant Conley appeared. He put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder and shook
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