funny, because it was too cold outside to go barefoot, and there wasn’t a cigarette burn on the floor of Ms. Donohue’s sewing room.” It probably wasn’t important, but Mike wrote it down, because it was odd and you never knew. “Well, thank you, Doctor. Let me know when you’re ready to do the autopsy.”
“I’ll do that.”
Malloy, a medium-tall fellow with dark red hair and freckles thickly strewn across his thin-lipped face, sighed as he went out to his car to begin the tedious work of finding out about Ryan’s last hours.
S HELLY, called out of the classroom, was interviewed with her live-in boyfriend, Harvey Fogelman, who’d been called away from his job at Exterior Artists, an architectural firm.
They said they were in bed asleep when Ryan came in, and so had no idea what time that might have been.
“So he has his own key?” asked Mike, notebook at the ready.
“Well, he has a key to the room he sleeps—slept in,” said Harvey, whose craggy features were the deep bronze color only hours in the outdoors can bring. Mike had discovered that Harvey was a landscape architect. Whatever “landscape architect” was, Harvey’s role was a great deal away from the drawing table.
Shelly continued, “We almost never lock our doors, unless we’re going out of town for a weekend or longer, which didn’t happen while he was living with us. But I made a copy of the key to my sewing room so he could have some privacy when he was in there.”
“He was supposed to stay with us just for a few days, at most a week,” Harvey put in, with a glance at Shelly. By the look Shelly was giving him, Ryan’s being allowed in the house at all was a deal made between Harvey and Ryan over Shelly’s objections.
“And instead, how long did Mr. McMurphy stay?” Mike asked.
“It would have been three weeks tomorrow,” she said tightly. “I wouldn’t have been so angry about it, except that he fell off the wagon. He got drunk every night starting last Thursday. I don’t know what started him drinking again. I believed him when he said he would quit. And then . . . this.” Her voice rose higher than usual, with more vibrato in it. She clearly was very upset—understandably so, since she was the one who came home to find the body. And in her sewing room.
Mike remembered a favorite aunt who had a room set aside for her quilting and knitting. It was a holy place; he was allowed in there only rarely. And once in, he had to step carefully, not touch or spill anything. So he could see how much worse it would be to have someone using the sacred place as a bedroom, much less to lie down and die in it!
“I believed him, too,” said Harvey in his deep, calm voice. “I would never have invited him to camp with us if I thought he’d overstay his welcome or get sloppy drunk every night.”
“Do you know where he’d go drinking?” asked Mike. “I’m trying to find out who saw him last.”
“No,” said Shelly, shaking her head. “His car isn’t parked around here, remember? Your men went searching for it but couldn’t find it. So maybe it was a friend who gave him a ride home from wherever he was last.”
“But we don’t know who the friend was,” said Harvey.
“Maybe it was Joey,” Shelly suggested to Harvey.
“Joey?” asked Mike.
“A drinking buddy. I don’t know his last name. He used to be a fireman until his arm got messed up.”
“Ah, Joey Mitchell. Thank you.” He wrote that down, thanked them, and left.
Joey Mitchell worked for an insurance adjuster, and when Mike arrived at his office, he said he was overdue for a coffee break. He took Mike to a small break room empty of other employees, and they sat down on flimsy plastic chairs at a Formica table.
Joey hadn’t brought Ryan home Sunday night, nor could he think offhand who might’ve done so. But he did know McMurphy’s watering spots. He named Haskell’s in Excelsior, and then some bars east of town. His favorites
“I’ll do that.”
Malloy, a medium-tall fellow with dark red hair and freckles thickly strewn across his thin-lipped face, sighed as he went out to his car to begin the tedious work of finding out about Ryan’s last hours.
S HELLY, called out of the classroom, was interviewed with her live-in boyfriend, Harvey Fogelman, who’d been called away from his job at Exterior Artists, an architectural firm.
They said they were in bed asleep when Ryan came in, and so had no idea what time that might have been.
“So he has his own key?” asked Mike, notebook at the ready.
“Well, he has a key to the room he sleeps—slept in,” said Harvey, whose craggy features were the deep bronze color only hours in the outdoors can bring. Mike had discovered that Harvey was a landscape architect. Whatever “landscape architect” was, Harvey’s role was a great deal away from the drawing table.
Shelly continued, “We almost never lock our doors, unless we’re going out of town for a weekend or longer, which didn’t happen while he was living with us. But I made a copy of the key to my sewing room so he could have some privacy when he was in there.”
“He was supposed to stay with us just for a few days, at most a week,” Harvey put in, with a glance at Shelly. By the look Shelly was giving him, Ryan’s being allowed in the house at all was a deal made between Harvey and Ryan over Shelly’s objections.
“And instead, how long did Mr. McMurphy stay?” Mike asked.
“It would have been three weeks tomorrow,” she said tightly. “I wouldn’t have been so angry about it, except that he fell off the wagon. He got drunk every night starting last Thursday. I don’t know what started him drinking again. I believed him when he said he would quit. And then . . . this.” Her voice rose higher than usual, with more vibrato in it. She clearly was very upset—understandably so, since she was the one who came home to find the body. And in her sewing room.
Mike remembered a favorite aunt who had a room set aside for her quilting and knitting. It was a holy place; he was allowed in there only rarely. And once in, he had to step carefully, not touch or spill anything. So he could see how much worse it would be to have someone using the sacred place as a bedroom, much less to lie down and die in it!
“I believed him, too,” said Harvey in his deep, calm voice. “I would never have invited him to camp with us if I thought he’d overstay his welcome or get sloppy drunk every night.”
“Do you know where he’d go drinking?” asked Mike. “I’m trying to find out who saw him last.”
“No,” said Shelly, shaking her head. “His car isn’t parked around here, remember? Your men went searching for it but couldn’t find it. So maybe it was a friend who gave him a ride home from wherever he was last.”
“But we don’t know who the friend was,” said Harvey.
“Maybe it was Joey,” Shelly suggested to Harvey.
“Joey?” asked Mike.
“A drinking buddy. I don’t know his last name. He used to be a fireman until his arm got messed up.”
“Ah, Joey Mitchell. Thank you.” He wrote that down, thanked them, and left.
Joey Mitchell worked for an insurance adjuster, and when Mike arrived at his office, he said he was overdue for a coffee break. He took Mike to a small break room empty of other employees, and they sat down on flimsy plastic chairs at a Formica table.
Joey hadn’t brought Ryan home Sunday night, nor could he think offhand who might’ve done so. But he did know McMurphy’s watering spots. He named Haskell’s in Excelsior, and then some bars east of town. His favorites
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