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Authors: Sheila Connolly
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envelopes on my blotter that hadn’t been there before—presumably the checks that Charles had mentioned—so I shifted them to my in-box and faced Detective Hrivnak. “All right—what do you need?”
“Tell me again exactly what you did this morning.”
I went through the steps, adding more detail as more came back to me. The detective took some notes but mostly watched me, sneaking an occasional glance around my none-too-neat office. When I had finished, she asked, “Give me a time line for this shindig last night.”
I complied, giving her the rough schedule for the event. Afterwards, she said, “Right. So let me see if I’ve got this right. There were a couple of hundred people milling around downstairs last night, and nobody could have heard this guy fall?”
“That’s about it. It’s a concrete-reinforced building, built around 1900, so it would be impossible to hear anything even if the place were empty.”
“Who was there?”
I tried to think of a way to describe our guests. “Philadelphia society, plus some newcomers who can help us.”
“You mean rich people?”
“More or less. And society doesn’t mean the same thing here, inside these walls, as it does in the gossip columns. There are a lot of names that go back a couple of centuries, and they may or may not have money.”
“Noted. Any of them have any connection to the dead guy?”
“Not that I know of, but there’s no reason why I would know.”
“What can you tell me about the dead guy?”
“Alfred? He’s been here longer than I have—at least fifteen years. He loves his work; he’s happiest with his computer and with the collections. He’s never said an unkind word to anyone, in all the time I’ve been here. Of course, he tries not to see anyone at all—he’s really not comfortable around other people.” I realized I had slipped back into present tense again. This was going to be a hard adjustment to make.
“Family?”
“I can’t really say. I mean, I knew him, but I didn’t know him outside of work. I can’t remember him mentioning anybody. You’d have to ask our personnel director, who’s probably downstairs now.”
“Anybody else here close to him? What about his boss?”
“Not that I know of. His immediate supervisor is Latoya Anderson, the VP of collections. She’s been here about four years, and from what I’ve seen, they had a fairly formal relationship, strictly business. Is there anything else? The staff should be gathering downstairs by now. What can I tell them?”
“I think I’ve got all I need. You can tell them there was an accident.”
“Did he fall?”
“Looks like it. Hit his head on the concrete floor, cracked his skull, split his scalp open—that’s why there was so much blood; head wounds bleed a lot. You might want to keep your staff behind closed doors until we get the body out. I’m gonna go find your boss.”
The detective was out the door before I realized that I’d been dismissed. But for a moment I couldn’t move. I knew the people waiting downstairs needed to know what was going on, but I wanted a moment to myself before I tried to talk to them. Alfred, dead. I’d just talked to him yesterday.
I felt a chill. We’d talked about theft from the Society. But that couldn’t mean anything. The detective had said it was an accident. It had certainly looked like an accident, an unfortunate fall. Too many hard edges and creaky equipment in this building, and Alfred had put his foot wrong, or that old step stool had crumbled beneath him. It was very sad, but that was all.
I was going to have trouble erasing that scene. Even if and when the bloodstain disappeared from the hall carpet, I’d still remember seeing it there. And seeing Alfred, motionless and grey. At least no one apart from me and the police would have to see the body and the blood in the stacks.
Still stalling, because I wasn’t ready to face anybody, I riffled through the envelopes on my desk. If there
“Tell me again exactly what you did this morning.”
I went through the steps, adding more detail as more came back to me. The detective took some notes but mostly watched me, sneaking an occasional glance around my none-too-neat office. When I had finished, she asked, “Give me a time line for this shindig last night.”
I complied, giving her the rough schedule for the event. Afterwards, she said, “Right. So let me see if I’ve got this right. There were a couple of hundred people milling around downstairs last night, and nobody could have heard this guy fall?”
“That’s about it. It’s a concrete-reinforced building, built around 1900, so it would be impossible to hear anything even if the place were empty.”
“Who was there?”
I tried to think of a way to describe our guests. “Philadelphia society, plus some newcomers who can help us.”
“You mean rich people?”
“More or less. And society doesn’t mean the same thing here, inside these walls, as it does in the gossip columns. There are a lot of names that go back a couple of centuries, and they may or may not have money.”
“Noted. Any of them have any connection to the dead guy?”
“Not that I know of, but there’s no reason why I would know.”
“What can you tell me about the dead guy?”
“Alfred? He’s been here longer than I have—at least fifteen years. He loves his work; he’s happiest with his computer and with the collections. He’s never said an unkind word to anyone, in all the time I’ve been here. Of course, he tries not to see anyone at all—he’s really not comfortable around other people.” I realized I had slipped back into present tense again. This was going to be a hard adjustment to make.
“Family?”
“I can’t really say. I mean, I knew him, but I didn’t know him outside of work. I can’t remember him mentioning anybody. You’d have to ask our personnel director, who’s probably downstairs now.”
“Anybody else here close to him? What about his boss?”
“Not that I know of. His immediate supervisor is Latoya Anderson, the VP of collections. She’s been here about four years, and from what I’ve seen, they had a fairly formal relationship, strictly business. Is there anything else? The staff should be gathering downstairs by now. What can I tell them?”
“I think I’ve got all I need. You can tell them there was an accident.”
“Did he fall?”
“Looks like it. Hit his head on the concrete floor, cracked his skull, split his scalp open—that’s why there was so much blood; head wounds bleed a lot. You might want to keep your staff behind closed doors until we get the body out. I’m gonna go find your boss.”
The detective was out the door before I realized that I’d been dismissed. But for a moment I couldn’t move. I knew the people waiting downstairs needed to know what was going on, but I wanted a moment to myself before I tried to talk to them. Alfred, dead. I’d just talked to him yesterday.
I felt a chill. We’d talked about theft from the Society. But that couldn’t mean anything. The detective had said it was an accident. It had certainly looked like an accident, an unfortunate fall. Too many hard edges and creaky equipment in this building, and Alfred had put his foot wrong, or that old step stool had crumbled beneath him. It was very sad, but that was all.
I was going to have trouble erasing that scene. Even if and when the bloodstain disappeared from the hall carpet, I’d still remember seeing it there. And seeing Alfred, motionless and grey. At least no one apart from me and the police would have to see the body and the blood in the stacks.
Still stalling, because I wasn’t ready to face anybody, I riffled through the envelopes on my desk. If there
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