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Authors: E. J. Copperman
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assume that’s all right.”
The sergeant looked me up and down, which did not make me more comfortable. “If you say so,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Don’t touch anything.”
Resisting the impulse to thank him for the vote of confidence, I nodded.
“Come on,” Duffy said.
I reached into my back pocket for a reporter’s notebook, which Duffy had undoubtedly seen. I always have something to write on in case an idea comes when it’s not convenient. I don’t own a smart phone, and I don’t much care for voice recorders; they are not as reliable as paper. Paper never runs out of battery power. In my side pocket was a pen, so I got that out as well.
“Fire away, Duffy,” I said. He’d want to detail everything he saw that he considered relevant, and that meant everything. Luckily, I knew his method. I had invented his method.
He walked to the center of the room, next to the card table, and began revolving, very slowly, to take in every area of the room. “No sign of a struggle. No blood on any surface. No overturned furniture. No broken glass in the kitchen. No indications that any large furniture or rugs have been removed.” I wrote down the list in my own shorthand, which only I would be able to decipher later. Good penmanship is not the same as writing well.
Duffy often says that what an investigator doesn’t see is at least as important as what he does see. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it sounds good when I write it.
“Why would someone have removed a rug?” the sergeant asked. I knew why, but I let Duffy have his moment.
“It’s one of the safer ways to remove a body without being noticed,” he answered. “Quite often blood and DNA evidence go with the rug. Even a live victim being transported could be carried in a rug once sedated.”
The sergeant looked impressed and maybe a little concerned.
“What is in the room that’s relevant?” I asked Duffy, to get him going a little quicker. Even though I didn’t see any evidence of foul play—and it seemed Duffy didn’t, either—I wasn’t crazy about being here and wanted to begin the interminable journey back to Adamstown, where I was absolutely itching to get to those revisions.
Duffy redirected his attention to the room. “The room is used mostly as a staging area for days at the beach,” he said. “There is an usual amount of sand near the back door where people would leave and return, and a line of sand from the back door to the folding chair by the card table indicates thatit had been taken there after a trip to the beach. There is a futon near the back for those times when Ms. Bledsoe might want to spend the night. The kitchen does not appear to be fully stocked, although we will have to check the cabinets.” One of the officers, hearing that, immediately opened some doors and looked inside.
“Nothing special,” he said. Duffy walked over to him to see for himself, but the cop kept talking. “Cereal boxes, some dishes, some spaghetti. Not much.”
Duffy gave me a glance as he got a vantage point. “Enough food for one person who wasn’t planning to stay long or two who were only staying overnight,” he said, and watched me write it down. “Cooking implements for the most basic functions. Cleaning supplies under the sink, again very limited. Just kitchen surface wipes, dishwashing detergent, and glass cleaner. This was not set up to be a long-term residence for anyone.”
“That’s not a huge surprise,” the sergeant said. “These are beach houses. People come down for weekends, mostly. If you’re using it as a summer rental, you’re probably in one of the bigger houses, renting an apartment.”
“True,” Duffy noted. “But Ms. Bledsoe came down here on occasion for a purpose other than recreation. The only piece of furniture in the room that doesn’t have a coat of dust on it is the card table in the center, yet there are no dishes in the drainer. It’s unlikely Ms. Bledsoe, or anyone
The sergeant looked me up and down, which did not make me more comfortable. “If you say so,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Don’t touch anything.”
Resisting the impulse to thank him for the vote of confidence, I nodded.
“Come on,” Duffy said.
I reached into my back pocket for a reporter’s notebook, which Duffy had undoubtedly seen. I always have something to write on in case an idea comes when it’s not convenient. I don’t own a smart phone, and I don’t much care for voice recorders; they are not as reliable as paper. Paper never runs out of battery power. In my side pocket was a pen, so I got that out as well.
“Fire away, Duffy,” I said. He’d want to detail everything he saw that he considered relevant, and that meant everything. Luckily, I knew his method. I had invented his method.
He walked to the center of the room, next to the card table, and began revolving, very slowly, to take in every area of the room. “No sign of a struggle. No blood on any surface. No overturned furniture. No broken glass in the kitchen. No indications that any large furniture or rugs have been removed.” I wrote down the list in my own shorthand, which only I would be able to decipher later. Good penmanship is not the same as writing well.
Duffy often says that what an investigator doesn’t see is at least as important as what he does see. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it sounds good when I write it.
“Why would someone have removed a rug?” the sergeant asked. I knew why, but I let Duffy have his moment.
“It’s one of the safer ways to remove a body without being noticed,” he answered. “Quite often blood and DNA evidence go with the rug. Even a live victim being transported could be carried in a rug once sedated.”
The sergeant looked impressed and maybe a little concerned.
“What is in the room that’s relevant?” I asked Duffy, to get him going a little quicker. Even though I didn’t see any evidence of foul play—and it seemed Duffy didn’t, either—I wasn’t crazy about being here and wanted to begin the interminable journey back to Adamstown, where I was absolutely itching to get to those revisions.
Duffy redirected his attention to the room. “The room is used mostly as a staging area for days at the beach,” he said. “There is an usual amount of sand near the back door where people would leave and return, and a line of sand from the back door to the folding chair by the card table indicates thatit had been taken there after a trip to the beach. There is a futon near the back for those times when Ms. Bledsoe might want to spend the night. The kitchen does not appear to be fully stocked, although we will have to check the cabinets.” One of the officers, hearing that, immediately opened some doors and looked inside.
“Nothing special,” he said. Duffy walked over to him to see for himself, but the cop kept talking. “Cereal boxes, some dishes, some spaghetti. Not much.”
Duffy gave me a glance as he got a vantage point. “Enough food for one person who wasn’t planning to stay long or two who were only staying overnight,” he said, and watched me write it down. “Cooking implements for the most basic functions. Cleaning supplies under the sink, again very limited. Just kitchen surface wipes, dishwashing detergent, and glass cleaner. This was not set up to be a long-term residence for anyone.”
“That’s not a huge surprise,” the sergeant said. “These are beach houses. People come down for weekends, mostly. If you’re using it as a summer rental, you’re probably in one of the bigger houses, renting an apartment.”
“True,” Duffy noted. “But Ms. Bledsoe came down here on occasion for a purpose other than recreation. The only piece of furniture in the room that doesn’t have a coat of dust on it is the card table in the center, yet there are no dishes in the drainer. It’s unlikely Ms. Bledsoe, or anyone
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