The Authorities, page 10
Shaw drew in a deep breath. “That’s a complicated question. I don’t know what’s in his will. I have to assume his share goes to Olivia, but I’d argue that I already own most of the building. I’ve been slowly buying it from him so that when he retires I’ll own it outright.”
“And when was he planning to retire?” Max asked.
“In a couple of years. Like I said, I’ve already paid for most of the building.”
“But is it in your name?”
“No, it’s in Daniel’s name, so I suppose it’s Olivia’s now, but she knows about our arrangement. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“Good,” Max said. He paused for a moment. “We have heard that there is a patient who has expressed displeasure with Dr. Arledge. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, but we didn’t really discuss our patients with each other much.”
“Understandable. Still, did you see or hear anything to indicate that a patient might be a danger to Dr. Arledge?”
“No,” Shaw said. “Nothing. But, I mean, we’re therapists. Our patients don’t always behave rationally.”
Max leaned forward, interested. “I thought he specialized in overstressed businessmen.”
“He did. We did. I still do, but he changed his focus in the last year or so. He had a nice nest egg, and retirement was coming fast. In those circumstances, a guy’s priorities can shift. I think he wanted to make sure he was remembered as a good psychologist, not just a successful one, if that makes sense. He stopped taking on as many paying clients, started spending his time doing pro bono work studying low-grade social disorders. He hoped to write a book about it. He was trying to use group therapy to identify the point at which an antisocial decision pattern becomes a treatable disorder. Very interesting work.”
“So his clientele had changed.”
“Very much so.”
“Were any of his new patients prone to violence?”
“Possibly.”
Max thought for a long moment. “I know that HIPAA confidentiality rules make it difficult to obtain information about a doctor’s patients.”
“Yes,” Shaw said. “I’d never want to be accused of violating the privacy of the clinic’s patients. On the other hand, I want very badly to know who killed Daniel. I think I can supply the police with the names, addresses, and broad descriptions of his current patients without divulging any confidential information about their treatment.”
Max said, “That would be most helpful.” He sat silently for a moment, then he stood up, signaling to everyone in the room that the interview was over. Dr. Shaw stood and started walking toward the door.
As he followed, Max said, “One last quick question, Doctor. We have a specific plan of how we intend to proceed, but you have the advantage of knowing the victim and the people in his life. If you were investigating this, who would you talk to next?”
“Well, as I said, I assume you’ll want to talk to Olivia.”
“That’s the victim’s widow, yes? Indeed we will, but do you think it likely that she could be involved?”
“I have a hard time believing it, but you should definitely talk to her. The sooner you eliminate those of us who were close to him, the sooner you’ll find the killer.”
NINE
As the team was walking back to their cars, Terri grumbled, “We’re off to a rough start.”
“I don’t know about that,” Max said. “We don’t have any firm leads yet, but we only just got the case.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” Terri said. “Or to you.” She looked back over her shoulder at the people following her until she pinned her gaze on Rutherford.
“Look, I’m sure it’s easy for you to go rogue and do whatever you feel like doing, but I’m the one who’s going to have to explain your actions to our boss. I don’t need him chewing me out because you don’t think the rules should apply to you.”
“All I did was strike up a conversation.”
“A friendly conversation about interior design, in which you came off as a bright, tasteful, professional young man.”
“Thank you,” Rutherford said.
“Don’t thank me, Rutherford. That was criticism. Withering criticism!”
Professor Sherwood, who was walking toward the back of the group, asked, “Is that really what we’re calling him? Rutherford?”
“That is my name,” Rutherford said.
“It seems, I don’t know, disrespectful,” Sherwood said. “Maybe it’s a generational thing.”
Max said, “Perhaps we should call him Mr. Rutherford, or Detective Rutherford.”
Sherwood said, “See, and that seems too formal.”
Albert said, “We call you Professor Sherwood.”
“Yes, but I’m a college professor. The job is inherently formal.”
Rutherford asked, “Where do you teach?”
“North Seattle Community College.”
Rutherford said, “Huh.”
“You’ve seen it,” Albert said. “It’s that big concrete building with the floodlights across the freeway from Northgate Mall.”
Rutherford said, “Yeah, I know it. I used to think it was a prison.”
“In a sense, it is,” Max said. “All community colleges are prisons of a sort. People get sent there as punishment for getting bad grades.”
Albert said, “Or for having one of their bees sting their university’s biggest donor, eh, Professor Sherwood?”
“I should have never told you that story, and I’ll repeat, it wasn’t my bee, it was just a bee. The dean had always wanted me off his campus. That was his excuse.”
“Why’d he have it in for you?” Rutherford asked.
“Because he was allergic to bees, Detective Rutherford.”
“Rutherford,” Terri said. “We call him Rutherford, because Mr. Capp says that we have to call him Rutherford, which is all the reason we need. Beyond that, Rutherford sounds cool and it fits the image he’s supposed to be portraying.”
“And his first name doesn’t sound cool?” Professor Sherwood asked.
“My first name is Sinclair,” Rutherford said.
Albert said, “Maybe a nickname. We could call him Sin.”
Everyone considered this in silence for a moment, then Albert, Max, and Sherwood all chuckled for no readily apparent reason.
Terri laughed as well, then said, “Sin is a good idea, but it isn’t Mr. Capp’s idea, so we all know it isn’t going to happen.” She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking, but her expression changed quickly to confusion. She stopped walking, then stepped to the side to look past the four men who were following her. Max, Rutherford, Albert, and Professor Sherwood all turned too, and saw that Sloan had stopped walking and was standing on the sidewalk, leaning on her cane, looking down an alley. She looked back at the police lines, now nearly a full block behind them, then glanced at the rest of the team.
Max said, “She’s right. That alley would make a great place to leave a murder weapon.”
“Yes,” Terri said. “I suppose it would, and the cops don’t seem interested in searching it. You should go check it out. The rest of us will head to the cars and wait for you.” She glanced back down the street, her eyes narrowing in on the tall satellite mast of a local TV station news truck. Beneath it, a sleek blonde woman with a microphone was standing in front of bright lights and a camera.
Terri said, “You’d better take Rutherford with you. If something happens and we make the news, Mr. Capp will want him visible. And you’ll be in a filthy alley. The risk of him getting lost in a discussion about the decorative arts is minimal.”
As Max and Rutherford headed toward the alley together, Max glanced sideways at Rutherford and asked, “Young man, I’m curious. Do you have some problem with your left shoulder?”
“What? No. Why do you ask?”
“You hold your left arm further from your body than the right, and you move that arm less when you walk.”
Rutherford said, “Oh, that. That’s just the new sidearm Albert gave me. It’s larger than my normal weapon.”
They reached the opening of the alley. Sloan was silently watching their approach and likely listening to their every word.
“What kind of pistol did Albert have for you?” Max asked.
Rutherford said, “I don’t want to pull it out and show it to you here on the street, but it’s a replica of a gun the Russians gave to cosmonauts.”
“Ah,” Max said. “The famous TP-82!” He turned to Sloan. “The breech-loaded gun they were given for fighting off a pack of wolves. You fire your three barrels and kill the first three wolves that attack, then reload while the rest of the pack tears you to ribbons. Even so, I’m sure it would have looked glorious on the cover of Pravda.”
Rutherford said, “Huh. I guess it was a pretty bad idea.”
“What it was, young man, was a pretty bad cover story. They gave their cosmonauts guns and told the public that it was for survival in Siberia, but in reality they wanted the Americans to know their cosmonauts were armed. They were about to launch the Apollo-Soyuz mission and they wanted Deke Slayton to know not to try any funny business.”
Rutherford opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but over Max’s shoulder he saw Sloan shaking her helmet no.
Max looked into the alley. “Yes, I see what you mean, Meg. This would make an excellent place to stash a weapon.”
The alley was dark, dank, and cluttered with trash. The odor wafted out and thrust itself up Rutherford’s nose. It smelled exactly like a filthy wet alley. Rutherford appreciated the odor’s honesty.
Most of the trash was composed of small bits and pieces gathered in the corners and along the walls, but a pile of full trash bags teetered near a building’s side entrance.
Max and Sloan entered the alley, Max hugging one side, examining the detritus gathered along the wall. Sloan walked slowly down the middle, helmet swiveling, looking for anything out of place. Without having to be told, Rutherford searched the other side, poking through the trash with his foot as he went.
It occurred to Rutherford that they didn’t really know what they were looking for, just an unspecified blunt object. He hadn’t seen the victim’s remains for long, and if there were any early theories about what the doctor had been bludgeoned with, he hadn’t heard them. He looked up from the gutter to ask if Max had any more clues to offer, but got distracted when he saw that Sloan had raised her free right hand to the back of her neck, and was using her ring finger to pull down the turtleneck that usually extended up into her helmet. Her thumb, index, and middle fingers stuck out into the air as she scratched the back of her neck with her pinky finger. The skin’s sheen and texture were a textbook example of a severe but well-healed burn scar.
Rutherford looked away, but not before he tripped on the pile of trash bags he’d momentarily forgotten were in his way. He swung his arms wildly, managing to regain his balance just in time for the pile of bags to fly in every direction and reveal the angry homeless man who had been sleeping beneath them, and who was now preparing to assault whoever had kicked him.
Rutherford blurted out, “Oh, Geez, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in there.”
“Yes,” Max said. “My friends and I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Max had crossed the alley almost instantaneously and was standing next to Rutherford, which was reassuring, but Rutherford thought it would have been more reassuring if Sloan, their protection, wasn’t standing behind them.
The homeless man was still bleary from being so rudely awakened, and whatever other issues he had that might have impaired his judgment. He didn’t seem to be listening to what Max and Rutherford were saying, but he obviously saw that he was outnumbered, and the sight of Sloan did nothing to calm him down. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife, whipping the free handle around in a showy blur until it came to a rest with the blade pointed in Max and Rutherford’s direction.
“Now, now, my friend,” Max said. “Nobody here is threatening you. I don’t blame you for wanting to defend yourself, though. Life on the street can be trying. You have a butterfly knife, I see. Those are a lot of fun. May I?” Max reached out and took the knife from the homeless man, who was so surprised and confused that he didn’t even think to resist.
Max ran through the wrist-flinging opening and closing routines a few times with no apparent effort while Rutherford and the knife’s owner looked on in amazement.
“Yes,” Max said. “It certainly looks impressive, but sadly, in this case, I fear it is all for show. Tell me, friend, did you buy this at a smoke shop, or perhaps at a state fair?”
“I stole it from a truck stop,” the homeless man said.
“Yes,” Max said. “I’m afraid it is a poorly made example.” Max took the two hinged handles like a wishbone and twisted. The knife broke into two pieces as easily as if it had been held together with white school glue. “They used low-quality rivets instead of bolts,” Max explained, mostly to Rutherford. “Such workmanship would be shameful if it were an accident, but in this case it is deliberate. You have the right to bear arms, so your government floods the domestic market with shoddy weapons like these. That way, if there’s ever an armed rebellion, it will at least be poorly equipped.”
Max turned his attention back to the homeless man. “I’m afraid you would only get in one good thrust with this knife before it failed, leaving you unarmed with an opponent you’d wounded enough to be angry and desperate.”
Max gave the twisted pieces of the butterfly knife back to its owner. “I would tell you to be careful, but that low-grade blade steel can’t hold much of an edge anyway.”
The homeless man looked at the pieces in his hands, disbelieving.
Max said, “In the future, I suggest that you steal the steak knives from a moderately priced steak house. They’re not as showy, but they’re designed to be durable and to hold an edge, and besides, you get a steak dinner out of the bargain.” Max pulled out and opened his wallet, then turned to Rutherford.
“What do you think? A night at a motel to get cleaned up and a steak dinner for one. I think one hundred dollars would do it, don’t you agree?”
Rutherford looked at Max’s wallet, then looked at the homeless man. The homeless man was staring at the money. He dropped the ruined pieces of his knife and grabbed for the cash with both hands, but the cash and the wallet it was in had moved, so his hands swiped at empty space. The homeless man’s weight pitched forward, and he staggered onto his left foot.
Max said, “Oh, dear!” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the homeless man’s arm, which held him upright while also keeping him off-balance. Max’s left hand then shot toward the other man’s shoulder, as if to steady him further, but he was holding his wallet in that hand, so instead of grasping the homeless man’s shoulder, he struck the heel of his hand against the place where the man’s shoulder connected to his neck, causing his arm to twist uncomfortably.
Max said, “Careful, easy now,” as the homeless man cried out in pain and slumped forward. Max leaned forward with him, somehow managing to spin the man’s body so that he landed gently on his back. By the time the man’s weight came to fully rest on the ground, Max was kneeling beside him, one hand planted firmly on his chest, just below his throat.
“Okay,” Max said, using his free hand to gently pat the side of the man’s face. “It’s all right. You’re not injured and we’re not going to hurt you. Just lie there for a moment and rest. Everything’s going to be fine.”
The homeless man looked surprised and confused, but Max’s soothing tone of voice seemed to be working as intended.
Max said, “Okay, my friend, we are not the police, so please tell me honestly, are there any warrants out for your arrest?”
The man shook his head no.
“Good. You attacked me, so you will be arrested. I will stall until morning, then I will decline to press charges. That way you will get a hot meal, a shower, and a place to sleep tonight.”
Max held several twenty-dollar bills in front of the man’s face, the money he had been offering just before the attack. “That means you can dispense with the hotel and spend this on new clothes and a steak dinner. It’s not as pleasant, of course, but your money will go further this way, yes?” He tucked the cash into the breast pocket of the man’s coat. “If the police ask about it, tell them you were saving for a bus trip back to your hometown. They’ll sympathize. Good? Okay? We’re all fine, aren’t we?”
The homeless man nodded. Max smiled and looked up at Rutherford, then repeated the question. “Aren’t we?”
Rutherford said, “Yeah, I’m fine,” but he was still a bit stunned. Max had just committed the least violent act of violence he had ever seen. He had assaulted and neutralized his attacker so effortlessly that the attacker himself didn’t seem to realize he’d been assaulted. Rutherford could only imagine how much training someone would need to make an altercation look that graceful.
Rutherford knelt down and picked up one of the twisted handles of the now-ruined butterfly knife. It wasn’t made of aircraft-grade metal or anything, but it felt solid. To make breaking it look so easy, Max had to be alarmingly strong.
Rutherford looked down at Max and asked, “Why on Earth do you need a bodyguard?”
“Bodyguard?” Max said. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Why would I need a bodyguard?”
