The Authorities, page 26
Sloan studied the scans while Rutherford pulled them up himself. At first, they displayed a three-dimensional wireframe showing the contours of every object in the room. Then the photographic images draped themselves over the objects, giving them their natural colors and textures. Rutherford spun the models and zoomed in on every knickknack, and agreed that the bust was not present in either room.
Sloan said, “Of course, it may have been in the lobby. That was being remodeled, so if it was out there, it would have been put away.”
“Even if it was the murder weapon, what does that really tell us?” Rutherford asked. “We don’t have it. We can’t test it for forensic evidence. We’ve been to the home of almost everyone we’ve considered a suspect, and I don’t remember any of them having a bust of Freud in their living room.”
“True, but if we know what the weapon is, we know what to look for, and we can make some guesses as to how the murderer got rid of it. Also, if we know the weapon, it gives us clues about the murderer and the situation surrounding the murder. Still, you’re right. We don’t have nearly enough evidence to assume that the bust was the weapon. There are a lot of reasons it could be gone. He could have given it away as a gift. It could have gotten broken. He might have just gotten sick of looking at the thing. Freud was not a handsome man. Having him always staring at you could give someone the creeps. Especially knowing Freud’s theories. The idea that he’s always watching, listening to everything you say, and inferring things about your childhood and your proclivities. I wouldn’t want that around.”
There was a long silence.
Sloan said, “Are you still there?”
Rutherford muttered, “Broken.”
“What?”
Rutherford said, “You said the bust might have gotten broken. I think the bust is the murder weapon, and I think I know where it is.”
“Where?”
“Someplace that’s already been thoroughly searched.”
“And what are you basing this on?”
Rutherford said, “A discussion I had to pass the time while you were busy doing detective work.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Rutherford and Sloan talked for a long time, at a steadily increasing rate.
When putting together a puzzle, finding the corner pieces makes everything else easier.
Destroying a sweater is easy if you find one loose thread along the hem.
The assumption that the missing bust of Freud was the murder weapon led to an educated guess as to how the murderer disposed of it. Asking themselves who would have access to the weapon, the opportunity to use it on the victim, and the ability to then get rid of it in the manner they suspected narrowed down the list of suspects dramatically. Examining the remaining suspects more closely caused them to see a motive they had not thought of earlier. With time and work, they were even able to make sense of the bouncers who’d been hired to rough them up and the hammer in the alley.
Rutherford and Sloan were both sure they knew who had killed Daniel Arledge. Unfortunately, their certainty was not admissible in court.
At a little after one in the morning, Sloan and Rutherford called Terri. They woke her up. She was not happy about it. They told her that they needed her come in to the office a little early the next morning, which did nothing to improve her mood. They explained why. She understood their reasoning. That helped, a little.
The next morning, the three of them came into the office an hour early. Terri immediately started working the phones. Rutherford and Sloan perfected their plan for how to proceed with the case. When Max, Albert, and Sherwood arrived, Rutherford walked them through both the theory and the plan. At 9:58 a.m., the entire team walked into the lobby of the practice that the late Dr. Daniel Arledge had shared with Dr. Tyler Shaw.
The goal was to seem casual at first, so they made a point of being in the middle of a conversation as they entered.
“They were trying to tackle the obesity problem,” Max said, holding the door open for the entire team, Terri and Albert included. “The hope was to create a generation of Americans who had a visceral, negative reaction to the idea of snacking. That’s why fruit leather combines the flavor of something kids don’t want to eat with the texture of something nobody wants to eat.”
The lobby remodel was still in progress. The police investigation had interrupted the schedule, but work had resumed. One section of the new terrazzo floor had been poured, and the crew was working quickly but calmly to smooth out the mixture of concrete and stone chips before it cured.
Work on the mosaic mural was nearly complete. A workman stood behind the receptionist’s desk taking shards of broken tile from a large tub and mortaring them to the wall. His hands were surprisingly nimble, despite his heavy gloves.
It struck Rutherford that the same workers who had seemed so lazy and shiftless the last time he saw them now looked like a well-oiled machine.
He thought, Of course, right now they’re being paid to get stuff done. Last time I saw them they were being paid to sit around and do nothing. They were just applying the same professionalism to loafing then that they’re applying to working now.
Terri approached the receptionist with her smile cranked up to maximum. “Good morning,” she said, pleasantly. “We’d like to see Dr. Shaw.”
The receptionist said, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid the doctor is booked solid today. Fridays are busy here.”
Terri’s smile did not fade. “I understand, but we’re here concerning our investigation of the late Dr. Arledge’s death. I’m certain he’d be willing to make room in his schedule.”
The receptionist looked sympathetic, but shook her head. “I figured that was why you were here, and I’m sorry. I’m sure he’d like to help in any way he can, but he really is booked solid. At most, he might be able to squeeze in five minutes between patients. Would that be enough time?”
Now it was Terri’s turn to look sympathetic and shake her head. “No, I’m afraid not. We have quite a few questions only he can clear up. It’s going to take longer than five minutes.”
The receptionist said, “Perhaps you could meet with him during lunch, or maybe I can cancel someone this afternoon. I’ll buzz the doctor and see what we can work out.”
“No,” Terri said, a little more sharply than expected, stopping the receptionist’s hand before it reached the phone. Terri laughed at herself, then said, “I’m sorry, no, I don’t want you to bother him prematurely. He’s already been so cooperative. Just let me think for a moment. Maybe I can come up with a way to work around his schedule.” She looked at her watch and put on her I’m thinking hard face.
After a few moments of everyone watching Terri think, the phone rang. The receptionist answered, listened, said that she understood what she was being told in a surprised, delighted tone, and then hung up.
“That was Dr. Shaw’s ten o’clock. He says he can’t make it today.”
Terri had taken a look at the copy of the practice’s appointment book that Dr. Shaw had supplied to help the investigation. It had contained nothing incriminating (of course). It did come in handy, though, when she used it to find the name of the patient who was scheduled for ten o’clock and offered him a surprising amount of money to cancel, with a generous bonus if he called at precisely nine fifty-nine. Terri wanted to be there when he called so that she could make sure someone else didn’t get moved into his spot, and also because she liked the theatricality of it.
The receptionist called Dr. Shaw. Rutherford heard Shaw’s phone ring faintly through the closed door to his office. She explained that the ten o’clock had canceled, but that the team investigating Dr. Arledge’s death was there with some follow-up questions. She nodded, said, “Very good,” and hung up the phone.
The receptionist said, “He’ll be right out.” She smiled and started to look down at her computer screen, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed Rutherford’s e-cigar. “Sir,” she said, “I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.”
Rutherford said, “I’m not smoking. It isn’t real. Technically, I’m water vaporing.”
“You still can’t do it in the office, I’m afraid.”
Rutherford removed the cigar and held it in his hand as a prop. “Tell me,” he asked, “If I’d come in chewing on a pen, would you have made me take it from my mouth?”
The receptionist answered in the negative.
Rutherford turned to Albert. “We should look into making an e-cigar that looks like a pen. I bet the boss could make some money off that.”
Albert made a note of it on his phone. “Done,” he said. “We could also make it not emit any noticeable vapor.”
“No,” Rutherford said. “It should put out more vapor. It’ll be worth it just to make people tell me to stop smoking my pen.”
The receptionist started to say something, but was interrupted by her boss emerging from his office.
“Good morning,” Shaw said, with a polite but strained smile on his face. “Please, do come in.”
Sherwood took the lead, walking briskly toward Dr. Shaw and extending his right hand. Shaw reflexively took his hand and shook it, though he looked somewhat perplexed. He looked far more perplexed when, instead of shaking his hand, Sherwood held it in place and used his free hand to run his sensor wand over Shaw’s hand and lower arm. Sherwood looked at the wand’s readout, nodded, shook Shaw’s hand, and said, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
With that, the professor let go and walked back to the reception desk.
Max stepped forward. “Dr. Shaw, we know you’re a busy man. We don’t want to take up any more of your time than we must.”
Shaw was still looking at Sherwood with concern and bewilderment, but he said, “Of course. Do come in.”
Max, Sloan, and Rutherford entered Shaw’s office. The others stayed behind, and as Shaw closed the door to the lobby, Rutherford heard Terri say, “Sir, pardon me, sir. If you could please stop that for a moment?”
Sloan said, “Okay, remember the plan. Max mostly asks friendly questions. Rutherford mostly makes unfriendly statements. We want him uncomfortable but not alarmed.”
Shaw offered his guests seats before settling in behind his desk. Max and Sloan took the couch. Rutherford sat in a chair to the side.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Shaw.” Max said. “We just have a few follow-up questions.”
Shaw smiled. “I expected you might.”
“I bet,” Rutherford said, not smiling. Shaw looked affronted. Rutherford studied the e-cigar in his hand nonchalantly, smiled, and said, “I just mean, you’re a smart man. You knew you hadn’t seen the last of us.”
Shaw looked at Rutherford for a moment before saying, “Yes. It’s not easy to catch a killer. It seemed likely that you’d need more information.”
Max said, “Indeed! It’s just as you say, Dr. Shaw. It’s been harder than you may know. Were you aware that we were attacked?”
“No,” Shaw said. “That’s terrible. Was it the killer?”
“Almost certainly not. No, it was paid hooligans.”
Rutherford put the cigar in his mouth and said, “Hired goons.” It was a phrase that begged to be said around a cigar.
“Yes,” Max agreed. “They were just pawns. Someone else masterminded the attack.”
“If you wanna call it that,” Rutherford said, “and I don’t.”
“No?” Shaw asked.
“No,” Max said. “The goons, as my friend calls them, were found on Craigslist, and paid for with a personal credit card.”
“That sounds easy to trace,” Shaw said.
“Yes,” Rutherford said, staring at Shaw. “Very easy. Almost as if somebody wanted us to trace it.”
Max said, “The card belongs to one of the late Dr. Arledge’s patients, but we’re not yet at liberty to say which.”
Shaw said, “Of course,” and exhaled a little too heavily. Continued secrecy suggested continued doubt, which Shaw seemed to find reassuring. “Can I help you find this patient? If I can assist in any way, I will.”
“You’ve already helped us find him,” Rutherford said, smirking. “You practically made it impossible not to find him.”
“Have I?”
Max chuckled. “Yes, you’ve been tremendously helpful. The information you gave us about Dr. Arledge’s patients was invaluable.”
Rutherford said, “Yup. Gave us lots of people to talk to and angles to explore. Kept us nice and busy. We almost had too much information to keep straight. Almost.”
“In fact,” Max said, “the credit card used to pay the hooligans who attacked us was the very same card this patient used to pay for their treatment at this clinic.”
Rutherford said, “You know, a lot of medical professionals keep copies of a patient’s credit card information on file, for charging no-show fees and the like. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you have that very credit card number locked up in a filing cabinet somewhere around here.”
In his ear, Rutherford heard Sloan say, “Cool it a little. We don’t want him to panic. Yet.”
Max said, “The patient must be quite desperate. Paying for the hooligans took his credit card over its limit. Of course, that’s exactly what the credit card companies want. It keeps the customer paying for years to come. In the end, the goal is to subjugate the citizenry, keep us all docile, and con us into trading our liberty for merchandise. Truman knew all too well what he was doing when he ordered the FTC—”
“You need to cool it too,” Sloan interrupted. “We don’t want him to think we’re nuts.”
From Dr. Shaw’s point of view, Max had stopped talking midsentence to look at Sloan, who was silently staring back at him. Max laughed at himself to help sell the illusion that he had caught himself getting carried away.
Max said, “My point is that the patient in question was in dire straits and making questionable decisions.”
“Clearly,” Dr. Shaw said.
“None of Dr. Arledge’s current patients are what you’d call wealthy, are they?” Rutherford observed.
“No,” Shaw said, “I suppose not.”
“Means you can’t charge them very much, and if they send a friend to see you, that friend’s likely to be just as broke as they are.”
“What are you getting at?” Shaw asked.
“I’m just saying, it took a lot of heart for Arledge to turn his back on his profitable patients and focus on a group he knew would be much less lucrative. He was a good man.”
“Yes,” Shaw said. “He was.”
Max said, “Of course, Arledge was intending to write a book. Those can bring in some good money, and draw a lot of new business to boot.”
“If the book’s successful,” Rutherford said. “But the vast majority of them aren’t. Doesn’t seem like the kind of odds you’d want to bet your business on, but it’s easy to be selfless and take risks when you already have a nice fat nest egg that isn’t in any danger.”
The statement hung in the air like a big black balloon for a few seconds before Max punctured it, saying, “Well, enough small talk, I think. You are a busy man, Dr. Shaw. We must get to business. We just have a few questions to ask, then we’ll be on our way.”
“Yes,” Shaw said. “Please do.”
Max pulled out his smartphone, opened his notebook app, swiped through a few pages, said, “Okay, here it is, one moment,” and started reading to find the right spot.
Sloan said, “Nice. Very Columbo.”
“Ah,” Max said, “Yes, here we are. Dr. Shaw, you said the other day that you’ve been working at a greatly reduced salary under the understanding that Dr. Arledge would sign over the practice to you when he retired.”
“That’s right.”
“That means that you had a powerful reason to want him to stay alive and healthy until that happened.”
“Yes,” Shaw said.
Rutherford said, “That and the fact that he was your mentor and a good friend.”
“Yes. Of course. That goes without saying.”
Rutherford smirked around his e-cigar. “You certainly didn’t say it.”
Max cut in before Shaw could respond. “We spoke to the widow Arledge. She mentioned that she was going to sign the practice over to you early, because it was what her husband would have wanted.”
Rutherford let out a sound that could have been either a cough or a guffaw.
“That’s right,” Shaw said. He was answering Max, but staring at Rutherford. “She feels that, due to recent events, the value of the practice has been somewhat diminished.”
“Sure it has,” Rutherford said. He removed the e-cigar from his mouth and gestured back over his shoulder with it, toward the late Dr. Arledge’s office. “He made his name treating the wealthy and successful. When he started concentrating on the unsuccessful and shunting his old clientele off to his junior partner, that had to lose the practice some patients and cut into the bottom line.”
Shaw gritted his teeth. “That’s not what I meant.”
Max glared disapprovingly at Rutherford. It was so convincing that Rutherford almost felt real shame.
“Of course that’s not what Dr. Shaw meant,” Max said. “He was referring, I’m sure, to Dr. Arledge’s awful fate and the negative attention it will bring. And sadly, the increased attention still to come if we catch the culprit.”
“When,” Rutherford said. “When we catch the culprit. And yes, I’m sure you’re right. Sorry.”
Max smiled and nodded at Rutherford, then smiled and nodded at Shaw, as if to say, there, we’re all friends again.
