The Authorities, page 9
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Terri said, “but you can explain that later. Right now we have a murderer to catch, a bunch of cops who want us out of the way, and a contractor paying a construction crew union wages to read copies of Mental Health Monthly.”
Professor Sherwood said, “Of course,” nodded to Rutherford, and headed to the office doors at the back of the lobby, where Albert was already unpacking his drones.
“What should I do?” Rutherford asked.
“You,” Terri said quietly, glancing around the room to see if anyone was listening. “Until we’re ready to make an arrest, your main job is to be seen looking like a badass.”
“How do I do that?”
”I don’t know. The outfit’ll get you most of the way there on its own. Try to look unhappy. That seems to go with the attitude. Oh,” she stopped talking and rummaged through her bag. “Here, put this in your mouth.” She brought her hand out of the deepest corner of the bag and produced a single wooden toothpick.
“Agh,” Rutherford moaned. “Has that been rolling around loose in there?”
“Yes, but that’s good. Thinking about it will help with the looking unhappy thing. Put it in your mouth.”
Rutherford did as he was told.
Terri nodded. “Yeah, now you look angry at the world. The squint’s a nice touch.”
“I’m not squinting. I’m cringing.”
“Well keep it up.” Then, in a much louder voice, Terri said, “No, Rutherford, I don’t care that the guy confessed, he had rights, and you’re on probation until you learn to follow the rules! Now you just stay out here and don’t hurt anybody while the trustworthy professionals do some real detective work.”
Rutherford’s squint intensified. Terri looked pleased. She turned and went back to the officer she’d been schmoozing before.
Rutherford looked around the room and everyone made a show of not looking back. All of the seats were taken, so he would have to lean against a wall. That allowed him to pick any part of the wall he wanted. He chose one within earshot of where Max was questioning the receptionist. If he couldn’t do any real detective work, he could at least watch it being done.
Sloan stood motionless next to Max, watching the receptionist intently. In case she decided to attack, Rutherford supposed.
“So you believe that the doctor was here all night?” Max asked.
The receptionist said, “I can’t be sure, but he was here when I left yesterday, and his car was here when I got in this morning.”
“So it’s a good bet, yes?”
“I think so.”
There was a sudden high-pitched whine from the back of the lobby. The receptionist, cops, and construction workers all craned their necks to see what was happening. Rutherford, Max, and Sloan knew it was Albert deploying his drones. Rutherford still looked. Max simply spoke louder. Sloan didn’t react at all.
“Is it unusual for him to spend the night in his office?” Max asked.
“The whole night, yeah, that’s not normal, but Dan . . . Dr. Arledge gets caught up in his work and stays late all the time. He sits at his desk, looking over case files until he gets sleepy, then he rests his eyes and lays on a couch he has in there.”
“Ah,” Max said, smiling first at the receptionist, then over his shoulder at Sloan. “Of course, the psychologist would have a couch.”
The conversation paused while the receptionist and everyone except for Sloan reacted to the sudden lines of bright red laser light stabbing out of the door to the crime scene, followed by flashes of bright white light, both of which accompanied the unsettling dentist-drill whine of the motors.
“Actually,” the receptionist continued, still watching the lights, “it’s not that kind of couch. It’s a normal sofa. Very few psychologists use the kind of couch you’re thinking of anymore. They don’t want to look like a New Yorker cartoon. The only thing worse for a psychologist would be to have a beard and a German accent.” She looked at Max, then froze up completely. Max said nothing for a moment. For the first time since Rutherford had started watching, Sloan looked away from the receptionist and tilted her helmet toward Max.
Max laughed. “I am Dutch, not German, young lady, but no offense taken.”
She looked relieved. Max watched her silently for a moment, then asked, “So it wasn’t unusual for him to fall asleep here. Did he usually just go ahead and stay the night in his office?”
“Only rarely. He’d usually wake up and go home to finish the night’s sleep or at least freshen up. I should have knocked earlier to check on him. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“You didn’t, because why would you?” Max said. “You had no reason to suspect he’d been murdered. I understand why you didn’t want to disturb you employer.” Max paused. After a moment’s thought, he said, “But I am curious why you didn’t need to check on him earlier. Did he not have any appointments this morning? No clients coming in to see him?”
“No. He’s changed his practice a bit in the last few years. He doesn’t see as many clients any more, and almost never meets with them one-on-one. He mainly does group therapy.”
Max thought a moment, then nodded. “I see. Yes. Thank you for putting up with all these questions. You’re doing well. We’re almost done. Please, tell me, did the doctor have any enemies that you know of?”
“No,” the receptionist said. “He was a good man. There were people who were unhappy with him, but nobody you’d call an enemy.”
“Who was unhappy with him?”
The receptionist shook her head, dismissively. “There was a patient who stormed out of his group therapy session a couple of days ago, but that’s par for the course.”
“Patients often get upset and leave the group therapy?” Max asked.
“That particular patient does. It’s a big part of why he needs therapy.”
Max said, “I see,” and then all conversation in the lobby became impossible as Albert left the victim’s office lugging his briefcase computer, the drones flying in an orderly line over his head. He put his computer on the floor and opened the next door over, the junior partner’s office. The quadcopters entered the room in a calm, orderly fashion. All of the people who had been in that room left it in a rushed, disorganized fashion, chased out by pulses of laser light.
Among the refugees from the second office was a man in his late thirties wearing what Rutherford recognized to be a very nice inexpensive suit. The kind of suit one might get if he walked into a JCPenney and said, “Shoot the works, my good man, for I am a big shot.”
Sloan leaned on her cane, silently watching the people spill out into the waiting room. Max turned, looked at the group, then pointed toward the man in the expensive cheap suit and asked the receptionist, “Please tell me, would that be Dr. Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” Max said. “We should talk to him. Thank you for your time, young lady. You have been very helpful.”
Max and Sloan crossed the room to ask Dr. Shaw a few questions. Rutherford considered following so that he could eavesdrop on that conversation as well, but then he realized Terri was looking directly at him. He remembered that his instructions had been to stand around looking tough, and while he could do that while listening in, crossing the room to do so would be a bit obvious. He resigned himself to staying put.
Terri smirked slightly, then went back to her conversation.
Rutherford frowned and went back to his work, which at the moment was frowning. He glared at the construction workers. He scowled at the floor.
He stretched, and flexed his shoulders. He wasn’t accustomed to the shoulder holster, and the off-balance weight of the over-powered gun it held was wreaking havoc on his posture.
Hopefully, people think it’s a gangsta lean, he thought. But really, it’s more likely they’ll think I have scoliosis.
He was just getting ready to start glowering out the window when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he found himself looking at a woman in her late forties. She was dressed professionally but stylishly, with a briefcase in her hands and a nervous look on her face.
“Pardon me,” she said. “Are you one of the subcontractors, or are you here with the investigation?”
“The investigation. I’m, uh, I’m a detective.” Rutherford stumbled over using the word detective to describe himself, which he realized robbed him of most of the authority the title gave him.
“Oh,” the woman said. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find the general contractor, would you?”
“I’m sorry, no idea.” Rutherford motioned toward the workers who were sitting around reading magazines. “Any of them might be able to tell you.”
“I’ll ask,” the woman said. “Can you tell me how long you all will be here investigating?”
Rutherford said, “I’m afraid it’ll take as long as it takes, Miss . . .”
The woman took the hint and extended a hand. “I’m Claire Sullivan,” she said. “I’m the interior designer.”
“Ah,” Rutherford said brightly. “Nice to meet you.” He cast his eyes around the room, then asked, “Do a lot of midcentury modern?”
“Yes. It’s my specialty, and it’s popular right now. When people get successful enough to hire a designer, they’re usually old enough that their tastes sort of mimic those of the rich, successful people they saw on TV when they were kids. Besides, midcentury is an appropriate style for this application.”
“Makes sense,” Rutherford said. “I doubt many doctors want their waiting rooms done in French farmhouse.”
“No,” she said, smiling. “That would be a challenge. I could probably make the individual offices work, but you need something more formal for the waiting room.”
Rutherford said, “Agreed. Most doctors’ waiting rooms don’t have nearly this much natural light, though. You got lucky there.”
“Yes, well, this building was originally a mom and pop grocery store. When they converted it, they kept the windows in the front wall,” Ms. Sullivan said. “It’s really the only nod they’ve made to the building’s former life. It’s a shame. I would have held on to the shelves along the wall, or made the receptionist’s desk out of one of the old check stands, but then, they made a lot of questionable decisions.”
“Really? How was the place decorated before you came in?” Rutherford asked.
“Well, it was converted in ninety-five, and it showed. Exposed brick, quirky decorations, oversized mismatched furniture.”
Rutherford nodded. “The set of Friends.”
“Bingo. If you want a sample, the doctors’ offices are still intact. The plan is to move on to them after the waiting room’s done.”
Rutherford nodded and looked around briefly. “Well, I know this room is far from done, but I really like the finishes you’ve chosen. So tell me, are you going to go with wood, linoleum, or a very low pile for the floors?”
“I talked them into springing for terrazzo!” she said.
“Really? Good for you! If they hadn’t agreed to that, would you have considered a polished concrete?”
“I thought about it,” she said, “but I don’t know that it would have been luxe enough to go with the mosaic mural.”
“I see what you mean,” Rutherford said. “Did you design the mural too?”
“Guilty,” she said.
“Guilty isn’t the word I’d use. It’s hard to say until it’s done, but I like what I see so far. Isn’t it a bit festive for a doctor’s office, though?”
“They’re psychologists. They’re all about new beginnings and a brighter future.”
Rutherford said, “Good point. I especially like how instead of broken tile, you’re using shards of gray-and-white pottery for the clouds to give them a bumpy, puffy feel. I am curious about your decision to use cut pieces of orange tile for the sun rather than broken ones.”
“They’re not cut. I had a small batch of them custom made. The idea is that because the sun’s only going to be half showing over the horizon, by using round-edged, squiggly shapes and leaving a dividing line down the middle, we can make what’s clearly a sun suggest a brain as well.”
“Because it’s a psychologist’s office,” Rutherford said. “That’s really clever!”
Terri said, “Yes, it is.”
Rutherford turned. Every construction worker and cop in the room was watching them, having overheard their entire conversation. They all seemed amused. Terri was standing right next to them, and did not.
“May I have a word with my colleague?” Terri asked, then pulled Rutherford away before the designer had a chance to respond.
Rutherford knew he had broken character, and was embarrassed at how little time he’d taken to do it. “Terri,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Terri moaned. “Rutherford, don’t apologize.”
“I really am sorry, though.”
Terri hissed, “Rutherford! Silence!” She lowered her voice enough that only Rutherford could hear what she was saying, but everyone else was clear on how she was saying it. Angrily. “I told you to act badass, and you screwed up. A public apology isn’t going to fix this particular problem! Now, you are going to do exactly as I tell you for the remainder of the time we are in this building. You will not speak unless spoken to. If you are asked a question, you will answer with yeah, nah, or dunno. Not yes, no, or maybe. Yeah, nah, or dunno. Aside from that, you will stand behind me, and you will look unhappy, like you do right now. Do you understand?”
Rutherford sulked for a few seconds, then muttered, “Yeah.”
Terri smiled. “Excellent.”
EIGHT
Rutherford was not at all happy to be relegated to standing within sight of his immediate supervisor, but at least he was back near where actual investigation was taking place. He was close enough to Albert to look down and see the 3-D model of Dr. Shaw’s office taking shape on his computer.
He decided to risk stepping one foot farther away from Terri so he could peek into the actual crime scene. The late Dr. Arledge was splayed facedown on the carpet. There was surprisingly little blood. Oh, there was blood, just not as much as one would expect at a murder scene, and what there was had soaked into the carpet. Still, one look at the victim’s skin tone told Rutherford that he had been dead for quite a while, and a quick glance at the back of his head made it clear that he had probably started being dead before he hit the ground. It looked like the killer had continued hitting him anyway. Whatever weapon had been used against him was heavy, hard, and compact enough to be swung quickly.
Aside from the fact that it was a murder scene, the office was pretty much as the designer had led him to expect. Bland, expensive carpet under a well-made but rather plain wooden desk, surrounded by four walls: two made of exposed brick, and two painted an Easter-egg shade of purple. Across from the desk, there was a large velour couch, a floral wingback chair, and a low-backed leather club chair. The furniture was well worn, meticulously mismatched, and just expensive enough to be considered expensive enough. The desk held a lamp, a blotter, a laptop, and a framed photo. Of what, Rutherford couldn’t say, as it was turned away from the door. A set of built-in shelves behind the desk held an impressive array of awards, mostly plaques with a few bronze statuettes and Lucite obelisks for good measure.
Rutherford’s mental trip to IKEA was interrupted by Albert’s squadron of quadcopters buzzing through the air, their rotor noises harmonizing to create a wavering minor chord that made Rutherford’s teeth hurt.
Albert shook his head. “Number three has dropped half a note.”
The four drones flew to the center of the waiting room and then separated and moved to the corners, near the ceiling.
“Okay, everyone,” Albert shouted amiably. “No need to be alarmed. We’re just going to scan the reception area now. Please feel free to go about your business. Just refrain from moving or looking directly at the lasers. In fact, you should probably just close your eyes while the lasers are functioning.”
While everyone else’s attention was fixed on the quadcopters, Max, Sloan, and the man who’d been identified as Dr. Shaw slipped out of the waiting room and headed back into Shaw’s office. Terri followed them. Rutherford followed Terri.
“Thank you again for your understanding, Dr. Shaw,” Max said, closing the door behind them. “I know this is a difficult time for you, and we certainly aren’t making it easier.”
“True, but frankly, I’m happy you’re asking me these questions,” Dr. Shaw said. There was no cheer in his demeanor. Indeed, there shouldn’t have been, but there was also no irritation. He just seemed sad, confused, and whenever he glanced at Sloan, momentarily uncomfortable.
“I want to know who did this to Daniel,” Shaw said, “and you wouldn’t be doing your job properly if you didn’t eliminate me first. I assume you’ll speak to his wife . . . uh, I mean his widow next.”
Max told him he was correct, then changed the subject by introducing the doctor to Terri and Rutherford. He had introduced Sloan earlier, when he introduced himself. Shaw offered everyone a seat. The carpet and paint were identical to Dr. Arledge’s office, and the furniture seemed to have been ordered from a cheaper page of the same catalog. Max and Sloan took the couch. Terri took the side chair, leaving Rutherford with no option but to stand.
Max said, “In the interest of, as you say, eliminating you first, you and Dr. Arledge were partners. Now that he has passed away, does his share of the practice revert to his wife, or to you?”
