The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1) A.J. Flynn (ebook reader play store TXT) 📖

didn’t answer, just rose to her feet and started for the bedroom. Karl could tell by the way she walked away from him that she was angry, and he knew from years of experience he would be getting the silent treatment until she finally got her way.

VIII

The mind of most taxpaying voters was hard to fathom. Parents were willing to vote for anything in the way of an assessment for schools or parks, so that their children might have the best, but the only time they ever thought of adding to the police force, or increasing the salaries of the men who were already on it, was when those men were in trouble or needed help. Unfortunately, the taxpayer took group protection for granted, and the few who found the need for police protection of their rights made little to no difference at the polls. That was the reason police headquarters was shabby and undersized.

It had been fine enough in the days before the war, back when the population still hovered around seventy-five thousand, but postwar growth had boosted the count to nearly two hundred thousand. With this increased number of people came the inevitable increase in accidents and crime.

The force had been somewhat supplemented, but the jailhouse and the office spaces remained the same. It was a joke around the department that the taxpayer could be persuaded to vote for more officers, but were never willing to pay for the shoehorn he’d need to find a place to sit down.

Every department, except traffic, was located in two rooms, one large, and one small. The cells were located on the second floor, and if you were thrown in jail, whether it was for spitting on the sidewalk or multiple homicides, there you went.

To the left of the entrance there were stairs that led down to the basement. They were made of cement and were far too steep to be safe. In the basement one found the garage, filled to the brim with overflowing files from upstairs and what sometimes passed for a laboratory.

The procuring man hired to run the lab in Evergreen had been just plain lucky. Dr. Hemlock was a nationally recognized criminologist before poor health had forced him to give up the busy life.

Hemlock was an MD, among other things. In fact, someone had once said that the only reason he didn’t have a degree in archeology was that the people involved had been dead far too long to interest him.

He was a man of considerable personal fortune and had come to Evergreen to live closer to his daughter once he was ostensibly retired. His retirement hadn’t lasted long, though, and he soon found the boredom to be unbearable, eventually offering his services as an assistant and advisor, on a part-time basis, around six years ago. The work was sporadic, without the daily strain of his former job, and he seemed to be thriving on it.

McPherson made her way down the steep stairs and through the partitions that separated the laboratory. Dr. Hemlock was stooped over his microscope, with his ubiquitous envelopes, each one carefully marked and spread out in front of him.

Sitting atop a waist-high cupboard along the far wall, McPherson noticed the cast that had been taken at the scene of the crime. She was careful not to disturb the doctor, but walked over and picked up one of the footprints.

“Find the shoe yet, McPherson?”

“Don’t rush me, Doc. I wasn’t sure you’d be ready to verify it, and I don’t want to embarrass you, so I’ve been taking my time.”

Dr. Hemlock snorted. “I’ve got to say—you have more alibis than your suspects.”

McPherson smiled. She, just as much as anyone else, could appreciate the work being done by this man and the mind that made it possible.

“Nice looking casts,” she remarked. “The details are good and clear. What kind of person do you think wore the shoes?”

“Looks to be male. Somewhere around five ten or eleven. Not too heavy—probably around one fifty, one sixty.”

“What color hair do you think he had?” McPherson asked solemnly.

“Not too sure he even had any,” Hemlock assured her.

Though Dr. Hemlock had many virtues, a sense of humor was not one of them. As far as he was concerned there may as well be no such thing as a snappy comeback.

“He picked up some good shoes. Probably had to, since his feet were so narrow. He seems to have a tendency to walk heavily on the inside of his heel. The shoes, or at least one of them, appear to have been repaired recently.”

“Looks like we’ll be paying the local shoe repair shops a visit. Did you happen to sit in on the autopsy?”

“Of course. The boy was thin, but perfectly healthy on the day he was killed. There were a few scars on his lungs, though. Looks like he had a mild case of TB somewhere along the way. Could have had a breakdown any time.”

“Yeah,” McPherson interrupted. She had sat through vivid descriptions of the patients’ interiors before, and they had a tendency to get elaborate.

“What about the method of killing? We didn’t find any marks, except on his face and throat. Did you find anything else?”

“No. All I can conclude is the boy died from lack of air. Whether it was cut off at his nose or throat is hard to say. Other than that, there wasn’t anything to indicate any injury.”

“Do you think it might have been an accident? I mean someone who just wanted him to keep quiet for a while, then took it too far?”

“I suppose it’s all in how you look at it. To my way of thinking, it’s just as egregious to cut off someone’s air as it is to shoot him.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but in court they’ll need to prove that it was premeditated, or else they won’t be able to get a verdict for murder. I would just like to hear your opinion on our chances.”

“Hard to say.