Ada Madison - The Square Root of Murder

“You’d be surprised how seldom a hair or a fiber cracks the case.”

“Not like what we see on CSI?”

A loud guffaw. “Like where you take a piece of carpet thread from a body and a few minutes later you have the name of the only manufacturer who makes that particular color rug and they give you a list of the four stores in New England that they sell it to, which you then put into your computer and presto a mug shot pops up?”

I’d clearly hit a sore spot. “Yeah, like that. Not the way it is, huh?” My goal now was to strike sympathetic notes no matter what Virgil said.

“Remember I served ten years in Boston, so I’ve seen my share of homicide crime scenes. Let me tell you, it’s sheer brute force ninety-nine percent of the time. Interviewing, walking around meeting people who knew the deceased, talking to everyone in as much of an area as you can cover. A lot of times it’s what’s not at the crime scene that will solve your case for you.”

“Hard work will do it every time,” I said.

“And even if you have something as simple as fingerprints, do you know how long it takes to get that processed? Forever. There’s no money, no staff. And DNA? Don’t get me started.”

Too late. “Most people don’t understand how underfunded and overworked our police departments are.”

“You got that right. So what’s this theory you have?”

My turn at last. I laid out my logic to Virgil, explaining the Rules of the Yellow Sheets, according to the scientist residents of Franklin Hall. Then I summed it all up.

“Ergo, the killer wrote the nasty comments and sprinkled the pages around, so there’d be one more thing that pointed to Rachel.”

A long pause followed. I pictured Virgil, in all his bulk, scratching his head above his widow’s peak, thinking, not about to commit without a lot of thought.

I blinked first. “What do you think, Virgil?”

“Worth looking at.”

Yes! “Can I look at the sheets of paper?” Might as well keep on this roll.

“You can look at the photos of the sheets of paper.”

Good enough. “When?”

“Tell you what. Let us take a look on this end.” I wanted to rush in and offer Ariana Volens, my own handwriting expert, but I resisted. “Maybe I’ll swing by tonight and see my man Bruce, too, if you think he’ll be there.”

I was elated. “Bruce will be at my house. He’s sort of camping there until all this is sorted out.”

“It’s a good thing, because you certainly can’t count on the Henley PD to keep you safe.”

I hoped that was a chuckle I heard in Virgil’s voice.

I knew it was premature, but I couldn’t help rejoicing. All we-I was back, aligned with the police-had to do was determine whose handwriting was on the pages of Rachel’s thesis, probably rescued from the trash, and we’d have the identity of the killer.

Giddiness set in.

I briefed Ariana on Virgil’s response and thanked her over and over for jarring my brain into gear. I felt bad that I had to quash her idea that she come along to look at the handwriting and do her own analysis. I didn’t want to overwhelm Virgil. I promised I’d scan the photos and take copies to her if Virgil permitted.

I left a message on Bruce’s cell, which he wouldn’t have left on if he were sleeping, that we were having company this evening and that he should restock the fridge.

To add to my well-deserved state of euphoria, when I clicked on the “missed message” notice on my cell, I found that there’d been a call from Lucy. I was almost afraid to call her back, lest I break the spell. Following quickly on that thought was the brainstorm that I should find a way to get her to write a sentence for me.

Bruce called me when I was about ten minutes away from home, caught in traffic from the late end of rush hour.

“I had my cell off,” he explained. “I needed to sleep if I’m going to take the late security shift here tonight. I hope there’s overtime pay in your budget.”

Cute. “Where are you?”

“Supermarket. Any special requests?”

“A couple of six-packs.” Bruce laughed, knowing my average consumption was one beer a year at the Franklin Hall summer picnic. “I’m serious,” I said.

“Virge is coming over?”

Smart guy. I replayed the last hours of my day for him, emphasizing the pluses. “Pick up some snacks, too,” I said. “And one of those cook-it-at-home pizzas. With pepperoni. And olives. Lots of both. Thanks.”

“Buttering up, are we?”

“To the nth,” I said. “Did you leave through my garage?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just wondering if the boxes were back.”

Another great laugh. “See you soon.”

Halfway through his first slice of extra pepperoni, extra olives pizza, Virgil asked, “I hope you don’t mind if we eat first, then get to the other matter. No lunch today. And breakfast wasn’t so hot. Only four doughnuts.” Bruce and I raised our eyebrows. “Kidding.”

“Take your time,” I said. “Have some more chips.” As long as the “other matter” was on the agenda for the evening, I was fine.

Bruce led the dinner conversation. A good thing, since despite my declaration otherwise, I was too distracted to think about anything but the crime scene photos. I glanced at Virgil’s briefcase periodically, tempted to whisk it away to the den while the boys ate and talked.

First up from Bruce was asking about Virgil’s family. Virgil had lost his wife to cancer a few years ago; his son was in summer school at a Southern California college where he’d start freshman year in the fall. It occurred to me that pizza was not necessarily a treat for a bachelor and I should have cooked him a meal.

Bruce and I exclaimed how great Ronnie looked in his high school graduation picture, and again holding his basketball trophy, and again with his date for his senior prom. The photos were for my benefit since Bruce and Virgil met every other week for card games with other guys in their clique-though maybe family pictures never came up during those sessions.

“What’s new up in the air these days?” Virgil asked Bruce.

“ Up In The Air. Good one,” Bruce said, an acknowledgment that Virgil knew the title of one his favorite recent movies.

“I’m not as out of it as you think,” Virgil said. He performed a neat trick with a long string of cheese that wouldn’t detach from the slice. Using his chin deftly, he didn’t miss a calorie.

“We’ve got competition,” Bruce said. I’d heard the story: a new air rescue business had set up shop across the road from MAstar. “It’s a for-profit company where one of the VPs is a Henley councilman.”

“Isn’t that what we call vested interest?” Virgil asked.

Bruce gave him a “what else is new” look. “What’s good is we signed a new contract, with Oceanview Hospital, to do all their transport.”

“Apparently the competition isn’t creating a problem for MAstar.”

“Not at all. We’re spinning it like it’s good for us. We can use it to make a case for some updated equipment and a facility upgrade.”

“You’re going to upgrade the double-wide?” Virgil asked.

We all laughed, maybe a little too hard on my part.

At long last, Virgil pushed his crumb-free plate away. “Let’s get to it, Sophie,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “Are you sure you don’t want dessert first?”

Both men broke out in the kind of laughter that ends in coughing.

It was strange, and not in a good way, to see the coffee table in my den covered with crime scene photos. Virgil had spared me anything truly disturbing, but any reminder of Keith Appleton’s murder was unwelcome.