Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

From the back, Pierre could see where Klimus’s ears joined his head.

There were white creases there. Were they scars? Or did every old person have creases like that?

“Good morning, sir,” said Pierre, coming into the office.

Klimus turned and looked at Pierre. The dark brown eyes, the thin lips — was this the face of evil? Could this be the man who had killed so many people?

“Tardivel,” Klimus said, by way of greeting.

Pierre found himself staring at the man. He shook his head slightly. “Is Joan in?”

“No.”

Pierre glanced at the clock above the door and frowned. Then a thought struck him. “By the way, sir, I ran into someone you might know a couple of months ago — a Mr. Meyer.”

“Jacob Meyer? That moneygrubbing little prick. He’s no friend of mine.”

Pierre was taken aback — that sure sounded like an anti-Semitic comment, precisely the kind a Nazi would make without thinking… unless, of course, this Jacob Meyer fellow really did happen to be a moneygrubbing little prick. “Uh, no, this fellow’s name was Avi Meyer.”

Klimus shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Pierre blinked. “Guy about this high?” He held his hand at the height of his Adam’s apple. “Shaggy eyebrows? Looks like a bulldog?”

“No.”

Pierre frowned, then looked again at the clock. “Joan should have been in three hours ago.”

Klimus opened an envelope with his finger.

“Wouldn’t she have told you if she had an appointment?”

Klimus shrugged.

“She’s a diabetic. She lives alone.”

The old man was reading the letter he’d taken from the envelope. He made no reply.

“Do we have her number?” asked Pierre.

“Somewhere, I suppose,” said Klimus, “but I have no idea where.”

Pierre looked around for a phone book. He found one on the bottom shelf of a low-rise bookcase behind Joan’s desk and began flipping through it. “There’s no J. Dawson listed.”

“Maybe it is still under her late husband’s name,” said Klimus.

“Which was… ?”

Klimus waved the letter he was holding. “Bud, I think.”

“There’s no B. Dawson, either.”

Klimus’s old throat made a rough noise. “No one’s first name is really Bud.”

“A nickname, eh? What for?”

“William, usually.”

“There’s a W. P. Dawson on Delbert.”

Klimus made no reply. Pierre dialed the phone. An answering machine came on. “It’s a machine,” said Pierre, “but it’s Joan’s voice, and — Hello, Joan. This is Pierre Tardivel at LBNL. I’m just calling to see if you’re all right. It’s now almost one, and we’re just a bit worried about you. If you’re in, could you pick up the phone?” He waited for about thirty seconds, then hung up. Pierre chewed his lower lip. “Delbert. That’s not too far, is it?”

Klimus shook his head. “About five miles.” Pierre looked at the clock again. An elderly diabetic, living alone. If she was having an insulin reaction…

“I think I’m going to take a swing by her place.”

Klimus said nothing.

Pierre pulled up Joan’s driveway. Something amiss about the house, though: the porch light was still on, even though it was now well into the afternoon. He walked up to the front door. A morning paper, the San Francisco Chronicle , was still on the stoop. Pierre rang the doorbell and waited for a response, tapping his foot. Nothing. He tried again. Still no answer.

Pierre exhaled noisily, unsure what to do. He looked around. There were several large stones in the small flower bed in front of the house. He lifted each of them up, looking for a hidden key — but all he found was a large slate gray salamander, another thing about Berkeley he’d yet to get used to. He hefted the largest stone, thought about using it to break the frosted entryway window, but didn’t want to go to extremes…

He walked down the wide stretch of lawn between this house and the one adjacent to it, feeling enormously self-conscious. There was a picket fence, mostly covered with peeling white paint, between the front yard and the back. Part of the fence was a gate, and Pierre lifted the rusting catch, swung it open, and made his way into the backyard, most of which was given over to well-tended vegetable gardens. The rear part of the house had small windows and a sliding glass door overlooking the backyard.

Pierre moved up to the first window and pressed his face against the glass, boxing his eyes against the reflected sky with his hands. Nothing. Just a small wallpapered room with a TV and a corduroy-upholstered La-Z-Boy in it.

He tried the second window. The kitchen. Joan had every conceivable gadget: food processor, juicer, blenders, bread maker, two microwaves, and more.

He moved over to the glass door, moved his face up to it, and—

Jesus God —

Joan was on her side, facing him, eyes still open. A pool of dark crusted blood more than a meter in diameter had spilled out of her; its shape was irregular on the low-pile carpet, but had neatly filled the tiled area in front of the fireplace. Pierre felt his breakfast climbing his throat. He hurried back to his car, drove till he found a pay phone at a 7-Eleven, and dialed 9-1-1.

Pierre sat on Joan’s front stoop, arms supporting his chin, waiting. A

Berkeley police car pulled up at the curb. Pierre looked up, held a hand to his brow to shield his eyes, and squinted to make out the uniformed figures approaching against the glare of the afternoon sun: a beefy black man and a slim white woman.

“Mr. Tardivel, isn’t it?” said the black man, taking off a pair of sunglasses and putting them in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Pierre rose to his feet. “Officer—?”

“Munroe,” said the man. He nodded at his partner. “And Granatstein.”

“Of course,” said Pierre, nodding at each of them. “Hello.”

“Let’s see it,” said Munroe. Pierre led them down the path between this house and the adjacent one, through the gate, which he’d left open, and into the backyard. Munroe had his billy club out, in case he needed to use it to smash in a window, but when he got to the glass door, he saw the lock had been jimmied. “You haven’t been inside?” asked Munroe.

“No.”

Munroe entered and made a cursory examination of the body.

Granatstein, meanwhile, started looking around the yard for anything the assailant might have dropped during his escape. Munroe came back outside and took out a small notebook, bound with a wire spiral along its top. He flipped to a blank page. “What time did you arrive?”

“At thirteen-fifteen,” said Pierre. “I mean, at one-fifteen.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I look at my watch a lot.”

“And she was dead when you got here?”

“Of course—”

“You ever been out here before?”

“No.”

“Then what brought you here today?”

“She was late for work. I thought I’d check on her.”

“Why? What business is it of yours?”

“She’s a friend. And she’s a diabetic. I thought she might have been having an insulin reaction.”

“What were you doing around the back of the house?”

“Well, she didn’t answer the doorbell, so—”

“So you went snooping around?”

“Well, I—”

“The knife that did it is gone, but judging by the cut it made, it was very similar to the one that killed Chuck Hanratty.”

“Wait a minute—,” said Pierre.

“And you just happen to be at the scene of both killings.”

“ Wait a goddamn minute —”

“I think you should come downtown with us, make another statement.”

“I didn’t do it. She was dead when I found her. Look at her; she’s been dead for hours.”