Thomas Perry - The Butcher's Boy

“Oh, no,” said Lang, suddenly flustered. “We’re not dogging it and neither is Washington. They’re doing a real number on that end; looking for a motive, sending out their own people to follow every lead. I just meant we’ve got two things to worry about—doing our job and preparing to prove we’ve done it. So let’s get going on that briefcase.” He went to the corner of the lab and picked up the briefcase. He stopped at a desk and pulled a printed form out of the top drawer and brought that back with him to the table.

“Here’s how it goes,” he said. “We take down an itemized list of what’s in here, and then each of us signs it. Just a standard procedure when the owner isn’t around to sign the slip, but let’s be sure we don’t make any mistakes on this one. A year from now I don’t want a man from the National Security Agency to show up with this in his hand asking me how some document the Senator once initialed turned up for sale in Berlin or Hong Kong or Zurich.”

Lang took out the first thick sheaf of printed matter. He said, “I’d say this is a copy of the Congressional Record , pages 1098 through 2013, twelve January through one February. With—let’s see—penciled corrections and notes. Agreed?”

Elizabeth glanced at it, and nodded as she wrote down the description.

Next there were an address book, a set of airline schedules, an issue of Time magazine, a draft of a speech on income taxes. It felt uncomfortable and strange, not because she was going through a dead man’s belongings, but because they didn’t feel as if they belonged to a dead man at all. Everything was half finished, cut short: the magazine fresh and still smelling of printer’s ink, the speech still lacking a conclusion as though someone had just stopped talking to answer the telephone in the middle of a sentence. But then she remembered that was all murder was, once you got beyond the blood and the pain and the momentary unpleasantness.

She wrote rapidly as Lang formulated the descriptions. They seemed overly precise, silly almost if you allowed yourself to think about them that way: “Spiral-bound notebook. Quantity, one. Blue. Gem Corporation. Eight and a half by eleven, numbered pages to two hundred. Pages eight, nineteen, seventy-three, and one hundred and six missing. One, no, two packs of cigarettes, Sobranie, unfiltered. Wrappers unopened. Memorandum, dated February third, addressed to All Senatorial Offices from Mr. Deering of the General Services Administration, Re: Unnecessary Use of Electricity.”

As she scribbled the word “electricity” she was saying, “Got it.”

“That’s it,” said Lang. “Oh yeah … briefcase, brown leather with brass fittings. Initials MRC.”

They both signed the list and Lang held onto it. “I’ll go call this in to Washington now,” he said. “They can reassure the White House that we’re not sitting here looking for fingerprints on the plans for a new ICBM.”

“Can I get started on these papers?” asked Elizabeth.

“Sure thing,” he said. “The only things that look promising are the address book and the notebook, but you might as well get started.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

The first few pages of the notebook were enough. She leafed through the hundred and seven other pages with writing on them, and they didn’t get any better. The notebook was a sedimentary deposit of all the things the old man had wanted to remember. Appointments with other senators and appointments with his doctor crowded lists of groceries and fragmentary cryptic memoranda. Bannerman Act—call N.G. Remind Carlson to invite d’Orsini et al. Sunday . She wondered if she had a clue when she saw the double exclamation on Clayburn!! until she saw the triple exclamation on Pretzels!!! There were phrases from what appeared to be political orations: The trouble is, they’re trying to run the country like a poker game —but there were no notations as to who had said it, where, why, or when.

ELIZABETH SAT AND THOUGHT. There would have to be some kind of systematic grid that could be constructed to unravel it. It was rather simple, actually. Since the reminders and appointments would have to be written in before they happened, the exact dates could be pinned down by checking with the other people involved. The notations on each page would have to be transcribed in thematic divisions—to start with, the categories could be appointments and reminders, political references, personal references , and miscellaneous . There had to be a miscellaneous . It might be possible to retrieve almost all of it—whom he saw or spoke to, what he was doing each day of the past two months, what he was thinking about. It would take some time, though, and might not be of any use. After all, if there had been anything there, wouldn’t the Senator have noticed it in time to save himself?

But there were shortcuts available. He’d had a staff, and they would be able to translate most of the notations, maybe all of them. There was the legislative assistant. What was his name? She leafed through the notebook again, and it was everywhere: Papers on Calloway Bill—Carlson. Have Carlson call N.G. Re: Oil Depl. Allow .

Elizabeth walked to the wall and snatched the white telephone. It rang immediately and then she noticed it had no dial. The voice that said “Yes” was that of the receptionist. My God, she thought, doesn’t anybody else work here? But she said, “This is Elizabeth Waring in the Forensic Lab. Can you get me an appointment with Mr. Carlson, the Senator’s aide, as soon as possible?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Waring,” said the receptionist. “Mr. Carlson is on his way back to Washington. I’m sure we can put through a call to him this evening.”

“Damn!” said Elizabeth. “Who told him he could go and why in the world would he want to?” She regretted it instantly, but already the receptionist’s even, measured tones were answering, “Mr. Lang spoke with him on the telephone only a short time ago before he left the hotel.”

“So he may not be gone yet?” said Elizabeth.

“His plane leaves this afternoon at twelve thirty and arrives in Washington at seven fifteen Eastern time.”

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. It was just noon. “I’m sorry, but there’s no dial on this phone. Can you call the airline and ask them to get him to a phone? It could be important.” She was glad she’d said “could be.” Her control was coming back.

“Yes. If we locate him I’ll ring you in the lab.”

The telephone rang again in a few minutes and Elizabeth said, “Waring.”

“I have Mr. Carlson on the line,” said the receptionist.

“Mr. Carlson?”

“Yes, Miss Waring,” he said. Behind his voice there was a huge hollow where random noises echoed. He spoke tonelessly and loudly as though he had his free hand pressed to his ear.

“I have a number of questions that you seem to be the only one who can answer, and I—”

“Miss Waring, I’m sorry, but I have a flight to Washington that’s already boarding, and I’m about to miss it as it is. Can I call you back when I get home this evening?”

“I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, I have something you’d have to look at to be able to explain. If you could take a later flight, I’d—”

“I’ve already been interviewed and grilled and investigated for over twenty-four hours, and—oh. Just a second.” Elizabeth could hear that another male voice was droning just outside the range of understanding. Then Carlson said something too. It went on for a few seconds, and then she heard him sigh into the receiver. He said, “I’ve just missed my flight. I have to wait four hours for the next one.” He sounded sad.