Authors: Matthew FitzSimmons
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a public printer here. I’ve requested one, but it’s not in our budget this year.”
“Oh,” he said and let himself deflate. “They said you had one in the back office.”
“Well, yes, but that’s only for staff use.”
Come on, lady. Don’t make me cry for you.
He nodded in somber understanding and clenched his jaw in a stoic restraint of manly emotion. Would a chin quiver be overkill?
“Can you think of anywhere else I can try?” he asked.
“Well, there’s a print shop, but that’s all the way over in . . .” Mrs. Miller looked up at the clock. “No, you’ll never make it in time.”
“It’s okay. Maybe they won’t mind that much.”
Margaret Miller sighed.
“Do you have it on a disk or something?”
“Thumb drive,” he said and held it out helpfully to her.
“What’s it called?”
“It’s just called ‘résumé.’ It’s the only file.”
She stared at it a long time. Deciding his fate.
“Follow me,” she said with a sigh.
She led him back into the stacks to the librarian’s office, which sat in a far back corner away from the front desk. She managed to hold her tongue for the first twenty feet, but then turned and began gently chiding him for being irresponsible. About how his uncle had stuck his neck out for him, and it was wrong to let him down like this. It almost seemed therapeutic for her, and he nodded and muttered apologetic “I knows” and “you’re rights” in the appropriate places. Seemed only fair.
She unlocked her office door and paused.
“Please forgive the mess,” she said.
She wasn’t lying either. Her desk was buried beneath a mountain of papers that ought to have come with an avalanche warning. Books were stacked on the floor, and all of her plants required water or last rites.
The only tidy area in the office was the workstation that sat next to a rack of servers. Again, he was impressed at Somerset County’s commitment to its computer infrastructure. But it sure wasn’t Margaret Miller, who didn’t know what or where a USB port was. Gibson had to politely point out where to plug in the thumb drive. However, she insisted on printing the document herself, which was fine. He’d embedded his virus into the résumé; as soon as she opened it, the program would install itself to the machine and then erase all record of its download. It would lie dormant until he activated it.
He watched over her shoulder as the library’s virus software scanned the file and allowed it to open. She printed three copies. “Just to be on the safe side,” she said.
He was counting on her not looking too closely at his résumé, which was a sample that he’d downloaded from an employment website. He’d spent ten minutes changing the details to fake businesses in Hagerstown, but it wouldn’t hold up under too much scrutiny. Fortunately, she was too busy lecturing him on responsibility.
She shooed him out and wished him luck as he left the building.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The house was set back far enough that Tinsley didn’t worry about being seen. The row of tall Leyland cypresses obscured the sight lines from the street so that someone would need to come right up the front walk to spot him. Kneeling on the thick doormat that wished him a friendly forest-green “Welcome,” Tinsley picked the lock quickly and efficiently. He let the door swing open and listened to what it had to say. It squeaked, just a little, at forty-five degrees. The alarm beeped questioningly.
Tinsley stepped in, shut the door, and disarmed the alarm. As the perspiration cooled on his skin, Tinsley shivered involuntarily. It felt almost chilly inside compared to the oppressive heat outside. He walked to the back of the house, where the kitchen and sitting room combined into a great room. It was late afternoon and sunlight streamed through the large picture windows. A large flat-screen television was mounted to a wall where it could be seen from both the couch and the granite-topped kitchen island. The television was flanked by large built-in bookshelves that housed an array of hardcover books. It felt as though the volumes existed to offset, and in some way apologize for, the lowbrow presence of a television. It also felt like a woman’s home, although Tinsley couldn’t say why.
The doctor wouldn’t be home before seven. Tinsley had allowed himself plenty of time to familiarize himself with the layout—which doors were locked and unlocked, which creaked and which opened noiselessly, where the phones were located, whether he might be seen from any of the upstairs windows. He moved silently through the house, running his latex glove–covered fingers along the walls as if testing their sturdiness. He sat on the edge of her bed and thought about how she would stage it. How would a respected doctor do it?
Make me believe,
he thought. He sat that way for a long time.
When he was through, he smoothed the duvet and went back downstairs. There was a guest bedroom on the ground floor, and its door opened smoothly. He would wait there. He practiced walking the route to her bedroom. Testing the floorboards until he knew every creak. When he was satisfied, he rearmed the house security system and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He emptied his bladder carefully in the toilet. Took a piece of toilet paper and dabbed up an errant drop on the seat. Then he slipped under the guest-room bed and cleared his mind. The quiet hum of the house was pleasant.
He waited.
Tinsley felt the vibration of the garage door opening through his spine. It snapped him back to full consciousness, and he listened to what the house murmured to him. The garage door closed, and the alarm sounded again but was shut off a moment later. High heels strode toward the front of the house, and then the doorbell rang. Someone had followed her. Perhaps a friend whom she had invited home with her. But a man or a woman? She was widowed, so either was possible. He listened to her answer the door, and the sound of two women’s voices speaking animatedly filled the front hall. There was laughter. They walked past his door and back toward the kitchen.
For the next several hours, Tinsley listened to the women prepare dinner and eat. Classical music muddied the sounds of their voices, but he kept careful track of where they were in the house. Each sound or smell that came to him, he analyzed and cataloged. The flush of a toilet. The clinking of silverware and glasses. The smell of garlic and olive oil. He moved them through the house on the chessboard in his mind. Mercifully for her friend, the guest bedroom never opened.
He’d only come for one.
It was after eleven before the doctor showed her guest out. They stood talking and making plans that the doctor would not keep. Her friend would find it hard to believe that the doctor would take her own life after such a lovely evening. But gradually, she would be convinced that the dinner was intended as a farewell.
But she was so cheerful, so full of life . . .
Psychiatrists would explain that suicides often become ebullient once they’ve made up their mind. As if a weight has been lifted. Eventually, she would accept it as the truth even if a small part of her harbored doubts. He heard a car start, and after a moment it drove away.
Tinsley listened to the familiar sounds of cleaning up after a meal. The clattering of a dishwasher being loaded. Running water. The garbage disposal. Eventually the music shut off. Footsteps. The security alarm being armed. From the crack beneath the door, he saw the lights go out, and she went up the stairs to the second floor. After ten minutes, he was certain that the doctor’s dinner companion hadn’t forgotten something and wouldn’t be returning unexpectedly.
He slithered out from beneath the bed.
Even with the suppressor attached, the Browning Buck Mark .22 felt light in his hand. A small-caliber weapon, but it was mostly for show. If he did need it, it was effective enough at close range and virtually silent. If things took an unexpected turn, his Sig Sauer P320 made for ample backup.
Tinsley slipped out of the guest bedroom and followed the doctor upstairs. The light was on in the bedroom, but he heard her voice from the office. She was on the telephone, speaking to what sounded like her hairdresser. He stood on the landing and listened to her leave a message canceling her appointment for tomorrow. Such a tiny thing, but the kind of detail that often swayed a skeptical detective. It was very considerate of her. Once he heard her hang up the phone, he let himself into the room.
He shifted his posture, standing more erect, and let his voice take on a slight British flavor. The image of the gentleman spy was so ingrained in some Americans’ imaginations that it helped them to think of him that way. Amazing what a little courtesy could get you.
“Good evening,” he said.
This would go one of two ways.
She screamed and stood quickly. That was natural. The walls of the house were thick, and it wasn’t loud enough to attract the neighbors’ attention, so he let her get it out of her system. He held the gun up so she could see it but did not point it at her. Her mouth snapped shut, her pupils dilated, and her breathing became ragged. Her eyes flitted from his face to the gun and back to his face. Then they narrowed, recognizing him.
“It’s you.”
“Hello, Doctor.”
“What are you doing in my house? What do you want?”
Tinsley liked her. She was smart enough to see she was cornered and that a fight would not end well for her. She was trying to reason with him. It wouldn’t work, but it was her best option. He would treat her gently if she let him.
“I want for you to open your safe, Dr. Furst. Can you do that for me?”
“My safe? What do you . . .” She trailed off. “May I make a phone call? I can clear all this up.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have one that she would appreciate.
“Please?” she asked again.
He gestured to the bookshelf where the safe was hidden. She stood, steadying herself on the edge of the desk, and did as he directed. The safe was behind a ceramic urn. She moved it aside and spun the dial of the safe with quick, mechanical motions. She depressed the lever, and the safe clicked open.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Step back.”
The only item in the safe was a thin manila folder. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The letters “UPMC” were in the top left-hand corner—University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. Below that: “DNA Test Report.” Tinsley slid the sheet back into the folder without reading further.
“This is the only copy?”
“The only one.”
“Good. Let’s go to the bedroom, shall we? I have a message to deliver.”
The doctor’s eyes widened in alarm, and Tinsley saw where she misunderstood.
“No, nothing like that, Doctor. I have no intention of causing you any pain unless you are difficult. I assure you.”
That was true. Painless had been an explicit instruction. He let the gun drop to his side as a gesture of good faith. She was cautious but willing to play along. Still hoping that his calm tone of voice suggested a rational, reasonable mind. He followed her into the bedroom and told her to lie down on the bed. She was becoming docile now, compliant. He stood away from her, by the window. The moon had risen.
“I was asked to tell you that there are no ill feelings. It will all be over in a few days.”
“I would never have said anything to anyone,” she said. Her voice brimmed with feeling. “It was just a moment of weakness.”
“No, of course not. But a copy of the lab results presents too great a risk. There is too much at stake in November. You were wrong to keep it.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Just when I think of that poor girl, I wonder at what we’ve become. What I’ve done.” She searched his face for a sign that he understood.
He didn’t know how to make that kind of face.
“It’s none of my concern. I am just the messenger. But I do have a question. And I hope you’ll be honest.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Dr. Furst, is there anything else in the house that I should know about? Anything else incriminating?”
“No, I swear. Only what was in the safe.”
Tinsley nodded. He knew she was telling the truth and went through the motions of believing her. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“So we’re through?”
“Almost. I’ve been instructed to search your home in any event. But,” he said with emphasis to let her know she was being rewarded, “I will do my best not to upset anything. Since you’ve been so cooperative.” It was a lie but would ensure her compliance.
“Thank you,” she said as if he were doing her a favor.
“I’m going to give you a mild sedative now.”
“Oh?” she said, alarm creeping back into her voice.
“It’s fine. As I said, I need to search the house, and I prefer not to tie you down. This will be much more comfortable. Better for your circulation. You’ll be out for a few hours, and when you awake I will be gone and this whole unpleasantness will be over.”
“All right,” she said, working hard to believe him.
He unzipped a small leather pouch and withdrew a syringe and a vial of Luminal. Not a drug he usually used in these situations, but it was one that the doctor could get her hands on easily. It would make sense to the coroner. It was an antiepileptic, not a sedative, but had a similar effect, at least in small doses.
“How many glasses of wine did you have?”
“Two.”
He adjusted the dosage slightly and placed the syringe on the nightstand.
“If you’d be so kind,” he said.
“You want me to inject myself?”
“You are a doctor, Doctor.”
She thought it over and took the syringe. Rolling up her sleeve, she found a vein just below her elbow. When finished, she set the syringe on the nightstand and gave him an irritated look as if to say, “Happy now?” She had gone from terrified to inconvenienced with remarkable speed.
“Please be careful with the crystal downstairs. My husband bought it in Ireland on our honeymoon. I’d hate for it to be damaged.”
He assured her that he would take the utmost care.
When she was unconscious, Tinsley took another syringe from his case and gave her a second injection. Forty milliliters would be more than sufficient, given her age and weight. He sat in an armchair by the window and listened to her breathing slow and grind to a halt. He gave it a half hour then checked her vitals. Satisfied, he arranged the empty vial beside the syringe and stepped back to appraise the tableau. Something was missing.
He went downstairs to the piano and looked over the framed photographs until he found one of the doctor and her dead husband. They were holding hands, sitting with the ocean behind them. He took the picture upstairs and placed it on the bedside table where she could see it. Then he let himself out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly as if not to disturb her.
In the office, he took the file he’d been instructed to retrieve and shut the safe. He’d been debating with himself where to leave the note and decided that the office was the right place. Her personal stationery was made of thick paper; he stood the envelope up so that the top fold tented and helped it sit prominently on the blotter. Next to it he placed the pen that had written the note.
Ordinarily, he avoided using forged letters; there were too many ways to get tripped up, but he’d been assured that no one would question this one.
Satisfied with the scene, he went back to the bedroom and took Doctor Furst’s shoes off and placed them beside the bed—side by side with the toes pointing away from her. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to do that, but it allowed him to leave a scene. The shoes felt final, somehow.
Tinsley let himself out quietly. It was beginning to rain; the drops were heavy and landed like little wet bodies hitting the sidewalk. Tinsley hardly registered it other than to appreciate that the street where the good doctor had lived was deserted as a result. He took off his latex gloves and slipped away into the shadows.