Borderlines (32 page)

Miss Cowley, what made you notice the shoes?” She started at him for a second, perplexed. “I clean rooms.” “So it was the dirt?” “Yeah, there was dirt all around the shoes on the carpet.” “So what did you do?”

“Like I told you. The boss doesn’t like us to touch any of the guests’

things, but this was different, I mean, I had to clean, right? So I took the shoes and turned them over, so the dirt wouldn’t fall off no more. Then I vacuumed. That’s it.” “What did the bottoms of the shoes look like?” “Bumpy. You know, with those super-deep treads.” “Lug soles?” “Yeah, I guess.” Spinney rummaged through the envelope, pulled out a series of photographs and spread them on the unmade bed beside him. “Okay. Look at these carefully. They’re all shots of footprints.

Do you see one that looks like the shoes you described finding in Room 212?” She shook her head but bent over to study the pictures. “Kind of hard to tell. It’s not like these are real shoes. I mean, look at this one you can hardly tell anything at all. It’s not even in color.”

Spinney impatiently emptied the envelope across the sheets, scat %207

ring glossy prints everywhere, He rummaged through the pile, finally ulling one out from the rest. “Here, same shoe print, better shot.” He placed the one she’d criticized.

She picked up another one. “This one.” “You sure?” “You asked, I told you. What’d you think?” “It’s something we have to say, all right? You are sure this photo atches the prints of the shoes in Room 212.” She suddenly looked cautious. “Am I going to get in trouble?” “No. You’re just telling us what you saw, that’s all.” Her words came out reluctantly. “Well, I hope you’re not puttin’ e on.” She waved the picture in her hand. “Like I said, this looks like e shoes I saw-there’s the same squiggle-like pattern in the middle.” Spinney took the picture from her. “Great.” He read the identifiation number off the back of the photo for the record and turned off e tape recorder.

“We’re set.” We left Angie Cowley shaking her head. Again, I tagged after pinney as he half-ran down the length of the balcony toward the stairs. Now we’ll see what kind of clout the State has. You missed it, but last ight, after telling us what super dudes we all were, Imus said he’d rranged to have a judge on permanent stand-by to consider any warants we might request. We are priority business over everything.”

“You gonna tell Hamilton?” I asked as I slid into his car next to 1m.

“I’ll do it from the courthouse.” He started the engine. It took only about four minutes to drive to the courthouse. The eather from the day before was still holding-damp, cold, and loomy, with a cloud cover so low you could touch it. Spinney came p the Atlantic Avenue hill, right by the front of Potter’s office, and ut left onto South Main. The courthouse was on the immediate left. “Shit, reporters.

There were three people-two men and a woman-loitering outide. One was sitting on a cement bench planted under a small bare tree, he other two balanced on the iron railing on either side of the roofed ntryway. Call us paranoid, but I thought he was right. Who else in their right minds would sit around outside a courthouse, early in the orning and in weather so cold you could see your breath? Even the ummies knew better.

Spinney parked across the street. “You better stay here. They see our face, we’ll never get rid of them; worse than driving around with atman.” It was irritating but I could see his point. At least he left the engine %208 running soI wouldn’t freeze to death at the height of my fame. I looked out the side window at the courthouse, a one-hundred-year-old red brick pile with a slate roof. It had two floors of tall, skinny windows, capped with what looked like wooden eyebrows painted green. The building looked perpetually surprised at what was going on inside.

As it turned out, Spinney could have taken the car keys. He was back in fifteen minutes, looking pleased with himself. “Damn. That’s got to be a record. Son of a bitch was right there, just as advertised.

He even stood around while I filled out the form.” We returned to the motel and found Hamilton already waiting, standing next to a fat, nervous man with thin black hair and glasses so thick they looked like they’d been cut from the bottoms of Coke bottles. Spinney held up the warrant. “Efficient, huh?” Hamilton smiled and motioned to the motel manager to lead the way.

“Do we know if he’s home?” I asked.

“Thought we’d surprise him,” Hamilton answered. He seemed in a remarkably good mood, understandable considering the heat he’d probably been feeling, and which he’d spared passing on to us.

But Gorman wasn’t in. We pounded on the door several times, and then stepped aside to let the manager use his passkey. From the door, the place not only looked empty, but unused. Aside from a suitcase, a few items on the night table, and some clothes laying about, it looked ready to rent bed made, towels unused.

Hamilton stopped us from going beyond the threshold. “What’s your name again?” he asked the manager. “Petrone, Arthur.” I caught a hint of military obsequiousness lurking in the man’s past.

“Mr. Petrone, this warrant allows us to search for a pair of shoes whose soles match those pictured in this photograph. We are not here to ransack the room, nor are we allowed to take from it anything not mentioned in the warrant, unless we know it to be directly linked to the criminal investigation now under way. Do you understand all that?”

“Sure… I think.” “Good. I want you to stand right here and watch us.

Later, if they ask you in court, you can tell them exactly what we did here, okay? So try to remember.” Petrone nodded silently. Despite the cold air entering through the door, I could see he was sweating. “What did this guy do?” “Maybe nothing, that’s why we’re here.” Hamilton looked at us and nodded. We both made a beeline for %209 he alcove with the sink at the far end of the room. To its left was the athroom, with a toilet and tub; to the right was a doorless closet. We oth fell to our knees like kids at the Christmas tree. “I think we got it, Lieutenant.” Hamilton approached, tugging Petrone behind him, and looked ver our heads. On the floor, still lying bottoms up the way Angie owley had placed them, were a pair of low-cut walking shoes. Hamilon handed the photo to Spinney, who held it next to the shoes. “What do you think, Mr. Petrone? Is it a match?” Petrone, beginning to enjoy the newfound authority, nodded ravely. “I believe it is.” Hamilton pulled a brown paper evidence bag from his pocket and ave it to Spinney. Spinney snapped it open and gingerly placed one hoe inside, careful not to lose any dirt. As he began doing the same with the other shoe, I stopped him. “What?” “I thought I saw something, something shiny.” I took the shoe from him and held it closer, angling it in the light from over the sink. “There it is. I’ll be damned.” “What?” Spinney asked again, this time with some insistence. I moved the shoe so he could see.

Hamilton stuck his head in from he side for a better view. Even Petrone balanced on one foot and tried 0 see without intruding. It made me think of a bunch of frustrated iners finally catching a glimpse of a tiny speck of gold.

Which wasn’t far from the truth, for what had caught my eye was small sliver of glass wedged in between two lugs and held there by ried mud.

It was broken and scarred, but still recognizable. It also went a long way in explaining why Gorman had appeared so nervous when Spinney and I had first met him, the night after Wingate’s death.

It was a contact lens.

Gorman, however, wasn’t available. Upon leaving the motel, Hamilton got in touch with the surveillance crew that had been put on him and discovered Gorman had returned to Hanover, New Hampshire, the night before. Spinney was all set to get a court order and hunt %210 the man down. Hamilton, as usual, took the dispassionate, reasonable view.

Gorman had left his belongings in this motel room and was slated to appear with Greta at a televised news conference at the Rocky River in a few hours. Why not just wait for him to come to us? Spinney continued to growl until it was pointed out that by being in Hanover, Gorman was out of state, and the paperwork to extradite him would take days. That left Spinney frustrated, but without recourse. Not so Hamilton, who decided that since Gorman was temporarily out of reach, he would head off to the Waterbury lab and have the contact lens scientifically matched to the one that had remained in Wingate’s eye just to be sure.

That had left Spinney at barracks, with me to watch him pace. I went over to the projection screen at the head of the room, released the catch, and eased it back into its cannister near the ceiling. The diagram of the murder scene was still displayed on the blackboard behind with all its multi-colored footprints. “What color are Gorman’s prints supposed to be?” “White.” I studied the diagram, using a pencil as a pointer. “White-the one guy who was standing off by himself.” “And for a long time,” Spinney added. He was now sitting down, with his elbows propped on the table, staring at the board intently.

“Right. Hamilton said last night the lab had come up with some new information about all this, something about chronological sequencing?”

Spinney looked over the paper debris Iittering the table and came up with a thick binder. He leafed through it a bit, scanning the indexes.

“Yeah, here it is. What do you want to know?” “Any sense of who went where first.” Spinney read quickly, flipping through several pages.

“Well, let’s see. We got Mitch Pearl and Rennie’s tracks on top of all the others.” I scanned the board. “Okay, that’s when they found the body. What else?” “Of the earlier prints, it looks like white is on top… Well, he didn’t hit all the other prints. He is on top of black and red-he missed yellow.” I translated, using Crofter’s color key.

“Gorman’s white, so he came after black, which is Wingate. So Gorman either entered the picture while Wingate was still alive, hitting some of Wingate’s prints but not all, or he came in after Wingate was already dead.” “Which means he could have killed him.” %211 “Maybe. What else?”

“White-Gorman is also on top of several reds.” “Red. Crofter called him the busiest-” “And Gorman the least busy-in and out.” “Right, so he is; one line in, one line out, pretty clean if you’re oing to hack someone with a knife a half-dozen times.” “Perhaps.” “Red is stomping all over the place, particularly near where Winate’s head finally wound up.” I stepped away from the board and faced Spinney. “I kick you in he balls; what happens?” “I shoot you and sing soprano the rest of my life.”

“Which won’t be long. You double over, clutching yourself with ne hand, and I finish you off with the knife. You fall at my feet.

rgo, my footprints end up all around where your head ends up, ight?”

“Possibly. Maybe you kick me in the balls and I fall down like a ack of potatoes and the little lady finishes me off.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” He pointed at the binder. “Let’s assume the yellow tracks elong to Julie for the moment, a likely choice since she addressed the nvelope to her father and none of our other suspects fit those small, ight moccasin prints.

Now, this report says both she and red step all ver each other. No way to tell who went first.” I nodded my acknowledgment. “But Gorman’s definitely on top fred?” “Yeah.” “So if yellow-Julie-and red are intermixed, we might assume orman appeared after Julie, too.” Spinney shook his head and dropped the book in front of him. ‘Maybe.

This is like reading tea leaves. Just because one set of prints on top of another set doesn’t mean they came later than a few econds. If you have ten guys walking in a line, did the last guy follow he first nine by two hours, or was he holding a short rope attached to he ninth guy’s belt? You can’t tell.” “Okay, I’ll grant you that. But nowhere does it say Gorman’s rints appear under anyone’s, right?” “Right.” “And since yellow’s and red’s prints are mixed together, it’s reaonable to assume they were together at the time.” “Two against one? Yellow and red against Wingate, with Gorman ntering the scene after?” %212 “It works, doesn’t it?” Spinney rubbed the sides of his nose with his forefingers.

“Yeah, but so does three against one.” “Does it?” I used the pointer again. “Here’s Wingate standing around, shifting his weight, staggering finally, and then falling. Here’s yellow, also standing around, back and forth, in front of Wingate. And the same’s true for red. But Gorman…” I tapped at the two neat parallel rows of white marks, “goes straight in, pauses maybe squats down or something-and then leaves.” “In a hurry.” “What?” Spinney pointed at the book. “In a hurry. The lab says he left running, leaving only toe marks, no heels.” “It fits,” I said, tossing the pencil onto the table. I felt disappointed in some ways: Gorman, obviously, was not our killer.

“So who’s red, and is Julie yellow?” The first question had a numbing regularity to it; it seemed we had fit everyone except Buster into those red footprints. I ducked answering.

“And what was Gorman doing there in the first place?” Spinney leaned way back in the chair and locked his hands behind his neck. “You know, Joe, red could still be Rennie.” I shook my head and sat down. “Concede the point. It is possible.” “I’d be happier conceding it if he hadn’t gotten killed.” “That’s because you’re linking all three events together the fire and the two murders. What if they’re not connected?” That struck me as unlikely. “Remember when we visited Rennie’s place, and got the boots and clothes and knife? Well, I asked Nadine, just as we were leaving, whether Rennie ever went without a belt. Remember what she said?” He looked at me closely. “That he always wore a belt.” “So what was blood doing on the waistband of the pants we found? If he always wore a belt, the blood would be on the belt.” Spinney rolled his eyes.