The Death File: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist. J. Kerley A.

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      “Take your time, sir,” Harry said. “Then we need to ask about Professor Warbley.”

      Milsapp polished off the bourbon. “John was part of the soul of this place,” Milsapp said, shaking his head. “The conscience, maybe. John never knew an enemy, only friends. This place will never be the same.”

      “Was he married?”

      “Married to his classes, his studies, his books. Married to the concept that reason, correctly constructed and passionately argued, would always win out.”

      “Anyone in here earlier seem especially interested in Professor Warbley?” I asked.

      A sad head-shake. “It was a small crowd, the usual regulars, most have been coming here for years. People came and went, maybe forty over the course of the eveni …” He paused and narrowed an eye.

      “What is it, Mr Milsapp?” Harry asked.

      “There was someone else. A man came in, looked the place over for a few seconds, then turned and left. I got the impression he was looking for someone who wasn’t here. Or maybe he saw that it wasn’t his kind of place.”

      “How’s that, sir?”

      Milsapp studied a memory and frowned as it gained focus. “He was hardlooking, dangerous looking. Latin, I’m sure. Big shoulders, small waisted. Wore one of those knit caps. Though he had a jacket with the collar popped up, I saw tattoos on his neck. He looked like one of those guys in prison documentaries who lift weights all day. You don’t think—?”

      “We don’t think anything yet, sir. We’re just gathering data.” Harry scanned the ceiling, the rafters. “Speaking of that, do you have any security cameras?”

      “Never had any need.”

      We asked a few more questions and went to Warbley’s house to find Vince sitting on the couch and making notes as techs worked beneath porta-lamps out front. He gave us what’d you find? eyes.

      “He’d been at The Lucent,” Harry said. “Left around eleven. Fits the timeline for an ambush.”

      “He have much to drink?” Vince asked.

      Harry nodded. “The owner said Warbley liked single malt. Had four in two hours. Not smashed but happy.”

      “Not much to go on here,” Vince said, grunting up from the couch. His eyes looked tired, but then it was past two in the morning. “It’s like the standard-issue intellectual’s digs: Lots of books, an office where he graded papers, a stack of student essays on John Stuart Mill, a briefcase with more papers. Nothing out of place, tossed … I doubt the perp was ever inside.”

      “Find a wallet?” Harry asked. “Phone?”

      “Nada. There’s a bowl in a drawer by the door, got loose bills, coins, keys, an old uncharged flip phone, but a new charger hooked in a plug. I’ll bet it’s where Warbley tossed the wallet when he came in and charged his phone.”

      “You’re thinking robbery?” I asked.

      Vince nodded toward the outside. “You’ve seen the street. Dark. Some broke junkie’s driving around and coming down hard, maybe looking for houses to creep until he sees an older guy trotting in the shadows. Or maybe he saw Warbley exit the bar a little wobbly and thinks he’ll be an easy target. The junkie pulls over, grabs the steel pipe or cut-down ball bat beneath the seat and tiptoes down the lawns while Warbley trots the sidewalk. As he walks by the darkest yard bang … he gets pulled into the shadows and stripped of anything worth a nickel.” He looked at us expectantly. “You guys get anything besides Warbley sipping at The Lucent tonight? Something we can follow?”

      “Maybe,” Harry said. “If I understand how things work, Vince, you can do a few things for us, the FCLE, while we lead?”

      Vince nodded. “I’ve got more manpower, you’ve got more specialists.”

      “I’d be wondering if there are any security cameras in the area that might have caught shots of a tattooed mutha in a dark skullcap, bodybuilder type, Latin maybe …”

      Harry finished the brief description and Vince went to put people on it ASAP. Harry and I waited until the big white box took Professor John Warbley on the grim ride to the morgue. When there was nothing to do but watch techs pick through the grass, we headed toward the car.

      “Carson, Harry!” Vince yelled. We turned to see Vince waving us back. “Ortega just interviewed a woman lives four doors down. You should hear what she’s got to say.”

      We followed Vince to a tall and slim woman at the edge of the crime scene tape. She was elderly, gray-haired, but unbent by her years, alert and studying every aspect of the controlled tumult around her. Ortega, a big burly guy with a mustache to rival Harry’s, was beside her.

      “These men are with the FCLE, Ms Sabitch,” Ortega said. “Could you repeat your observations, please.”

      She looked at us and nodded. “No big deal. I like to look outside at my birds, got a dozen houses in the trees. I sit in my living room and drink coffee and read magazines and watch the birds. I’m eighty-seven, it’s what I do best. Some people may think I’m a nosy old biddy but they can take a—”

      “What’d you see or hear, ma’am?” Harry said, stepping in.

      “Just a car going down the street. Twice. It slowed down as it went by Mr Warbley’s house, like checking for an address.”

      “What time was this, Ms Sabitch?”

      “Earlier, around seven thirty. The guy inside was Mexican or Cuban or something like that. Not real old, like in his thirties. He had on one of those tight hats they all love so much. I saw his hands on the steering wheel, tattoos all over them.”

      Harry’s eyes scanned the distance from the house to the street, fifty or sixty feet. “You have very good eyesight, ma’am.”

      “No. I have very good binoculars. I watch birds, remember?”

      “Do you know the make or model of the car?”

      “Some big shiny thing, red. Not like those boxes, SUVs? This looked low to the ground, like a prowling cat. It even made a purring sound.”

      We turned. Vince was standing at the edge of the conversation, listening. We now had two sightings of a tattooed and probably Latin male, one possibly scouting the neighborhood, the other in a bar at the same time as John Warbley. Vince turned and yelled some names, adding to the crew checking for potential surveillance in the area.

      It was closing in on 3.30 a.m. and there was no more sleep tonight. Harry and I went to HQ and bagged out on our couches for a bit, anything resembling rest would keep us moving through what promised to be a long day.

      I arose at 8.00, ran through the shower downstairs, put on one of the three changes of clothes I keep in my office, the suit option, since I had a 9.15 deposition at the DA’s office, about fifteen minutes of looking serious and professional.

      I returned 45 СКАЧАТЬ