Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I have something for you.” She reached into her purse and handed him a folded slip of paper. “It’s a check.”
“Yes, I’ve seen one before.” He turned the check over and held it up to the light as if it might not be real. “One thousand dollars. That’s slightly less than the amount we agreed upon.”
“I think a thousand dollars is an adequate fee for a single day’s work,” she snapped. “I see no reason to continue this investigation after … after tonight.”
Without a word Nick turned back to his microscope. He carefully removed the glass specimen slide and slid the edge of Kathryn’s check under the chrome holding clips instead. He peered once again into the eyepiece. For several moments he studied it—focusing, shifting, then focusing again.
“For crying out loud,” Kathryn said, “it’s good.”
“Not good enough.” He looked at her again. “Give me one good reason why you should drop this investigation.”
“One good reason! The only reason I started all this is because I believed that Jimmy could never have taken his own life—and then tonight I learn that he was a user! I never thought that could be true of him either. Maybe I was wrong about him … maybe I was wrong about everything.”
“The sheriff believes that cocaine had nothing to do with your friend’s death—that his drug use was a symptom of his struggle, and not the cause. Do you agree?”
She thought carefully. “Yes,” she said slowly, and then with more confidence, “yes, I do.”
“Then the cocaine tells us only two things: one, that your friend was indeed troubled—which we already knew—and two, that your friend the sheriff is willing to withhold information from you.”
“He did it to protect me.”
“So he said.” Nick studied her eyes closely. “And you obviously believe him.”
Kathryn ignored the remark. “So you think there’s good reason to continue the investigation?”
“I don’t think there was ever good reason to begin—but then, this is not about reason, is it? You came to me because you had a hunch. Your friend could not have died by suicide, you said, because he was incapable of taking his own life. Nothing has changed about that. I just hate to see you give up a good hunch for a bad reason.”
Kathryn gazed at him in confusion, trying to make sense of this strange assortment of riddles. Suddenly it all became clear to her.
“This is all about money, isn’t it? Give me back my check!”
Nick reached into his breast pocket with two fingers and removed the folded paper. Straightening his arm, he dropped the paper to the floor in front of him and slowly slid it forward with his left foot. Kathryn snatched up the check and spread it out on the worktable beside her, furiously crossing out numbers and figures and writing new ones in their place.
“There!” She tossed the check back on the floor in front of him. “Five thousand! Now is there a good reason to call it off?”
Nick sat motionless, continuing to study Kathryn’s eyes.
“The body was moved,” he said quietly.
Kathryn was stunned. Jimmy’s body—moved? But who would move it? And why? Her mind raced with all the possible implications of this revelation—but all that came out of her mouth was an astonished, “What?”
“The blood that circulates in your body is red due to the presence of oxygen. When a body dies, the blood becomes purple—almostblack—and it pools in the lowest parts of the body. The blood actually stains the surrounding tissues, and after six to eight hours the stain becomes permanent. This is a condition known as ‘fixed lividity.’”
Nick laid his right arm out flat on the table beside him, palm up. “I die. My body falls to the ground—like this.” He nodded to the arm. “The blood drains to the dorsal surface—down here—and eight hours later the bottom of my arm is permanently stained. Now if someone comes along after eight hours and
“I have something for you.” She reached into her purse and handed him a folded slip of paper. “It’s a check.”
“Yes, I’ve seen one before.” He turned the check over and held it up to the light as if it might not be real. “One thousand dollars. That’s slightly less than the amount we agreed upon.”
“I think a thousand dollars is an adequate fee for a single day’s work,” she snapped. “I see no reason to continue this investigation after … after tonight.”
Without a word Nick turned back to his microscope. He carefully removed the glass specimen slide and slid the edge of Kathryn’s check under the chrome holding clips instead. He peered once again into the eyepiece. For several moments he studied it—focusing, shifting, then focusing again.
“For crying out loud,” Kathryn said, “it’s good.”
“Not good enough.” He looked at her again. “Give me one good reason why you should drop this investigation.”
“One good reason! The only reason I started all this is because I believed that Jimmy could never have taken his own life—and then tonight I learn that he was a user! I never thought that could be true of him either. Maybe I was wrong about him … maybe I was wrong about everything.”
“The sheriff believes that cocaine had nothing to do with your friend’s death—that his drug use was a symptom of his struggle, and not the cause. Do you agree?”
She thought carefully. “Yes,” she said slowly, and then with more confidence, “yes, I do.”
“Then the cocaine tells us only two things: one, that your friend was indeed troubled—which we already knew—and two, that your friend the sheriff is willing to withhold information from you.”
“He did it to protect me.”
“So he said.” Nick studied her eyes closely. “And you obviously believe him.”
Kathryn ignored the remark. “So you think there’s good reason to continue the investigation?”
“I don’t think there was ever good reason to begin—but then, this is not about reason, is it? You came to me because you had a hunch. Your friend could not have died by suicide, you said, because he was incapable of taking his own life. Nothing has changed about that. I just hate to see you give up a good hunch for a bad reason.”
Kathryn gazed at him in confusion, trying to make sense of this strange assortment of riddles. Suddenly it all became clear to her.
“This is all about money, isn’t it? Give me back my check!”
Nick reached into his breast pocket with two fingers and removed the folded paper. Straightening his arm, he dropped the paper to the floor in front of him and slowly slid it forward with his left foot. Kathryn snatched up the check and spread it out on the worktable beside her, furiously crossing out numbers and figures and writing new ones in their place.
“There!” She tossed the check back on the floor in front of him. “Five thousand! Now is there a good reason to call it off?”
Nick sat motionless, continuing to study Kathryn’s eyes.
“The body was moved,” he said quietly.
Kathryn was stunned. Jimmy’s body—moved? But who would move it? And why? Her mind raced with all the possible implications of this revelation—but all that came out of her mouth was an astonished, “What?”
“The blood that circulates in your body is red due to the presence of oxygen. When a body dies, the blood becomes purple—almostblack—and it pools in the lowest parts of the body. The blood actually stains the surrounding tissues, and after six to eight hours the stain becomes permanent. This is a condition known as ‘fixed lividity.’”
Nick laid his right arm out flat on the table beside him, palm up. “I die. My body falls to the ground—like this.” He nodded to the arm. “The blood drains to the dorsal surface—down here—and eight hours later the bottom of my arm is permanently stained. Now if someone comes along after eight hours and
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