Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page A

not Paige Lawson’s.”
    “Are they sure?”
    “No doubt, Row,” he replied. “They don’t look
anything alike.”
    “Damn,” I muttered.
    This latest revelation did nothing to help my
overall sense of demoralization. I had been certain that Paige
Lawson was trying to communicate with me. Now, I couldn’t even be
sure that it wasn’t simply all in my head.
    “Graphologist said that based on the slant,
the sample was most likely from a left-handed individual,” he
continued. “And prob’ly female, although they get a little hinky
‘bout swearin’ to one gender or the other.”
    “Well, I told you that much,” I offered.
    “Yeah, I know, but like I said, the samples
are worlds apart…and yours still ain’t from Paige Lawson. Ta’ be
honest, the difference is so obvious I really didn’t even need the
crime lab for this. But just ta’ be sure, I had ‘em verify it
anyway. Accordin’ to the experts, the buck-fifty analysis is this,
and I quote—The moderate left slant coupled with the narrow spacing
denotes an independent and possibly introverted individual. The
heavy pressure and ornate loops in the letters indicate a secretive
personality…
    “There’s some more here about the margins,
size, and stuff, but it all boils down to the same thing. It ain’t
Paige Lawson’s handwritin’.”
    “It isn’t mine either.”
    “Yeah, I know. I went ahead and had ‘em
compare yours from some of the forms I’ve had ya’ fill out down
here. There wasn’t enough to get a fancy analysis, but they were
confident that you weren’t the one pushin’ the pencil. I didn’t
tell ‘em any different.”
    At first I was surprised at what he’d done,
but Ben’s actions made perfect sense. He had to rule out all of the
possibilities, and since I claimed the writing had come out of me,
it was a logical move.
    “Anyway, on the bright side,” he told me,
“there’s a note here sayin’ that the little curly-q thing with the
I’s is pretty unique. Very personal…for whatever that’s worth.”
    “Not much, apparently.”
    “It’d be easy to identify in another
handwriting sample if we ran across it.”
    “And the odds of that are?” I asked
rhetorically. “Besides, you’ve proven that it’s not her, so I
suppose it doesn’t really matter.”
    “Yeah, so maybe it’s someone else.”
    “Do you really believe that?”
    “Hey,” he contended, “like I said, I’ve seen
weirder shit than this. Especially outta you.”
    “Yes, but neither you nor Felicity seemed
terribly convinced yesterday.” I allowed the words to hang between
us in a verbal challenge of his sudden professed faith in my
sanity.
    “Look, Row, let’s not go there. I wish I’d
been able to give ya’ somethin’ here, but…” He sighed. Without even
seeing him I knew he was massaging his neck with a large hand.
“It’s just not there, white man. Sorry.”
    “It’s not your fault,” I told him. I meant it
even though I’m sure I didn’t sound very convincing. “So what about
Paige Lawson?”
    “Whaddaya mean? What about ‘er?”
    “You said yesterday that you weren’t even
sure it was a homicide.”
    “Oh, that. Well, it’s lookin’ less and less
like it. Right now we’re waitin’ on the final results of the
autopsy, but there’s just nothin’ there at this point that says
foul play.”
    “How was she found anyway?”
    “Row…”
    “Can you humor me?” I appealed, my voice
dull. “You just blew my theory apart. You could at least throw me a
bone here.”
    He exhaled heavily at the other end. “Nothin’
spectacular really. Squad car drove by on regular patrol and
noticed the door hangin’ open. When the copper came through about
half an hour later it was still open so he stopped ta’ check it
out. Found her layin’ facedown just inside.”
    “And he didn’t notice anything else?”
    “Rowan, he’s a cop. We may not be perfect but
this is what we’re trained ta’ do.”
    “Yeah, I know,” I