Scene Stealer by Elise Warner Page B

Lieutenant Brown and I both asked the same question.
    â€œMiss Weidenmaier, will you please wait with the others.”
    â€œPerhaps, Lieutenant, the identity of the perpetrator may be found on a security camera?”
    Lieutenant Brown turned a glare that was meant for me on a young recruit nearby. “Escort this lady to the Green Room.”
    It was my turn to glare. “Lieutenant Brown, Bertram Barton was my student. I should like to be of assistance in finding his murderer.”
    Timothy Brown gazed at the ceiling for a moment as if the answers to all his problems were to be found there.
    â€œI understand your feelings, Miss Weidenmaier.” He spoke in a condescending manner—more suited to discourse with a five-year-old. “But the police department has certain rules that must be followed just as schoolteachers have rules and procedures. Surely you understand that? Now you will be informed as soon as a determination is made. Besides, there is the possibility of an accident.”
    â€œYoung man, I have never talked down to a student. I would appreciate your granting me the same courtesy. We both know that hair-dryer did not dive into the sink!”
    â€œMy Gawd!” The can of soda struck the floor. The recruit released my arm, and with one spring, managed to catch the hairdresser and make a comfortable cushion for her fall.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    I thought my behavior professional, but Lieutenant Brown ordered me to stop my amateur sleuthing. The last thing I wanted to do was upset dear Lieutenant Brown; he had quite enough on his plate. I hid my hands in my lap, crossed my fingers and made him the promise he expected—children claim a promise doesn’t count if you cross your fingers. I neglected to mention my upcoming visit with Kevin’s father, Captain Charles Corcoran.
    His doctor resisted my efforts to find out the nature of the captain’s illness but I managed to convince the man my visit would be just the right medicine. Something I said must have given him the impression I had been Captain Corcoran’s favorite grade-school teacher.
    10:00 a.m. the next morning when I left my apartment, the temperature had climbed past eighty degrees Fahrenheit. A record-breaking temperature according to the weather report; it was much too warm for a fall day. I dabbed the beads of perspiration from my forehead and unbuttoned my tweed jacket; wishing I hadn’t packed away my summer clothes.
    The subway had been stifling, the atmosphere fetid. I navigated past spilled soda pop that left sticky patches on the car floor to the disgust of all but a buzzing horse-fly, avoided an empty beer bottle that rolled from one side of the train to the other and finally found a seat not occupied by discarded newspapers. By the time the hour-long ride brought me to the Kingsbridge Avenue station and I walked up a steep hill to arrive at the hospital, my humor was as damp as my blouse.
    The security guard, stationed at the door, handed me a clipboard and I added my name and time of arrival to the sparse list of visitors. A few grizzled veterans wandered aimlessly around the lobby; relics from a forgotten war. If my fiancé had survived, I thought, he would be their age. My eyes felt moist; allergy, perhaps, it was so hot today. I pressed the elevator button, determined to concentrate on the present. Best not to dwell on the past, on what might have been.
    Where was the elevator? The wait was interminable; I pressed the button once again. If there hadn’t been an alarm attached to the door leading to the stairs, I would have been tempted to make the climb. Climbing stairs were reputed to be an excellent exercise for the muscles of the heart.
    The first car to arrive was filled to capacity with a cart laden with dirty luncheon trays. I managed to squeeze into the second elevator, sharing the limited space with a laundry cart pushed by another tired-looking orderly who answered my greeting with a