robes.”
“I’m sure they have enough if you want to stay and rest before the play starts,” she said.
“Not ones big enough to fit the Flying Monkeys,” I said. “Besides, it will give me an excuse to snoop.”
Kathy didn’t argue with that logic.
I found the chief outside the tent talking to Horace.
“You want to test their shoes for GSR?” the chief was asking.
“Not GSR,” Horace said. “That’s hard to get from clothes. But blood isn’t. And if someone had blood spatter on his clothes, that’d be a lot harder to explain away than GSR. On the shoes, it’s less significant—anyone who was at the crime scene could have stepped in the blood, but still—”
“If someone has blood on his shoes who wasn’t legitimately there after we heard the shots, it’d be significant as the dickens,” the chief said. “But we need to get them out of here pretty soon. The choir doesn’t have special shoes to lend us. And if you think my budget will run to buying flip-flops for all of them, you’re crazy.”
“How about those booties workmen wear over their shoes so they won’t track dirt into your house?” I suggested. “I bet Randall’s construction company keeps them around.”
The chief thought for a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll go ask him,” Horace said.
“No, I’ll have someone take care of it,” the chief said. “You get on over to do Mr. Throckmorton and Mr. Langslow. We’ve been keeping them waiting far too long already.”
Was it just my imagination, or did Horace turn pale?
“Right, Chief,” he said, and strode off in the direction of the bandstand.
The chief raised the tent flap and peeked in. I looked over his shoulder. At the far end of the tent, a dozen of the guards were clustered as if they felt less ridiculous in a group. Actually, I thought their numbers magnified the humorous effect. None of their gowns went down farther than mid-shin, and most displayed marvelously hairy knees atop well-thatched legs. As I watched, several of them gave surreptitious tugs at the bottom hems of their robes, in a gesture I remembered well from my own days of wearing too-short skirts.
By contrast, the flowing sleeves seemed more than adequate to cover their arms, and yet the guards repeatedly shoved or rolled them up to reveal their bulging, hairy, often tattooed biceps, and then repeated the shoving and rolling when the sleeves inevitably tumbled down.
Several of them appeared to be arguing with Deputy Vern.
“Protesting the lack of AC,” the chief said. “Apparently they keep the thermostat jacked down pretty low over there in the courthouse.”
“How environmentally irresponsible of them,” I said. “You’d think the choir robes would be more comfortable than those uniforms.”
“You’d think,” the chief said. “Anyway, their employer just brought over a bus to take them back to where they’re staying—mostly at that run-down motel in Clay County, from the sound of it. Soon as we confiscate those shoes, we can get rid of them. Of course, before we do, it would be gratifying if those Star-Tribune reporters could find their way back here.”
“I thought you already tested them,” I said. “Or do you want to snag their shoes?”
“Well, that’s not as critical, since you and Randall can pretty much alibi them—and each other—for the time when the shots were fired. But I expect that photographer would enjoy getting a few shots of our Flying Monkeys leaving the premises in the choir robes and booties.”
“I’m sure he would,” I said, trying to suppress a grin. “I will see what I can do to bring it about.”
“I’d appreciate it. I suppose I should go arrange the booties.”
“I’ll call Randall,” I said. “You’re busy.”
“Thanks.” He nodded genially to me, then forced his face back into a more stern expression and turned back to the room.
Randall promised to have booties over to the forensic tent in ten minutes.
“And I’ll convene a
“I’m sure they have enough if you want to stay and rest before the play starts,” she said.
“Not ones big enough to fit the Flying Monkeys,” I said. “Besides, it will give me an excuse to snoop.”
Kathy didn’t argue with that logic.
I found the chief outside the tent talking to Horace.
“You want to test their shoes for GSR?” the chief was asking.
“Not GSR,” Horace said. “That’s hard to get from clothes. But blood isn’t. And if someone had blood spatter on his clothes, that’d be a lot harder to explain away than GSR. On the shoes, it’s less significant—anyone who was at the crime scene could have stepped in the blood, but still—”
“If someone has blood on his shoes who wasn’t legitimately there after we heard the shots, it’d be significant as the dickens,” the chief said. “But we need to get them out of here pretty soon. The choir doesn’t have special shoes to lend us. And if you think my budget will run to buying flip-flops for all of them, you’re crazy.”
“How about those booties workmen wear over their shoes so they won’t track dirt into your house?” I suggested. “I bet Randall’s construction company keeps them around.”
The chief thought for a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll go ask him,” Horace said.
“No, I’ll have someone take care of it,” the chief said. “You get on over to do Mr. Throckmorton and Mr. Langslow. We’ve been keeping them waiting far too long already.”
Was it just my imagination, or did Horace turn pale?
“Right, Chief,” he said, and strode off in the direction of the bandstand.
The chief raised the tent flap and peeked in. I looked over his shoulder. At the far end of the tent, a dozen of the guards were clustered as if they felt less ridiculous in a group. Actually, I thought their numbers magnified the humorous effect. None of their gowns went down farther than mid-shin, and most displayed marvelously hairy knees atop well-thatched legs. As I watched, several of them gave surreptitious tugs at the bottom hems of their robes, in a gesture I remembered well from my own days of wearing too-short skirts.
By contrast, the flowing sleeves seemed more than adequate to cover their arms, and yet the guards repeatedly shoved or rolled them up to reveal their bulging, hairy, often tattooed biceps, and then repeated the shoving and rolling when the sleeves inevitably tumbled down.
Several of them appeared to be arguing with Deputy Vern.
“Protesting the lack of AC,” the chief said. “Apparently they keep the thermostat jacked down pretty low over there in the courthouse.”
“How environmentally irresponsible of them,” I said. “You’d think the choir robes would be more comfortable than those uniforms.”
“You’d think,” the chief said. “Anyway, their employer just brought over a bus to take them back to where they’re staying—mostly at that run-down motel in Clay County, from the sound of it. Soon as we confiscate those shoes, we can get rid of them. Of course, before we do, it would be gratifying if those Star-Tribune reporters could find their way back here.”
“I thought you already tested them,” I said. “Or do you want to snag their shoes?”
“Well, that’s not as critical, since you and Randall can pretty much alibi them—and each other—for the time when the shots were fired. But I expect that photographer would enjoy getting a few shots of our Flying Monkeys leaving the premises in the choir robes and booties.”
“I’m sure he would,” I said, trying to suppress a grin. “I will see what I can do to bring it about.”
“I’d appreciate it. I suppose I should go arrange the booties.”
“I’ll call Randall,” I said. “You’re busy.”
“Thanks.” He nodded genially to me, then forced his face back into a more stern expression and turned back to the room.
Randall promised to have booties over to the forensic tent in ten minutes.
“And I’ll convene a
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