Sterling.
Each card had a name on top, and underneath that a formatted weekly schedule. Bretta had punched in that day at seven, Norma at six forty-five. They punched out together, Bretta at 3:30:05 and Norma Jean at 3:30:15. Sterling recorded the times and handed the cards back to Otto.
“Is it possible that someone else would've come after they left to help clean up?” Sterling asked.
Otto raised his eyebrows. “I can't imagine why. When we finish cleaning a building, we're finished. No reason for anyone else to come and clean up a cleanup, if you get my drift.”
“Who would have access to the labs and offices at Burke?”
“That's a tough one,” Otto said. He brought his hand to his chin, and exposed a tattoo of a naked mermaid on the underside of his forearm. “The individual custodians that clean Burke would have a key. The custodial office has a master, so does campus security. We have one at the troubleshooter's office in case of an emergency. Beyond that, I can't think of anyone else who would need one.”
“What door would they use to enter and exit the building?” Sterling asked.
“The back,” Otto said. “Always. The cleaning supply room is just inside the back door. No real reason to go through the front.”
Sterling nodded. “One more thing, Otto,” he said. “I notice that you're not wearing an ID. Does everyone carry one?”
Otto pulled out a wallet thicker than a balled fist. Papers and receipts fell to the ground, but eventually he produced a photo ID. “Everyone carries ID on their person. Nonnegotiable. A few years back we got hit by a big theft ring. A bunch of men and women come up from Boston pretending to be college employees and students. Stole us outta house and home. Cleaning supplies, computer equipment, textbooks—anything they could get their hands on, they were taking. Since then, everyone, regardless how long they've worked here, has to carry their identification. Don't do it and you're outta here.”
Sterling gritted his teeth. They had missed a major opportunity when Carlton didn't ask the man leaving the lab for his identification. Didn't he have enough damn sense to be suspicious of someone leaving Wilson's office only hours after he was reported missing? Then the good-looking girl who had come by claiming to be one of his students. Why had she really come to the lab that morning? If she was checking on an experiment, she hadn't put up much of a fight when Carlton denied her access. Wouldn't she at least have asked him to chaperone her inside if what she was doing was that important?
“You've been a big help,” Sterling said, replacing the book inside his breast pocket. “I'll be sure to call the office on Monday if I have any other questions.”
“Ask for Darius Brown,” Otto said. “He's the big boss.”
Sterling left the office and walked into the dark lobby. Whoever went into Wilson's lab between three thirty and five on a dark Saturday morning wasn't making a social call. The clues weren't talking yet, but they were at least starting to hum.
12
T he sturdy old bell high above Baker Library had just finished its fourth strike of the afternoon when one of the officers discovered the half-naked body of Professor Wilson Bledsoe. One of the German shepherds from the Vermont State Police canine unit had sniffed his way to the decrepit barn at the edge of Potter's farm. The dog dragged Officer Beck until he spotted the light-gray fabric partly buried underneath a cluster of bushes. First the black wingtipped shoes, then the shirtless upper torso, facedown. Beck touched the inside of the left leg with his shoe and gave a hard nudge. No response. The dog smelled death and started barking furiously as it skipped in restless circles. Beck pulled the leash back, then radioed to the rest of the search crew.
Sterling was finishing up a bowl of cereal when his cell phone rang.
“Bledsoe,” he answered.
“Wiley here. Where are you?”
“At the house,”
Each card had a name on top, and underneath that a formatted weekly schedule. Bretta had punched in that day at seven, Norma at six forty-five. They punched out together, Bretta at 3:30:05 and Norma Jean at 3:30:15. Sterling recorded the times and handed the cards back to Otto.
“Is it possible that someone else would've come after they left to help clean up?” Sterling asked.
Otto raised his eyebrows. “I can't imagine why. When we finish cleaning a building, we're finished. No reason for anyone else to come and clean up a cleanup, if you get my drift.”
“Who would have access to the labs and offices at Burke?”
“That's a tough one,” Otto said. He brought his hand to his chin, and exposed a tattoo of a naked mermaid on the underside of his forearm. “The individual custodians that clean Burke would have a key. The custodial office has a master, so does campus security. We have one at the troubleshooter's office in case of an emergency. Beyond that, I can't think of anyone else who would need one.”
“What door would they use to enter and exit the building?” Sterling asked.
“The back,” Otto said. “Always. The cleaning supply room is just inside the back door. No real reason to go through the front.”
Sterling nodded. “One more thing, Otto,” he said. “I notice that you're not wearing an ID. Does everyone carry one?”
Otto pulled out a wallet thicker than a balled fist. Papers and receipts fell to the ground, but eventually he produced a photo ID. “Everyone carries ID on their person. Nonnegotiable. A few years back we got hit by a big theft ring. A bunch of men and women come up from Boston pretending to be college employees and students. Stole us outta house and home. Cleaning supplies, computer equipment, textbooks—anything they could get their hands on, they were taking. Since then, everyone, regardless how long they've worked here, has to carry their identification. Don't do it and you're outta here.”
Sterling gritted his teeth. They had missed a major opportunity when Carlton didn't ask the man leaving the lab for his identification. Didn't he have enough damn sense to be suspicious of someone leaving Wilson's office only hours after he was reported missing? Then the good-looking girl who had come by claiming to be one of his students. Why had she really come to the lab that morning? If she was checking on an experiment, she hadn't put up much of a fight when Carlton denied her access. Wouldn't she at least have asked him to chaperone her inside if what she was doing was that important?
“You've been a big help,” Sterling said, replacing the book inside his breast pocket. “I'll be sure to call the office on Monday if I have any other questions.”
“Ask for Darius Brown,” Otto said. “He's the big boss.”
Sterling left the office and walked into the dark lobby. Whoever went into Wilson's lab between three thirty and five on a dark Saturday morning wasn't making a social call. The clues weren't talking yet, but they were at least starting to hum.
12
T he sturdy old bell high above Baker Library had just finished its fourth strike of the afternoon when one of the officers discovered the half-naked body of Professor Wilson Bledsoe. One of the German shepherds from the Vermont State Police canine unit had sniffed his way to the decrepit barn at the edge of Potter's farm. The dog dragged Officer Beck until he spotted the light-gray fabric partly buried underneath a cluster of bushes. First the black wingtipped shoes, then the shirtless upper torso, facedown. Beck touched the inside of the left leg with his shoe and gave a hard nudge. No response. The dog smelled death and started barking furiously as it skipped in restless circles. Beck pulled the leash back, then radioed to the rest of the search crew.
Sterling was finishing up a bowl of cereal when his cell phone rang.
“Bledsoe,” he answered.
“Wiley here. Where are you?”
“At the house,”
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