deeply.
“Sometimes someone in my position can
be so heavily involved in the details that I don’t see the obvious
facts around me. Forest and the trees, that kind of thing.” I
pause, worried for an instant that even though it is a lame cliché
metaphor, it may be incomprehensible.
“I see what you mean,” she says,
disarmingly. “I have thought about it, you know. I have to say,
too, that you’ve been somewhat of an inspiration to me—I mean in
the sense that you are obviously devoting so much time to this
cause. I felt that I had to do my bit as well.” The laugh yet
again, but deteriorating to a mere furrowed brow, as though she is
worried about something. “I think it’s someone from away, for
sure,” she says, “because I just can’t imagine that someone who
lives in Knosting could possibly do something like
this.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, and maybe I’m just
being naive. But I sort of think of the town as one big family—not
a big, always happy family with no problems or anything like that,
but a family for sure. And I can’t see that one of the family
members would kill another one. Does that sound dumb?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it
that way, dumb , but
I do think there is the possibility at least that one townsperson
is killing others. Partly, you know, it’s because the alternative
is even less plausible: someone from out of town coming here every
now and then to kill. I’ve also heard someone else say that maybe
it’s someone from out of town, but he’s staying here in town just
for the purpose of the killings. This one, frankly, I have trouble
believing, because—and maybe this is naive—I would have expected that the police
would have followed up on leads like that. You know, look at hotels
and B & Bs and that kind of thing.”
“So, what’s your theory?” she
asks.
I smile, a little more weakly than I
intend. “Frankly, I really don’t know. Like the police, I suppose,
I consider myself to be still in investigation mode. There may be
certain clues and the like but—”
“Clues?”
“Well, nothing solid.”
“Do you mind sharing?”
“They are too tentative right now to
give them any credence or authority or whatever. Just some hunches,
feelings, that really I would prefer not to share.”
“I understand.”
She’s fidgeting even more now, and I
start to wonder whether I have said something to upset her:
sometimes the professional detachment of a researcher toward such
emotional topics as murder can be disconcerting to people. Or
perhaps she doesn’t like me keeping secrets?
“Is everything OK?” I ask when I see
her looking at her watch.
“Yes, oh, yes, of course. I find this
all rather fascinating. I just have to head back to work in a few
minutes.”
It’s hard to tell whether this is just
an excuse to get away for whatever reason. She stands up and so I
see she means business.
“It’s been a pleasure,
Andrew.”
“Likewise.”
She reaches out to shake my hand and I
do so awkwardly as if I were concluding an interview that I didn’t
quite ace.
“Drop by and see me the next time
you’re in the library,” she says as she heads toward
information.
Chapter 12
The police find Rodney Tweed’s mangled
body at the bottom of a ravine about 30 kilometres out of town. I
hear from my contact inside the department that the sight was, in
his words, “not pretty.” Tweed landed in such a way that both his
neck and his back were broken, and the end result with arms and
legs akimbo was horrific enough, I hear, to make one investigator
turn his head away. There is more: his face was nearly completely
smashed in and his hands and arms were covered with various cuts
and bruises that suggest a struggle.
“Here’s my take on it,” my contact
tells me. “There was a fight, probably one that caught the murderer
off guard, because he had just planned to take the guy there and
throw him off. You know, just throw him off the cliff—who
“Sometimes someone in my position can
be so heavily involved in the details that I don’t see the obvious
facts around me. Forest and the trees, that kind of thing.” I
pause, worried for an instant that even though it is a lame cliché
metaphor, it may be incomprehensible.
“I see what you mean,” she says,
disarmingly. “I have thought about it, you know. I have to say,
too, that you’ve been somewhat of an inspiration to me—I mean in
the sense that you are obviously devoting so much time to this
cause. I felt that I had to do my bit as well.” The laugh yet
again, but deteriorating to a mere furrowed brow, as though she is
worried about something. “I think it’s someone from away, for
sure,” she says, “because I just can’t imagine that someone who
lives in Knosting could possibly do something like
this.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, and maybe I’m just
being naive. But I sort of think of the town as one big family—not
a big, always happy family with no problems or anything like that,
but a family for sure. And I can’t see that one of the family
members would kill another one. Does that sound dumb?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it
that way, dumb , but
I do think there is the possibility at least that one townsperson
is killing others. Partly, you know, it’s because the alternative
is even less plausible: someone from out of town coming here every
now and then to kill. I’ve also heard someone else say that maybe
it’s someone from out of town, but he’s staying here in town just
for the purpose of the killings. This one, frankly, I have trouble
believing, because—and maybe this is naive—I would have expected that the police
would have followed up on leads like that. You know, look at hotels
and B & Bs and that kind of thing.”
“So, what’s your theory?” she
asks.
I smile, a little more weakly than I
intend. “Frankly, I really don’t know. Like the police, I suppose,
I consider myself to be still in investigation mode. There may be
certain clues and the like but—”
“Clues?”
“Well, nothing solid.”
“Do you mind sharing?”
“They are too tentative right now to
give them any credence or authority or whatever. Just some hunches,
feelings, that really I would prefer not to share.”
“I understand.”
She’s fidgeting even more now, and I
start to wonder whether I have said something to upset her:
sometimes the professional detachment of a researcher toward such
emotional topics as murder can be disconcerting to people. Or
perhaps she doesn’t like me keeping secrets?
“Is everything OK?” I ask when I see
her looking at her watch.
“Yes, oh, yes, of course. I find this
all rather fascinating. I just have to head back to work in a few
minutes.”
It’s hard to tell whether this is just
an excuse to get away for whatever reason. She stands up and so I
see she means business.
“It’s been a pleasure,
Andrew.”
“Likewise.”
She reaches out to shake my hand and I
do so awkwardly as if I were concluding an interview that I didn’t
quite ace.
“Drop by and see me the next time
you’re in the library,” she says as she heads toward
information.
Chapter 12
The police find Rodney Tweed’s mangled
body at the bottom of a ravine about 30 kilometres out of town. I
hear from my contact inside the department that the sight was, in
his words, “not pretty.” Tweed landed in such a way that both his
neck and his back were broken, and the end result with arms and
legs akimbo was horrific enough, I hear, to make one investigator
turn his head away. There is more: his face was nearly completely
smashed in and his hands and arms were covered with various cuts
and bruises that suggest a struggle.
“Here’s my take on it,” my contact
tells me. “There was a fight, probably one that caught the murderer
off guard, because he had just planned to take the guy there and
throw him off. You know, just throw him off the cliff—who
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