The Wind Chill Factor by Thomas Gifford Page A

marriage, his issue, his heroic death. Over and over again. What had we done when we reached the library? Why had we walked? Which of us had seen Paula first? Had we checked the main floor thoroughly? There was nothing but a metal box, none of the other items?
    “Do you know what this means, class?” Peterson sat down and took a cigar and sighted down its length. “It means we’ve got trouble, is what it actually means. It means my wife is going to be very irritated with me because I’m going to have to work late tonight. It means that we’ve got somebody who has knocked off two people in a couple of days—I mean there’s no real point in pretending that the two murders are unrelated, right? Right. So, we’ve either got a nut on our hands or somebody with a hell of a motive.” He paused for effect, lit his cigar, and puffed leisurely, regarding it like a friend whose name he couldn’t place. “I don’t think it’s a nut. Anybody who’d come to that conclusion would in fact, be a nut. Nope. Somebody’s got a perfectly good reason for killing two presumably harmless people. But then, they weren’t harmless to the person who killed them, were they?”
    There was in the commonplace setting an unnerving aura of total unreality: murder is such a large fact that your mind simply rejects it. Cyril was dead. Paula was dead. Absurd.
    “Now, what do the missing documents mean?” Peterson asked.
    “I’m tired,” Brenner said. “Must you formulate your theories on my time?”
    “I need your advice, counselor. Be patient.”
    Arthur sighed, yawned.
    Peterson repeated the question, watching me.
    “Whoever killed Paula took the documents,” I said.
    “Is that why she was killed? For the documents?”
    “I suppose.”
    “Are we learning something?” Peterson asked.
    “I daresay,” I said.
    “We have hypothesized that Paula Smithies was murdered because someone wanted some old Nazi documents. She was killed because she may have learned what was in those papers. She was killed because … it was better for somebody that she be dead.”
    “Peterson, this is all reminiscent of some strange kind of therapy. I think it’s making me sick.”
    “Cooper, somebody made your brother and Paula Smithies dead. Better to be sick. But we’re going to figure it out, indeed we are.” He flicked an inch or so of ash into a glass ashtray. “And why was Cyril killed?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “He knew something about those documents. That’s why he came home. That is why he summoned you home. ‘Family tree needs attention.’ But somebody killed him before you got here, before he talked to Paula. Whoever talked to him … killed him. Somebody knew he was coming home. You knew. And Paula knew. Now Paula’s dead, Cyril’s dead, and by all rights you should be dead in a snowdrift on a Wisconsin highway. Aha, piques your interest, doesn’t it? Whoever tried to kill you was part of this whole damned thing, I’d goddamn well bet my wife’s money on it.”
    Eventually the interrogation ended. Arthur bade us an exhausted good-evening and Peterson and I watched him lean into the blowing snow. Peterson saw me to the door.
    “Take care of yourself. I want you to see this through.”
    I nodded.
    “Big day tomorrow. We may have some news from Buenos Aires. And we’ll crack that metal box.” He slapped me on the back. “Cooper, seriously—I’m sorry about Paula Smithies. I’m not unfeeling about it. But I’m excited by it and I can’t help it. It’s my nature. But I am sorry for what you’re going through. I really am. Would you like a lift home? Why don’t you stay at the hotel?”
    “No, I’m going home. I’ll pick up my car and go back to the house. Thanks, anyway.”
    “I’ll see you in the morning, then. We’ve got to make some arrangements for funerals. I hope Danny handled Miss Smithies’ mother. Jesus, I’ve got a long night ahead of me.”
    I went across and picked up my car from Arnie. He