The Mystery of Revenge (17 page)

Fang Chen was surprised when he answered the knock at his office door and saw Paul Winderman. “Can I come in?” the detective asked with a
smile.

Fang Chen hesitated for a few seconds before holding the door open for the detective. Paul Winderman walked in and dropped into the chair opposite to the desk. He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket after Fang Chen sat down behind his desk. “What do you think about the mistrial?” he asked
casually.

Fang Chen shrugged. “Disappointing but justice is
justice.”

Paul Winderman gave him a knowing smile. “Yes, justice is justice,” he repeated the words in a way that made Fang Chen look up sharply. “But the mistrial makes my job much easier.” Which was true; in fact he was rather relieved that he didn’t have to show his hands. As much as he hated to see a murderer go free, he equally hated to put an innocent man in jail, no matter what a lousy creature the man was. Knowing there was no possible way he could use a payphone record to force a confession without an eyewitness, he was nevertheless anticipating he might have to
try.

Fang Chen looked at him searchingly and their eyes met just for a
second.

“Now I still have a question to ask you,” Paul Winderman said slowly, looking down at the paper in his hands. “Do you want to tell me who called your extension around noon the day your ex-wife
died?”

Paul Winderman could see the muscles on his face were tightened when Fang Chen answered him after a full minute. “I get numerous phone calls every day, how can I
remember?”

Paul Winderman put the payphone record on his desk and said: “If you need a reminder, it was ten minutes past twelve, right before you left your
office.”

Fang Chen looked at him vacantly; not a muscle on his face moved. “Can’t remember,” his voice was calm and indifferent, “could be a call from one of my
students.”

“I doubt it,” Paul Winderman said; his eyes had never left Fang Chen’s face. “It was from a public payphone two blocks away from your ex-wife’s apartment
building.”

“So?” Fang Chen shrugged. “Anyone can call me from a public payphone. In fact, several of my students live in that area. Don’t forget, Mr. Detective, that area is heavily favored by college
students.”

“That’s true,” Paul Winderman nodded with a smile. “But I just found it very strange that you would get a phone call that day from that area because most of the college students would be on campus at that
time.”

Fang Chen looked at him blankly. “What’s your point?” he asked
unconcernedly.

“Well, just that a murder case could turn out to be a suicide case,” Paul Winderman said with a sigh and stood up. He had expected the firewall, but he had to admit the nerdy professor was a cooler customer than he
thought.

Fang Chen followed him to the door. Before he opened the door, Paul Winderman said offhandedly without turning his head: “You know disposing of evidence in a murder case is a Federal
crime.”

“I fully understand,” Fang Chen said
mildly.

“Good-bye, professor,” Paul Winderman said with a
smile.

“Good-bye, Detective.”

Paul Winderman found himself humming a toneless tune as he stepped outside. He smiled. He could never hold a tune, no matter how hard he tried but he couldn’t help it when he was extremely pleased with himself. He was humming all the way to his
office.

When in it, he put the sheet of paper back in the case file and dropped it into the bottom drawer that labeled “Case Solved” in his file
cabinet.

That’s that.
He sighed and sat in his chair, looking down once again at the new autopsy report he had been reading on his
desk.