The Question of the Felonious Friend (9 page)

It took Mr. Robinson a moment to absorb all I had said. “Sure,” he told me. “It's your ass if the cops get mad, not mine.” That seemed an odd transaction to contemplate, so I assumed it was an expression that someone—I wasn't sure I could ask either Mother or Ms. Washburn, but perhaps I could bring it up the next time I saw my friend Mike the taxicab driver—would explain to me later.

Ms. Washburn still did not turn her head but asked if I needed her to join me by the refrigerated dairy display. Although she might have noticed something I would not, I reminded myself that Ms. Washburn has some difficulty with unpleasant images of violence. I see them as possible sources of information and do not feel an empathetic tie to the unfortunate victim. Some might see that as a failing; I view it as a strength. I told Ms. Washburn I would simply call out anything she need note, and she nodded.

“I'm gonna clean up behind the counter,” Mr. Robinson said. “That's not where the big mess is, but I can't touch anything over there until the cops let me.” He walked to a door marked
Employees Only
as I focused my attention on the area where Richard Handy died.

The refrigerated container stood approximately six feet high. Its door was completely made of glass except for the frame, which was stainless steel. It stood next to a similar display of soda bottles. The area where I had taken out a bottle of spring water two days before was twelve feet away and at an angle of approximately sixty degrees. I had no instruments to confirm my estimates, but felt they were accurate enough to suffice for the time being.

As I'd noted from across the room, the glass on the milk display door had been partially shattered by a bullet that Hessler had suggested had passed through Richard Handy. Since there was not yet a medical examiner's report, and there was no reason to think I would be allowed to see it when it was generated, I did not know the exact points in the body where the four bullets had penetrated, or which one might have been the prevailing cause of death.

Even at point-blank range it is difficult to shoot a person. I had not asked but I had gotten the impression from Mason Clayton that his brother Tyler was not an accomplished marksman. He certainly had never shot a living human before or the police would have had records about the incident. I was quite secure in my assumption that Tyler's autism spectrum disorder would have kept him out of the military.

What was especially concerning about the crime scene was the blood. There was quite a bit of it on the floor, a little in the milk display container, and none anywhere else. That seemed odd, so I asked Ms. Washburn to make a note of it. I took my cellular phone out of my pocket. I had been keeping my left hand in that pocket to assure myself I was still in contact with the phone anyway but now I could put the technology to good use.

Although Ms. Washburn disdains telephones as devices to take pictures, I was certain she had left her photographic equipment in her car and would certainly not have preferred to use it anyway. That would require her to examine the crime scene itself and she had made clear her desire to avoid doing that if possible. I understood the impulse on an intellectual level but did not from Ms. Washburn's emotional point of view.

My iPhone would suffice. Having practiced a number of times with the control panel I was able to navigate to the camera application quickly. I took various photographs of the scene, noting mentally that I would have to consult with an expert in blood spatter or become one myself. The former was probably less time consuming, but finding such a person not working for the police would be difficult. An expert working for the police would probably not be very forthcoming with information to a civilian.

After viewing the scene from as many angles as I could without breaching the police lines, I stepped back to take it in on a more complete level. Ms. Washburn, to my left and approximately ten feet closer to the exit than I was, called over asking if there was anything of significance she should be writing down.

“The pattern is inconsistent,” I answered. “Sections of the area seem either to have been spared any violence at all, which is unlikely, or covered with some sort of protective material that the police might have taken with them. It is definitely not here now.”

“What about the security cameras?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“An excellent question, thank you. The one in this area has indeed been covered with a coat of black spray paint. The can that was used must be in police evidence, as it too is no longer on the scene. Can you see the camera near the entrance from where you are standing?”

Ms. Washburn took two steps back and looked up toward the ceiling. I could see the security unit near her, but from the rear and not closely enough to gather any details.

“It's got black paint on it and there's some on the ceiling,” she said. “It wasn't very carefully done.”

“It couldn't be,” I suggested. “Reach your arm up as high as you can.”

Ms. Washburn did so, and her arm was still easily four feet from the camera lens. “Was the shooter standing on a box or something when he sprayed these?” she asked. “They're not easily reached at all.”

I considered her question. “It seems unlikely. Mr. Robinson, how many people were in the store at the time of the shooting?”

The store owner looked up from his sweeping. “I wasn't here,” he repeated.

“I am aware of that, but surely the police gave you something of a report. You had another employee here at the time of the incident.”

“Billy. Billy Martinez. He was working the counter with Richard. I haven't spoken to him yet.” Mr. Robinson went back to his chore. He seemed to me to be a very uninvolved convenience store owner.

“Do you have contact information for Billy?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“Yeah.” Mr. Robinson approached my associate, who took down the information on her cellular phone. He turned back toward the counter, then looked over his shoulder at her. “What are you guys doing here, again?”

“Answering a question,” Ms. Washburn assured him. She had learned to say that after only a few days of working with me at Questions Answered.

“Uh-huh.” Mr. Robinson went back to work.

I was about to turn away from the crime scene when something small near the police tape caught my attention (some people would have said “caught my eye,” but that is a strange expression that brings up unpleasant images in my mind, so I don't use it). I squatted down to get a better view without having to touch the floor or anything else in the area.

“What's this?” I said quietly. I believe I might have heard an actor playing Sherlock Holmes say the same thing under similar circumstances, although a number would also have said, “Hello.” I am not British, so the former was more appropriate.

“What's what?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“There appears to be a die on the floor near where Richard was shot,” I reported.

“Somebody else died?” Mr. Robinson asked.

“No,” Ms. Washburn assured him. “Like in a pair of dice.”

Indeed, a multi-sided die, clearly meant for a game other than any I had played, sat on the floor approximately six feet from where I could guess Richard had fallen after being shot. It was a dark shade of green and instead of pips or dots marking its sides it had runes of an unknown nature. I took a photograph of the die, then stood up.

“Mr. Robinson, did the police say they would be back to do further crime scene investigation?” I asked.

“Well, like I said, they told me there might be more forensics tests,” he answered.

“But they have gathered all the objects of evidence they intend to take?” I said.

Mr. Robinson shrugged. “Ask them.”

I looked on the shelf behind me and picked up a box of plastic sandwich bags with re-sealable tops. “May I purchase this?” I asked Mr. Robinson.

He waved his hand at me. “Just take it,” he said. “The sixteen cents I make on it isn't going to be missed.”

I thanked him and opened the box, removing one plastic bag. Then I reached into my pocket and took out my handkerchief, which I often use as a buffer between my fingers and any object with which I am unfamiliar, like someone else's doorknob.

Again I squatted on the floor next to the police tape. This time I used the handkerchief to very gently lift the die, which was untouched by the blood and milk mixed on the floor, having landed clear of the scene. I was extremely careful putting it into the bag and sealing it. I walked back to where Ms. Washburn was standing.

“What did you find?” she asked.

I showed her the bag with the die in it. “This. I believe it is used for a game, but I don't know which one.”

“Swords and Sorcerers,” Ms. Washburn sighed. “Remember, Richard and Tyler both played that one.”

I nodded. “Tyler online, and Richard, as I recall, played with people in a local group.”

“That's right,” Ms. Washburn said. “Some people still play together in the same room, but it's becoming more common for groups to play via Skype or online in some other forum.”

I examined the die. The runes were unfamiliar to me, but clearly would have some significance to a dedicated player of the game. I wasn't sure if the item was custom made or would have been mass produced.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Robinson?” I asked.

The store owner walked to us and examined the item in my hand. “I don't know anything about that,” he said. “Is it from a casino or something?”

I shook my head and directed my attention to Ms. Washburn. “It goes against the stereotype for people like me, but I'm afraid I am not an expert on Swords and Sorcerers, and I don't know anyone who is.”

Ms. Washburn's eyes closed briefly. I thought she was disappointed in me, especially when she sighed wistfully, then opened her eyes again.

“I'm afraid I do,” she said.

Ten

“You found an S
and S dice at a place where a guy got shot and you want me to tell you about it?” Simon Taylor, Ms. Washburn's estranged husband, was staring at me incredulously and then at his wife, who had an expression on her face I had not seen before but recognized as contempt.

“Ms. Washburn informs me you are something of an expert on the subject,” I explained, not correcting him on the use of the word
dice
. “This item might be significant in answering the question of Richard Handy's murder. If there is anything distinctive or noteworthy about it, it would be extremely valuable to know. Are you able to help?”

Ms. Washburn, it should be noted, suggested consulting her husband only reluctantly. They were in the process of divorcing, which I am told is almost never an amiable activity, and she had been advised by her attorney not to speak to Simon Taylor. All communication, she said, was supposed to go through the lawyer. We had not consulted the lawyer.

After she had mentioned that her husband did in fact play “S and S,” as I was told the game should be called, Ms. Washburn had immediately said she did not want to ask him about the die. We were walking away from the Quik N EZ toward her car and she seemed as agitated as I have seen her, even including the moments immediately following an attempt to decapitate her some months earlier.

“We should be able to find someone else who can help,” she said as we reached her Kia Spectra. She opened both our doors and we got into the car.

“I have no doubt,” I said, looking at the screen of my iPhone. I had texted Mother asking if it would be inappropriate for me to insist on seeing Simon, and she had answered,
It's not inappropriate but it is insensitive.
I decided not to place Ms. Washburn into an uncomfortable position, although it seemed obvious that our question had nothing to do with their marriage or their divorce.

Ms. Washburn started the car and engaged the transmission. We started driving away from the convenience store. “I mean, Simon's just a guy in his thirties who never got over pretending to be a wizard,” she said. “He's not the person who invented the game or anything. There have to be people who know more about it than he does.”

“Most certainly,” I agreed. That speculation was certainly accurate; it was extremely unlikely Simon Taylor was the world's foremost authority on the dice used in Swords and Sorcerers.

“So there's no reason it has to be him,” she went on. I was not certain she had heard anything I had said.

“True,” I said. “Once we get back to Questions Answered, I can begin to research possible experts on the subject.”

“Because I really don't want to have to see him if it's not necessary,” Ms. Washburn said.

“Nor should you.” The conversation was starting to repeat itself. I was somewhat confused about Ms. Washburn's insistence when I was doing my best to minimize the urgency of seeing Simon Taylor. I was not even certain that the die was going to be significant in answering the question Mason Clayton had posed.

That reminded me that I had still not heard from Sandy Clayton Webb since Tyler's arrest, and that was odd.

“I'm glad you understand,” Ms. Washburn said.

“Of course.”

I noticed Ms. Washburn turning right on Easton Avenue in Somerset, the opposite direction one would take heading for the Questions Answered office. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“To see Simon,” she sighed.

Sometimes it is difficult for me to understand the “neurotypical.”

Standing now in his rather bare apartment in Edison, Simon Taylor peered at me as if deciding something. He put his hand to the stubble on his chin and stroked it as if trying to assess if he needed a shave. “How come every time I hear about my wife working with you, somebody's been murdered?” he asked.

“Ex-wife,” Ms. Washburn corrected.

“Not yet, you're not.”

Ms. Washburn turned away. I could see her face but Simon could not. It was not a difficult expression to decipher. I looked over at Simon, and his expression was considerably less predictable—he looked surprised.

He was what would be considered a physically attractive man, given societal standards. He stood approximately six feet tall, had dark hair and eyes, and had no visible blemishes or scars. I am not the best judge of aesthetics, so I trusted that Ms. Washburn had found him to be at least reasonably handsome. Beyond that, I knew few details about their marriage, and knew only that Simon had not been pleased with his wife's decision to work at Questions Answered, although she assured me that was not a cause of their impending divorce.

“Our work does not often involve this kind of question,” I said. “But in this case, it would be extremely helpful if you could tell me about this die.” I felt it best to redirect the conversation back to our purpose in coming here.

Simon looked at the die I was extending in my hand. Then his eyes looked back at the woman who, as he had pointed out, was still his wife. His features softened. “Let me see it,” he said, and took the die rather abruptly from my hand. I am not fond of having people touch me, particularly those I have not met before, but I did not have time to react. I believe my hand might have withdrawn a little quickly, but I am not certain.

He examined the item closely inside the bag. If it was determined to be significant to the question of his death, I would make sure Detective Hessler was given the die for the police laboratory to analyze. If it were simply another die from a game of Swords and Sorcerers, there would be no need for that.

“It's not one of the standard dice from the game sets,” Simon said. “It's the wrong color and some of these runes are in a font I don't recognize. How serious was the guy who owned this about S and S?”

This was the subject of some debate. Ms. Washburn and I had discussed the die on the way to Simon's apartment, to which she informed me he had moved after she had asked him to move out of their home in Cranford. She was, she said, in the process of trying to sell the house and find a place to live closer to the Questions Answered office.

In the car, she had vacillated about the importance of the die in our attempt to answer the question at hand. “We don't even know if it's Richard's,” she'd said. “Tyler plays S and S. The die could be his.” It occurred to me that even after she had decided to drive to her husband's home, Ms. Washburn was attempting to find a reason not to do so.

“It is possible,” I had admitted. “It is also possible that the die belongs to a third party of whom we are not yet aware. If the killing was related to the game, as the presence of the die might or might not indicate, someone from either Tyler or Richard's Swords and Sorcerers group might be the guilty party, or at least involved. So we don't know about the ownership of the item yet. Perhaps your husband might be able to shed some light on that issue as well.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Maybe he can.” Then she drove without speaking for the rest of the trip.

Simon Taylor looked over the twenty-sided die (which I had examined more closely) in his hand. “How serious?” he asked again.

“I am unable to answer that question with any assurance,” I said. “We are not sure who might have owned the die.”

Simon's lips curled. “Figures.” He turned the die around in his hand. “It's not someone who's casual about the game,” he said. “Somebody who plays once in a while wouldn't go out of his way to get customized dice made special, even if they had to order them online from a catalog. They'd just use the ones that come in the box.”

“Tyler Clayton plays Swords and Sorcerers with people online, not with the other people in the same room,” I said. “Would that make a difference?”

Simon nodded. “It could. If he's not the SM, he might not need to have dice at all.”

His use of game jargon had confused me. “The SM?” I asked. I had heard the letters used in a different context that seemed to have no significance under these circumstances.

“Sword master,” said Ms. Washburn, who had turned back to face her husband and me. “The person who basically runs the game.”

“So that person, whomever it might be in Tyler's group, would keep the dice?” I asked.

Again, Simon Taylor nodded, but I noticed he was paying more attention to Ms. Washburn than to me or the item in his hand. “It's even possible to play online using virtual dice, so you wouldn't need the real ones at all.”

I turned toward Ms. Washburn. “We have to find out who Richard Handy was playing the game with,” I said. “And we need to talk to the members of Tyler's group.”

Simon shook his head. “Look—people who play S and S aren't the freaks the media wants you to believe. I can't imagine anybody getting killed over a game.”

I understood the problem that people who are different might face when fighting the image of media perceptions. Some members of the public believe everyone with an autism spectrum disorder acts in the same fashion. I believed our encounter with Tyler Clayton, so far, had proved we do not.

“It's entirely possible the game had nothing to do with Richard's death,” I said. “It is just an object that was found at the scene. He might have had it in his pocket.”

Simon twirled the die in his hand again. “It's got a nice feel to it,” he said. “And the runes. That's the part that's weird.”

“Why?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“There are a couple I don't recognize, and that shouldn't happen,” he said. “Even if the style is different, the shapes should be standard, like the ones I use.”

“How are these different?” I asked. The hieroglyphics on the item were meaningless to me, so his assessment would be valuable.

Simon took his time considering. “Well like I said, the font is different. This is more ornate. It's not as readable, but that doesn't seem to have been important to the person who ordered this dice.” I suppressed again the urge to correct his misuse of the word. “It's possible this wasn't used in a game, that whoever bought it just wanted it to look cool.”

That was a concept I did not completely understand. “If the die was not being used for its intended purpose, what value would its design have among game players?” I asked.

Ms. Washburn smiled slightly. “Simon has an electric guitar he doesn't know how to play because he thinks it looks cool,” she said, her expression indicating she might be teasing. “It's how he used to attract girls.”

Simon Taylor's face seemed to soften. Until now he had been avoiding eye contact with his wife, looking at her only when her attention was focused elsewhere. Now their eyes met. “Worked once,” he said.

Ms. Washburn looked away.

Concerned that the conversation was drifting from the central point, I asked Simon, “Where would someone buy a die like that one?”

“There are places. Mostly online. I can send Janet some links in her e-mail.”

I would have thought Ms. Washburn, who had been resistant to contact her estranged husband, would have balked at such a suggestion, but she nodded. “You know where to find me.”

“One last question, Mr. Taylor,” I said. Simon, who had been smiling as if at a private joke, looked over at me and his expression became more serious. “What is your favorite Beatles song?”

I made a point of not looking at Ms. Washburn after asking the question, and kept my attention fixed on Simon. His eyes narrowed, and then he looked in Ms. Washburn's direction, thinking. “‘Here, There and Everywhere,'” he said.

I could not accurately determine anything about his personality from that answer because it was clear he was lying.

But Ms. Washburn, whom Simon was watching, put her hand to her mouth.

It was disturbing to me on a number of levels: First, it was for my business that Ms. Washburn had suggested coming to question her husband, so any potential reconciliation would be at least partially my responsibility. Second, the idea that Ms. Washburn could be so easily influenced by a man whom she had grown to mistrust was somewhat disturbing in our business.

But the thing I found most upsetting was that I had glanced just for a moment to the right, down the hall into Simon's bedroom. I had not intended to absorb any information; Simon had no bearing on the question we were answering other than the technical help he volunteered.

During the half second of my look, however, I had noticed that Simon's bed was not made, his dresser drawers were open, and his socks were strewn about the room and on the rug, not necessarily in pairs.

And there was a blue brassiere hanging out of one of the drawers.

“We have several areas of research to pursue,” I told Ms. Washburn when we were back at the Questions Answered office. “When your estranged husband sends you the list of possible sources for the Swords and Sorcerers die, we can determine if that item is unique or something that might have been mass produced, even if just for a limited run that would appeal to certain specialists in the game. That might lead us to someone in Richard's group.”

Ms. Washburn sat down at her desk and immediately engaged her computer. She had chosen not to use a MacBook Pro like my own, being more proficient in the Windows operating system, which is not as efficient but offers more compatible software. She immediately began hitting keys on her keyboard.

“What else will we be looking at?” she asked.

I wanted to ask her about the visit to Simon Taylor but was at a loss to determine how that subject should be broached. After having announced quite definitively that she was divorcing Simon and having filed the necessary papers, which were in process, her demeanor in Simon's apartment had been confusing. Once he had begun to make obvious effort to appeal to her, Ms. Washburn had seemed amenable to his attempts, which was counterintuitive. I could ask Mother about the dynamic later, but even talking to her about marriage was somewhat uncomfortable, since my father had left us when I was at such an early age.