the back wall was a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with everything from law books to novels. To the right was a double door leading to a patio overlooking the estate’s polo-ground-size side yard. On the opposite wall, were two large red leather chairs separated by a huge wooden globe. Elrod’s desk was in front of the bookshelf. It was ten feet wide and five feet deep and constructed of tiger oak. On it was a phone, a green-shaded brass lamp, a calendar, a legal pad, two recent issues of Time magazine, one declaring James F. Byrnes “Man of the Year,” an address book, a well-worn Bible, and a half-empty cup of coffee.
“Well, the knockout drug was likely in the coffee,” Tiffany noted, as the cop continued to survey the study. “Now, what do you think was used as the murder weapon?”
“Not sure,” Lane admitted, his gaze moving from the desk back to the bookshelf. “But I do know this, what I need to find is not hiding in plain sight.”
As the cop slowly moved further into the room, the reporter asked, “How about giving me a hint as to what’s on your mind? Oh, wait, your mind is always a blank.”
Ignoring the woman, he again used the handkerchief, this time to pick up the phone and study both the base and receiver. They both had round edges but were clean. Besides, Bakelite might be a hard material, but if it was used as a weapon there should have been a crack. There wasn’t. After setting the phone back on the desk, he examined the metal wastebasket. It looked much too perfect. If it had been used to strike the DA the sides would have been dented. Obviously, the books with their square edges were not employed in this crime either. Perhaps the murderer took the murder weapon with him.
Taking a seat in the chair where Elrod’s life had slipped away, Lane again used the handkerchief to carefully open each of the desk’s nine drawers. Once more, he struck out. None of the many objects he found could have made a rounded wound.
Tiffany, now seated in a chair just to the right of the large wooden globe, said nothing until the cop closed the final desk drawer. “I might be able to help. I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing.”
Ignoring her, he leaned back and examined the paintings and awards hanging on the wall. Nothing was out of place and nothing was missing. Besides, once again, there were no round edges.
“Listen, Flatfoot,” the reporter whined, “I know he was murdered with something round and red. I heard that part of the phone conversation. There’s nothing like that in this room, so the murderer must have taken it with him.”
She was likely right, but the last thing he wanted to admit to Tiffany was that he was drawing a blank. Getting up from behind the desk, he strolled back into the living room and took a quick inventory. Nothing jumped out that could have been used in the crime. In fact, there was nothing red or round in the room. Strolling back into the study he moved toward the patio. Flipping a switch beside the door, he unlocked and pushed the entry open, then stepped out into the cold night air. There were impressions in the snow. He expected them to lead out to the yard, but they didn’t. Instead, they turned to the right and disappeared along the side of the enormous gray-stone mansion. Lane pulled a small flashlight from his suit pocket and shined its beam where the porch light faded.
“Still cold,” Tiffany observed as she stepped out and joined him. “Do you have something or you just trying to put some distance between us? Which, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind.”
“I may have something,” Lane explained. “Look at the footsteps in the snow. They show that a man walked quickly to the area around that bush and for some reason he stopped there. Note how he shuffled back and forth. Look at those prints over there.” He pointed to where this flashlight was shining. “A few of those impressions indicate he was on his toes for a while. Then you’ll note by the length of his strides, he must have sprinted around the house, across the back drive, and probably to the street. With the erratic nature of the prints and the fact they hang close to the house, I’ll bet this wasn’t Elrod. Besides, a man of his age wouldn’t have raced. I mean, look at those long strides; our mystery man was running.”
“Couldn’t it have been one of your cops?” she suggested. “I mean, didn’t you and your men explore this area?”
“No,” he admitted, “the door was latched from the inside. The only way it could be locked from the outside is with a key. So, we figured the killer must have left through the front door.”
“Or just taken Elrod’s keys,” she added.
“His key ring was in his pocket,” Lane smugly replied.
“They could have taken the one they needed,” she said, rubbing her arms in an effort to stay warm. “I mean, that’s what a smart person would do. Did you check to see if all the keys were there? Or did you bother finding out if anyone else had a key to those doors?”
He disregarded the woman’s observation and instead moved toward the place where the man had seemingly shuffled on his feet. “You’ll note,” he continued, “the evening snow has partially filled the impressions. Therefore, we won’t be able to gauge the kind of shoe the man was wearing, but we can probably get an idea of the size. Just looking at it compared to mine, I’d say he is somewhere between an eight and nine.” As he continued to stare at the spot where a majority of the impressions were, he rubbed his chin and asked, “Why did he stop here? Even if this were the moment when the maid came into the room, she wouldn’t have been able to spot him no matter where he was on the patio. So her appearance shouldn’t have caused him to pause.”
“And why was he on his tiptoes?” Tiffany asked.
“Why indeed?”
“And,” the woman added, “maybe this is the guy who knifed Elrod rather than the one who actually killed him.”
“That’s bound to be a crime, too,” Lane grumbled. Looking up from where the suspect had paused, he studied the house. There were no windows to peek in, nothing to grab or reach, so why would anyone have gotten up on his tiptoes? “Tiff, it just makes no sense. There’s nothing he could have seen by making himself a few inches taller.”
“You’re thinking just like a man,” the woman grumbled while moving over to join him. “There are two reasons to be on your tiptoes. The first is to reach something high or see a bit further, but the other is when you hunker down. He might have been in a crouching position.” She demonstrated by stooping over. As she balanced on the balls of her feet, her heels came off the ground.
Lane nodded, then mimicked the woman’s stance and position. Not only was she right about his heels coming off the ground, but he found he now had a completely different view of the world. He could even see under the bushes. Yet, shining his flashlight in that direction revealed nothing unusual underneath the evergreens.
“Look at that, Copper.”
His eyes darted to where the woman’s hand was pointing. Just behind the nearest bush was a basement window. The snow on the frame had been disturbed. Moving to the spot, Lane leaned forward until his arm was fully extended and he pushed on the window’s wooden frame. It moved easily. Dropping to his knees in the cold snow, he shoved the glass open. Shining his light into the basement he saw a hundred different items that had, at one time or another, been relegated to storage. Among these castoffs were furniture, three old steamer trunks, stacks of books, an ancient pedal car, a high-wheeled baby buggy and two bicycles, but there was something else resting on an old mattress just below the window that really caught his eye.
Springing to his feet, he rushed back across the patio, through the office and to the telephone.
