Fallen Gods

Fifty-Eight

"Are you going to tell me now, Bob?" Bradford Dekker asked. "Why are we here?"

Skinner was smiling as he twisted round in the front passenger seat of Richard Madigan's car, to look at the Erie County sheriff in the back.

The sergeant sat stiffly behind the wheel, almost at attention, with his boss as a passenger.

"Because I want to show you something, Brad," he replied, 'quite a few things, in fact. And thanks for agreeing to do this, and give me the chance."

"I must admit that it's against my better judgement, in a way," said Dekker. "I don't feel comfortable without Eddie Brady here."

"If Brady's doing what you told him to do, he's serving this investigation… and a damn sight better than he has in the past. For example, look at that." He took a folder from his lap, and took out a sheet of A4 paper, which he handed across to the sheriff.

He looked at it for a few seconds, frowning.

"That's a blow-up from a photograph taken by the woman who lives across the road from Ron Neidholm's house. You'll see that it's timed and dated; it was taken less than half an hour before your officers found my wife in Ron Neidholm's kitchen, in a state of shock after discovering her lover's body. That shot is crucial evidence, Brad; it's always been available to you, but it took me to find it, because the guy in charge of your investigation was so fucking sure of himself that he didn't bother to order his detectives to interview potential witnesses who might just have seen something else."

The sheriff took a quick, deep breath, and exhaled, but said nothing.

Skinner reached across and tapped the paper in his hands. "As you'll see, the photo shows a car licence plate, Empire State type. The vehicle was parked in Ron Neidholm's driveway." He took another photograph from his folder and handed it across. "As that wider shot proves. The number on the plate is a vanity registration forming the word "LIBRIS'. Did you study Latin at school, Brad?"

Dekker shook his head. "No, but I know roughly what it means; "books", isn't it?"

"Near enough." He produced a document and gave it to Dekker. "That's the registration document; it names the owner of the vehicle as Mr. Candrace Brew, of 1216 Oregon Way, Buffalo. Mr. Brew is employed by Buffalo and Erie County public library service as librarian in Waterside branch library, five-zero-two Wanaganda Street. Mr. Brew was also named by the witness Alice Bierhoff as one of the three people she told about seeing my wife in an intimate situation through the open window of Ron Neidholm's bedroom."

Skinner took the last item from his folder and handed it over. "That's a photograph of Mr. Brew; Sergeant Madigan obtained it from the library service's human resources department. I've shown it to my wife; she recognised Mr. Brew at once. She and Neidholm were having dinner last week in a lakeside restaurant called the Lazy Lobster, or some such, when he approached their table and asked him for his autograph. She described the man as effusive, embarrassingly so for someone of his age, and just a little bit spooky. She also recalled that he appeared to be suffering from a skin condition; she could see a symptomatic rash on his wrist and he was wearing white surgical gloves.

Those things don't leave prints on knife handles, Brad."

Skinner smiled again. "Are you feeling the buzz, yet, sheriff?" he asked. "I've got nothing against elected police chiefs. If the system runs counter to my culture, fair enough. It's worked in your country for a long time. But I've often wondered whether guys like you don't get envious of the real policemen they command, whether they don't itch to get out there on the street with them. At home, in my rank, I'm finding it harder and harder to do that, and there are times when it does my head in. So I guess you must feel it a bit too."

Dekker nodded, and gave a small grin as he leaned back in his seat.

"Yes, you're right; I've always been envious of guys like Richard, here.

I've always been a political realist, though; if I did that and an investigation went sour, I'd be gone at the next election."

"In that case, I'm going to make your day," said Skinner. He nodded in the direction of a building across the leafy street. "He's in there, in Waterside Library, just waiting for you. See that white car over there, in the park at the side? That's his. It's your big moment, Bradford. Elected or not, you're an officer of the law; so get across there, you and your sergeant, and make the arrest in person. You'll be a bloody hero, man; you could run for Governor of New York and get elected."

Dekker looked doubtful. "Have we got enough to do that?" he asked.

Skinner nodded. "You've got some t's to cross, but you've got him.

Richard's been working with the technicos since they were sent back in to do a proper job, haven't you, son?"

The sergeant turned in his seat. "Yes sir. The scene-of-crime team identified dirt samples through the hall, and in the kitchen, that do not belong on that site. They also found on the kitchen floor, materials, specifically hairs from a human head and minute flakes of what appear to be dried, dead skin, that were neither from the victim, nor from Dr. Grace. Identical hairs were adhering to the hygienic plaster on the victim's left thumb. The scientists now hypothesise that when he was stabbed, Mr. Neidholm snatched at his assailant in a reflex gesture, and detached them at that point."

"You take a hair sample from Brew," said Skinner, 'as soon as you get him back to headquarters, and your case will be closed; trust me on that."

The American looked at him from the back seat. "This investigation has indeed been flawed from the outset, hasn't it, Bob? I'm sorry for the embarrassment it caused your wife."

"Don't be," he replied, grimly. "She put herself in the situation."

"Nevertheless. What am I going to do about Brady?"

"If he was mine I'd retire him, quietly. You've got a relatively small detective department, Brad. To get the best out of it, its leadership has to be exceptional, not just adequate… even if that means going down the ranks to identify someone like Richard here, then hauling him up the ladder, fast."

He grinned. "That's tomorrow's problem, though." He opened the passenger door, and put his right foot out on to the sidewalk. "I'm going to walk home from here; much as I'd like to, I can't be in on the action. It's your big moment, sheriff; get on in there and get your man."