The Baxter Trust

10

Sheila Benton opened the front door and stared.

Standing in the doorway was a young man with his hair slicked back from his head, wearing blue jeans, a tan corduroy jacket and a green tie.

Sheila blinked. “Yes?”

“Sheila Benton?”

“Yes.”

“Steve Winslow.”

Sheila blinked again.

Steve wasn’t going to take the chance of having the door slammed in his face, not by a potential client, and not in a murder case. He pushed right by her and into the apartment.

Sheila, as if in a daze, closed the door and locked it. She turned to find the young man standing looking down at the chalk outline on the floor.

“This is where you found him, eh?” Steve said.

“Yes.”

“How was he killed?”

“With a knife.”

“In the front or the back?”

“The back.”

He frowned. “Hmm. That probably rules out self-defense. So he was lying on his stomach?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d the knife come from?”

“It was mine. From that set on the wall.”

Sheila pointed to the kitchen alcove.

“Uh huh.” He crossed to the alcove. He pantomimed taking a knife out of the rack, turning and stabbing the man. He followed the man’s fall down to the chalk line.

As he bent down, some of the hair tucked under his collar came loose and swung down.

Steve stood up. The hair hung down the left side of his face, giving him a lopsided look.

“Well, that’s a break,” he said.

“What?” Sheila said. She had only half heard him. She was staring, hypnotized, at the dangling hair.

“The position of the knife rack to the body,” he said. “The circumstantial evidence would indicate that the murderer grabbed the knife from the rack, turned and stabbed the victim.”

“So?”

“If worse comes to worst, that would probably rule out premeditation.” He glanced around the room, then back at her. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the facts. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Sheila blinked again, seemed unable to speak. “Well,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

Sheila shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… I don’t know. You’re just not my idea of a lawyer.”

He looked at her, smiled. “Well,” he said. “You’re not my idea of a murder suspect, either.”

It was a weak comeback, and it wasn’t working. The girl just kept staring at him.

He noticed the dangling hair. He pushed it back. He gave up, sighed. All right, so much for bluffing it through.

“All right, look,” he said. “I’m not what you expected. You think of a lawyer as someone in a three-piece suit with a haircut and a manicure and probably about sixty years old. Well, I’m not. But I didn’t call you, you called me. That doesn’t mean you have to hire me, and if you want to tell me to get lost, you certainly have that right. But the thing is, you can tell me to get lost at any time. So since you got me over here, why don’t you tell me what this is all about, and we’ll see if there is anything we can do about it. And then you can tell me to get lost, and you can go out and find some guy who dresses right and looks constipated, which I’m sure is your idea of what a lawyer ought to be.”

She smiled, and he knew the battle was half over.