Cold Comfort by Scott Mackay Read Free Book Online Page B

computer had been relegated to a shelf. A Smith-Corona electric typewriter, veteran of a thousand murder cases, as battered and war-scarred as Marsh, sat front and center.
    “Two things, Barry,” said Marsh.
    A stack of case file folders sat at Marsh’s elbow; Gilbert recognized most of the numbers as his own, open homicides from the last three months. Gilbert waited.
    “I got a call last night as I was going home,” said Marsh. “From Deputy Chief Ling. He was asking about the Cheryl Latham case. He wants to know if you’ve developed a suspect yet.”
    Gilbert glanced at Marsh’s shelf full of bowling trophies. “Bill, it’s been two days.”
    “That’s our usual envelope.”
    “We have some ideas. Whether they’ll pan out remains to be seen.”
    “Isn’t that kind of vague?”
    “We’re still gathering evidence.”
    Through the open door of Marsh’s office Gilbert saw Carol Reid; she glanced their way, smelling blood.
    “Not good enough, Barry. I want a name.”
    “I’m not prepared to give you a name. If I give you a name, you’re going to run with it. And I don’t think we’re at the running stage yet.”
    Marsh leaned forward, putting his beefy forearms on the table; his chrome accordion-style watchband glittered in the overhead fluorescent light.
    “This is high profile, Barry. You know it is.”
    “No one’s told the press.”
    “Don’t be so sure. Ling’s pushing me. He’s looking at the statistics.”
    “Let him look all he likes. Those statistics mean nothing.”
    “But this is Tom Webb’s stepdaughter.”
    “I know that.”
    “And Webb was seen at the Coroner’s Building yesterday.”
    “That’s procedure.”
    “No. I mean he was seen .”
    Gilbert’s eyes narrowed; Marsh’s anxiety was always contagious. “Seen by whom?” asked Gilbert.
    “By Ronald Roffey.”
    “Does he follow me wherever I go?” asked Gilbert.
    “The idiot’s going to print something,” said Marsh. “He wants to know why Tom Webb was at the Coroner’s Building yesterday.”
    Gilbert took a deep breath. He shrugged. “It was just a matter of time, Bill. I think we better start working on a statement.”
    “Okay, okay.” Marsh’s face reddened. “That’s my first point. Now for my second point.”
    “Which is?”
    Gilbert contemplated Marsh. As usual, Marsh seemed annoyed by the whole world; he believed he was surrounded by invisible enemies. And whenever Marsh felt surrounded by invisible enemies, he picked on people. It was Gilbert’s turn today.
    Marsh took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t get me wrong, Barry, I like you, I think your work is stellar, but sometimes I think you get a little too creative. You got to take a simpler approach. Second point, Wesley Rowe. Here you got enough evidence to nail the guy for first-degree murder, and he’s still out walking the streets.”
    “He’s in a co-op, Bill.” Gilbert began to get a sour feeling inside. “He’s not going to run. He’s mentally incompetent. He wouldn’t know how to run even if you showed him the road.”
    “You got blood all over the place, you got an axe in his mother’s head, and you got the guy sitting on the front steps waiting for the police to come. He actually takes them upstairs to the crime scene.”
    “Yeah, but consider the extenuating circumstances, Bill. He’s forty years old and he’s never done more than rake leaves or mow lawns for pocket change. He can’t even spell his own name. He’s lived with his mother all his life. He can hardly change a light bulb. And you expect him to deal with IVs, catheters, bedpans, and fourteen different kinds of medication?”
    “He killed his mother, Barry. The guy deserves to rot. You chop your mother with an axe in seven different places, you deserve to rot.”
    “This was a preventable homicide. Susan Allen should have known better. She should have asked for home care right from the start.”
    But Marsh seemed not to hear.
    “Point one, Barry. I want a