* * *
In the Metropolitan Bureau of Vital Statistics, in the basement of the courthouse, three women hammered away at typewriters with a rhythmic swiftness that seemed to have been arranged and conducted with all the care of a symphony-orchestra performance.
Chase stood at the reception counter, waiting for service.
The stoutest and oldest of the three women – her desk plate read NANCY ONUFER, Manager – typed to the end of a page, pulled the page from her typewriter, and placed it in a clear-plastic tray full of similar forms. “May I help you?”
He had already figured what tact Judge must have used when asking to search the files here, and he said, “I’m doing a family history, and I was wondering if I could be permitted to look up a few things in the city records.”
“Certainly,” said Nancy Onufer. She popped up from her chair, came to the gate at the end of the service counter, and opened it for him.
The other two women continued to type with machine-gun rapidity. There was a high degree of efficiency in the Bureau of Statistics that was unusual for any government office, no doubt because Nancy Onufer would accept no less. Her brisk but not unfriendly manner reminded Chase of the better drill sergeants whom he had known in the service.
He followed her through the office area behind the counter, past desks and worktables, and through a fire door into a large concrete-walled chamber lined with metal filing cabinets. More cabinets stood in rows down the center of the room, and to one side was a scarred worktable with three hard chairs.
“The cabinets are all labeled,” Nancy Onufer said crisply. “The section to the right contains birth certificates, death certificates there, then health-department records over there, bar and restaurant licenses in that corner. Against the far wall we keep carbons of the draft-board records, then the minutes and budgets of the city council going back thirty years. You get the idea. Depending on the contents, each drawer is primarily organized either alphabetically or by date. Whatever you remove from the files must be left on this table. Do not attempt to replace the material yourself. That’s my job, and I do it far more accurately than you would. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“You may not remove anything from this room. For a nominal fee, one of my assistants will provide photocopies of documents that interest you. If anything should be removed from this room, you will be subjected to a five-thousand-dollar fine and two years in prison.”
“Ouch.”
“We enforce it too.”
“I’ve no doubt. Thanks for your help.”
“And no smoking,” she added.
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
It had been this easy for Judge too. Chase had hoped that the city would require a sign-in procedure by which those who wanted to use the files were identified. Considering Nancy Onufer’s efficiency and the law against removing documents, Chase was surprised that she didn’t keep a meticulous log of visitors.
He looked up his own birth certificate and also found the minutes of the city-council meeting during which a vote had been taken to hold an awards dinner in his honor. In the carbons of the selective-service records, he located the pertinent facts regarding his past eligibility for the draft and the document calling him for service in the United States Army.
Easy. Too easy.
When he left the storage vault, Nancy Onufer said, “Find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“No trouble, Mr. Chase,” she said, immediately turning back to her work.
Her reply stopped him. “You know me?”
She glanced up and flashed a smile. “Who doesn’t?”
He crossed the open office area to her desk. “If you hadn’t known who I was, would you have asked for a name and ID before I went into the file room?”
“Certainly. No one’s ever taken any records in the twelve years I’ve been here, but I still keep a log of visitors.” She tapped a notebook on the edge of her desk. “I just put your name down.”
“This may sound like an odd request, but could you tell me who was here this past Tuesday?” When Mrs. Onufer hesitated, he said, “I’m being bothered a lot by reporters, and I don’t care for all the publicity. They’ve said everything about me there is to be said, after all. It’s getting to be overkill. I’ve heard there’s a local man working on a series for a national magazine, against my wishes, and I was wondering if he’d been here Tuesday.”