I saw a dead woman on the hallway floor.
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THREE
T
HE DEAD WOMAN HAD LONG GREY HAIR. SHE WAS WEARING AN
elaborate white flannel nightgown. She was on her side.
Her feet were near the study door. Her arms and legs
had sprawled in a way that made it look like she was running.
There was a shotgun half underneath her. One side of her head
was caved in. I could see blood and brains matted in her hair.
More blood had pooled on the oak. It was dark and sticky.
I stepped into the hallway and stopped an arm’s length from
her. I squatted down and reached for her wrist. Her skin was
very cold. There was no pulse.
I stayed down. Listened. Heard nothing. I craned over and
looked at her head. She had been hit with something hard
and heavy. Just a single blow, but a serious one. The wound
was in the shape of a trench. Nearly an inch wide, maybe four
inches long. It had come from the left side, and above. She had
been facing the back of the house. Facing the kitchen. I glanced
around and dropped her wrist and stood up and stepped into
the den: A Persian carpet covered most of the floor. I stood on it
and imagined I was hearing quiet tense footsteps coming down
the hallway, towards me. Imagined I was still holding the
wrecking bar I had used to force the lock. Imagined swinging it
43
when my target stepped into view, on her way past the open
doorway.
I looked down. There was a stripe of blood and hair on the
carpet. The wrecking bar had been wiped on it.
Nothing else in the room was disturbed. It was an impersonal
space. It looked like it was there because they had heard a
family house should have a study. Not because they actually
needed one. The desk was not set up for working. There
were photographs in silver frames all over it. But fewer than I
would have expected, from a long marriage. There was one that
showed the dead man from the motel and the dead woman
from the hallway standing together with the Mount Rushmore
faces blurry in the background. General and Mrs Kramer, on
vacation. He was much taller than she was. He looked strong
and vigorous. She looked petite in comparison.
There was another framed photograph showing Kramer
himself in uniform. The picture was a few years old. He was
standing at the top of the steps, about to climb into a C-130
transport plane. It was a colour photograph. His uniform was
green, the airplane was brown. He was smiling and waving.
Off to assume his one-star command, I guessed. There was a
second picture, almost identical, a little newer. Kramer, at the
top of a set of airplane steps, turning back, smiling and waving.
Off to assume his two-star command, probably. In both pictures
he was waving with his right hand. In both pictures his left held
the same canvas suit carrier I had seen in the motel room
closet. And above it, in both pictures, tucked up under his arm,
was a matching canvas briefcase.
I stepped out to the hallway again. Listened hard. Heard
nothing. I could have searched the house, but I didn’t need to. I
was pretty sure there was nobody in it and I knew there was
nothing I needed to find. So I took a last look at the Kramer
widow. I could see the soles of her feet. She hadn’t been a
widow for long. Maybe an hour, maybe three. I figured the
blood on the floor was about twelve hours old. But it was
impossible to be precise. That would have to wait until the
doctors arrived.
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I retreated through the kitchen and went back outside and
walked around to find Summer. Sent her inside to take a look. It
was quicker than a verbal explanation. She came out again
four minutes later, looking calm and composed. Score one for
Summer, I thought.
‘You like coincidences?’ she said.
I said nothing.
‘We have to go to D.C.,’ she said. ‘To Walter Reed. We have