Calhoun pushed open the bedroom door. This room, too, was neat. Going over to the bureau he scanned the articles on top, looking for photographs. There were none. Opening the closet Calhoun found himself staring at a collection of bondage paraphernalia, mostly items in black leather with stainless steel rivets and chains. On a shelf were stacks of accompanying magazines and videotapes.
As Calhoun closed the door, he wondered what the background computer search would uncover on this weirdo.
Moving through the rest of the apartment, Calhoun continued to search for photos. He was hoping to find one with Clyde displaying his tattoos. There were a number of photos attached to the refrigerator door with tiny magnets, but nobody in the pictures had any visible tattoos. Calhoun didn’t even know which of the people photographed was Clyde.
Calhoun was about to return to the living room and go through the desk that he’d seen when he heard a door slam below, followed by footfalls on the stairs.
For an instant, Calhoun was afraid of being caught trespassing. He considered making a run for it, but then, instead of trying to flee, he went to the front door and pulled it open, startling the person who was about to open it from the other side.
“Clyde Devonshire?” Calhoun asked sharply.
“Yeah,” Clyde said. “What the hell is going on?”
“My name is Phil Calhoun,” Calhoun said. He extended a business card toward Clyde. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come on in.”
Clyde shifted the parcel he was carrying to take the card.
“You’re an investigator?” Clyde asked.
“That’s right,” Calhoun said. “I was a state policeman until the governor decided I was too old. So I’ve taken up investigating. I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to get home so I could ask you some questions.”
“Well, you scared the crap out of me,” Clyde admitted. He put a hand to his chest and sighed with relief. “I’m not used to coming home and finding people in my apartment.”
“Sorry,” Calhoun said. “I suppose I should have waited on the stairs.”
“That wouldn’t have been comfortable,” Clyde said. “Sit down. Can I offer you anything?”
Clyde dumped his parcel on the couch, then headed into the kitchen. “I’ve got coffee, pop, or . . .”
“Have any beer?” Calhoun asked.
“Sure,” Clyde called.
While Clyde got beer from the refrigerator, Calhoun took a peek inside the brown bag Clyde had come in with. Inside were videos similar in theme to those Calhoun had discovered in the closet.
Clyde came back into the living room carrying two beers. He could tell Calhoun had looked into his parcel. Putting the beers onto the coffee table, Clyde picked up the bag and carefully closed the top.
“Entertainment,” Clyde explained.
“I noticed,” Calhoun said.
“Are you straight?” Clyde asked.
“I’m not much of anything anymore,” Calhoun said. He eyed his host. Clyde was around thirty. He was of medium height and had brown hair. He looked like he would have made a good offensive end in high-school football.
“What kind of questions did you want to ask me?” Clyde said. He handed a beer to Calhoun.
“Did you know Dr. Hodges?” Calhoun asked.
Clyde gave a short, scornful laugh. “Why on earth would you be investigating that detestable figure out of ancient history?”
“Sounds like you didn’t think much of him.”
“He was a tight-assed bastard,” Clyde said. “He had an old-fashioned concept of the role of the nurse. He thought we were lowly life forms who were supposed to do all the dirty work and not question doctors’ orders. You know, be seen but not heard. Hodges would have seemed outdated to Clara Barton.”
“Who was Clara Barton?” Calhoun asked.
“She was a battlefield nurse in the Civil War,” Clyde said. “She also organized the Red Cross.”
“Do you know who killed Dr. Hodges?” Calhoun asked.
“It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Clyde said. “But if you find out, let me know. I’d love to buy the man a beer.”
“Do you have a tattoo?” Calhoun asked.
“I sure do,” Clyde said. “I have a number of them.”
“Where?” Calhoun asked.
“You want to see them?” Clyde asked.