“Yes,” Calhoun said.
Grinning from ear to ear, Clyde undid his cuffs and took off his shirt. He stood up and assumed several poses as if he were a bodybuilder. Then he laughed. He had a chain tattooed around each wrist, a dragon on his right upper arm, and a pair of crossed swords on his pectorals above each nipple.
“I got these swords in New Hampshire while I was in high school,” he said. “The rest I got in San Diego.”
“Let me see the tattoos on your wrists,” Calhoun said.
“Oh, no,” Clyde said as he slipped his shirt back on. “I don’t want to show you everything the first time. You won’t come back.”
“Do you ski?” Calhoun asked.
“Occasionally,” Clyde said. Then he added, “You sure do jump all over the map with your questions.”
“Do you own a ski mask?” Calhoun asked.
“Everybody who skis in New England has a ski mask,” Clyde said. “Unless they’re masochists.”
Calhoun stood up. “Thanks for the beer,” he said. “I’ve got to be on my way.”
“Too bad,” Clyde said. “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”
Calhoun descended the stairs, went outside, and climbed into his truck. He was glad to get out of Clyde Devonshire’s apartment. The man was definitely unusual, maybe even bizarre. The question was, could he have killed Hodges? Somehow, Calhoun didn’t think so. Clyde might be weird, but he seemed forthright. Yet the chains tattooed on each wrist bothered Calhoun, especially since he’d not had a chance to examine them closely. And he wondered about the man’s interest in Kevorkian. Was it idle curiosity or the interest of a sort of kindred spirit? For now, Clyde would remain a suspect. Calhoun was eager to see what the background computer check would bring up on him.
Calhoun checked his list. The next name was Joe Forbs. The address was near the college, not too far from the Gannons’.
At Forbs’ house, a thin, nervous woman with gray-streaked hair opened the door a crack when Calhoun knocked. Calhoun introduced himself and produced his card. The woman wasn’t impressed. She was more New England-like than Clyde Devonshire: tight-lipped and not too friendly.
“Mrs. Forbs?” Calhoun asked.
The woman nodded.
“Is Joe at home?”
“No,” Mrs. Forbs said. “You’ll have to come back later.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. It’s a different time each day.”
“Did you know Dr. Dennis Hodges?” Calhoun asked.
“No,” Mrs. Forbs said.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Forbs is tattooed?”
“You’ll have to come back,” Mrs. Forbs said.
“Does he ski?” Calhoun persisted.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Forbs said. She shut the door. Calhoun heard a series of locks secured. He had the distinct impression Mrs. Forbs thought he was a bill collector.
Climbing back into the truck, Calhoun sighed. He was now only one for two. But he wasn’t discouraged. It was time to move on to the next name on the list: Claudette Maurice.
“Uh oh,” Calhoun said as he pulled up across the street from Claudette Maurice’s house. It was a tiny home that looked like a dollhouse. What bothered Calhoun was that the shutters on the windows in the front were closed.
Calhoun went up to the front door and knocked several times since there was no bell. There was no response. Lifting the door to the mailbox, he saw it was almost full.
Stepping away from the house, Calhoun went to the nearest neighbor. He got his answer quickly. Claudette Maurice was on vacation. She’d gone to Hawaii.
Calhoun returned to the truck. Now he was only one for three. He looked at the next name: Werner Van Slyke.
Calhoun debated skipping Van Slyke since he’d talked to him already, but he decided to see the man anyway. On the first visit he’d not known about Van Slyke’s tattoo.
Van Slyke resided in the southeastern part of the town. He lived on a quiet lane where the buildings were set far back from the street. Calhoun pulled to a stop behind a row of cars parked across the street from Van Slyke’s home.
Surprisingly, Van Slyke’s house was run-down and badly in need of paint. It didn’t look like a house occupied by the head of a maintenance department. Dilapidated shutters hung at odd angles from their windows. The place gave Calhoun the creeps.