‘What can you tell me about this boot?’ I said.
He was turning it this way and that, looking. ‘It’s World War Two and was tested right here at Ft. Lee. A lot of tread patterns were developed and tested here.’
‘World War Two was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘How would someone have a boot like this now? Could someone even be wearing a boot like this now?’
‘Oh sure. These things hold up forever. You might find a pair in an Army Surplus store somewhere. Or it could have been in someone’s family.’
He returned the boot to its crowded locker, where I suspected it would be neglected again for a very long time. As we left the building and he locked it behind us, I stood on a sidewalk turning soft with snow. I looked up at skies solid gray and at the slow traffic on streets. People had turned their headlights on, and the day was still. I knew what kind of boots Gault had but wasn’t sure it mattered.
‘Can I buy you coffee, my dear?’ Dr. Gruber said, slipping a little. I grabbed his arm. ‘Oh my, it’s going to be bad again,’ he said. ‘They’re predicting five inches.’
‘I’ve got to get back to the morgue,’ I said, tucking his arm in mine. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
He patted my hand.
‘I want to describe a man to you and ask if you might have seen him here in the past.’
He listened as I described Gault and his many shades of hair. I described his sharp features and eyes as pale blue as a malamute’s. I mentioned his odd attire, and that it was becoming clear he enjoyed military clothing or designs suggestive of it, such as the boots and the long black leather coat he was seen wearing in New York.
‘Well, we get types like that, you know,’ he said, reaching the museum’s back door. ‘But I’m afraid he doesn’t ring a bell.’
Snow frosted the top of Eisenhower’s mobile home. My hair and hands were getting wet, and my feet were cold. ‘How hard would it be to run down a name for me?’ I said. ‘I’d like to know if a Peyton Gault was ever in the Quartermaster Corps.’
Dr. Gruber hesitated. ‘I’m assuming you believe he was in the army.’
‘I’m not assuming anything,’ I said. ‘But I suspect he’s old enough to have served in World War Two. The only other thing I can tell you is at one time he lived in Albany, Georgia, on a pecan plantation.’
‘Records can’t be obtained unless you’re a relative or have power of attorney. That would be St. Louis you’d call, and I’m sorry to say records A through J were destroyed in a fire in the early eighties.’
‘Great,’ I said dismally.
He hesitated again. ‘We do have our own computerized list of veterans here at the museum.’
I felt a surge of hope.
‘The veteran who wants to pull his record can do so for a twenty-dollar donation,’ Dr. Gruber said.
‘What if you want to pull the record of someone else?’
‘Can’t do it.’
‘Dr. Gruber’ – I pushed wet hair back – ‘please. We’re talking about a man who has viciously murdered at least nine people. He will murder many more if we don’t stop him.’
He looked up at snow coming down. ‘Why on earth are we having, this conversation out here, my dear?’ he said. ‘We’re both going to catch pneumonia. I assume Peyton Gault is this awful person’s father.’
I kissed his cheek. ‘You’ve got my pager number,’ I said, walking off to find my car.
As I navigated through the snowstorm, the radio was nonstop about the murders at the morgue. When I reached my office I found television vans and news crews surrounding the building, and I tried to figure out what to do. I needed to go inside.
‘The hell with it,’ I muttered under my breath as I turned into the parking lot. Instantly, a school of reporters darted toward me as I got out of my black Mercedes. Cameras flashed as I walked with purpose, eyes straight ahead. Microphones appeared from every angle. People yelled my name as I hurried to unlock the back door and slam it shut behind me. I was alone in the quiet, empty bay, and I realized everyone else probably had gone home for the day because of the weather.