Marsha Russo had asked for an out-of-the-office meeting, so having left Petrov to cool his heels in Victory and awaiting the forensics report, I joined her at Casey’s, an upscale burger joint in downtown Freedom.
She had already ordered for us both and was just pouring more vanilla shake from its icy stainless steel container into her now half-empty glass when I dropped down across from her and signaled for coffee.
She stared at me. “Gaunt,” she said.
“Sleep deprivation.”
“Perhaps you should pay more attention to that condition.”
“Have you any other wise nuggets you care to drop?”
“And if I did?”
“I’d have to weigh their efficacy.”
“What do you say we can the small talk?” she said taking a large swallow of milkshake.
“You asked for the meeting.”
“So I did.”
“Hopefully, there’s more to it than me having to watch you slurp a milkshake.”
She leaned in closer across the table. “I performed a stakeout of the neighborhood in which our most recent victim was found. As you know, it differed somewhat from the kind of location where the three previous killings occurred. It was less upscale, marked not only by commercial properties, but also by residential ones.
“So I made a six-photo composite of potential perps into which I inserted a picture of Buzz Farmer. Then I embarked on a walking tour of the neighborhood and showed the composite to everyone I encountered, both on the street and when I rang doorbells.
“I did it early, at the approximate hour the coroner established as the victim’s time of death. In the hope that the morning regulars might have noticed something out of the ordinary. Any kind of anomaly.”
“And?”
“I got a hit.”
“Meaning?”
“An elderly woman, a dog walker, picked out the photo of Buzz Farmer as someone she’d seen over the course of several days sitting in a parked car across the street from her building.”
“Go on.”
“She noticed him because he seemed an oddity just sitting there drinking coffee and keeping watch over the goings on.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Only that since the murder, he’s never reappeared.”
“And it didn’t occur to her to contact the police and report this strange phenomenon?”
“Actually, it did. But she thought better of it because she had no proof and she believed she’d be dismissed as a crazy old biddy.”
“Ageism at its finest.”
Our burgers arrived, mine with a side salad, Marsha’s oozing melted cheddar cheese coupled with an order of fried onion rings. The waitress served them with a flourish, then hastily disappeared.
Marsha pointed to my salad. “I assumed you were dieting.”
I pointed to the onion rings and the whipped cream swirl atop her oversized milkshake. “At least one of us is.”
After savoring our initial food foray, Marsha asked, “What do you think?”
“About the burger?”
“About the biddy.”
“She was the only person who commented on the photo?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s a start.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s say the old lady was right and Buzz was lurking around the area. It places him there but it doesn’t establish guilt.”
“But he was at the scene of the crime before the crime was committed.”
“Tough to prosecute.”
“But it does raise doubts.”
“As do your findings regarding the future ex-Mrs. Farmer.”
“So?”
“It’s a start, Marsha. A good one. But we need more.”
“And how do we go about getting that more?”
“Underhandedly.”
“What underhandedly?”
“I’ve got something in mind.”
“You’re going to try to get him to incriminate himself?”
“That would be the plan.”
“You really believe you can get Mr. Perfection to do himself in?”
“Ain’t no such thing as perfection.”
“And you’re going to prove it?”
“God willing.”
“And?”
“And the creek don’t rise.”