“Matt; it’s that fellow with the website. I guess he got religion.” Nancy is standing in my office doorway, hands on hips, with her legs spread apart like a soldier at “parade rest.” She’s grinning from ear to ear. “Pick it up,” she whispers, pointing to my phone.
I nod my head up and down, and motion for her to get back to her office. It’s been several days since my chat with Sheriff Cuervo. I’m guessing he had some success. “Chief Davis,” I say, picking up the receiver. “May I help you?”
“Chief, this is Frank Shields. I just got off the phone with Sheriff Cuervo, and he explained everything to me.” I’ll bet he did. I can’t help smiling.
“And, you’ll cooperate?”
“Absolutely,” he assures me.
What did that sheriff say? I wonder.
“I just hope you understand,” he continues. “I can’t just give out private information to anybody who calls and asks for it.”
“Of course, Mr. Shields,” I say, in a calm, reassuring voice.
“It’s just that you can’t believe all the nut jobs that call up here,” he add. “Seems like almost every day.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, Chief,” says the website owner, “I can give you the information over the phone if you want, or fax it to you, whichever way you want it. How many people did this guy kill, anyhow?”
It’s funny, I think, he didn’t want tell me a thing, but now he wants me to tell him everything I know. I can’t help but smile. “Look, Mr. Shields, I’m really not at liberty to say. But, why don’t you just fax that information over, first chance you get, okay? I’ll have my secretary give you the fax number.”
“Absolutely,” replies the man. “And, if there’s anything else I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to—”
“To what, call you?” I say, finishing his sentence. “Don’t worry, I won’t. And thanks for your cooperation.”
“My pleasure, Chief.”
I can sense the man can hardly wait to get off the phone. “Now, hang on Mr. Shields,” I say. “And, I’ll have Ms. Cooper give you that fax number. Oh, and I can expect that information today, right?”
“Yessir, I’ll get it out to you immediately,” he says. I motion to Nancy, who’s standing in the doorway, and I put Shields on hold.
“Well, isn’t this fun?” I whisper to Nancy. “Always nice to hear from a concerned citizen; don’t you think?”
“Yeah. So concerned you had to practically call out the Marines to get his attention. Some people just amaze me.”
“Not me. After working New York Homicide for as long as I did, nothing surprises me anymore. Besides, I really can’t blame the guy. If I were in his shoes, I’d have probably done the same thing.”
“There you go again,” counsels Nancy, “putting yourself in the other guy’s shoes. You need to be tougher.”
“Actually, that’s how we solve most cases—by putting ourselves in the other guy’s shoes. So, go pick up the phone and give him the fax number—now!”
Nancy frowns.
“Is that tough enough?” I ask, sarcastically.
“I’m shaking in my shoes,” she says, with an exaggerated shudder and a laugh.
Five minute later, Nancy is back in my office.
“Did you give him the fax number?”
She nods her head.
“Good,” I say. Nancy hasn’t moved. “Is there something else?”
“Uh huh,” she says. “I almost forgot. We got something back from State on those boot prints.”
“And, you were going to tell me that when?” I ask, feigning disapproval.
“Well, if you’re going act like that, I might never tell you,” she says with a laugh. “I’ll be right back. I’ve got the fax on my desk.”
In a minute, she returns, the piece of paper held up to her face, as she scans its contents. “Hmmm…it looks like some kind of Army Surplus boot. Jesus! Size 15! Can you believe that?”
“Do you mind?” I reach for the fax, and gently prying it from her hand.
“Oh, sorry, Matt,” says Nancy.
“Well,” I say, with a chuckle, “you said I needed to get tougher.”
“Yeah, but not with me.”
I scan the report from CSI, noting, as did Nancy, the exceptional size of the boot. The manufacturer is listed as S. Pritchard Footwear, 224 South Rugby Street, Sherborn, Massachusetts. The phone number is in a 508 area code. I decide to give them a call.
“S. Pritchard Footwear,” says a pleasant female voice, with a pronounced New England accent. “May I help you?”
A minute and a half later, I hang up. “Damn!” I shout, at nobody in particular.
“You calling me, Matt?” shouts Nancy from her office.
“No, Nancy. Not unless your name is…oh, never mind. I was just blowing off some steam.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“They only sell wholesale, and mostly to small Army-Navy retailers, scattered along the East Coast. She’s going to Email me a list in a little while.”
“Well,” says Nancy with a shrug. “The sooner we get the list, the sooner we can get started making the calls.”
“What you mean, we, white woman?” I say, in an exaggerated American Indian accent, reminiscent of an outdated joke between The Lone Ranger and Tonto.
“Gee, and to think, I actually thought you might make all those calls,” says Nancy, over her shoulder, as she disappears back into her office. “What was I thinking? But, don’t worry,” she shouts, “I’ll let you know when that e-mail arrives—so you can tell me who to call.”
“Me thank ‘em you very much, Miss Nancy,” I joke, in mock Indian dialect.
“Not funny,” says Nancy, adding, “Keep it up, and I just might call the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“What? And ruin our beautiful relationship?”
“What relationship?”
I start to answer, but don’t, deciding instead to let her have the last word—as usual.
The fax from Franklin Shields arrives about five o’clock. The good news is that the purchaser of the Iraq War bracelet is someone in New York State. The bad news is that he lives in the little town of Mexico, which is at the edge of Lake Ontario, nearly two-hundred-miles away. It’s a long ride; I know, because I drove there once to fish the lake for salmon. Hopefully, I can find out what I need to know without having to make the trip.
The buyer is a Frank Lynn; at least that’s whose Visa card was used to make the purchase. It’s issued through some credit union. All the information is right there in the fax, even the purchase price, which amounts to twenty-two dollars and eighty-six cents, including tax and shipping. However, the one thing I really need – the phone number – is missing. It’s unlisted. Thank God for reverse directories. I go online to a special site, and enter the name and address. In less than twenty seconds, I have the number.
The phone rings seven times without an answer before I hang up. Thinking I might have dialed incorrectly, I punch in the numbers again and wait, and wait, and wait. Finally, after twelve rings, I surrender. Even after all my years as a policeman, it never ceases to amaze me that some people still don’t have answering machines. I make a mental note to try the number again when I get home, but forget anyway.
The following day, true to her word, the woman at S. Pritchard e-mails me with the information she promised. Nancy brings it to me at my desk. “Here’s that list of those retail distributors for those boots, Matt. Shouldn’t take me more than…oh…maybe a month to contact all of them.”
I look at the list. She’s not kidding. There must be over a hundred names and addresses. “Well, the sooner you get started, the better. Remember, we’re only looking for sales of size 15s. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”
Nancy yanks the piece of paper out of my hand, and walks away, muttering “shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” I guess her assessment is different from mine.