I did my best to hold off until morning. I barely slept a wink.
At five-thirty I called Maryanne, my assistant.
“Maryanne—it’s Henry!” I said. “I realize I’m waking you up, but this is important!”
“Dr. Steadman?” she muttered groggily. I could hear her husband, Frank, stirring next to her, wanting to know what the hell was going on.
“Maryanne, I’m sorry to disturb you so early—but I need something from you. It’s important—or I wouldn’t be calling you like this …”
She cleared her throat and gradually gathered her wits. “What is it you need?”
Frank was probably calling the police on the other line, but I didn’t care.
“You remember that guy who came in about a month ago—heavyset, bald, fuzzy reddish hair around the sides. From out of state. I can’t think of his name, but he came in about his neck. Wrinkles …”
“Yes. I think so,” she answered. “Hofer …”
“I need his records, Maryanne. As soon as you can get them to me. I need his name and address, whatever he left, as well as his Social. And a photo. I’m pretty sure I took one while he was there. It has to be in the system. I need you to get that for me …”
“Sure. Of course …” Maryanne stammered. “I’ll go right now.”
I could hear her already out of bed and in motion. The gears must have been turning in her mind as she mobilized herself because she suddenly asked: “You think he’s involved … ?”
“Fast as you can, Maryanne! That’s all I can say. You have no idea how much is depending on this.”