Part 6 (1/2)
”Murphey's still up there in his office,” Mossman said. ”Dr. Thurlow's here now and Murphey says he'll give himself up in seven minutes. We're going to wait him out. Over.”
”Okay, car nine. Jack's on his way with four more men. Sheriff's still out at the house with the coroner. Sheriff says don't take any chances. Use gas if you have to. Time is two forty-six; over.”
”Car nine is seven-oh-five,” Mossman said. ”Over and out.” He hung the microphone in its rack, turned back to Thurlow. ”What a sweet mess!” He pushed his cream sombrero back from his forehead.
”There's no doubt he killed Adele?” Thurlow asked.
”No doubt.”
”Where?”
”At their house.”
”How?”
”Knife -- that big souvenir thing he was always waving around at barbecues.”
Thurlow took a deep breath. It fitted the pattern, of course. A knife was the sickly logical weapon. He forced himself to professional calmness, asked: ”When?”
”About midnight near as we can figure. Somebody called an ambulance but they didn't think to notify us for almost half an hour. By the time we got on it Joe was gone.”
”So you came down here looking for him?”
”Something like that.”
Thurlow shook his head. As he moved, one of the spotlights s.h.i.+fted and he thought he saw an object hanging in the air outside Murphey's window. He jerked his attention upward and the object appeared to flow backward up into the dark sky. Thurlow removed his gla.s.ses, rubbed his eyes. Strange thing -- it had looked like a long tube. An aftereffect from the injury to his eyes, he thought. He replaced the gla.s.ses, returned his attention to Mossman.
”What's Joe doing in there?” Thurlow asked. ”Any idea?”
”Calling people on the telephone, bragging about what he's done. His secretary, Nella Hartnick, had to be taken to the hospital in hysterics.”
”Has he called . . . Ruth?”
”Dunno.”
Thurlow thought about Ruth then, really focused on her for the first time since she'd sent back his ring with the polite little note (so unlike her, that note) telling of her marriage to Nev Hudson. Thurlow had been in Denver on the fellows.h.i.+p grant that had come to him through the National Science Foundation.
What a fool I was, he thought. That grant wasn't worth losing Ruth.
He wondered if he should call her, try to break this news to her as gently as possible. But he knew there was no gentle way to break this news. It had to be done swiftly, cruel and sharp. A clean wound that would heal with as small a scar as possible . . . under the circ.u.mstances.
Moreno being the small town it was, he knew Ruth had kept her job after her marriage -- night s.h.i.+ft psychiatric nurse at the County Hospital. She'd be at the hospital now. A telephone call would be too impersonal, he knew. It'd have to be done in person.
And I'd be irrevocably a.s.sociated with the tragedy, he thought. I don't want that.
Thurlow realized then that he was daydreaming, trying to hold onto something of what he and Ruth had known together. He sighed. Let someone else break the news to her. She was someone else's responsibility now.
An officer on Thurlow's right said: ”Think he's drunk?”
”Is he ever sober?” Mossman asked.