Read Family Practice for Free Online Page B

running. Course he was long gone by the time I got there.”
    â€œYou didn’t get a look at him?”
    â€œDidn’t, at that. Out the door and just gone.”
    â€œDr. Barrington—Dorothy—did she know him?”
    â€œSaid she didn’t. Didn’t get much of a look at him herself.”
    â€œDid she report the incident?” Parkhurst asked.
    Murray shook his head. “I kinda mentioned it like maybe we should, but she said no harm done. Figured it was somebody thought the place was empty, everybody gone home, and had come in to see what he could steal. She said she’d be more careful about locking up when she was here after closing time. You all about finished in there? I should get in and start cleaning up.”
    â€œNot yet,” Parkhurst said. “We’ll let you know.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t she report an intruder?” Susan said after Murray had gone. She walked from the garage to the open parking area behind and squinted in a sudden burst of sunlight. The sky was a vivid blue beyond the huge puffy clouds; wisps of steam rose from the wet pavement. Parkhurst, at her side, paced in the lithe, economical manner of a predator.
    She looked across at the large maple trees lining Tennessee Street, trees that had been planted the day Lincoln was assassinated. It was a commercial street with an entry into the parking lot. Office buildings sat on both sides of the lot. Across the street, old stone two- or three-story buildings with fancy cornices: the Rademacher Pipe Organ Company, Mayes Mercantile, Timely Creations. On the corner, the beautiful old Episcopal church, massive and impressive, with stained-glass windows, a heavy steeple, and clusters of bright-yellow daffodils in front. Old-fashioned, gas-lantern-shaped street lights. Traffic, not much, but moving in both directions.
    â€œAnybody see anything?” she asked.
    â€œI’ve got Ellis and Zawislak canvassing the area and taking down license numbers.”
    The license numbers of any cars parked in the area would be noted, the numbers run through DMV, and the owners tracked down and questioned.
    â€œHow’s the kid?”
    â€œNot good. Still alive when I left the hospital. This is a Saturday afternoon. Somebody must have seen something.”
    â€œRain was slamming down like a son of a bitch. Very few people out. Any who were would be concerned only with getting in.”
    From the garage, Officer Yancy called, “Chief Wren? Hazel on the phone. She’s gotten hold of the girl’s mother.”

5
    T HE B ARRINGTON HOUSE , on Indiana Street only a few blocks from the medical clinic, had been built on the original site of the stagecoach depot. The house dated from the early nineteen-hundreds: Italianate style, white, three-story, with dormers, many-paned windows, a columned porch across the front, and a wide expanse of lush green lawn.
    The three-car garage was a strictly modern addition. Behind it, Susan could see part of a gazebo with a latticed top.
    Parkhurst at her side, Officer Yancy following, she climbed steps onto the porch and poked the doorbell. Discreet chimes tinkled away inside. She hated this part of being a cop: bringing bad news. Wading into the midst of family or loved ones of a victim meant getting mired in an emotional swamp. Survivors reacted differently according to character; some got hysterical, some froze. A few attacked: kill the messenger. Several years ago in San Francisco, the wife of a young man killed in a drive-by shooting had come at her with a knife.
    Double all that for homicide. Add in that the cop knew, odds on, one of the grieving was the killer. Most murder victims were killed by someone they knew.
    A young woman opened the door. She had a piquant little face with short dark curls and was wearing cutoff jeans and a red T-shirt with “Good Gourd!” in gold letters.
    â€œPolice officers. Chief Wren and Lieutenant Parkhurst.” Susan