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“Thanks for making time for me,” I said. “I just want to go over the events of that day one more time.”
After my brush with death at Wayne Broward’s house, I was cautious when entering, keeping my eyes on Mrs. Gosselin, walking practically sideways to the kitchen, where Mr. Gosselin was sitting at the table with the remains of his chicken dinner.
“No, please don’t get up,”
I said.
“Have a seat,” said Nathan Gosselin. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I said. “I only need a few minutes of your time.” I said that, but I hoped the few minutes would be full of newly recollected information that would give me a toehold on the case.
I sat at the table and asked the basic questions: What did you see? Are you sure you didn’t see the killer’s face? Can you think of any detail that may have seemed insignificant at the time?
Allyson Gosselin sighed.
She said, “I’ve thought about this night and day. You have to understand, not only did it happen fast, the street was jam-packed and people were trying to make the light, and I wasn’t looking directly at the man who did that wretched thing.”
“I understand.”
“So, as I said at the time, I’m pretty sure he was white. He had brown hair, a black baseball-type jacket. He looked to be normal height. He never turned to face me. When Dr. Strichler dropped, most people panicked and ran. Me, too. I just wanted to find Nate and call nine-one-one, so when I finally did look for that man, he was just gone.”
I said, “Allyson, you are obviously a very astute woman, the kind of person who notices small details. And frankly, that’s the best kind of witness. Using your mind’s eye to search for detail, is there anything else, no matter how small it might seem?”
Allyson Gosselin said, “I have had a thought and didn’t say anything about it.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” I said, scootching my chair closer to the table.
“Well. I saw a lot of threes that day.”
“Threes?”
“Yes. There were three people between me and the man who killed Dr. Strichler. There were three squad cars that arrived first, and three policemen spoke with me. And I saw three blackbirds sitting on the telephone line.”
I did my best not to explode with For God’s sake! I channeled my good-natured partner and said, “Allyson—”
But she wasn’t done.
“And there were three EMTs around her body. And the date itself. The twelfth of May. One and two equals three,” she concluded triumphantly.
“OK,” I said. “So what does that mean to you?”
Mrs. Gosselin laughed. “I don’t know. You’re the detective, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
How much deader could a dead end be?
I thanked the Gosselins, left them my card, and left their apartment.
I called Joe.
“I’m going back to work, Joe. Save me some leftovers. I know. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll be home in two hours. I promise.”
CHAPTER 77
TINA STRICHLER’S CRUEL death disturbed me above and beyond Joe’s fixation on the possible sequential string of Claire’s Birthday Murders. The Strichler case wasn’t cold. It was active, and I knew Michaels and Wang weren’t working it.
It pissed me off, but I understood. They had no witnesses, no leads, and no time to dig into the case, which had fallen directly to the bottom of the list.
But the case was very real and present to me. I’d seen Strichler’s blood running into the street. I’d gone through her wallet and had seen that she’d had a psychiatric practice. She’d had a well-put-together appearance and, very likely, a full life, which had been terminated by a madman with a knife, an unknown killer who might never be known.
