“Do you own a pair of Italian loafers?”
He snort-laughs. “No.” He shrugs. “At least, I don’t think so.”
I open my cell phone and show him a picture. “They’re high-end and from the Mainland. The brand is Raffinato.”
“Nope. I’ve never heard of it. I don’t own fancy shoes.”
“Okay, then. Thank you, Rowan. That’s everything I need for now. Is there anything you’d like to add? Anything you’ve thought of while we’ve been sitting here that might be useful?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I wish I could give you more, but I can’t think of anything. I don’t believe that Dr. Keller would do the things they’re saying. That’s all.”
So far, every person has said as much.
“I appreciate your time. I might need to ask you a few more questions in the coming days.”
“Sure thing.”
He gets up, gives me a small nod, and leaves.
I sit there for a long moment, tapping my pen against the page.
I check the time. Dr. Patel is up next, and he’s running late. I’ve already worked through the other eleven on the access list this morning. Three of the males came back as roughly the right build and size to fit the loafer profile. Howe is now the fourth. Two are the head surgeons I interviewed first thing. None of them so much as flinched at any of my questions, so it’s hard to tell.
I have to keep reminding myself that the shoe print might be nothing. It could be any of them.
There’s a knock on the door, and it opens before I can answer.
Dr. Patel comes in with his white coat half-buttoned, a stethoscope hanging off one shoulder. He’s wearing scrubs. There are dark spots on his shoes that look like blood. There’s another red smudge on his pants.
“Commander. I am so sorry. I was in surgery, hence moving out our meeting and being late.” He’s still a little out of breath.“We had a case come in. A bad one. Dr. Keller would normally have handled it, but obviously…” He trails off. “It came to me. I nearly lost him on the table. He’s stable for now, but it was close. I really need to get back to him, so if we could keep this brief, I would appreciate it.”
“Of course. Sit down. I won’t keep you long.”
He sits but doesn’t lean back. He’s perched on the edge, like he might bolt at any second.
He puts his phone on the table, face up. “Just in case I’m needed.”
“No problem.”
I run him through the same set of questions I’ve used all day. His access to the storage room. How often he goes in. When he was last in there. Whether he’s noticed anything out of place. He answers each one quickly, his hands clasped in his lap.
“Where were you on Wednesday night, the eleventh, between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. on the Thursday morning?”
“At home with my wife,” he answers. “I was off that night. We had dinner. We watched something. We went to bed at nine because I was working the day shift on Thursday. Does that answer your question?”
“Did you go out at all after coming home?”
“No. I went to bed and slept until my alarm went off the next day.”
“What is your shoe size?” I ask.
“Pardon?” He frowns.
“I need your shoe size, please.”
“Ummm…eight.”
I look down at his feet, and they are small. Patel is slight for a male, even by human standards.
