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“No, to them it’s crystal clear. Can I see the flashlight?”
He handed it over and Gibson shone the light over each letter, going slowly and studying the marks thoroughly. They were done in block lettering, which made it harder, but since there were three words repeated, it also made it easier.
“I think it was written by two different people,” she concluded, handing him back the flashlight.
He stepped forward and shone the light over the letters. “Really? I’m no handwriting expert, but those who are usually examine cursive writing, not block letters.”
“True, but handwriting is handwriting. Take the three wordsI,do, andas. They obviously appear in the firstandsecond half of the message. Take a look at how thedis formed in both, and look at how theaandsare done. Different arcs and upward and downward strokes, varied stopping points. The flourish on the firstdis not seen in the secondd. The firstsis smooth, the second one choppy, as though the person wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Even theI’s are different. The height is dissimilar and the top caps are not close. The penmanship is totally different.”
“How do you know so much about handwriting analysis?”
“Like I said, I started out as a forensics tech. And with my job now I review thousands of documents online and compare signatures and other handwriting all the time. But I would suggest you get your experts out here to do their own exam. My opinion wouldn’t count for squat in court.”
“But it does with me.”
She gave him a look. “So does that mean I’m off the suspect list?”
“I think we can safely say that.”
Gibson scrutinized the space where Langhorne’s body had been as they passed by it.
Had Clarisse killed the man? If so, why involve her? Because she was afraid? She didn’t sound afraid. Because she wanted something? Yes, that was the far more likely answer.
Langhorne had probably stolen a ton of money from the mob. Gibson wasn’t really speculating on that. For how else could he have bought this place? Did that represent all of the money he’d taken? If not, where was the rest? But if Clarisse had done the deed, had she also written the phrase on the wall? And taken the pains to make it seem like two people had done it? She seemed like just the sort of person who would sweat those kinds of details. But what would have been the point of that deception? Or maybe shewasworking with another person.
Out in the daylight, Sullivan turned to her. “Thanks for coming out and thanks for the ‘expert’ analysis back there.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for taking me off the suspect list. I’ll make those calls and get back to you.”
She paused and that made Sullivan hike his eyebrows and say, “Yes?”
“So how did a mob accountant end up here under an assumed name?”
“We’re looking into it.”
“Did he have a family?”
“Yes, wife and two kids.”
Part of Gibson felt badly for doing this dog-and-pony show with Sullivan, asking him questions she already knew the answers to. But the other part of her, the professional part, knew it was necessary.
“Any idea where they are now?”
“None,” he said.
“You would think a mob accountant, after turning on his employer, would be put into Witness Protection.”
“I was thinking the same thing. In fact, I have a meeting with a representative of the US Marshals Service in Norfolk this afternoon. Want to tag along?”
Gibson was surprised by this offer and her expression showed it. “I would love to tag along.”
“We have time to grab something to eat, if you want.”
“In for a dime, Detective Sullivan.”
“Just make it Will, Mickey.”
“I’ll follow you over.”
