The only thing left to discover was who murdered him. And why. If you get the why, you usually get the who. As I’ve discovered in this business, when motive and opportunity coalesce, you get a crime. And when the crime is made to look like an accident, you look for someone close to the victim.
I needed a lot more time in this office, but the office wasn’t going anywhere and someone close to the victim-Scott the clerk-was cooling his heels in the stockroom and needed to be interviewed.
I removed my gloves and went down the stairs. I asked Rourke, “Where’s the stockroom?”
He indicated a closed door in the rear of the long bookstore. My ham and egg on a roll was calling my name, but it’s not professional to interview a witness with your mouth full, so I just grabbed the coffee and went through the door into the stockroom.
It was a fluorescent-lit space lined with metal shelving that held hundreds of books. The deep shelves looked stable enough, but after seeing what happened to poor Mr. Parker, the place made me nervous.
There was a long table in the center of the room, also stacked with books and paperwork, and at the table sat a uniformed officer-Simmons-and a young gent who must be Scott. I thought I may have seen him once or twice in the store.
There was a metal security door that led out to the back, and I opened the door and looked out into a paved yard surrounded by a brick wall about ten feet high. There were no gates leading to the adjoining backyards, but the walls could be scaled if you had something to stand on-or if you had a cop hot on your tail. Been there, done that-on both sides of the law. There was also a fire escape leading up to the top floor.
I closed the door and turned to Scott. I identified myself, pointing to my shield-the way the lady cop did in Fargo. Funny scene.
Officer Simmons, who’d been babysitting the witness as per procedure, asked, “Do you need me?”
“No. But stick around.”
He nodded, got up, and left.
I smiled at Scott, who did not return my smile. He still looked nervous and unhappy, maybe concerned about his future at the Dead End Bookstore.
My coffee was tepid, but I spotted a microwave sitting on a small table wedged between two bookcases, and I put my paper cup in the microwave. Twenty seconds? Maybe thirty.
There was a bulletin board above the table with a work schedule, and I saw that Scott was scheduled to come in at eight thirty a.m. today, and someone named Jennifer had a few afternoon hours scheduled this week. Not much of a staff, which meant not many people to interview. There was also a Post-it note saying, “J. Lawrence-10:00 a.m. Tuesday.” Today.
I retrieved my coffee from the microwave and sat across from Scott. He was a soft-looking guy in his midtwenties, short black hair, black T-shirt and pants, and a diamond stud in his left earlobe, which I think means he’s a Republican. Maybe I got that wrong. Anyway, I did remember him now-more for his almost surly attitude than his helpfulness.
I flipped through the dozen or so pages of Scott’s handwritten statement and saw he hadn’t yet finished with his account of who, what, where, and when. In this business, short statements are made by people with nothing to hide; long statements are a little suspicious, and this was a long statement.
As I perused his tight, neat handwriting, I said to him, “This seems to be a very helpful account of what happened here.”
“Thank you.”
I asked him, “Do you think the police arrived promptly?”
He nodded.
“Good. And the EMS?”
“Yeah…”
“Good.” And are you now thinking I’m here to evaluate the response to your 911 call? I’m not. I dropped his written statement on the table and asked him, “How you doin’?”
He seemed unsure about how he was doing, but then replied, “Not too good.”
“Must have been a shock.”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three years this June.”
“Right after college?”
“Yeah.”
“Good job?”
“It’s okay.” He volunteered, “Pays the bills while I’m writing my novel.”
“Good luck.” Every store clerk and waiter in this town wants you to know they’re really a writer, an actor, a musician, or an artist. Just in case you thought they were a clerk or a waiter. I asked Scott, “What time did you get here this morning?”
He replied, “As I told the other policeman, I got here about seven thirty.”
“Right. Why so early?”
“Early?”
“You’re scheduled for eight thirty.”
“Yeah…Mr. Parker asked me to get here early.”
“Why?”
“To stock shelves.”
“The shelves look stocked. When’s the last time you sold a book?”
“I had some paperwork to do.”
“Yeah? Okay, take me through it, Scott. You got here, opened the door-front door?”
“Yeah.” He reminded me, “It’s all in my statement.”
“Good. And what time was that?”
“I opened the door a little before seven thirty.”
“And it was locked?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know that Mr. Parker was here?”