Legion Read Free

reminded Kinderman of a monk, the medieval kind, the kind that you saw in the movies, their expressions unsmiling and earnest and dumb. Dumb, Atkins was not, the lieutenant knew. Thirty - two and a Vietnam naval veteran out of Catholic University, behind that deadpan mask he hid something bright and strong that hummed, something wonderful and fey that he hid not from deviousness, in Kinderman’s opinion, but because of a certain gentility of soul. Although slight of build, he had once pulled a dope–crazed, knife–wielding giant from Kinderman’s throat; and when Kinderman’s daughter had been in that near–fatal automobile crash, Atkins had spent twelve days and nights in the visitors’ room of her hospital ward. He had taken his vacation time to do it. Kinderman loved him. He was as loyal as a dog.
    “I am also here, Martin Luther, and I’m listening. Kinderman, the Jewish sage, is all ears.” What was there to do now, otherwise? Cry? “I am listening, Atkins, you walking anachronism. Tell me. Report the good news from Ghent. Did we find any fingerprints?”
    “Plenty. All over the oars. But they’re smeared pretty badly, Lieutenant.”
    “A shame.”
    “Some cigarette butts,” offered Atkins hopefully. This was useful. They would check them for blood type. “Some hair on the body.”
    “This is good. Very good.” It could help to identify the killer.
    “And there’s this,” said Atkins. He held out a cellophane envelope. Kinderman delicately grasped it at the top and frowned as he held it up to his eyes. Inside it was something plastic and pink.
    “What is it?”
    “A barrette. For a woman’s hair.”
    Kinderman squinted, holding it closer. “There’s some printing on it.”
    “Yes. It says, ‘Great Falls, Virginia.’ “
    Kinderman lowered the packet and looked at Atkins. “They sell them at the souvenir stand at Great Falls,” he said. “My daughter Julie, she had one. That was years ago, Atkins. I bought it for her. Two of them I bought. She had two.” He gave the envelope to Atkins and breathed, “It’s a child’s.”
    Atkins shrugged. He glanced toward the boathouse, pocketing the envelope in his coat. “We have that woman here, Lieutenant.”
    “Would you kindly remove that ridiculous cap? We’re not doing, Dick Powell in Here Comes the Navy, Atkins. Stop shelling Haiphong; it’s all over.”
    Dutifully, Atkins slipped off the cap and stuffed it into the other pocket of the peacoat. He shivered.
    “Put it back,” said Kinderman quietly.
    “I’m okay.”
    “I’m not. The crew–cut is worse. Put it back.”
    Atkins hesitated, then Kinderman added, “ Come on, put it back. It’s cold.”
    Atkins fitted the cap back on. “We have that woman here,” he repeated.
    “We have who?”
    “The old woman.”
    The body was discovered on the boathouse dock that morning, Sunday, March thirteenth, by Joseph Mannix, the boathouse manager, on his arrival to open for business: bait and tackle, and the rental of kayaks, canoes and rowboats. Mannix’s statement was brief:

 
     
     
    STATEMENT OF JOSEPH MANNIX
     
    My name is Joe Mannix and—what?
    (Interruption by investigating officer,) Yes. Yes, I’ve got you, I understand. My name is Joseph Francis Mannix and I live at 3618 Prospect Street in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. I own and manage the Potomac Boathouse. I got here at half past five or so. That’s when I usually open up and set out the bait and start the coffee. Customers show up as early as six; sometimes they’re waiting for me when I get here. Today there was nobody. I picked up the paper from in front of the door and I–oh. Oh, Jesus. Jesus.
    (Interruption; witness composes himself.) I got here, I opened the door, I went in, I started the coffee. Then I came out to count the boats. Sometimes they rip them off. They cut the chain with a wire cutter. So I count them. Today they’re all there. Then I turn to go back in and I see the kid’s cart and this stack of