Free The Chinese Jars by William Gordon

with the nameplate attached to it. “An investigation, huh? What in particular are you looking for?”
    Charles Perkins puffed up. “You know I can’t discuss particulars with you, sir. I just need to look at everything you have on Rockwood. Can you hang these somewhere?” he asked, handing him his coat and scarf.
    â€œBe my guest,” said the examiner, pointing to the coat rack next to the front entrance. He scratched the thinning gray hair on his head and squinted, curious to know what the attorney was after. “Samuel, can you be of any help?” he asked, directly.
    â€œI’ll do the talking. He’s with me,” Charles interrupted.
    Samuel and the examiner exchanged glances. From the looks of it, he thought, he’d have to put up with this peacock.
    â€œVery well,” said the examiner, who by now realized he was being left out of whatever was going on.
    He gave instructions to the clerk. “Bring out all of Mr. Rockwood’s personal belongings and his autopsy file and put them in that room over there. I’ll answer any questions these gentlemen have.”
    â€œI’m sure you have other things to do,” said Charles, who preferred to work without vigilance.
    â€œIt’s protocol,” answered the examiner. “It has to do with the chain of evidence.” If he’d wanted to, he could have left them alone with the belongings; but he didn’t like Charles, so he wouldn’t budge.
    â€œVery well,” said Charles. “I assume we can take photos of anything we want?”
    â€œYes, of course, as long as no original leaves the premises. You understand, chain of evidence.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, you already told me,” murmured Charles.
    The examiner accompanied them to the same room where Samuel had been on his first visit. They spread Rockwood’s belonging on the wood table and started going through the contents of the dead man’s pockets. Samuel wasn’t moved this time when he saw the small pile that represented all that was left of Rockwell. He was now convinced that he knew nothing about him, and that he wasn’t really his friend. There was a half pack of Philip Morris cigarettes, which yielded nothing, and the Zippo lighter, which Charles stroked with his thumb. It worked. The seventeen dollars cash was still there, as was the engraved invitation. His wallet contained the same social security card and the photograph of Rockwood in army officer’s attire. Charles pulled out a flash camera and took pictures of the items, one at a time, throwing the used bulbs into the wastebasket in the corner.
    â€œIs this his social security number?” asked Charles.
    â€œIt checked out,” said the examiner, “and he really was in the army.”
    â€œInteresting, there were no keys on him,” said Charles.
    â€œNot necessarily,” said the examiner. “This was a suicide. You may find he left his keys at his place of employment, where I understand he lived. If you find out anything new, I know you’ll report back to me. Right, Samuel?”
    â€œYes, sir,” replied Samuel, giving him a sly look.
    Charles Perkins, ignoring the examiner, and still irked he wouldn’t be allowed to borrow any evidence, turned his focus to the invitation. “You say this came from Engel’s? How do you know that, Samuel?”
    â€œYou see that trademark in the middle of the lower part of the document? If you look real close, you’ll see it has their name on it. That’s how I knew where to go.”
    â€œWhat about the RSVP number?” asked Charles.
    â€œI called and they never heard of him,” answered Samuel.
    They searched the tuxedo and at first found nothing. Then Samuel slipped his hand deep into the inside pocket where Rockwood would have kept his wallet. He pulled out what looked like half a claim check with red Chinese characters on it. “Look at this!” he