Free Silent Witness by Michael Norman Page B

a small secretarial area and an equally small private office behind that. If Dixon had any associates they weren’t working here. This place had the feeling of a small mom-and-pop store front kind of law practice.
    I approached the receptionist at the title company. Her work station looked across the lobby into Dixon’s office. She looked up from her computer screen and smiled. “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”
    Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I introduced myself as someone needing legal assistance. “Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Dixon. Have you seen him today?”
    â€œThey were in early this morning but the office has been closed since around noon. I don’t know where they are.”
    â€œMaybe you can help me,” I said. I gave her my most embarrassed look. “I was arrested a couple of nights ago for DUI. A friend recommended that I ask Mr. Dixon to represent me. It’s just that I don’t know much about him.”
    The friendly smile disappeared. Suddenly she was looking at me like I was the local pedophile who had just moved into her zip code. “I really don’t know anything about Mr. Dixon’s law practice.” Her tone had grown markedly cooler.
    â€œDoes his office seem busy—that’s usually a sign of a good lawyer?”
    â€œIt never seems busy to me. In fact, some days I never see anybody go in. I wonder how they make the rent.”
    I wondered that, too.
    â€œI take it Mr. Dixon doesn’t own the building,” I said.
    â€œNo. My boss, the man who owns the title company also owns the building. Mr. Dixon leases space from him.” I thanked her and left.
    ***
    From Dixon’s office, I drove to the University of Utah campus. I wanted to find out as much about Robin Joiner as I could and figured that university records would be a good place to start. If Joiner was alive, she was either being held by the Bradshaw’s or she was hiding somewhere. The nagging question I kept asking myself was why Joiner hadn’t contacted authorities. Family members would be a good starting place although if she was frightened, she probably wouldn’t go home—too obvious a place for somebody to find her.
    My first stop was the Registrar’s Office in the administration building. I tried to convince the associate registrar that I was doing routine follow up on a missing person’s case. She didn’t buy it. I got the answer I expected—no subpoena, no academic records, no matter how routine the investigation sounded. That sent me immediately to Plan B.
    I headed off to the social and behavioral sciences building where I contacted one of my former criminology professors. Dr. Richard Bond was an academic mentor from whom I had taken classes twenty years ago. He was now the chairman of the Sociology Department, a position he had held for the past half dozen years. It was late in the afternoon when I caught up with him. Bond was working alone in his office, the department secretary apparently gone for the day. When I tapped on his office door, he glanced up from his computer screen and looked at me over the top of wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t Sam Kincaid,” he said, smiling. He stood and extended a hand. “Come in and sit down.” We chatted about careers and family for a few minutes before he brought the conversation back to the business at hand. “It’s awfully nice to see you, Sam, but I suspect your visit today is a bit more than a social call. Am I correct?”
    â€œIt is, Doc. I need your help tracking down a student.” I explained what I needed and why.
    â€œI take it you’re on my door step because you don’t have a subpoena and the Registrar’s Office turned you away.”
    â€œYou haven’t lost a step, Doc.” That brought a smile.
    â€œOkay, let’s see what we can find.” He