Free 1 Runaway Man by David Handler

foot on the table I realized how happy I was that this wasn’t open-toe sandal season. He was dressed in a shiny black suit, white shirt and muted tie. On his shoulder he wore a good-sized chip.
    His sergeant was a young black man named Gallagher who was taller than Battalino, better looking, a better dresser, smarter and more polite. I anticipate big things in Gallagher’s future—as long as he doesn’t try to tell Battalino how to run an investigation. Or get smart with him.
    It had taken ten minutes for a Connecticut state trooper wearing a big Smokey the Bear hat to respond to my 911 call. I’d led him to Bruce’s body in the guest cottage. As soon as he laid eyes on Bruce he called for help, which came in the form of Battalino and Gallagher from the Major Crime Squad Western District and a crew of crime scene technicians in blue-and-white cube vans. Also a death investigator from the state medical examiner’s office. The crime scene investigators were still at the house on Candlewood Lake photographing and measuring the shoeprints and tire tracks in the snow. Bruce’s body was being transported to the medical examiner’s office in Farmington for an autopsy. The Weiners had been contacted at their home in Willoughby with the awful news. They’d have to drive to Farmington in the morning to officially identify the body. The mere thought of which filled me with grief. I felt complicit in Bruce’s death. I felt like shit. But I had to set my feelings aside as I sat there with Battalino and Gallagher. Focus on concrete physical evidence such as the killer’s tire tracks. The ones that I’d been trying to tell them led north out of the Warfield driveway.
    Which was when Battalino decided to set me straight: “I talk and you listen, got it? I’m not interested in your cute little theories. And I expect you to shut up unless I ask you a direct question, got it?” He gulped down some coffee, glowering at me. “Let’s talk about who hired you to find the victim.”
    “Was that a direct question?” I asked Gallagher.
    Gallagher nodded, stone-faced.
    “We were retained by the New York City law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour. Peter Seymour was the partner who contacted us.”
    “This was when?”
    “Yesterday. He told us that Bruce Weiner had recently inherited a significant amount of money from one of their clients. I don’t know how much money. Or the client’s identity. We weren’t made privy to the details.”
    “You do a lot of work for this law firm?”
    “It was the first time they’d ever hired us. Seymour told us they’d been trying to contact the victim for several days at his school, Canterbury College in upper Manhattan. It was their impression that he’d left campus. They hired us to find him.”
    “Why you?”
    “That’s what I do. Find young people.”
    Battalino smirked. “Whatever you say, tough guy. Talk us through it.”
    “Through what, Lieutenant?”
    “Your activities in pursuit of the deceased, leading up to tonight.”
    “Okay, sure.” I took a sip of my coffee, folding my hands before me on the table. “For starters, I spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Weiner last night at their house in Willoughby. They seemed to know nothing about any inheritance. Acted quite puzzled, actually. Plus they were under the impression that Bruce was on campus. Mr. Weiner phoned Bruce’s roommate, Chris Warfield, while I was there and Chris assured him that Bruce was studying at the library.”
    “Uh-huh. And was he?”
    “No. When I spoke to Chris in person about it today I was able to ascertain that Bruce was staying at the Warfield family home on Candlewood Lake.”
    “How were you able to ‘ascertain’ that?”
    “By gaining his confidence.”
    “So that’s something you’re good at—gaining people’s confidence?”
    “I’ve had some success, yes.”
    “Then how come you’re not gaining my confidence?”
    I didn’t respond. It didn’t qualify as a direct question. Just sour