Free The Blue Journal by L.T. Graham Page A

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CHAPTER 9
    Stanley Knoebel was a renowned vascular surgeon with a successful practice in New York City. A talented professional, he enjoyed the stature society accords those who trade, quite literally, in the business of life and death.
    Charm, however, was not one of his skills.
    Knoebel had a reputation for condescension and coldness that was unusual, even for a surgeon. He was arrogant toward subordinates and colleagues alike, and his social interactions were not much different.
    Born in Romania, he spent his early years in strict parochial schools that left him with a stiff bearing, and his heavy accent only added to that haughty persona. He valued intelligence and serious debate, despising banal chatter and cocktail party conviviality. As a consequence, he had many valued colleagues but very few friends.
    Knoebel had no difficulty accepting that he was not a popular man. He was actually proud of his values, having long ago realized it was not easy to play God without offending someone.
    On Thursday morning, the day following the discovery of his wife’s body, Dr. Knoebel telephoned Darien Police Chief Henry Gill. Foregoing any sort of social preamble, he demanded to know when his wife’s body would be released.
    Gill informed him that the coroner had not finished his examination.
    â€œAs we discussed last evening, Chief Gill, it is evident that Elizabeth died of a gunshot wound, is it not? Any general practitioner could see that.” His English was excellent, but those unmistakable inflections of Eastern Europe fortified his peremptory style.
    Chief Gill mustered all the compassion he could, compassion not being his long suit. “I understand, Doctor Knoebel. Unfortunately, in a case like this we’re required to follow our procedures and conduct a thorough autopsy.”
    â€œAll right,” the doctor responded with undisguised exasperation. “When do you expect these procedures to be completed?”
    â€œHopefully in the next day or two. We need to verify the time of death and finalize some other forensic tests.” Gill glanced at Anthony Walker, who was standing in the doorway of his office, listening to the chief’s half of the telephone conversation. “Detective Walker will be in touch with you so you can make the appropriate arrangements.”
    â€œI have already made the appropriate arrangements,” Dr. Knoebel insisted. “My wife’s will makes it clear she wished to be cremated. This is upsetting enough to my daughter without prolonging her suffering with bureaucratic delays.”
    â€œI apologize, but we do have certain rules.”
    â€œRules,” Dr. Knoebel said derisively.
    â€œDetective Walker will also need to conduct an interview of you, Doctor. Perhaps we can set some time that would be convenient for you.”
    â€œFrankly, there is no convenient time.”
    â€œAll right,” the chief said, looking up at Walker as if he might offer some help. “How about the least inconvenient time, then?”
    There was silence. “My house,” Knoebel said. “Eight o’clock tonight.”
    â€œYour house at eight,” Gill agreed without asking Walker how he felt about it. “That’ll be fine.”
    â€œMy daughter has returned from boarding school. She will be at home. I trust your Detective Walker will exercise some discretion. Obviously we will have this discussion privately.”
    â€œOf course. I’ll pass that on.”
    â€œIf you learn anything else before we meet, please call and leave word with my receptionist.”
    â€œAll right,” Gill answered, but the line had already gone dead.
    Walker waited for Gill to put the phone down, then said, “Seems he’s all teary-eyed over this thing.”
    â€œSpare me the sarcasm,” Gill snapped. “Knoebel is a respected member of this community, and we have his wife on the coroner’s slab with a bullet in her