C13 Chapter 13

Carol spent the rest of the week gathering information on what had happened to Emma. She knew that her father had been directly involved in the investigation, and that he usually kept his work-related documents in his bedroom. She made the most of every minute that her father was not home to snoop through his files. Unfortunately for her, by Friday, May 16, she had not found more than a few letters addressed to the Blue Hawks that did not contain anything relevant. She knew that the closer they were to the date of the murder, the more likely it was that she would find information on the case, so she tried to work as quickly as she could. That day she left class early to get home with enough time to take one last look through her father’s papers. That afternoon, right before Carol was about to give up, she found a single useful document, hidden in a secret compartment in her closet floor. Inside the compartment, along with other documents containing critical information on other investigations, there was an envelope with three sheets of paper, the first two of which contained a couple of strange drawings similar to a series of paintings, both very similar, with a note at the bottom of each page.

’Canvas pattern 01. Room of the twenty-fifth victim’

’Canvas pattern 05. Thirty-third victim.’

The third page was almost entirely blank, with only a single sentence at the top:

’May 5, EK, pending.’

Her friend’s initials and the date of her death. Carol recognized the information immediately and dropped the papers in shock. Once she had calmed down, she picked them back up. She went to the desk to look at the details more carefully.

It was her father’s handwriting, there was no doubt about it. However, the drawings were not his. She was sure of it because, unlike her, he was not good at drawing. Carol did not understand what those papers were doing in her room or what the drawings were in reference to; she decided to copy them and hide the copies, thinking they could come in handy in the future.

* * *

That Friday, Boldmir had gone once again to see his friend Adam Rightmiller at the makeshift office outside the library. They had a short conversation, after which Adam gave him a draft list of names of people implicated in the Lowinson case, a document they had already discussed and which Boldmir received with little interest.

As hard as he had tried, Boldmir could not find any information on Enrique Ortega, not even his birth certificate. He had heard that he was a foreigner, that he had run away from his parents, or that he was an orphan, ashamed of his past. When Boldmir shared this information with Adam, he noticed that his eyes shifted and his words trailed off as though he were hiding something.

"When I asked they refused to give me the files," Adam said.

The detective had expected this. He glanced to the side, crossed his arms and then spoke.

"I don’t know what to think about those people if they won’t even give information to the very person in charge of the case. I really don’t get it."

"There is something I don’t understand either . . ." continued Adam. Boldmir looked at him out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his friend was being eaten up by his own anxiety. It would not take him long to share what he was hiding. "On the day of the murder . . ."

"Tell me."

"When they notified me of what had occurred, the messenger told me that the Blue Hawks were already at the scene . . . and the truth is I can’t understand it. Were they that quick? Was it a coincidence? I don’t know. I asked myself that question recently . . . I did some calculations, Boldmir. This morning, I traveled the same route from their headquarters to here, galloping on my horse, dismounting and running into the building. Then I went to the prosecutor’s office. I added up both times. I came to a rather uncomfortable conclusion; in order to have been able to be here investigating the crime scene when the police messenger left, they would have had to have left their headquarters almost at the exact same time that Emma Kantor died or even before the time of death."

Boldmir felt a chill and looked intently at his friend, who was clearly disturbed by what he had just shared. That was what had been making him so anxious.

"Hang on . . . wait . . ." said the detective. He gave him an inquisitive and tense look. "Exactly what are you trying to say?"

Adam turned to the side and crossed his arms before speaking.

"I’m not game to say it out loud."