Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Governor’s Murder

by Barnali Saha

Lieutenant Wolanin Stephen was a man of few words and many actions. He was six feet tall, slightly obese, and was known as the 'disco-cop' among his peers after that one incident several years ago when he successfully undermined a perp whom he was speed-chasing. The incident went like this: it was late December and Onieda County was covered in snow. Around midnight Wolanin was informed about an armed robbery at a local gas station in his area. Wolanin sped out to investigate and encountered the suspect fleeing in his car. Wolanin's cop-lights were on and he issued directions to the vehicle to stop. But the vehicle speeded on the snow-shoveled road for a good five miles and then it finally stopped at an intersection. And before Wolanin could take out his service gun from his quick-draw holster, he saw the suspect get out of the car, a 95 Ford Tempo, and start dancing. Wolanin was pretty surprised. He raised his police microphone and said, "Sir, I want you to stop dancing and stand still. Stand still, sir." The man, who was a young Caucasian wearing a worn out black hooded vest, the cap of which was drawn over his head, pretended not to listen. "Sir, I am asking you please stop dancing," Wolanin said and opened his car door. The man began moon-walking and, in the process, one of his hands gently slid inside his hoody pocket. In a split second Wolanin found himself standing in front of a naked handgun; he watched the man's finger touch the trigger. But before the man could pull it, Wolanin brought out his own gun and unleashed a bullet straight into the man's abdomen and destabilized the criminal. The people in his department were so proud of his cop-tactics that they awarded him the sobriquet by which he was now known in the cop-circle. Lieutenant Wolanin had been on the job twelve years and had been a part of several successful police investigations. He lived in a one bedroom 500 square feet studio apartment with his bull-terrier named Vader.

When officer Dominick Sales of the police department called Lieutenant Wolanin on a Sunday morning, he was sipping on his coffee and reading the newspaper. The front page of the morning paper reported the proceedings of the election campaign of the conservative candidate Roderick Meek who was running for the US Senate and the big visit of the North Carolina Governor Raymond Parker to boost his movement. Since the time Parker had swept a massive victory over his liberal opponent in the last gubernatorial elections, the businessman-turned-politico had overnight become the voice of the people. People loved him, his powerful oratory and his powerful voice. The public had previously shown much apathy to his party, but this man had raised the party to a championing level with his conservative tactics and vitriolic acid-rubbing commentary. And now he was visiting Wisconsin to support one of his comrades. The newspaper report came with picture of Parker taken at a conservative rally: arms upraised, a solemn expression on his face, eyes twinkling with confidence, a gleaming king-sized American flag above him. Lieutenant Wolanin had just finished reading the report and was heading to the sports section when the telephone rang.

"Hello"

"Good morning, Sales!" said Lieutenant Wolanin as he picked up the receiver. "What is it?"

"Dead! When? I just finished reading about him. Okay, I will be right up." Wolanin banged the receiver down and stood stunned for a second staring at the morning newspaper’s laid out page which lay on the kitchen table. Then he rushed to the bathroom, had a quick shower, dressed, gave Vader his food, and hit the road.

The scene of crime was Dane Lodi Marsh, a public hunting area very popular among hunting enthusiasts in the deer season. When Wolanin reached the scene he discovered a number of ambulances, a fire truck and a group of men standing under a huge tree with almost-bare branches pointing toward the sky, Wolanin recognized two of the men as Officer Taylor and Officer Wilson of the Metropolitan Police Department. Seeing him approaching they left the other two men standing and walked in his direction.

"Good morning, loo," said Officer Taylor.

"Good morning, Taylor. Good morning, Rodney."

"Good morning, loo."

"When did it happen?"

"Around 8:15 A.M. Sloshed and killed instantly. Gun shot, close range," said Officer Wilson.

"Hmm," said Lieutenant Wolanin. "I recognize Meek there, who's the other one?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked directing his gaze at one of the two gentlemen who stood under the tree with a stern look on his face.

"That's Meek's campaign adviser Mr. Tufte. It was he who called us."

"How did they find out?" Wolanin asked.

"They say that around eight, Parker had excused himself saying that he needed to pee. When he did not return in almost an hour they thought he might be lost and decided to look for him. They found him lying dead under one of the trees a little way off. He had been shot through his lungs and had already died when they discovered him."

"Has the body been touched?" Wolanin asked.

"No, we left it as it is for you; the ambulance is here though and the state police and the big boys will be right up," said Officer Taylor.

"It is a bad business, loo," said Officer Wilson.

“You tell me,” replied Lieutenant Wolanin with a mocking laugh. He stood for some moment looking around. "Okay, Officers, I will see the body; but first let’s have a chat with them," he said. Lieutenant Wolanin directed Officer Wilson to stay on guard by the dead body and himself walked with Officer Taylor to talk with the two gentlemen standing under the tree.

One of the men, tall, thin, square-faced, ripe-aged, droopy shoulders with a touch of alopecia right in the middle of his head and a ghastly look of horror and shock in equal parts painted on his features, was Roderick Meek, the Conservative candidate running for the United States Senate. While the other one, pallid-skinned, fish-eyed, with closely cropped brown hair, a military mustache and side whiskers, was Mr. James Tufte, an ex-veteran and Meek's campaign adviser. The men stood next to each other on the dead-leaf littered ground. Lieutenant Wolanin noticed the nervous fretfulness about them as he greeted them.

"When we discovered him, Lieutenant, he was cold dead. I don't know how it all happened. He was with us right from the time we came, and I can't believe he is now dead!" said Mr. Meek.

"When did you plan this hunting trip?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked.

"On Friday," said Mr. Tufte after coughing a bit. "As you can guess, we are currently under a lot of strain with the election season heading to a close. So when Parker visited Meek here made an impromptu plan for a hunting trip and Parker agreed to come along."

"When did you arrive here?"

"Around six in the morning."

"Who else knew about this hunting trip?"

"A couple of my close staff," said Meek "and Parker's secretary. We wanted to keep it low, you know."

"Hmm," said Wolanin. "Did you inform Mr. Parker's wife about this?"

"No; we wanted the police to do it. I haven’t the nerve," said Mr. Meek.

"I can't imagine what the media will say about this," Mr. Tufte said with agitation. "All this will bring unwanted setbacks into our campaign."

Lieutenant Wolanin had been writing a few of the newly received memoranda on his pocketbook. He now stopped and said, "Gentlemen, I need to tell me exactly what happened this morning and leave no details out."

The men exchanged a glance and Mr. Tufte spoke, "As I have said before, we came here around six in the morning. I had been here before and suggested this ground to Meek when he made the plans. We stationed ourselves at the tree-stand, had a bit of breakfast and got our hunting rifles out. Parker asked me if there was a facility around somewhere. I said no. And then around eight he excused himself and climbed down the stand. We had been loading our guns at the time and did not notice which way he went. When he did not return in an hour, Meek suggested that we go down and look for him. We climbed down the stand and walked about for sometime calling his name. There was no answer. Finally, I found the trail of his boots on a patch of wet ground and followed it until we saw him lying under a tree. We hurried to him. I checked his pulse, and there was no movement."

"Did you notice anything unusual on his body?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked.

"Apart from the bullet wound on his chest, there weren’t any legible signs."

"Did you see any other footmarks on the ground apart from Mr. Parker's?"

"I did not notice carefully."

Lieutenant Wolanin pondered for a moment.

"Did you notice any change of behavior in Mr. Parker. Was he agitated or anxious for anything?"

"No, he was perfectly normal. A little silent perhaps, but normal.”

"Where was he staying?"

"At the Dalton Plaza," answered Mr. Meek.

"How long was he with you yesterday?"

"We finished our rally around six-thirty and then we did some shopping for today's trip. After that we had dinner at my place. Parker had been a great help in the campaign and my wife insisted he dined with us. After dinner we had a long political discussion. Around ten-thirty his secretary arrived with the car and around ten-forty he left," said Mr. Meek.

"Where did you shop?"

"At the Roanoke Sporting Goods store," answered Mr. Meek. "Mr. Parker needed some hunting gear, and I needed a deer knife."

"Did you or Mr. Parker talk to anybody at the rally?"

"Yeah, there were a number of people around, reporters and some audience members. We talked to them, shook hands and so forth."

"Did Mr. Tufte come to dinner too?"

"No; I had to attend another social function, a birthday party, I left after shopping," Mr. Tufte answered.

"Mr. Meek, tell me, did you know anybody who might want to harm Mr. Parker."

"He was a charismatic figure, that man; I can't believe that anybody would want to harm him."

"But surely he had enemies?"

"Lieutenant, every politician has enemies," retorted Mr. Tufte. "Politics is a dangerous occupation, we all agree on that."

Mr. Meek gave Mr. Tufte a feverish look. Wolanin noticed the terrible gloom gnawing at his features.

"Were there any disturbance at your rally yesterday?"
"No."

"Any picketing or protest of any kind?"

"No. It was a huge success. People loved his speech."

"How long have you known Mr. Parker?"

"I have known him since the start of his career. We met at some political rallies and party meetings before."

"Were you great friends?"

"No, not great friends, more like associates. Our relation was mostly professional," remarked Mr. Meek, sternly.

"Did you stop anywhere else after the Roanoke Sporting Goods?"

"No."

"Did Mr. Parker talk to anybody at the shop?"

"We talked to the shop owner," retorted Mr. Tufte, "I've known him for a long time. A stout fellow he always gives great hunting advice."

"Did you tell him you were coming here?"

"We did discuss the trip, but we never gave any details."

"Did you tell him that Mr. Parker would be coming with you?"

"No, we didn’t tell him that."

"How often do you go to the shop?"

"I go there every time I need any outdoor supplies," said Mr. Tufte. "And I recommend it to my acquaintances."

"Were there other people in the store?"

"Not many," said Mr. Meek.

"Did Mr. Parker talk to anybody in the store?"

"Some of the people who were around did come to take autographs."
"Did Mr. Parker talk to them?"

"Yes, he did."

"Did the conversations take place before you?"

"Yes, most of the time we were with him, except for five-ten minutes when we went to check out the hunting caps. Parker had been busy with the rifles and asked us to go ahead," said Mr. Tufte.

"So during those five-ten minutes you must have no idea who Mr. Parker talked with?" asked Lieutenant Wolanin.

"That's right."

"Mr. Tufte, you say you were on the wheels this morning, do you think that someone could have followed you here?"

"That's impossible," cried Mr. Tufte. "I have a very keen sense. All the while I drove there were only a handful of cars on the road and none came this way; and as far as the people go, except for the morning-walkers and some old folks, I didn’t see anybody."

"Did you take the regular driving route?" asked Lieutenant Wolanin.
"No, I intended to avoid public ways and took only the inside roads."

"Were there any other hunting party in the area?"

"No, not my knowledge."

"Where is your tree stand?"

The men pointed at a spot a few yards away from where they stood.

"Let's have a look at the thing and then we can see the body."

The group turned and walked down a winding track littered with dried leaves. Strings of grass bounded the track on both sides and there were clumps of sodden green under the trees. Eventually they hit the spot—a little clearing where a fifteen foot ladder leaned against the trunk of a tree, secured to it by heavy-duty ratchet strap. The ladder connected to a crude wooden scaffold high-up.

"Mr. Tufte, please come with me," said Lieutenant Wolanin as he lurched upwards. His heavy frame balked swiftness and he tottered up with careful concentration gripping the ladder-support bar carefully.

"You need to exercise, Lieutenant," said Mr. Tufte from behind.
"Yeah, I know," Lieutenant Wolanin said with a chuckle.

Lieutenant Wolanin stopped to take a breath when he stepped on the foot-platform and turning to Mr. Tufte said, "It seems a little tiny for three grown men, how did you manage?"

"Meek doesn't need alotta space," said Mr. Tufte.

Lieutenant Wolanin inspected the hunting rifles that lay on the platform.

"Which one is Mr. Parker's?

Mr. Tufte pointed at a weapon that nestled above a camouflage military bag.

"It's still unloaded, how come?"

"I don't know," retorted Mr. Tufte with a little uneasiness.

"Did Mr. Parker carry any other weapon?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Wolanin squatted on the platform and inspected the baggage. He brought out the box of magazines and scrutinized them.

"Which one is yours?"

"This one," said Mr. Tufte picking up the weapon from the platform.

Wolanin took the weapon from his hand and inspected its mechanism.

"It looks pretty used. Do you hunt often?"

"Once or twice every deer season."

"When did you last use it?"

"Last year to shoot turkey."

"Humm" said Lieutenant Wolanin carefully placing the weapon on the platform and standing up. "This place offers a great view."

"Yes, it does. It's great too for hunters. I have always been lucky here."

"Did you come to this spot before?"

"Yeah, a number of times."

Lieutenant Wolanin looked around at the woody green. The weather being clear the surrounding looked dazzling. The wind was warm and comfortable with a hint of chill in it.

"Where did you find the body?"

"Over there," said Mr. Tufte pointing eastwards where several green pinnacles and half-barren twisted tree-limbs jutted out.

Wolanin took a few deep breaths and got back to his investigation. Having finished checking Mr. Meek's belongings, he turned to Mr. Tufte and asked, "What did you have for breakfast?"

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and coffee."

"Who made them?"

"My wife.”

"What to you make of it all, Lieutenant?" asked Mr. Meek in an overwrought sort of way seeing Lieutenant Wolanin disembark the tree-stand.

"It's too early to tell anything, sir," said Wolanin. "Now, let's have a look at the body."

"This way, loo," said Officer Taylor.

The four men walked down a grassy trail lined with white oak, yellow-poplar, red-maple and other oak-hickory tress and then alighted on a narrow walkway with moist patches on it. The walkway was lined on the sides with thick, clumps of green, some of them bearing yellow and purple wild flowers. The strong drooping smell of damp green enveloped the air. Eventually they made a U-turn wherein the green-tufted route narrowed further still and the sound of a watercourse gently rippling came from the west. The ground grew moister and several boot-marks were legible on the cool earth. Wolanin squatted on the ground and examined the footprints. The three men stopped behind him and noted his tactics.

"Found anything?" asked Mr. Tufte.

Wolanin nodded in the negative.

A few steps further down the marshy thoroughfare took them to a grove of trees and underneath one of the trees Wolanin caught sight of the stretched form of a man.

Wolanin speeded to the spot and stood staring at the dead man. Officer Wilson and a couple of other police men stood around a lichen-topped stone adjacent to the appalling article that lay on the ground. For a moment all the details of the scenery including the other participants of this weird death-drama vanished from the silver screen of Lieutenant Wolanin's eyes. He could not believe that the same man: the suave diplomat, the smooth, tall, well-build, powerful Raymond Parker, was laying in such a helpless manner. He rested on his back, mouth open, limbs spread out like the Vitruvian Man. The backs of his boots sank in the moist ground and his palms were cupped. The front of his plaid shooting coat was littered with leaves the surrounding trees had shed. The smell of urine still reeked from a moist spot underneath one of the trees standing behind the murder-spot. Red ants were making their way in a steady queue to the deep reddish-black wound on his chest. Wolanin covered his mouth with a white handkerchief and hunkered down beside the body. He blew on the wound to disrupt the band of insects and began scrutinizing. The handsome features of the dead man had taken on a ghastly, vampiric turn. His face had developed horrible blotches. His features were swollen, an expression of indescribable shock lingered in his dead features. Blood had spouted from his open wound and from his mouth forming a ruddy pool on the black earth.

"What an end to a man!" remarked Mr. Meek.
"It is evident," said Lieutenant Wolanin "that the criminal had positioned himself somewhere in the bush area. He arrested Mr. Parker's attention some way, either by calling out to him or making a noise or something, and had him turn and face him. And then shot him. Of course… this is just a random theory. Nothing is certain at the moment." "Did you leave the body unattended before the police came?" he asked.

"No, but we stood a little way off; out there," Mr. Tufte pointed at a spot a few yards away in the northwesterly direction

Wolanin examined the body stopping frequently to jot in the data in his notebook. Then he carefully examined the surrounding ground and the thick shrubbery that adjoined the place. He examined the tree trunk and discovered a small round mark wherein the wooden textured seemed scratched fresh. “Have you found the bullet yet?” Lieutenant Wolanin asked

“No, we haven’t issued a search yet,” replied one of the officers.

“Check the ground very well, I am sure it must be somewhere around.” The lieutenant turned to Mr. Meek and Mr. Tufte and asked, “You sure you didn’t hear and firing noises?"

"Positive, we heard nothing," remarked the two gentlemen.

"But there should be a firing noise," remarked Officer Wilson.

"Exactly, that's what is bothering me; why there wasn’t any noise," said Lieutenant Wolanin.

"Unless he used a silencer, or some such device," remarked Officer Taylor.

"Also, the killer must have a thorough knowledge of the grounds. The person must have taken the forest route to reach the grounds. We need to do a thorough search of the grounds and see if the killer had left any signs," said Lieutenant Wolanin looking around.

"So, what do you propose to do with him now?" asked Mr. Tufte.

"Let the other investigators arrive and the remove the body and wait for the autopsy report," said Lieutenant Wolanin.

“Did any doctor see him?” asked Lieutenant Wolanin.

“Our own police physician Dr. Lee was here before you arrived, he confirmed the death,” replied Officer Wilson.

“Did he mention any time?”

“He thinks sometime between 8:15 to 9:00 A.M.,” replied Officer Taylor.

"Can you do something to stifle the press? Those hounds are gonna feed on it," said Mr. Meek.

"We can surely keep the proceedings under the hood, but the press will come to know of the death anyhow," said Officer Taylor.

At this moment a change of expression adorned Mr. Meeks's face. His already nervous features turned more pallid, his enervated body staggered, his listless eyes further dimmed, his head fell back. "Catch him!" cried Lieutenant Wolanin. And before the man was floored, Mr. Tufte and Officer Taylor grabbed him by his arms.

"Meek is still in shock," said Mr. Tufte with considerable anxiety.

"I suggest you take him to the hospital right now," retorted Wolanin. "We will get in touch with you eventually."

"That's an ideal chap for our Congress!" remarked Officer Taylor after Mr. Tufte and Officer Wilson had left with Mr. Meek for the hospital.

"And they expect these slackers to bring in big change. Huh! He will probably die when they would ask him to vote for a bill or something."

Wolanin laughed.

"What are you thinking, loo?" asked Officer Taylor noticing the deep-set front lines on Lieutenant Wolanin’s face.

"It is a strange case, isn’t it?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked.

"Yes; and we will have to take the blame for this. Every time there is somethin wrong, the public is out with a hatchet against us!"

"I am not thinking about that," Lieutenant Wolanin remarked. "I am more concerned with the factors that lead to the man's death. Why would somebody kill a successful politician who was doing just fine till this morning?"

"It could very well be these two, loo. The vet seemed very strange and that Meek fellow, what a dramatic ass!" exclaimed Officer Taylor.

"Yeah, it could very well be them. But what could be the motive?"

"Political rivalry, what else?"

"I don't think so, Taylor. How could Meek benefit from the death? He would be more harmed than benefited by the death…that is unless there are some deeper motives."

"And what about the vet? That’s a cloudy fellow."

"Find out what you can about those two, and let me know what you get on them."

"I think we may be asked to work with the bogeys of the upper-office in this case. I hate those buzzards," said Officer Taylor with a lot of vim.

"Cool it, Taylor. We will let them get on with their investigation and we will get on with ours. Right now I think I will have a talk with Parker's secretary. We need to know more about this man's whereabouts," said Lieutenant Wolanin casting an abstracted glance as the listless corpse that lay in front.

Within a couple of hours of Mr. Raymond Parker's death the local and the national news channels began featuring the grim case of the unfortunate demise of the famous politician, referring him as "everyman's hero" a "maverick in traditionalist armor," "a true conservative," etc. Well dressed reporters with tall microphones croaked the updates of the breaking news case and presented their views. A whirlwind of activity raged in the media world. The Oneida county police station was barricaded by outraged media seeking answers.

When Lieutenant Wolanin entered the Dalton Plaza hotel and knocked on a door marked 203 in shinning brass numerals, he felt a sense of renewed exhilaration in his nerves. He was dealing with the biggest case in his life and even though the current situation was as vague as a nebulous blanket of fog, Lieutenant Wolanin realized that the jigsaw puzzle had just been laid on the table; and he needed to work tactfully to assemble the tessellating pieces and design the whole picture before somebody else gets on with it.

The door was opened by a young man of polished taste. He was a tall intelligent-looking man with gleaming brown eyes and a drawn face. A look of uncertainty played on his features as his eyes fell on the Lieutenant.

"I thought you were one of the reporters," said the man in a husky boyish tone. "I learned that the agencies are overtaking the case, are you from them?"

"No, Mr. Reed, I am with the local police. I am Police Lieutenant Wolanin Stephen, and I need to ask you a few questions—"

"What a public scandal, Lieutenant, I don’t know what am I to do," said the man in a bland, helpless tone moving away from the entrance and allowing the Lieutenant to step into the chamber.

The gubernatorial suite consisted of a number of large, oak-paneled rooms, draped with rich upholstery and decorated with expensive wooden furniture and exquisite antique pieces. Numerous stunning old-styled oil paintings hung around the richly papered walls. Several stacks of paper and a blinking laptop sat on a writing desk which stood in one of the corners of the room and an expensive leather-bound brown briefcase with a few loose sheets of foolscap hanging out from its half-closed mouth lay underneath the table.

"This is your office?" asked Lieutenant Wolanin.

"It was, yes, the temporary workplace," replied Mr. Reed.

"Were you staying here?"

"No, I have been living in another room, down the corridor the third door on the left."

Wolanin looked around the massive parlor and inspected the stationary items laying on the writing-table.

"Which one was the Governor's bedroom?"

"The second room inside this suite. The other room has not been used."

"I see."

"Is Mrs. Parker on the way?"

"Yes, she and the rest of the staff will be here in an hour. I feel terrible, Lieutenant. I don’t know how all these could have happened." The man's voice trembled with emotion.

The man sat down on a crimson sofa wearily and passed an agitated hand over his forehead.

"Tell me, Mr. Reed, how long have you been under the employment of Mr. Parker?"

"I was with him since the time he entered office —"

"Two years, then?"

"Yes sir."

"And how did you get the job?"

"Mr. Parker was a family friend of my step-father; he arranged the job for me."

"And what are your qualifications?"

"I have a degree in liberal arts from University of Chicago and a MBA from UT Knoxville."

"What sort of an employer was Mr. Parker?"

"He was a very authoritative man; very business-like and wanted every task to be done perfectly and on time. He generally have me orders and I performed the tasks accordingly."

"What were your duties?"

"From emailing his personal contacts to fetching him coffee. He said it, I did it."

"Did he have any other assistants apart from you?"

"No, I was his only assistant. His network involved only a few well-chosen, well-trusted people."

"What sort of relationship did he have with his peers?"

"He was very tactful in his dealings with them. Very diplomatic."

"You must have had access to several of Mr. Parker's personal records; tell me were there anything, any anomaly, any glitch in his records?"

"I don't quite follow you, Lieutenant."

"I mean was the man's previous life really as clean as he said it was," said Lieutenant Wolanin.

"Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Parker had a clean history. Nothing irregular. Studied at Harvard, joined his dad's business, and then gradually became the industrialist that he was. He had a spotless past."

"How was his family life? Was every thing all right in the home front?"

"Mr. Parker apparently had a happy household. His wife, Andrea Parker is a very active lady and has been doing a good deal of social work in the state."

"Any children?"

"The Governor and Mrs. Parker have one son."

"How old is the son?"

"Jeremy will be twelve this November."

Mr. Reed stared listlessly at the wallpaper and then said, slowly, "I don't know if I should say this, but I think I should. Over the past couple of months I have noticed coolness in the relation between husband and wife. The couple seemed aloof. Also, Mr. Parker had of late been spending nights in his office. He had also developed the habit of drinking heavily. I knew he was under some great strain which could not have come from his professional life since his career as a politician was running smooth. I had asked him more than once about it, but he never answered me. On these occasions, I had noticed a desperate look of anger and frustration in his eyes. One time he was so angry of my asking him about his life that he said that he would fire me out I asked him once more about things that were not my business. I stopped asking questions after that time."

"Who else knew about Mr. Parker's night halts in the office?"

"The staff must have known, but people never talked about it."

"Did Mr. Parker have a lot of visitors?"

"Yes; political cases mostly, but several times his acquaintances and friends came to pay him visits. He talked to anybody who dropped by."

"Did he ever have a fight with anybody in the office?"

"No, not to my knowledge."

"How many nights did he spend in his office?"

"He must have stayed five or six times in the last couple of months."

"Were you always there with him during these night halts?"

"No, Mr. Parker insisted that I went home. He stayed alone and locked the door from inside."

"How many staff members did he have?"

"Seventeen staff members excluding me."

"Did Mr. Parker receive any kind of threat emails or messages?"

"Yes, there were some stray hate emails."

"Did he receive such correspondences often?

"Yes, around eight to ten in a week."

"What did you do with them?"

"I generally forwarded them to the security department; they are responsible for that sort of things."

"How many did he receive yesterday?"

"A couple of them."

"Do you still have them?"

"Yes, I keep them all in a folder"

"How did Mr. Parker react to such communications?"

"They amused him greatly. He said that they helped him judge if he was on the right track, politically."

"What did Mr. Parker do yesterday?"

"Well, in the morning he practiced his speech for the rally and was mostly alone in his room."

"Where were you at the time?"

"I was in my room watching football," Mr. Reed replied in an apologetic tone.

"We left the hotel and went to the rally sight an hour before the start. After the rally Mr. Parker told me about the hunting trip and said that he needed to go shopping for it with Mr. Meek and Mr. Tufte. He asked me to pick him up from Mr. Meek's house around ten-thirty."

"Where were you in the evening?"

"I came back to the hotel and stayed in my room until ten-thirty. I ordered in."

"Were there any change in him when you picked him up?"

"He was a little silent. But we did talk a bit about the rally. He wished me goodnight before he went to his room."

"Did you see him this morning?"

"No, he left early and didn’t wake me up."

"Mr. Parker was such a great and noble man. I don't know how somebody could do this to him," said Mr. Reed with considerable emotion, his voice almost choking.

Lieutenant Wolanin spent some more time carefully looking around the apartment, taking notes, shuffling through Raymond Parker’s belongings: several neatly done white shirts and black trousers and clean white undergarments, one blue and one domino patterned tie, a couple of well-polished black boots, a gray and a blue business suit, one bow-tie and one cellular phone.

Mr. Reed followed Lieutenant Wolanin around with a look of expectancy and puzzlement in his eyes. The man tried to make some sense of the austere features of the detective. His drawn face, his quick moving steps were like a series of war weapons in full action.

"Did Mr. Parker interact with any person after the rally?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked.

"He talked to a couple of press reporters, but a lot of general public were there too."

"Hum," said Lieutenant Wolanin.

When Lieutenant Wolanin got back to the police station late afternoon he found a man waiting for him. On seeing the lieutenant he rose from his chair and introduced himself as Dr. Ron Palmer, ex-principal of the St. Thomas Aquinas College.

The man looked shriveled and frail and a look of grave discomfort clouded his face. From his movements and gestures Lieutenant Wolanin could judge that he was under the throws of some serious ailment. He was tall and thin, his eyes, though paled by illness, still had the bright sparkle of intelligence. His facial skin seemed like some crinkled paper with its innumerable lines and wrinkles. He had rounded shoulders and a sober look of wisdom. He wore a full-sleeved sea-blue shirt, buttoned up to the collar a pair of brown shoes.

"I saw the news of Raymond's death on the television and just had to come," he said in a grainy, deep voice. "He was a onetime student of my institution, Lieutenant," he added." I am appalled by the news, sir. Is it really true?" The man asked with a pained, inquisitive look.

"Yes, sir, it’s true. Mr. Parker died this morning."

The man clicked his tongue and sighed. "He was a bright young man, sir. I thought he would go far in his life."

"How long did Mr. Parker study at St. Thomas?" he asked.

"A period of three months; his was a rather brief stay," said the rector.

"Why did he leave?"

"I have no notion. All I know was that one day his father, Parker Sr., came and talked about transferring the boy." The principal stopped, took a few deep breaths. "I asked him the reason for his apparently strange decision. As you might know, Lieutenant," said Dr. Palmer, "St. Thomas has always been one of the premier institutions in the country. We have a line of senators, businessmen, politicians, people who have gained international repute hailing from our institution. Hence you can readily understand how prestigious it is to be associated with an institution of such reputation. Consequently, I asked the father to reconsider his decision; but he wouldn’t budge, and wouldn't divulge his reasons for his apparently outrageous move either."

"Was Mr. Parker a particularly bright student?"

"He was a science major; and from what I remember, not a bad student at all. Of course, my colleagues and I did not have ample time to judge his merits fully, but he was undoubtedly an intelligent young man."

"Do any of Mr. Parker's fellow students live in the area?" Lieutenant Wolanin enquired.

The rector thought for a bit. "Hum," he said after a long pause. "Most of them are scattered around the country; some still have their houses in the area, but I am not sure if they live here anymore." The principal stopped and cogitated for a few seconds. "Oh yes, of course… there is Derek Zimmerman…I think he still lives here. He was Parker's batch mate. He owns a local grocery chain." Dr. Palmer delivered the last sentence with a smirk.
Lieutenant Wolanin noted the man's name in his notebook. "Did you go to the rally to see Mr. Parker?" he asked.

"No. My wretched health prevents me from moving around," Dr. Palmer said with considerable gloom. "But I saw him on the television," he said with glistening eyes. "Raymond was a charmer. I am sure he would have done very well had he been alive. What a pity!"

"Did Mr. Parker try to contact you when he was in town?"

The professor's face hardened. "No," he replied.

"Thank you very much, sir, for coming over. If we need any more investigation we will get in touch with you," Lieutenant Wolanin said getting up from his chair.

The man stared at him for a while and then rose from his seat.

"I hope you can identify the criminal, Lieutenant. I wish you all the best in your investigation," he said firmly shaking Lieutenant Wolanin’s hand and then slowly turning his back to the lieutenant, he walked out of the room.

Derek Zimmerman was a red-blooded, fiery American man with a huge round head and thinning reddish hair, a bronze, eager face with ample flesh deposits around his main features. He had a long nose with extremely big nostrils and a pair of shifty, brown eyes. He wore a neat royal blue suit and an American flag tie, shiny black boots and an Omega stainless steel band watch on his left wrist.

When Lieutenant Wolanin arrived at his office, he found the man sitting behind a wooden table with a ledger in front of him and a fountain pen on the opened page. A couple of painted hoardings displaying the name Zimmerman’s in red letters were leaning against a wall. The room was a medium sized office space scantily decorated and smelled of men’s cologne.

“Welcome, Lieutenant Wolanin,” said Derek Zimmerman on seeing the Lieutenant. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” said Lieutenant Wolanin and seated himself in one of the overly used leather chairs that stood opposite to Mr. Zimmerman’s table.

“So, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Zimmerman exposing a set of strong, yellowish teeth.

“I heard you were once a fellow student of Mr. Raymond Parker?”

“Ah, yes! Raymond and I had some classes together.”

“Were you great friends?”

“Hell no. Just hi-hello buddies. Raymond was pretty staunch to his high birth status, if you know what I mean. He rarely mixed with us commoners.”

“I see you were in the military,” said Lieutenant Wolanin pointing to a veteran appreciation award that hung from one of the walls.

“Fifteen years of service in the front, sir,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “And not one injury,” he added with a proud chuckle.

“So, how is your business going?”

“All right. We had a bad patch last year. Things are still slow, but we are improving.”

“Tell me, Mr. Zimmerman, what kind of a person was this Governor at school? Did he strike you as odd?”

“Odd, why? He seemed normal. Actually, as I said before, we were never too close.”

“Did you know anybody who was particularly attached to Mr. Parker?”

“No, I can’t recall any.”

“Did you follow Mr. Parker’s campaign?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you meet him when he came down here?”

“No, I didn’t. My wife was down with flu at the time, and I had to rally round her. I was home most of the time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Zimmerman,” said Lieutenant Wolanin getting up from the chair.

“Only happy to help, sir.”

"Oh, one moment, Lieutenant," said Mr. Zimmerman.

Lieutenant Wolanin turned around and found the man hastily writing something one a piece of notepad, which he tore up and handed the Lieutenant. "This is my personal cell phone number. In case you need to contact me about the investigation, I would glad if you would be so kind to call me on my personal phone and not on my office or home phone. My wife has weak nerves, and a call from the police might cause her needless tension."

Lieutenant Wolanin glanced at the piece of paper and pocketed it." I will keep that in mind," he said.

During the next couple of weeks the investigation of the Raymond Parker case took little active turn. The breaking news ripped the American society. The country was at a lost trying to decipher the mystery behind the death of one of their favorite political actors. They just stared at the investigators, empty-eyed, waiting for an explanation. A somber funeral took place and Lieutenant Wolanin noticed the look of grave dismay in Parker's widow. The solemnity with which she clutched her child and cried pointed to a true heart. But Wolanin wondered if there was another story behind the façade of grief. What was it that pestered the young politician that made him spent sleepless nights in his office? Was the cause in anyway linked to his death? He sat with knitted brows staring at the autopsy report that confirmed the time of death and the manner of the injury. Lieutenant Wolanin expounded in his mind a list of probabilities and improbabilities that he had formed: three men went hunting and one of them got killed. Was it an accident or a calculated effort? Were the men who accompanied him involved in the crime in any way, or was it an outside job? The bullet that had been recovered and that was believed to have ruptured the Governor’s respiratory organ did not belong to their guns; whose bullet was it then? Did the men carry another weapon which they were still holding incommunicado? In his mind Lieutenant Wolanin went over to the spot where the body was found, to the specific signs that surrounded it. The deep boot marks on the ground proved the men had walked swiftly over the track; but what about the couple of soft marks that caught his attention, crater like marks, almost invisible except to a careful eye. Lieutenant Wolanin thought about them. He had visited the murder spot for personal investigation before the police dogs had reached there. He had inspected the tread marks — the prints that came from direction of the bush that bordered the murder-spot and then were lost in the tangled undergrowth covering the ground — that strange ground-spoor, vague, single boot-marks, here and there. Whose were they? And why did they run in the opposite direction? Why did they come from the bushes rather than towards it? Wolanin was baffled. He had inspected the surrounding spot for any broken branches or snag of cloth that might be left behind. Tabula Rasa. He observed that whoever killed Mr. Parker had been a very careful man. He had sealed all the edges tightly to avoid identification. But if experience had taught Lieutenant Wolanin one thing it was that even the shrewdest criminals leave behind one sign that inculpate him. So far the Lieutenant had failed to identify that unmarked signal. There were signs, he knew, that pointed to the whole story, but he was still far from figuring them out.

Lieutenant Wolanin sat in his office thinking the matter over, when the door opened and Officer Taylor walked in. He took out a bit of folded newspaper printout from a yellow folder and laid it on Lieutenant Wolanin's table with a smile of accomplishment.

"Look here, loo," said he "It seems our beloved Governor had another first-lady in his life." A broad mischievous grin lighted his face.

Lieutenant Wolanin picked up the paper. It was a print-out from of those gossip magazines that appeal greatly to the slandering public. The paper reported an alleged adulterous affair between Parker and a young photographer named Nancy Turner. Since the release of the report printed under bold, eye-catching font, the news had spread like wild fire and further speculations on the relation filled the media. Several reporters tried approaching the North Carolina first lady, but she refused to comment. After the death of her husband the young wife of Raymond Parker had maintained a low profile. The young charmer that she was, svelte, blonde, big-eyed, seemed to have lost most of her aura under the strain. The police had reached her a couple of times for an interview, but both times she just provided them the basics and refused to confabulate. Wolanin finished the report and handed it over to Officer Taylor.

"It may be all trash; but looks like we got a lead here," he said.

Lieutenant Wolanin shifted in his seat and went over the printed-out document. "Remember, Taylor, never underestimate the significance of trash, especially in a murder case," he said.

"Got it, loo."

"Did she know about it, the wife, I mean? Lieutenant Wolanin inquired.

"She hadn't said a word."

"How is Meek doing?"

"He is still in the recovery mode. Silly ass!" "This morning I talked to some members of the Conservative party and it looks like Meek and Parker went deeper than mere political associates," said Officer Taylor. "I was told that Parker was a highly opinionated man and had the habit of forcing his conclusions on people, and Meek hated him for that."

"I got the same report from his associates, too," said Lieutenant Wolanin. "In fact they said that before Raymond Parker became the blue-eyed boy, Meek had enjoyed considerable voice in the party. But when Parker came and the party shifted its attention to him consulting him for its policies and statements and, generally speaking, relying on him to raise its level, Meek took it as a considerable blow. He had opposed many of Parker's views publicly calling him irrational and disillusioned. If that is the case then we see a positively deep motive."

"I told you, loo, political rivalry is in the root of this murder. The only thing I don't understand is why he chose the election time?"

"Publicity of whatever kind is what people seek, Taylor. This would skyrocket Meek's appeal. No doubt he would be turning the incident to his personal gain."

"You are right; his campaign gang had already begun talking about extending their helping hand to police investigations and all that rot. Those buzzards! You don't think we can go ahead and can him, do you?"

"Not until we find some solid evidence. And that would be difficult."

"But the situation is as clear as water. This Meek fellow was embittered with Parker and when he came to boost his campaign, he planned this hunting trip and took him to the marsh where this guy Tufte shot him. Case closed."

"And what about the footprints? How do you explain them?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked with a tinkle of amusement in his voice.

"Those were intended to baffle the police. They knew that the police might blame them for the murder so they left some sneaky footprints which they undoubtedly knew the police would discover and that would lead to the possibility of a third party presence."

"Your theory sounds great, Taylor; still I have this gut feeling that says that we are missing a point here."

"There is no point, loo. We are on the right track. We just need some evidence to support our theory."

"What did the reports from upstairs say?"

"I just talked to the DT from the other unit and they have the same view."

"I see," said Lieutenant Wolanin. "And what do you think about the wife, Taylor?" asked Lieutenant Wolanin picking up the printed-out bombshell news.

"You don't suppose that she could be behind all these?" asked Officer Taylor with considerable surprise.

"Why not? She has a solid motive. She could have known about her husband's extramarital debauchery and be so blinded by rage and passion that she would go ahead and end his life. A betrayed spouse is like an injured beast, merciless and angry."

"But how could she have killed the man when she was miles away from where he died?"

"She could very well have an accomplice."

"If you put it that way then I think that yes, possibly she could," said Officer Taylor.

"And don’t underestimate the possibility of political murder."

"You don't think he was assassinated, do you?" Officer Taylor exclaimed.

"He received a number of stray hate e-mails that day. And political assassinations have been a part of American history.

Officer Taylor gave an anxious laugh, picked up his police headwear which he had taken off when he came in. "Well, sir, I am off now. Let me know if you hit on a conclusion."

Lieutenant Wolanin sat staring at the newspaper report. He read it from start from start to finish. It was all speculation, but it opened up a new possibility. Another arm of possibility had attached itself to the death of Raymond Parker. The situations and possibilities wandered in his mind. He could see the tessellating pieces conjoin and then break up. He reconsidered the possibilities one at a time and they all seemed to make sense apparently. A net of mystery, probabilities and improbabilities presented itself before Lieutenant Wolanin's eyes. He went back to the autopsy report, the newspaper account of the case for any overlooked possibility. Nothing close to a conclusion presented itself to Wolanin. Exhausted he decided to head home willing to give the case a few more days in the hope that some fresh fact might roll in.

Several days into the investigation, a deserted Colt auto was discovered by the search squad at a derelict junk-yard some miles away from the murder-spot. The ballistic report and the fingerprint analysis of the discovered weapon were due.

Lieutenant Wolanin's knitting needles clicked like a typewriter. A spool of royal blue yarn sat on his lap and several others—red, green, sea-blue and lemon yellow—were placed in a basket next to his feet. A number of knitting needles were pinned to the balls of yarns. A glass of red wine sat atop a pine wood table next to him in a neighborhood of magazines, knitting kit, a jar of potpourri, an ashtray and a magnifying glass. Lieutenant Wolanin had considerable talent in the knitting department; the raveling of woolen threads, the clicking of the needle heads always relax his strenuous mind. Right now his eyes were dimmed with fierce concentration; his hands knitted mechanically. His dog, Vader, sat next to the fireplace, half asleep, lazily blinking from time to time. The thirty-two inch Magnavox which stood on a black and cherry TV stand had its volume down to a minimum. The shifting images of the television illuminated Wolanin's features. He had been sitting thus for over an hour now. And then, by a rapid impulse, he sprang out of his chair, stood fixed for a second staring with a half-smile at the television set, and then dressed and went out.

In the police station Lieutenant Wolanin rushed to the records area and brought out the reports of the year Mr. Parker had stayed at the St. Thomas Aquinas College. He browsed through the list of crimes recorded during the time. There were several of them: a list of murders, thefts, home breakings, and drug related crimes. Wolanin fine-tuned his search and discovered three unsolved crimes recoded during the time. One of them was a hunting accident where a man had died, the other was the death of a teenage girl due to drug overdose, and the third was the death of a man in a car accident. He searched the victims' names and addresses and discovered that two of the three families still lived in the area. He scribbled the two addresses across a piece of scrap paper and rushed out once again.

The following morning, shortly after eight, Lieutenant Wolanin Stephen walked all the way from his home to the station house. The eccentric look of the night before had diminished from his features and he now looked keen and alert, his countenance beaming with confidence, his nerves thrilled with expectation. The Lieutenant had solved the supreme puzzle. His noctivagant ordeal had proven to be highly significant. He now chuckled silently when he thought how blinded he had been initially. The present case had tested his abilities to the utmost, but he knew he was on the right track, and he just needed one update to prove that he had hit upon the right solution.

At the police station Lieutenant Wolanin found Officer Wilson and Officer Taylor deep in conversation. Seeing him the officers stopped their chat and turned their attention to the lieutenant.

"Any update?" Wolanin asked as he joined the officers.

The fingerprint analysis and the ballistics are here."," said Officer Wilson.

"And?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked eagerly.

"The weapon was wiped before discarding," said Officer Wilson.

"What about the ballistics?" Lieutenant Wolanin asked.

"The weapon was fired from a close range. And our reports suggest the possibility of a left-handed killer in this case. The angles in which the bullet entered and exited the body suggest that the shot could have been fired by a man who is weak-handed or lefty. The shot was fired a little to the right of the injured organ," said Officer Taylor.

"Ha!" said Lieutenant Wolanin. "What do you think about that, gentlemen?" he asked playfully.

"We are pretty amazed. Both Mr. Tufte and Mr. Meek are right-handed," said Officer Wilson bewilderingly.

"And, my friend, so are you and I and most of the people we know," Lieutenant Wolanin retorted. "Did the two gentlemen ever own a Colt auto?" he asked.

"No, we checked their records. They have no history of ever buying a Colt Auto," replied Officer Taylor. "By the way, Sales tells us you were here last night. What were you doing at the station in the wee hours?" he asked.

"Gentlemen, last night I met Mrs. Margie Mackenzie, Mr. Duane Smith and James Williamson," Lieutenant Wolanin said.

"What? Who are these people?" the officers asked.

"Mrs. Margie Mackenzie was the mother of Marie Mackenzie, a teenager who died of drug abuse the year Mr. Parker left the St. Thomas Aquinas College. And Duane Smith is the son of late Robert Smith, the gentleman who died in a hunting accident the same year. And James Williamson is the owner of the Roanoke Sporting Goods shop."

"Did you find anything good?" Officer Taylor asked with considerable surprise.

"Yes," said Lieutenant Wolanin. "It turns out that Robert Smith was killed by a single slug from a hunting rifle that hit him in the head. And that shot was a misfire from our beloved Governor Mr. Raymond Parker's gun. Mr. Parker's father used his nice connections to extricate the teenager from the mess and had given a sack full of cash to the Smith family to keep his son's name under the dark. He then removed the boy from the school and transferred him to a different institution to avoid further troubles. Mr. Smith recounted that his father had been a demanding and vindictive personality, and that his death affected him only in the physical shock it gave him in witnessing someone die in front of him, nothing else. He said that the money Parker Sr. gave his family helped him survive through tough times and pay for his education." Lieutenant Wolanin stopped and smiled. The officers seemed baffled; Wolanin found them struggling to imbibe the points of the fantastic account that the lieutenant had just finished narrating.

They pestered him for further revelations, but Lieutenant Wolanin was loath to reply. He was trying to save the big moment for later.

"So, you have got it, loo. You know who it really is?" they asked.

"Yes, I think I do. I believe, officers that our case should round-off very soon. I just need one bit of evidence to corroborate my theory, and we can expect some real action tonight. Have the other agencies hit upon any solution?"

"No, they haven’t a clue," Officer Taylor replied.

After finishing his conversation with the officers, Lieutenant Wolanin made a series of phone calls. And as he waited with bated breath for the confirmations, he felt a sort of excitement that a gambler feels when he sees the gambling wheel carrying his stake roll.

At night when Lieutenant Wolanin and a small squad of police men drove in the darkness, the Lieutenant's nerves thrilled with expectation. The team drove to a silent street lined by brick-walled houses and residential apartments. Lieutenant Wolanin got down near the entrance of such building and ordered the team to wait. He fingered the loaded weapon inside his hip-pocket and then glanced at the sleeping houses around him.

“Mr. Zimmerman,” said Lieutenant Wolanin when the man opened the door and greeted the Lieutenant peevishly.

“What’s all this, Lieutenant? I thought I told you to contact me discretely,” he said.

“I understand, sir,” said the lieutenant, “but this is important.”

“I fear I cannot talk to you right now, lieutenant. My wife is home…she might interpret the situation differently,” Mr. Zimmerman whispered and then attempted to walk indoors.
Lieutenant Wolanin grabbed the door when the man tried to close it. “I am afraid, sir, you don’t have much choice in the matter. This is urgent police business and we need you to co-operate with us. It will just take a few minutes.”

The man stood motionless for a trice then he sighed, walked out and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

“Okay, Lieutenant what is it?” he asked.

“Sir, I believe we have identified who Mr. Parker’s killer is,” he said. A look of consternation overcame Mr. Zimmerman’s features as soon as the Lieutenant had uttered the words. In the faint yellow light of the lamppost that partially illuminated Andrew Zimmerman’s face, Wolanin noticed the ghastly paleness of his once ruddy façade.

“What has that got to do with me?” he asked.

“We need you to be the witness of the legal proceedings till Mr. Parker’s family arrives.” Lieutenant Wolanin looked at his watch, “They should be here in an hour or two.” When he looked up he found the man had backed away a few steps. The dreadfully pale countenance looked even paler. His eyes goggled, his mouth parted in astonishment. He stared fixedly at the lieutenant, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Is this a joke, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“You know this is not,” Lieutenant Wolanin replied.

“What is the meaning of all this then?”

“Mr. Zimmerman you are under arrest for the murder of Mr. Raymond Parker,” Lieutenant Wolanin said after a momentary silence.

Mr. Zimmerman looked about him a bit, gasped and slouched on the grassy ground covering his face with his hands.

At the Oneida county police station Lieutenant Wolanin, Officer Wilson, Officer Collins and Officer Taylor sat in the break room reliving the incidents connected with the murder of politician Raymond Parker. Their hands held paper cups of steaming hot coffee. Lieutenant Wolanin and the team had just finished their interviews with the media and now they watched the various news channels reiterating the latest tiding of Wolanin and the Onieda County police of solving the baffling case of the murdered politician.

“When did you guess it was Zimmerman, loo? Officer Taylor asked.

“Actually it was pretty evident right from the beginning, but since we are fain to regard murders of reputed personalities from a highly complicated point of view, we miss the possibility of simple action. We cloud the death with a lot of unfounded speculation and baffle ourselves.”

“But you yourself told us that there could be deeper political reasons behind the murder; and you cannot disagree that the people we suspected had solid motives and could easily have perpetrated the crime,” said Officer Taylor.

“I agree, but my first suspicion arose at the time I visited Mr. Zimmerman for the first time. The faint lines of a watch mark on his right wrist did catch my eye at the time I interviewed him, but I had dismissed it thinking it was unimportant. But now I recalled it and all the other details vividly— the stationary items, the fountain pen, the coffee mug were kept on the left side of the table, a right-handed person would instinctively have kept his belongings on the right side of the furniture. Then why he wasn’t wearing his watch on the right wrist, a thing lefties do. He was evidently trying to evade identification. The handedness never mattered in the case; still if you are atypical in your behavior you might be suspected. Probably Zimmerman was not sure if his left-handedness would inculpate him in some way, or probably he just wanted to avoid giving away any unruly detail and be earmarked. Mr. Zimmerman might have noticed my suspicion and he attempted to remedy the situation by handing me a note that he scribbled using his right-hand. You see he was ambidextrous— a thing several military men are taught to master. Mr. Zimmerman undoubtedly knew the skill, but he lacked precision. The note which he deliberately composed bolstered my suspicion. I wondered why a man who is normally left-handed would try to pass him as a right-handed person. He must have some motive behind this action. I wondered what it could be. My suspicion transformed to conformity when I looked at Zimmerman’s handwriting. His words seemed like child-scribbling, a thing we hardly expect from a fountain-pen using man. I understood that the man was indeed trying to hide something; but that time I had no notion what it was. His interview with me touched on general facts, and he had not slipped one unruly word. Meanwhile, the proceedings of the case exhumed a host of other facts—Raymond Parker’s political rivalry with Roderick Meek, his cheating his wife, the possibility of assassination, the presence of an accomplice working on behalf of some unknown party. We distracted ourselves by running after these possibilities. Disregarding the real evidence—the ground-spoor, almost illegible footmarks on the ground—several of us gave credence to theories which inculpated Roderick Meek and his campaign adviser, Mr. Tufte. Taylor here created a priceless theory which seemed logically extremely possible, yet I refused to accept it. Something told me the story had deeper roots. My personal examination of the delicate ground-spoor showed the man who had walked the steps had walked on tip-toes, meaning he was careful and alert. These signs proved that the killer had considerable knowledge of combat procedures and was well-versed in escape and evasion techniques. Thus it became evident that the man behind the crime was in some way associated with armed forces. At the time my list of suspects had two veterans: Zimmerman and Tufte. My initial doubts rested upon the latter, but my subsequent investigation showed that he had no motive whatever to perpetrate the crime, unless he decided to act as Meek’s accomplice. But that possibility seemed thin, too. Meek wouldn’t be so stupid as to carry out a murder on a trip he had planned; it would be like pointing finger at himself. Had he indeed wanted to do kill Parker he would have opted for a special plan where his presence would have been peripheral. Having convinced myself of the innocence of Meek and Tufte, I carefully considered the other possibilities. The idea of Mr. Parker’s wife carrying out the murder seemed slight to me. She appeared to be a noble lady who wouldn’t make her personal issues public. Also, it appeared that she had knowledge of Parker’s promiscuity for some time. The fact that she hadn’t harmed the man when he was physically present around her made me jettison her chances of setting up a death trap for him in an abandoned forest miles away from her home. Of course, such an action would expunge her from blame; still the fact that she had a son with the Governor made her an unlikely suspect. Our greatest breakthrough, perhaps, came with the discovery of the murder weapon. I knew that an inspection of the device would undoubtedly open up new possibilities, but the results were due in two weeks. During this time I faced a period of lame inaction when my investigations proved bootless. I had no evidence at hand to strengthen my theory of Zimmerman’s involvement in the case, and neither did I have any evidence to blame Meek or Tufte for the crime. However, last night it suddenly dawned upon me that I could hit upon the solution, or possibly discover some new facts, if I treat the case from the different angle. All this time, I had almost forgotten about Mr. Parker’s short stay at the St. Thomas Aquinas College. As you know, the institution had always been regarded as a prestigious college and the fact that Mr. Parker was deliberately transferred from such a notable school seemed devious to me, nonetheless, I had hitherto regarded this move as personal. I had thought that Parker Sr. had wanted his only son to be near him and so forth. But now it occurred to be that there could be deeper reasons behind this. Accordingly, I came to the police station and investigated the crime records of the time to see if Mr. Parker was associated with offence; but I found nothing against him, instead I discovered a three of unsolved cases recorded during the time. I noted the addresses of two of the three families who still lived in the area. My interview with Mrs. Mackenzie revealed that her daughter or she had no connections whatever with the politician. At this point I felt little unsure about by investigation tactics, but my second interview proved to be highly successful because it was while talking with Mr. Duane Smith I realized who the killer was; my initial suspicions against Zimmerman proved legitimate when Mr. Smith replied to me that during the hunting accident Mr. Parker was accompanied by a friend whose name he couldn’t recall. He did, however, give me a sketchy description of the man, and that depiction sketched the portrayed of a young Andrew Zimmerman before my eyes. I left Mr. Duane Smith place convinced that it was indeed Mr. Zimmerman who had committed the murder, but I had to be sure. At that point I had not dismissed the possibility of Mr. Smith committing the murder; indeed, that was the one possibility which, despite my strong belief of Zimmerman’s involvement in the murder, I could not discharge. I made inquiries and they proved beyond all question that Mr. Duane Smith had nothing to do with the crime. On the day of the murder he was with his girlfriend, Susan, who had been visiting him from Iowa at the time, and the two had been at a breakfast parlor the morning of the murder, where they stayed till ten in the morning. I came back home and played the footages captured by the security camera at the sports good store where the hunting party had shopped for their goods. I reexamined the footages one by one, and while I was doing so something caught my attention—the dial of a steel wrist watch worn by a heavy-jacketed individual that was talking to Mr. Parker.
We knew that Mr. Parker had talked to a number of his supporters and signed autographs at the sporting goods store, and even though Mr. Meek and Mr. Tufte were with him all the while, there was a ten minutes gap when Mr. Parker was unaccompanied. What if some individual who had followed him from the rally ground and had been waiting for such a moment went ahead and talked to Mr. Parker? The ghastly pallor that clouded Mr. Parker’s map pointed to a sudden unpleasant surprise. His disturbed face caught my attention and I re-winded the momentary footage a number of times to peruse the details, and in the end all the answers came to me. The man talking to Mr. Parker in the footage was indeed Mr. Zimmerman, he was wearing a camouflage winter jacket; during the course of the conversation he moved his right arm and I chanced to notice the stainless steel watch band on his right wrist, he had the same watch on when I had visited him only he had worn it on the left wrist then. This little piece of steel betrayed Zimmerman’s course and proved to be his forbidden fruit. It could be assumed that Mr. Zimmerman had been at the rally merely to be an auditor to his friend’s orator. After the rally he might have wanted to talk to him, but when he failed to reach him and followed him to his next destination with his other supporters probably intending to surprise him with his visit, and discovered the Governor entering the sports goods store with the intention of buying hunting gear, the idea came to him that he could extract some cash out of the rich politico and remedy his staggering financial situation by using the blackmail card. Accordingly, he walked to Mr. Parker when he was unattended by Mr. Meek or Mr. Tufte and introduced himself, they possibly exchanged pleasantries or Mr. Parker refused to know him, and then he may have talked about the hunting accident and how he had not spoken a word of it. I believe it was this detail that caused Parker to turn pale. Meanwhile, Zimmerman, I presume, had asked for his once forsaken share and had threatened exposure in case Mr. Parker declined, which I believe he did.

“If that be that is case then why Parker didn’t say anything to Tufte or Meek?” asked Officer Taylor.

“Possibly he didn’t think much of the thing, or simply that he guessed his popularity couldn’t be harmed by the aimless vaporing of a no-man. In any case, he did not wish to open up the old archive and bring in political controversy by involving Tufte or Meek in the case,” said Lieutenant Wolanin.

“He should have at least told his secretary about it,” said Officer Wilson.

“Yes, maybe he would have confided in him after the hunting; we never know what his intentions were. But he was clearly disturbed on the morning of the sport. He did not load his weapon nor did he go through his other stuff suggesting something else had been occupying his mind, some thought, that made him careless—he had worn his left sock the wrong side, too— and made him brood. We could presume that the reminder of the ghastly incident had brought back some nasty memories which made him feel uneasy with the weapon in hand.”

“That could very well be the case,” said Officer Wilson, excited. “Continue loo.”

“When Mr. Parker excused himself from the company and headed for the shrubbery, we can assume that Zimmerman who had prior knowledge of the mornings proceedings had been hiding in the premises. I had made inquiries and discovered from a homeless man who dwells in the park outside the hotel where the Governor had been staying that he had seen a heavy-jacketed individual resting on the park bench on the night before the tragedy. His heavy winter jacket struck him because it being moderately warm that night, he found it outrageous that somebody would put something as heavy as that. These words opened another avenue for me, a new clarification which I will eventually arrive later in the story. So after talking with the homeless individual I called Mrs. Zimmerman and asked her where her husband had been the night of the murder. She, as expected, said that he had been in the house taking care of her. Her replies seemed stagy and rehearsed and I understood that either Zimmerman had confided in his wife or had told her something regarding police inquiry and had prepared her for the questions. In any case, I had to find out the truth. I called her once again and this time I threatened her, telling her that her lies could incriminate her husband. When she seemed scared and I assured her that our suspicion rested on another individual and that the query was just for investigative purpose adding that she need not be afraid of anything. After a little brainwashing she seemed confused and opened up telling me that indeed Mr. Zimmerman had not returned home that night. He had told her that he had been at a bar with some friends and had spent the night at one of the boys, a thing he did once in a while. After I approached him the first time, he communicated her about Parker’s murder and how he had been needlessly questioned by the police asking her to prevaricate in case the police questioned her about his whereabouts the night before the murder, which she did. After talking with her I called the bar which Mr. Zimmerman said he was in and when I questioned the manager and the waiter, both of whom knew Zimmerman and his company pretty well, they disclaimed any knowledge of a boys night on the bar on that particular night. Finally, I made several calls and learnt that Zimmerman during his term at the military had been a marksman extraordinaire who had learnt the combat skills to perfection and knew how to fine a gun with both hands; in other words he was ambidextrous, as I had told you before. My further enquiries suggested that Mr. Zimmerman had been a gun aficionado, had had been to several gun expos and had purchases several weapons. He was a member of a local gun owners’ club. The weapon he had used to commit the murder was purchased secondhand from an online trader a couple of years back. It was his only secondhand weapon which he presumably bought because of its sophisticated mechanism. ”

“It’s all clear up to now, but how did he kill Parker?” inquired Officer Collins with a thirsty look on his face.

“Hold on, Collins, I am getting to it” said Lieutenant Wolanin with a proud chuckle. He enjoyed the attention the room had been imparting him, and wished to marinate in it some more. Eventually, he spoke. “When Mr. Zimmerman spotted Mr. Parker embarking toward the shrubbery he tip-toed his way through the other side of the greenery. Using his military skills he hid himself from the Governor’s view and caught him off-guard when he was micturating. The sudden and unforeseen invasion of privacy might have enflamed the Governor and ticked him off. We can expect an altercation or at least some unpleasant exchanges to have taken place between Mr. Parker and his old pal at this point. He might have rebuked Mr. Zimmerman and objurgated him for his baseness which could have exacerbated him in turn causing him to raise his weapon under the folds of the jacket he had been wearing the previous day. I believe he carried the weapon more to intimidate the Governor than shoot him point blank. But conversation might have taken an unpleasant turn, Mr. Zimmerman might have asked for the money once again and threatened publicity, and Mr. Parker might have declined to abide by his wishes and possibly belittled his words and dismissed their efficacy. What it was that triggered Mr. Zimmerman to shoot we cannot say at this point, but something or the mention of some word did cause him to strike his weapon at the Governor, who, taken aback by the sudden attack, stumbled under its throws and dropped dead. After the unforeseen turn of events, Zimmerman probably took a moment to collect his thoughts, then using the skills used by army-men to avoid detection in a foreign land, or in other words POW survival skills he left the scene of crime without leaving one deliberate trace behind. He walked backwards and on tiptoes, he left no aerial or ground spoor, no scuff-mark, not a snag of clothing. He had shot through the folds of the jacket that was the reason why Mr. Tufte or Mr. Meek did not hear the gun shot from such close vicinity. In other words, there were no loose ends in his operation of the crime, even though he carried it out rather rashly, I believe. He left the spot and stopped on his way home at the junk-yard and discarded the weapon, wiping it before throwing it away. Still, his actions might have been carried out with less than his usual concentration suggesting uneasiness and a spot of fear in him possibly at the thought that he had murdered an eminent political figure and trouble was underway, because the weapon did have his fingerprints as were later discovered during the laboratory tests. He, however, carried the jacket, which he had used as his silencer and which bore the bullet holes, with him back home. When I questioned Mr. Zimmerman’s wife about a camouflage jacket among her husband’s winter clothing collection, she said that he did have one such jacket in his possession adding that he was a great deal attached to it and he had been wearing it incessantly since the time he procured it. When I asked her when she had seen him wearing the same, she could not recall the date. Later, however, Officer Wilson while searching Zimmerman’s office discovered the item hidden in a locker in his office cabinet.”

“What I don’t understand in the scheme is why Zimmerman not leaved the state?” asked Officer Taylor.

“He possibly had such a plan, I believe, but when Zimmerman discovered that the investigation agencies were taking the death as a political assault and were determined that it was a result of some dark conspiracy and what not, Zimmerman realized his position in the possible suspect list was absent. He changed his motive to leave the vicinity and got back to normal life. When I approached him for an interview that was the time he was taken aback, still he gave away nothing in terms of clue except his handedness, of course, but that never mattered in the case, anyway, which would point to his involvement in the crime,” said Lieutenant Wolanin. He stopped and looked around at his peers all beaming with good will and smiled. “So, there goes our mystery,” he said. Officer Taylor who had been sitting two seats afar raised his coffee-cup, “To loo,” he said and the others joined in unanimously raising their beverage cups in appreciation of Lieutenant Wolanin’s successful solving of one of the most baffling murder cases that had ever been recorded in the Oneida County police book.