I felt around the back. Found it. I was about to turn it on when I heard a whisper of movement behind me. I froze, listening.
Someone was standing just outside the door. And I cursed myself; if I was going to nose around, and begin questioning the circumstances of my good friend's death, it was time to carry something more than a wallet and car keys.
Slowly, the doorknob began to turn. I relaxed. If they didn't have a key, they weren't going to get in.
The doorknob hit the lock and stopped, then slowly turned back as whoever it was relaxed their grip.
They stood there for a moment longer and I debated about throwing the door open to confront them, but decided against it. I had a pretty good idea who it was. I heard the footsteps leave, eventually fading to nothing.
I turned back to the computer and flipped it on. As it powered up, I opened Tim's desk drawers. I looked at the mess inside, the papers jammed into small piles of disorganization. I knew instantly that the desk had been searched. He’d always kept his desk neat and organized, the antithesis of the harried, eggheaded professor.
By now, the computer had warmed up and the screen appeared before me, a neat row of folders on the right hand side. I double clicked on the first one and scanned the contents, then closed it and repeated the process for all of the folders. Nothing in there but treatises, lecture notes and articles. I double clicked on the hard drive, and searched through that but found nothing.
I located the Find File command and typed in the words "Personal" and hit search. After several moments, the answer came up: no documents found. I tried the same technique with the words 'confidential,' and 'private,' all with the same result.
I went up to the menu bar to see if Tim had a feature called Recent Documents that does just what it sounds like it should do: it catalogs the most recent documents opened on the desktop.
There was one document listed.
It was called 'Beer Money.'
I highlighted it, and the computer showed me where it was located; buried within several increasingly obnoxious names such as 'order forms,' 'index file' and 'cross-referenced tabs.'
I pulled a zip drive out of my pocket, plugged it into the computer’s USB port, and copied the files onto it, then ejected it from the desktop. I powered down the computer, then sat at the desk for a few more minutes.
This was where my friend had wound up. We'd know each other since we were kids, had gone to high school together, then college. Tim had always loved history. Loved talking about it. Studying it. Immersing himself in it. And eventually, he had loved making a career out of it. He had dedicated his life to it, and now that life was over.
I stood and went to the door, then listened for any sound. I heard none. I looked back at Tim's office one more time. I knew it would be the last time I ever set foot in it.
It was a bigger, better office than Vanderkin's, and with a better view.
I figured William Vanderkin would be moving in any day now.
Ten
The Milwaukee County Historical Society at the intersection of Old World Third Street and Kilbourn Avenue was an impressive building, designed in the French Classical tradition with massive pillars and elaborate detailing. It sat on the banks of the Milwaukee River, next to Pere Marquette Park, named after the French explorer who in 1677 was the first white man to set foot there.
I entered the main doors of the Historical Society, the smell of dust and sequestered humanity was overpowering. I spotted the information desk where an older woman with a light blue shirt and dark blue sweater complete with a Historical Society name tag looked up at me. Her face was a mixture of kindness, curiosity and more than a bit of surprise. Apparently she didn’t get a lot of visitors.
"May I help you?"
"Yes," I said. "I was wondering if there might be someone who could help me identify people in an old photograph."
"You'll want the reference
Someone was standing just outside the door. And I cursed myself; if I was going to nose around, and begin questioning the circumstances of my good friend's death, it was time to carry something more than a wallet and car keys.
Slowly, the doorknob began to turn. I relaxed. If they didn't have a key, they weren't going to get in.
The doorknob hit the lock and stopped, then slowly turned back as whoever it was relaxed their grip.
They stood there for a moment longer and I debated about throwing the door open to confront them, but decided against it. I had a pretty good idea who it was. I heard the footsteps leave, eventually fading to nothing.
I turned back to the computer and flipped it on. As it powered up, I opened Tim's desk drawers. I looked at the mess inside, the papers jammed into small piles of disorganization. I knew instantly that the desk had been searched. He’d always kept his desk neat and organized, the antithesis of the harried, eggheaded professor.
By now, the computer had warmed up and the screen appeared before me, a neat row of folders on the right hand side. I double clicked on the first one and scanned the contents, then closed it and repeated the process for all of the folders. Nothing in there but treatises, lecture notes and articles. I double clicked on the hard drive, and searched through that but found nothing.
I located the Find File command and typed in the words "Personal" and hit search. After several moments, the answer came up: no documents found. I tried the same technique with the words 'confidential,' and 'private,' all with the same result.
I went up to the menu bar to see if Tim had a feature called Recent Documents that does just what it sounds like it should do: it catalogs the most recent documents opened on the desktop.
There was one document listed.
It was called 'Beer Money.'
I highlighted it, and the computer showed me where it was located; buried within several increasingly obnoxious names such as 'order forms,' 'index file' and 'cross-referenced tabs.'
I pulled a zip drive out of my pocket, plugged it into the computer’s USB port, and copied the files onto it, then ejected it from the desktop. I powered down the computer, then sat at the desk for a few more minutes.
This was where my friend had wound up. We'd know each other since we were kids, had gone to high school together, then college. Tim had always loved history. Loved talking about it. Studying it. Immersing himself in it. And eventually, he had loved making a career out of it. He had dedicated his life to it, and now that life was over.
I stood and went to the door, then listened for any sound. I heard none. I looked back at Tim's office one more time. I knew it would be the last time I ever set foot in it.
It was a bigger, better office than Vanderkin's, and with a better view.
I figured William Vanderkin would be moving in any day now.
Ten
The Milwaukee County Historical Society at the intersection of Old World Third Street and Kilbourn Avenue was an impressive building, designed in the French Classical tradition with massive pillars and elaborate detailing. It sat on the banks of the Milwaukee River, next to Pere Marquette Park, named after the French explorer who in 1677 was the first white man to set foot there.
I entered the main doors of the Historical Society, the smell of dust and sequestered humanity was overpowering. I spotted the information desk where an older woman with a light blue shirt and dark blue sweater complete with a Historical Society name tag looked up at me. Her face was a mixture of kindness, curiosity and more than a bit of surprise. Apparently she didn’t get a lot of visitors.
"May I help you?"
"Yes," I said. "I was wondering if there might be someone who could help me identify people in an old photograph."
"You'll want the reference
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