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could have been the caller. Mike’s wife also knew, or had known, Phyllis Herkaman, and had listened to the tape along with several hospital employees. The voice didn’t belong to Phyllis.
    But if the unidentified female was the caller, how didshe get from McGuire’s to Herkaman’s, and why? The way she was dressed indicated that she might have been unclothed prior to her murder and had possibly dressed in anticipation of flight. Or, of course, that she was undressing and got surprised. Time of death would tell. Maybe.
    “When you undress, what order do you take your clothes off in?”
    “You’ll never know.”
    “No, seriously.”
    “Oh, top, then bottom. Then underwear. Why?”
    I told her. She considered things for a second, then said, “I think she was undressing and got caught. If it had been the other way, she wouldn’t have put her bra on.”
    “But could she have slept with it on?”
    “Like a support bra, you mean?” She grinned. “Big boobs?”
    I thought for a second. “I don’t think so … no, I suppose average or smaller, I guess. It’s hard to tell, like that, but no …”
    “Nope.”
    “Why not?”
    “Not necessary. Too uncomfortable, if you don’t really need to do it. Was it a regular bra?”
    “Well, it was lacy, and pink.”
    “Then she was undressing.”
    No hesitation. Mild, friendly contempt, for having to state the obvious to someone of lesser wit.
    “Thanks. Don’t tell Art I asked.”
    “Of course not.”
    Art hated Sally, ever since she had refused to inform on one of her friends. He had been trying to get rid of her ever since, without success. He didn’t trust her, and would have had a fit if he knew I discussed any part of the case with her. She was also the best-looking dispatcher we had, by far. He hated that, too, as he always thought that she would tempt us or something. Not that she couldn’t. Just that she wouldn’t. Our loss.
    Art came back into the office, and we went into the back room.
    “Do you think there’s dope involved here?”
    He looked at me for a long moment. He absolutely hates discussing anything to do with his dope cases unless he is forced to do it.
    “No.”
    “Well, it’s got to be something other than what it looks like.”
    “Why don’t you let DCI get on with it? They’ll handle the case. Just don’t let it bother you. It’s been turned over to State. Let them handle it.”
    Art is like that. Any opportunity to get out from under responsibility for something difficult or complex, and he will jump at the chance. Even if it means that the case is screwed up as a result. After all, it won’t be his fault. He has turned it over to proper authorities.
    “Look, Art, there’s a lot that DCI doesn’t know, and never will. They don’t live here. And if there’s not a break in the case in a week or two, they move on to something else. Besides, they don’t ‘take over’ a case. They assist us. You know that. This is going to be our baby.”
    “What makes you think there’s not going to be a break?”
    “Just the way it’s shaping up.”
    “Well, don’t be too sure.”
    Art gets cryptic like that for two reasons: either he has some information that he won’t give me, or he doesn’t know at all.
    I went home, couldn’t sleep, of course, and ended up riding around Maitland with Dan. We talked about the homicides. He wanted details, as he had not seen any of the bodies. I told him a little, not much. Dan was a good guy, friendly, personable. A little too personable, in fact. Maitland was a small town. Dan was well liked, and lovedto sip free coffee. Buy him a cup, he would entertain you for it. Like a medieval minstrel. Buy him a sandwich, he would outdo himself. And if you were curious about a homicide scene, you would begin to get details that shouldn’t be public knowledge. If you bought him dessert, it was a case of “film at eleven.” Get him really relaxed and happy, and if he didn’t know the answer, you could