Fred Barnes and Ken Noble were planning the next week’s news coverage insofar as it could be anticipated.
“So, Hilier’s foot; that’s a positive ID, but otherwise, lab results negative. He’s been missing for over a year,” Noble went through copious notes, drawing out the essence.
“I think Les should do this one, but he needs a little guidance,” said the short, bald-headed Noble as he flipped through the pages.
“What are we telling him?” Noble asked, black eyes gleaming and raising his dark uni-brow in query.
“Professor Pakenham went missing Easter weekend, but he seems to have been consumed almost-whole,” seconded Barnes. “According to the autopsy and lab testing, by some animal as yet unidentified. As for Mrs. Rice, missing since June of last year, the piece of fabric may or may not be from her housecoat.”
All of those lab tests were either negative or inconclusive. They hadn’t even found Brubaker’s DNA on it. It looked like her housecoat; according to nursing home staff. But it was just a cheap yellow robe, with blue flowers. It had a million counterparts around the world.
“And nothing on Josh Hartley?” murmured Noble.
“No. That’s the only one the police considered suspicious,” Barnes told him. “It never occurred to me to ask until now; why aren’t the other ones suspicious?”
“Sergeant Oberon’s an expert in psychological crimes. He used to lecture on the subject, out at the Kahunas Klub on Lake Road. At the old school out there. I covered a few of them as a junior reporter. Decades ago, it seems,” Noble told Barnes, who had only been in the city for about four years.
“Sergeant Oberon lectured?” Fred’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Really? What was he, like twenty-two frickin’ years old?”
Oberon was an ambitious little fellow. He knew that from personal observation.
“It was deathly boring,” remembered Noble. “Mostly old people, looking for a cheap evening out of the house. In fact, they used to bus them in from the old age homes.”
“They still do!” quipped Barnes.
Most recently, he and his wife had attended some old couple’s slide show.
‘A Trip to the Holy Land,’ was the title.
He and the wife went. It was a cheap night out.
They didn’t do the bar scene.
Noble just nodded and grinned.
“Yes; they do. I specifically remember one that was perhaps a little more interesting than most. It was called, ‘The three different types of stalker.’”
“No way! How was it?” asked Barnes.
“Probably right out of a textbook or training manual, but they ate it up,” said Noble.
“We have another cougar story,” noted Barnes, who tried to squeeze in something different when there was a little space.
Lately their paper was about seven pages. No kidding; everything else was flyers and inserts, and the third section was a hundred percent ads. Two whole pages were anchored by a prominent auto dealership. It’s hard to believe that it took up to two dozen reporters, story development guys, editors, and so on to put their slim little paper out on a daily basis.
Sooner or later the axe had to fall.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cougar sighting in Port Frederick…