In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,73

initial shock had receded, her curiosity had returned.

As I peered inside, my stomach lurched when I recognized the long braid of blond hair, smattered with bloodstains. I realized its significance with a start: It was Sarah Wingate’s missing hair from the crime scene.

“It came through the regular mail?” I asked, examining the outside of the box carefully for any sign of a postmark; there appeared to be none.

“I found it on the steps outside,” Mrs. Leab said. “It was there when I came in this morning.” A look of anxiety crossed her face. “I’d like to go wash up.”

Alistair excused her, suggesting she return to her own work. She was ill at ease, disturbed that she had touched the package that contained such awful things.

I pulled on my white cotton gloves. “Has anyone looked at this?” I lifted out a yellowed envelope that had been nestled under the braid. It contained no markings and was not sealed.

Isabella shook her head.

I carefully removed the note folded inside and moved closer to show it to Alistair. Written on heavy white paper it read:

Your move, Professor. Here’s a little remembrance in case you miss our regular chats. Maybe your daughter-in-law would like to spend some time with me.

Below was a messy scrawl, a signature I could not decipher. But Alistair recognized it immediately as that of Michael Fromley.

Alistair frowned deeply, holding the paper up to the window to examine in the light. “This is unlike him,” he said, looking intently at the paper, and tilting it first one way and then another. He turned to his large file cabinet and, after searching for only a minute, he pulled out a large file that apparently contained writing by Michael Fromley. He laid out one sheet for comparison, and we compared the dark, heavy strokes of black ink.

Alistair said, “It certainly seems to resemble his handwriting.”

“But?” I sensed that he remained troubled.

Alistair put down the letter and repeated his earlier comment. “It is not like him. I would never expect him to admit his own guilt, and certainly not in this way.” He was emphatic.

“But perhaps you do not know him as well as you believed.” I thought again of the unwarranted trust Alistair had placed in Michael Fromley. “None of you do.”

He chose to ignore me, replying only, “Tom has a good eye for evaluating handwriting—it is something of a hobby for him. We can leave it for him to examine. Meanwhile, I think this incident, taken with the attack on you and Isabella last night, must lead us to refocus our search.”

We were interrupted by Mrs. Leab; her voice thick with worry, she informed Alistair that there were people congregated downstairs wanting to speak with him.

“People?” he asked.

“I think they’re newspaper reporters.”

I accompanied Alistair downstairs, and we had barely opened the door when a stocky, balding man armed with a notebook accosted us. With barely a glance at me, he quickly set upon Alistair. “Professor Sinclair—we’re hearing reports that you pulled political strings to let a murderer loose. Is that true?”

Suddenly Alistair was surrounded by reporters from four local newspapers. They had materialized from nowhere to circle around him, and their questions came in quick succession.

“This is Sheffield with the Tribune,” another voice announced. “I understand your family is closely connected with Judge Hansen, who dismissed attempted-murder charges against Michael Fromley and approved releasing him into your custody as part of a plea for lesser charges. We have a quote from the initial prosecutor on the case, Frank Hogart, alleging that bribery was involved. Do you care to comment?”

Yet another man, this one short and pudgy, shoved his way to the front, wielding an umbrella like a scythe to cut through the crowd. “Yoder here with the Times. Is it true that this same man whose release you negotiated has now embarked on a murderous rampage just north of the city?”

Alistair backed into the vestibule, shut the door partway, and looked at me in stunned disbelief. “You?”

“No, Alistair,” I said. “I’ve discussed the matter with no one outside our circle.”

“Maybe the Wallingfords, then,” Alistair muttered, “trying to deflect attention from their family.” He sighed wearily. “Well, now that they’re on the scent of this, they must be dealt with. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

As he moved outside onto the stairs, he began to address the throng of reporters. “Gentlemen, it seems you have some questions—and some grave misunderstandings—pertaining to a research project we have been conducting here at the Center for