"Stephen Goldin - Herds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

"All right, Harry," Maschen soothed. "You wait there. I'm
going to round up Simpson and then we'll be out to relieve you.
Out." He clicked off the radio and handed the mike back to
Whitmore.

Simpson was the deputy best trained in the scientific aspects
of criminology. Whenever a case of more than ordinary
complexity occurred, the department tended to rely on him more
than any of the other members. Normally, Simpson wouldn't
have come on duty until ten o'clock, but Maschen gave him a
special call, inform d Ivm of the urgency of the situation, and
told him that he would pick him up. He took the deputy's
fingerprint kit and a camera out to his car, then drove to
Simpson's place.

Th e denutv was waiting on the porch of h>s somewhat
weatherbeaten house. Together, he and the sheriff drove off to
the Stoneham cabin. Very little was said during the drive;
Simpson was a thin, very quiet man who generally kept his
brilliance within him, while the sheriff had more than enough to
think about in considering the different aspects of the crime.

When they arrived, Maschen dismissed Acker and told him to
go home and try to get some si *ep. Simpson went quietly about
his business, first photographing the room and the body from all
angles, then collecting small bits of things, anything that was
loose, in little plastic bags, and finally dusting the room for
fingerprints. Maschen called for an ambulance, then just sat
back and watched his deputy work. He felt very helpless,
somehow' Simpson was the one who was best trained for this
job, and there was little the sheriff could add to his deputy's
prowess. Maybe, Maschen thought bitterly, after all this time I
find I'm really destined to be a bureaucrat and not a policeman
at alt. And wouldn't that be a sad commentary on his life, he
wondered.

Simpson finished his job almost simultaneously with the
arrival of the ambulance. When Mrs. Stoneham's body had been
taken away to the morgue, Maschen locked up the cabin and he
and Simpson headed back into town. It was now nearly
eight-thirty, and Maschen's stomach was beginning to remind
him that all he had had for breakfast so far was a cup of coffee.

"What do you think about the murder?" he asked the stony
Simpson.

"It's unusual."

"Well, yes, that much is obvious. No normal person… let me