Dead Past

blue eyes were open.
    Allan Rankin was there. He was taking her liver temperature. He pulled the thermometer out and scribbled in his notepad before looking up.
    “Hi. Diane. Apparently we must not see enough of each other.”
    “Apparently,” she said. “What do we have here?”
    “The name on her mail says J. Cipriano. Female, twenty-six years old. Been dead no more than thirty minutes,” Rankin said.
    “Sexual assault?” asked Garnett.
    He had walked up behind them. Diane looked down at his feet. They were covered.
    “Neva gave them to me,” he said, following her gaze.
    “No visible signs of sexual assault. I’ll know more later.” He stood and looked down at the body. She was dressed in a blue sweater and white wool skirt. “At least she’s not charred,” he said.
    “Cause of death?” asked Garnett.
    “She bled out. Took a beating, fell, and hit the back of her head on the corner of this glass table.” Rankin pointed to the bloody table edge.
    Diane looked around the room. It was tossed. All the books in the room were pulled off the shelves and lay on the floor in piles. Diane could see into the bedroom from where she was standing. Books were lying on the bed and floor. Odd.
    “Some kind of book maniac, I’d say,” said Rankin.
    “What did she do for a living?” asked Garnett. “Does anyone know?”
    Rankin shook his head. “A lady in one of the other apartments—I think I heard her name was something Bowden—she may know the victim. She’s the one who called the police.”
    “Bowden,” said Diane. “Where have I heard that name before?”
    “It sounds familiar to me, too.” Rankin thought a minute. “The coffee tent. There was a woman from the church named Jere Bowden.”
    “I remember,” said Diane. “Very kind lady. She’s related to my upstairs neighbors.”
    “You want to come while I talk to the witness?” asked Garnett. “Maybe it’s the same woman.”
    Diane nodded and looked at David.
    “I’ve got it,” he said. “It’s a small apartment, one person ought to do.”
    “I’ll be back and help,” she said.
    Diane left the apartment and slipped off her shoe and head coverings. Garnett was asking the policemen at the scene where the witness’ apartment was.
    “One thirty-two,” said Garnett. “It’s across here.”
    They knocked on the door. After a few moments a woman answered. She was indeed the woman from the coffee tent, Jere Bowden.
    “Oh,” she said. “Dr. Fallon. We will have to meet sometime under more pleasant circumstances.”
    “Yes, we will,” said Diane. “You know Chief Garnett, don’t you? He was at the other crime scene.”
    Jere held out her hand. “Yes, I do. Please come in and sit down. Can I get you some coffee?” She smiled. “Or tea or something?”
    “No, thank you. We just need to ask about your neighbor.”
    Jere nodded. “Please, come sit down.” She gestured toward the living room up a small flight of steps from the foyer. “My husband is in Michigan ice fishing, of all things. I told him he should have just stayed home. We seem to be having the required weather.”
    Diane sat on a cream-colored love seat, Garnett on a stuffed dark blue chair. Jere sat opposite them on a sofa that matched the love seat.
    “What is the victim . . . the young lady’s name?” asked Garnett.
    “Joana Cipriano. That’s with one n in Joana. She teaches music at the university. Very nice young woman.”
    She stopped and her eyes teared and almost overflowed. Diane and Garnett waited.
    “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I told myself that I wasn’t going to do this. You need information to catch the man who did . . . what he did.”
    “Man?” asked Garnett.
    “It was a man at her door. I didn’t see him do it and I only saw his back. I can describe his size and clothes, that’s about all.”
    “Tell us what you know,” said Diane.
    “I’ve been here by myself all day. Resting from, well, you know. Anyway . . . these apartments are pretty soundproof, but sometimes you can hear when someone comes to the door of your neighbor. Joana, as you can see, is just across the sidewalk from me. I was sitting there reading.” She pointed to a chair by the front window. “My curtains were drawn. I draw them when I sit in front of the window. I heard someone knock on Joana’s door. She opened it and this male voice asked her . . . I’ve been trying to play it back in my mind, but it was muffled.” She put an index