Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

Coffee?”
    She shook her head no.
    He sat down across from her and held out his hands to her. He knew that this was probably the loneliest moment of her life. No one had come with her, and at moments like this some kind of human contact was essential.
    She took his hands and squeezed them. At first he could feel her trembling, but after a moment her hands steadied, as if they received some strength through his.
    Lieutenant Mark Malloy hated what he had to do next. He didn’t want this to feel like an interrogation, but he would have to ask some hard questions.
    Before he could say anything, she asked, “Where are his things?”
    Malloy looked at her and then said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know. We don’t have them. When he was found he was in his running clothes. That’s all.”
    “What do you mean, ‘that’s all’?”
    “There was no identification on him.”
    “He always wore his Road ID. I gave it to him for Christmas.”
    “Road ID?”
    “It’s a small ID tag that a lot of runners attach to their shoes.” She paused before adding, “Just in case.”
    “I’m sorry. He didn’t have one. We didn’t find anything. Nothing.”
    “What about his race number?”
    “Same. He didn’t have one on. All of the runners in the race were accounted for. There were no leftover clothes at the finish and we haven’t found his car.”
    Polly looked at him trying to understand what he was telling her. “Nothing?”
    “Nothing. If you hadn’t called me, we’d probably still not know his identity.”
    “How …” she began to ask, when he continued. “Mrs. Christian, we don’t think that the fall killed him. It appears that he was hit in the back of his head and that was the cause of death. We’re not sure yet if that happened before the fall or after, but in any event, it looks like that’s what killed him. It wasn’t an accident.”
    At this new revelation, Polly sucked in her breath and stared at him. Her eyes were full of questions and shock. After a few moments of awkward silence, she looked at him and said in a soft but steady voice, “Someone killed him?”
    “I believe so.”
    “That makes no sense. He didn’t have any enemies. We ran an Inn, for God’s sake. He was a runner.”
    “I understand. I know it’s difficult, but can you think of anyone, for any reason, no matter how farfetched, who might have had a problem with your husband?”
    Polly didn’t move and Malloy watched as her eyes began to well up with tears. He pushed a box of tissues toward her and she took one and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Then, in a soft voice she began. “Lately, we’ve had some trouble. We were always looking for things to use to decorate the Inn. He had such a good eye. He always said it was my taste, but it wasn’t. He was the one with the eye. Just after summer ended, he came back from a trip with this brass ships lantern from the 1700s. It was perfect for the room we call The Captain’s Room. I remember that he bought it down here.”
    “In Ipswich?”
    “I think so. No, I’m not sure. I just know it was from somewhere around here.”
    He wasn’t sure what this all meant, but Lieutenant Malloy was patient and would let her tell her story in her own way. “Go on,” he coaxed.
    Polly sat silent for another moment. Then she said, “The shopkeeper, he was a runner. He took Malcom running in the woods where that race was.”
    “The Rockdog Run?”
    “Yes.
    “Do you remember his name?”
    “Alfred.”
    “Alfred?” he said as he scribbled something in his notebook. “Did he have a last name?”
    “I don’t remember. But several weeks ago, he―uh, Alfred―showed up at the Inn. Malcom was out running and I was alone. He wanted to see the quilt.”
    “Quilt?”
    “Oh I’m sorry. We have a B & B up north that we named The Quilt House.” His face remained full of questions. “That was because of all the quilts we found there when we bought the place. Each room is named for a different quilt. He, Alfred, wanted to see the one we called The Captain’s Quilt.”
    “I see … . Go on.”
    “Well, he seemed harmless enough, so I took him upstairs to see the quilt. After studying it he offered to buy it and the letter from us. Actually it was a copy; but he didn’t know that. The real letter we have stored away.”
    Malloy stopped her again. “Letter?”
    “The letter. Oh, yes,” her voice dropped and her eyes teared up again.”
    “Mrs. Christian, are you okay?”
    “I’m