The Axeman's Jazz

got nowhere. Finally, in desperation, she said to the operator, “I’m trying to find out about someone who used to work there. Who could I ask on a Saturday?”
    “Well, I been here forever. Who was it?”
    “Jackie Breaux.”
    “Lord, yes. Jackie Breaux. Haven’t thought about her in ten years.”
    “What did she do there?”
    “She was a nurse.”
    “Is there anyone there today who might remember her?”
    “Let me look.” The friendly voice was back in a minute. It was funny, Skip reflected. Some people were wildly suspicious when you weren’t up to anything and others were incautiously helpful when they ought to keep their mouths shut. “I’m going to connect you with Suzanne LeHardy. She’s been here for umpteen years.”
    LeHardy was the charge nurse on the third floor and she’d worked with Jackie Breaux for two years. Jackie had been a psychiatric nurse.
    Skip said, “I’ve got a job application from her and I’m trying to make a decision over the weekend. Hope you don’t mind my calling.”
    “What can I do for you?”
    “Well, there seems to be some confusion. She’s applying for a job as a therapist, specializing in hypnotherapy. I thought she worked there in that capacity.”
    “Did she say that?”
    “Maybe I misunderstood. Did she ever assist in hypnosis sessions or anything like that?”
    “Not to my knowledge. Well, let me rephrase that: No. Not in any legitimate way.”
    “Oh, gosh, that sounds ominous.”
    “Well, Jackie’s a good worker, she just… doesn’t go by the rules.”
    “Were you her supervisor?”
    “For part of the time, yes.”
    “Do you mind if I ask why she left?”
    “Oh, gosh, should I tell you? I have a feeling personnel might have its own policy on that. I think you’d better call back Monday.”
    Skip said she would. If there had been patient abuse, it would certainly help her case.
    She went in to see Cappello. The way she told it, Di’s door had been not only ajar, but nearly wide open. Skip had seen the scarf in the living room and about that time Di had come home. They’d had lunch, she’d gone to the bathroom, and seen the gloves there. She’d seen a typed grocery list on Di’s refrigerator, leading to the speculation that maybe she owned a typewriter. She had a criminal record (though she glibly explained it away) and she’d lied about other things. There was the possibility of patient abuse at her job.
    Cappello said, “Did you actually see a typewriter?”
    If Skip said yes, Cappello would want to try for a warrant and that would mean lying to a judge. She wasn’t about to do that. “Just the note,” she said.
    Cappello shrugged. “I hate to take a chance on a warrant at this point, but bring her in and talk to her. See if she’ll admit to having a typewriter and let us compare it with the Axeman’s notes.”
    Skip thought she should have been exultant on the way back to Di’s, but she wasn’t. She wondered what was wrong. Had she gotten too close to Di? Did she like her? Well, yes, she did. Even though Di was a perpetual bullshit machine who thought the world revolved around her, there was something likable about the woman, some sense of meaning no harm. Could you murder three people and still exude that? Maybe, if you were a sociopath. People liked sociopaths, even juries. Why shouldn’t Skip?
    Di wasn’t alone. She was with two uniformed officers.
    “Skip. I know you’re in Homicide,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you with this—you know these officers?”
    Introductions were made and then Di explained: “After you left, I went through the house one more time, just to make sure nothing was missing. But guess what?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. “I found something that isn’t mine. I mean, somebody was in here, but they brought something rather than took anything. What kind of burglar is that?”
    “What did you find?”
    “A typewriter. An old portable typewriter.”
    Skip felt sweat on her neck, at her waist, her armpits.
    Oh, shit.
    “I guess we’d better confiscate it,” she said. “We’ll get the crime lab to dust it. You wouldn’t have any gloves I could borrow, would you?”
    “Skip, could I ask you something? What kind of burglar would do this?”
    “Are you sure it isn’t yours? Maybe you lent it to someone and they returned it.”
    “I’ve never even owned a typewriter. And I certainly wouldn’t have one now. If I needed something like that, I’d get a computer.”
    There