“I did.”
Then it struck me. Slidell had lost weight. His face was still saggy, maybe more so than usual. But his belly wasn’t hanging as far over his belt. The mustard-yellow shirt was fully tucked.
Slidell’s next statement stunned me. “Some shit don’t add up.”
“What are you saying?”
Slidell’s jaw muscles flexed energetically.
“You have doubts about Ajax?”
“He was on Pineville-Matthews Road when Leal was grabbed up on Morningside.”
“Yes.”
A ten-second pause.
“IT put a name to the user in that chat room for cramps.”
“HamLover.”
“Yeah. Mona Spleen. Forty-three, lives in Pocatello, Idaho. Belongs to the Pocatello ARC. That stands for Amateur Radio Club.”
“Spleen is into ham radios.”
“Big-time.”
Another, longer pause.
“April 17, 2009. Two-twenty P.M. Ajax got pulled for doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five.”
“The afternoon Lizzie Nance disappeared. That doesn’t mean—”
“The stop was on I-64, outside Charleston, West Virginia.”
“You’re just now learning this?”
“I ain’t a magician. People been busy tying bows and stuffing socks.”
“The ticket gives Ajax an airtight alibi. Why didn’t he mention it?”
“The trooper let him off with a warning. No fine, no court. Ajax probably forgot all about it.”
“Forgot the trip?”
“The date coincides with his start at Mercy. He maybe had a lot on his mind.”
I said nothing.
After another long pause, Slidell said, “I did some follow-up on the kid in Oklahoma.”
“The babysitter Ajax molested?”
“Yeah.” Repositioning his tie down the middle of his chest. It was black and spotted with something shiny. “The lady’s got a jacket going back to juvie.”
I kept my face expressionless.
“Three bumps for solicitation since 2006. Off the record, my source says her first pop was the year after Ajax went into the box.”
“That may or may not be meaningful.”
“Eeyuh.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“Maybe the dirtbag ain’t our guy.”
“Have you shared any of this with Salter?”
Slidell gave a tight shake of his head.
“Why?”
“I’m still working it.”
“Doing what?”
“For one thing, taking a hard look at this fuckwad Yoder.”
“The CNA at Mercy?”
Slidell nodded.
“Any reason?”
“I don’t like the guy.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that ain’t it.” Curt. “While you’ve been caroling and hanging mistletoe, I’ve been moving back in on the neighbors, the other hospital staff.”
“Meaning?”
“Heart-to-hearts all around.”
“And?”
“And nothing. The guy lived under a rock.”
“Now what?”
“I’m hitting the ones weren’t around. Over the river and through the woods. Ho-ho. Pain in the ass.”
“Aren’t you the Grinch.”
“I practice.”
“When you’ve finished the interviews, you’ll take it to Salter?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Tinker?”
“I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.”
“Who’s on your list?”
“Couple nurses, a doc, a CNA. Probably a waste of time. But could be someone picked up on something.”
I looked at the clock. At my stack of unwritten reports. “Let’s go.” Pulling my purse from the drawer.
Slidell took a breath, caught himself. Nodded and stood.
We got lucky with one RN and the physician. They were day shift.
Both said they’d been stunned by the news reports on Hamet Ajax. Both had worked with him and felt he was a fine doctor. Both expressed sadness at his passing. Neither knew a thing about Ajax’s personal life.
The other two were off that day. Alice Hamilton, a CNA, and Arnie Saranella, an RN.