I ask Mollie. “You got a hit?”
She is all smiles. “Yes! I was interviewing about the millionth person from that conference attendance list, and showing the photos, when this woman tells me, ‘Wait a minute, I know him.’ And pointed.” Mollie grins. “Guess who?” she asks.
Susan breaks in. “No time to be coy, Mollie, just tell Sam.” Mollie looks abashed for about three seconds, then says, “One of the doctors from the clinic. That Epstein guy.”
“Is the witness sure?” I ask. I’m getting excited. After a sleepless night with me in the bedroom and Peter on the couch, I can use the good news.
“Absolutely. She rode the elevator with him to the second floor. She remembers him because he was a relatively short man with what she called ‘wispy’ facial hair. Apparently she can’t stand small men with ineffectual beards. She was no lightweight herself, which is why I believed her. She probably could have eaten Epstein for breakfast.”
“And he got off on the second floor?”
“Better than that. She got off, too, and happened to be staying in room 225—which is directly across the hall from John Taylor’s. So they both ended up walking down the corridor in the same direction. Then, he fell behind her. She says she had the distinct impression he was dragging his feet on purpose.”
“So she didn’t actually see him go to John Taylor’s door?” I ask, disappointed.
“No, but after she closed her door, she heard a knock, close by.”
“Well, that’s something,” I say, and turn around to go right back out the door. I’ve got some questions for Dr. Epstein. “I’ll keep you posted,” I call to Susan.
“You do that,” she says, and I know she is smiling.
51
Samantha
THIS TIME I KNOW HOW to find the entrance to the clinic. I nod to the security guard, but he still insists that I show him my badge. Must be bored. I certainly would be, doing nothing but sitting in a little booth, waiting for visitors. When I walk into reception, I’m told that Dr. Epstein is busy, so I settle down to wait in the plush waiting room. After an hour goes by, I approach Ms. Perfection at the reception desk. She lifts the phone and whispers into it. No, she tells me. Not yet. I go back to my comfy seat in the warm room.
Some time later I jerk awake. I’d been drooling while I slept, and my chin must be glistening with saliva. Embarrassed, I wipe it off with my hand and look at my watch. I was asleep for nearly twenty minutes. Enough is enough. I march up to the receptionist again.
“I must see Dr. Epstein now,” I say, and flash my badge. “This is important business.” She obeys me with such alacrity that I’m embarrassed, only this time at having meekly accepted her earlier statement that the doctor couldn’t see me yet. She pushes a buzzer and waves me through the double doors. I know the way to Dr. Epstein’s office. He’s sitting in an easy chair to one side of his desk, reading a medical magazine. I curse myself again for not insisting on seeing him right away.
“Ah yes, Detective,” he says, and reaches out to shake my hand. He doesn’t bother getting up. I know it’s petty, but I don’t extend my hand in return. Instead, I let his hover awkwardly for two or three seconds.
There’s a chair in front of his desk, but I remain standing.
“Dr. Epstein, why were you at the Westin in Palo Alto the evening of Friday, May 10?” I ask.
He keeps a smile on his face, and I remember what the witness had said about his beard. As a petite woman, I don’t mind the fact that he is rather small himself. But coupled with facial hair that seems to be nine-tenths air and his general aura of complacency, I could see why the witness remembered him with contempt. He is annoying. You want to kick him just to jar the smile from those thin lips.
“You told me the first time we talked that you’d been at home that evening. Your wife backed up your statement.”
“So why are you questioning it now?” he asks. He is still smiling.
“Because we have a witness placing you at the Westin, on the second floor, in the corridor of John Taylor’s room, within the time frame that the death occurred,” I say.
He is quiet for a moment, calculating. Then he shrugs. “Yes,” he says. “I was there.”
“What time precisely?”
“Around 7:40, 7:45,” he says.
“And was John Taylor alive when you left?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I hadn’t expected that.
“What?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “John was dead. But he was dead when I arrived. I didn’t kill him.”
“You’d better come down to the station house,” I say, “And tell us everything.”
52
Excerpt from Transcript
Police interview with
Dr. Mark Epstein,
August 26, 2013