We went to the faculty lounge, a surprisingly ample room with a couch along one wall and a kitchen area with a few tables and chairs. I wondered if Peter, a confirmed antitechnologist, ever used the minisized white microwave oven on the counter.
“I asked Gallagher to meet me here around eight-thirty,” Peter said, as he snapped off a piece of biscotti. “I thought it would be less awkward than dragging you down to his office.”
“That was really a good idea, Peter,” I said, meaning every word. I’d spent a good part of my time in the shower that morning wondering just how I would manage an interview with Gallagher, standing at the threshold of his office. A conversation seemed much more feasible if we were sitting around a table in the lounge, but I still didn’t know precisely what approach to take, except that I wished I’d brought him a mocha.
“How shall I introduce you?” Peter asked, causing me to feel like a criminal who carried multiple passports with different identities. I had a moment of longing for my years as a simple physicist wearing a white lab coat over whatever outfit was clean that day.
It took me a while to answer Peter’s question. Not knowing whether I should represent myself as a Galigani Mortuary staff person or a Revere Police Department consultant, I’d chosen clothing befitting either occupation—a black rayon suit with an ivory silk blouse and a long string of pearls. I wore a small round pin on my lapel, with the official logo of an undergraduate physics group I’d been adviser to. Its dull green background featured a miniature schematic in gold, showing waves leaving a moving source, also known as the Doppler effect.
“Just introduce me as your friend, I think,” I told Peter, having decided that I might learn more in a casual interaction than in a formal capacity, not that I really had a formal capacity, I reminded myself.
Patrick Gallagher came into the lounge only seconds after I’d determined who I’d be for the morning. He presented a striking picture, with his wavy red hair, dark blue suit, and polished black oxfords. Only the redness around his eyes and his tired breathing gave away the emotional strain I imagined he was under. Otherwise, I had no trouble imagining him fitting well in the social circles of Washington and wondered what had driven him and Congresswoman Hurley apart.
Gallagher took Peter’s folder, hardly acknowledging his words of introduction. He seemed in a hurry to leave, so I made a frenzied attempt to engage him in conversation.
“I’m so sorry about the death of your friend, Margaret Hurley,” I said to him. “Are you going to attend the funeral this morning?”
“No, I can’t make it.”
I knew that Matt wouldn’t have scheduled an interview unless Gallagher had already decided to stay away from the services.
“I suppose it would very hard on you,” I said.
Gallagher looked at me with curiosity, finally making eye contact. A side glance gave me a view of Peter, who put his elbows on the table, hands at his forehead, as if he couldn’t bear to watch.
“Yes,” Gallagher said, half turning to leave the lounge.
“I happen to live in the apartment upstairs from Galigani’s Mortuary,” I said, “and I know how difficult this week has been for you.”
Gallagher shook his head, a pained expression on his face.
“And your concern in all this is?”
I was greatly distressed at how the meeting was going, realizing that Matt was right to keep me out of nontechnical interviews. I didn’t have a clue how to proceed, and I’d obviously upset Gallagher.
Peter had gone over to the kitchen area, taking an inordinately long time to throw away his plastic cup and napkins and wash his hands.
“I’m sorry,” I told Gallagher. “I didn’t mean to pry.” But of course I did; I just didn’t know how to be cool about it. “I’m working on a report for the police department,” I said, pulling a second identity out of my hat.
“You’re a cop?”
“No, I ...”
“Then I don’t have to talk to you, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Is there any reason you followed me to work today?”
I had no good response for this, not wanting to implicate Peter in what was turning out to be one of the worst ideas I’d ever had. However, a glance at Peter, standing at the sink with his arms folded across his chest, told me that I had nothing more to lose.
“Have you been able to find someone who saw you at the Northgate mall on the evening of Ms. Hurley’s murder?” I asked.
Gallagher’s face looked ready to explode as his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. For once I felt that my age, short stature, and gender served me well. I had a strong feeling that if I were young, tall, male, or any of the above, Patrick Gallagher would have punched me in the nose.