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Dr. Mayfield cradled the phone against his ear as he carefully reset the time on his clock. The damned thing had to be adjusted with the time change. “They found Sharon dead?” he asked, feigning vague surprise. He set the clock back down on his desk. “Well, what happened? Do they know who did it?”
“We don't know yet,” A decidedly frumpy looking man in a rumpled raincoat strode uninvited into the room. Before he began poking around the office, the man showed Dr. Mayfield his lieutenant badge, which looked disappointingly legitimate, if not old. Age had not been kind to this man as it had him, probably due to the differences in their nature of work. Dr. Mayfield observed that the worst part of the man’s nature seemed to be his inability at delicacy as he watched the man lift and move objects with little regard to their respective places. Dr. Mayfield kept his office neat and the door closed, and the last thing he needed was this police detective sniffing around like a dog!
“Who are you, exactly?” Dr. Mayfield asked, sure that the LAPD must have sent their worst man. The man fidgeted for a moment before answering.
“Detective Columbo, sir. Sorry, sir. Excuse me. I didn't mean to interrupt you, but I have terrible trouble trying to find my way around hospitals. All these hallways look the same and I get lost like a little kid in a mirror maze,” Despite his sheepish expression, the rude way the man waved his unlit cigar about as he spoke detracted from any real sympathy gained. They briefly discussed Sharon’s death, and after mucking about in Dr. Mayfield’s meticulously arranged office some more, the tedious man had halfway left when he paused in the doorway, “You know, you must be a terrific surgeon.”
“Thank you, detective. I assume you saw my awards and placards?” Dr. Mayfield puffed up a bit in pride. Gleaming gold and regularly dusted, his medical awards were his cherished possessions. They marked the years of service he had given to the hospital, how he had spent the majority of his career here in this limiting place! At least the detective was thoughtful in his attempts at flattery.
“Oh, that. No, actually Doc,” Dr. Mayfield frowned at the use of the term Doc, frowning further as he watched the detective light his cigar, “I was referring to your great concentration.” The awards seemed to lose a little shine as the man spoke in puffs of smoke.
“Well, how is that, Lieutenant?” He examined the man’s face for potential guile, finding none.
“Well, when I came in, you were getting the news of your nurse's death on the phone. I could see you were terribly upset. But while you were on the phone, you reset your desk clock.”
Dr. Mayfield froze, his cool countenance wavering as he realized that the detective had noticed his odd reaction. What a careless error on his part, to not check before giving his lack of shock away! He regained his composure almost instantly. “Well, I fail to see the virtue in that.”
“Oh, you're too modest, Doc. No, most people, they'd be in such a state of shock, they'd never be able to split their concentration the way you did, setting your clock there.” The detective smiled, but Dr. Mayfield could feel a hint of an intelligence he had been disguising as buffoonery emerge.
That damned detective! No matter, it was innocent enough. No jury alive would convict him for setting a clock while on the phone! “Well, it must have been a purely reflexive reaction. I really don't remember doing it.”
“Of course, of course,” The lieutenant replied, “by the way, are there any coffee machines in this building? I barely slept a wink last night.”
“There are none on this floor, detective.” Dr. Mayfield said witheringly, growing tired of waiting for this formerly-thought idiotic and now possibly dangerous man to leave.
“Aw geez. I guess I better start looking,” The detective started towards the door again, turning to face him one last time, “I’ll be seeing you, Dr. Mayfield.”
“I’m sure you will.”