Dr. Entman shook his head sadly, certain that Taber had slipped a cog.
Charles Blackwell, a trifle ill from the smell of formaldehyde, stood on the corner, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes a man in a blue suit was standing beside him.
"I would like you to answer some questions for me," the man said.
Blackwell gulped and blinked. "Sorry, mister, I'm kind of a stranger here myself."
"That man you entered this building with—what business did you have with him?"
It should have occurred to Charles Blackwell that this was none of the stranger's business, but it didn't. That thought came later but, at the moment, as he looked into the man's oddly empty eyes, his question seemed entirely justified.
"Well, you see, my brother Jack bothers us, kind of. He gets manic-depressive spells."
"What did that have to do with Brent Taber?"
"We thought maybe my brother broke his leg and then dropped dead or—or something. Anyhow, I got this here court order—they gave it to me—and I showed it to Taber—"