I haven’t owned many things as long as I’ve owned my Karmann Ghia, and have a sentimental attachment to even fewer. I’m not a car-worshiper by any means, but I’ve spent a lot of time in this one, and the broken window seemed like an injury to an old friend. But with the exception of allowing myself to engage in some rather unrealistic vigilante fantasies during the drive to Burrows’s house, I knew it was best to try to shrug it off.

EDISONBURROWS LIVEDin a quiet neighborhood where the branches of big oak trees were beginning to fill in their canopy above the streets with soft, bright green leaves. His house was typical of those built in the mid-1920s in Las Piernas, a small Spanish-style home with white stucco walls, a red tile roof, and arching windows. I parked on the street, got out with the calendars in hand, and caught myself just before I locked the car door.

Burrows opened the heavy wood panel door without bothering to peek at me through the small grilled window in it. The hour since we had talked on the phone seemed to have given him time to collect himself.

“Come in, come in,” he said, then spying the calendars, “What have you brought with you?”

“Oh, just some things I don’t want to leave in my car.” I explained about the window and received just the right amount of sympathy before he seated me in a sunny kitchen and offered coffee.

He was a slightly built man, a little under six feet tall, I would guess. He bustled about the kitchen and talked energetically. His skin was pale but his cheeks were pink, and his thick brows rose and fell as he spoke. He had the look of someone who has spent most of his life indoors. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. The son on the streets? But which of many homeless men I had met in the last few days was Burrows’s son?

“I’m so sorry to hear about Lucas,” he said again, quiet for a moment. “He couldn’t have been more than forty-something, right? About my son’s age. I’m seventy-five-almost twice his age.”

“You don’t look seventy-five,” I said.

“I don’t act it, either,” he said with a wink. “And I’ve got at least another twenty-five to act ornery.”

He picked up a thick folder and a magnifying glass, then sat at the table with me. He set the glass and folder to one side and began to tell me of his years as a documents examiner. He was clearly going to go about this in his own way, and I decided that it would be better to let him do so, if the alternative was something like that phone call.

“I worked for the county for years,” he said.

“Las Piernas County?”

“Yes. About thirty years with them before I retired. Over that time, I had a few courses and studied with some interesting folks, and along the way I got to be pretty good at detecting forgeries and altered documents. I can tell you all about inks and papers. But my real specialty was typewriters.” He laughed. “Boy, has that end of the business changed. Technology went leaps and bounds just about the time I retired.”

“Computers and laser printers?”

He nodded. “That’s just part of it. Anyway, it was much easier in the old days, when all the office work was done on the kind of machine Lucas used. A manual typewriter.”

I thought back. “Yes, I remember now-what was it, a Remington?”

He shook his head. “Underwood. Lots of folks had moved to electric typewriters-IBM Selectrics, or Lanier word processors, if they could afford them. But to our good fortune, Lucas was used to this old Underwood. I guess he’d been using it since high school.” He paused. “I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.”

He patted the folder. “Lucas came to me with a challenge. He said he had some pages he had typed, and some pages someone else had typed. He said that Joshua-my son-had told him that I ought to be able to tell the difference.”

“Your son is here in town?”

He was suddenly less animated. His shoulders drooped a little, and he ran a hand over his short white hair. “Yes. It breaks my heart, but I’ve given up trying to get him to come home. I know people have lots of reasons for being on the street, but with him it’s the booze. I don’t know what other reason he would have for living out there when he could be with me. You know how many of those people living out there with him wish they could have a warm place to stay? He’s had all kinds of advantages most of them haven’t had, and it makes not one bit of difference. Why? The booze. I stopped giving him money. It just goes into the bottle with him. But every time it rains or gets cold, I’m sick with worry.”

“He told Lucas to go to you for help, though. So he still thinks of you.”

Edison smiled. “Do you know how great I felt the day Lucas Monroe called me and asked for my help-because my son had recommended me to him? I would have helped Lucas for free for the rest of his life…” His voice faltered. “Well, I guess I did help him for the rest of his life. But not for free. He did work around here for me. Painting, things like that. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“What was it he asked you to do?”

“He said he had a document that someone had inserted some forged pages into. He had typed the original, someone else had typed the forgeries. They had used the same paper, and probably the same machine. Could I tell them apart?” He smiled broadly. “Of course I could!”

He picked up the magnifying glass. “He told me that he would want me to show the differences to you, that you worked for the newspaper and might be willing to help him.” He opened the folder and tapped on the top page. “These are photocopies-excellent copies, but copies all the same. I worked from his originals for purposes of the examination, of course. But I didn’t want to mark those, so I copied them and circled the places where the differences really stand out.”

“Do you have the originals?” I asked.

“Oh…oh no. No, I don’t. He didn’t bring them to you?”

“No.”

“I did have them for a time, but he took them with him the last time I saw him.”

“When was that?”

“Let’s see. He stopped by…not last Saturday, but the previous Saturday.”

“Ten days ago?”

“Yes. I had completed my work by then. It didn’t take very long. Here-I’ll show you.”

27

HE TURNED ONEof the pages toward me. It seemed to be a page of data gathered from a survey of an apartment building. It began with an address with cross-streets included, followed by a detailed description of the building, including number of units, parking spaces, laundry facilities, and so on. The page ended with the start of descriptions of the households in each apartment.

“This is a page that Lucas typed. What do you notice about the typing itself?”

I glanced at it. “It looks fairly neat to me. Is this from his thesis?”

Edison nodded. “Look closer.” He handed me the magnifying glass, then reached over and pointed at several places on the page. “Wherever the lettersth appear together.”

As he pointed, I studied words likethe, tenth, mother, andfather. “The two letters are close together,” I said. “Closer than some of the others.”

“Very good! That’s a habit of his. All typists have habits, patterns they develop over time. That’s how I was able to do my job. There were the easy giveaways, of course-if someone used a different machine or ribbon. Each machine has its own characteristics-type wear and so on. But if the ribbon isn’t available or the same machine was used, it helps to look at the habits of the typist.

“I asked Lucas to type something here for me,” he went on. “Had him use an old Remington I have in my den, told him just to type a note so I might have a sample of material that I had actuallyseen him type.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “He was fast and quite accurate.”