"Just thought I'd pass it along," Angela said. "The medical examiner also said that the skin under Hodges' fingernails was definitely his killer's. He has a DNA fingerprint."

"Trouble is, super-sophisticated DNA malarkey is not much help without a suspect," Robertson said.

"There was a small town in England that solved a rape with a DNA fingerprint," Angela said. "All they did was do a DNA test on everybody in the town."

"Wow," Robertson said. "I can just imagine what the American Civil Liberties Union would say if I tried that here in Bartlet."

"I'm not suggesting you try," Angela said. "But I did want you to know about the DNA fingerprint."

"Thank you," Robertson said. "And thanks for coming by." He stood up when Angela got up to go.

He watched through his window as Angela got in her car.

As she drove off, Robertson picked up his phone and pressed one of the automatic dialers. "You're not going to believe this, but she's still at it. She's like a dog with a bone."

Angela felt a little better for having tried to clear things up with Robertson. At the same time she didn't delude herself into thinking that she'd changed anything. Intuitively she knew he still wasn't about to lift a finger to get Hodges' murder case solved.

At the hospital, all the parking slots reserved for the professional staff near the back entrance of the hospital were occupied. Angela had to zig-zag back and forth through the lot looking for a vacant spot. Finding nothing, she drove into the upper lot. She finally located a spot way up in the far corner. It took her almost five minutes to walk back to the hospital door.

"This isn't my day," Angela said aloud as she entered the building.

"But you won't even be able to see the parking garage from the town," Traynor said into the phone. His frustration was thinly masked. He was talking to Ned Banks, who had become one of the town's Selectmen the previous year.

"No, no, no," Traynor reiterated. "It's not going to look like a World War II bunker. Why don't you meet me sometime at the hospital and I'll show you the model. I promise you, it's rather attractive. And if Bartlet Community Hospital intends to be the referral hospital of the state, we need it."

Collette, Traynor's secretary, came into the room and placed a business card on the desk blotter in front of Traynor. At that moment Ned was carrying on about Bartlet losing its charm. Traynor picked up the card. It read: "Phil Calhoun, Private Investigation, Satisfaction Guaranteed."

Traynor covered the mouthpiece and whispered: "Who the hell is Phil Calhoun?"

Collette shrugged. "I've never seen him before, but he says he knows you. Anyway, he's waiting outside. I've got to run over to the post office."

Traynor waved goodbye to his secretary and then put down the business card. Meanwhile, Ned was still lamenting the recent changes in Bartlet, especially the condominium development near the interstate.

"Look, Ned, I've got to run," Traynor interrupted. "I really hope you give this hospital parking garage some thought. I know that Wiggins has been bad-mouthing it, but it's important for the hospital. And frankly, I need all the votes I can get."

Traynor hung up the phone with disgust. He had trouble understanding the short-sightedness of most of the Selectmen. None of them seemed to appreciate the economic significance of the hospital, and that made his job as chairman of the hospital board that much more difficult.

Traynor peered into the outer office to get a glimpse of the PI he supposedly knew. Flipping through one of the hospital quarterly reports was a big man in a black and white checkered shirt. Traynor thought he looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place him.

Traynor invited Calhoun inside. While they shook hands, Traynor scoured his memory, but he still drew a blank. He motioned toward a chair. The two men sat down.

It wasn't until Calhoun mentioned that he'd been a state policeman that it came to Traynor. "I remember," he said. "You used to be friends with Harley Strombell's brother."

Calhoun nodded and complimented Traynor on his memory.

"Never forget a face," Traynor boasted.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about Dr. Hodges," Calhoun said, getting to the point.

Traynor nervously fingered the gavel he used for hospital board meetings. He didn't like answering questions about Hodges, yet he was afraid not to. He didn't want to make it an issue. He wished this whole Hodges mess would go away.

"Is your interest personal or professional?" Traynor asked.

"Combination," Calhoun said.

"Have you been retained?" Traynor asked.

"You might say so," Calhoun said.

"By whom?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Calhoun said. "As a lawyer, I'm sure you understand."

"If you expect me to be cooperative," Traynor said, "then you'll have to be a bit more open yourself."

Calhoun took out his Antonio y Cleopatras and asked if he could smoke. Traynor nodded. Calhoun offered one to Traynor, but Traynor declined. Calhoun took his time lighting up. He blew smoke up at the ceiling, and then spoke: "The family is interested in finding out who was responsible for the doctor's brutal murder."

"That's understandable," Traynor said. "Can I have your word that whatever I say remains discreet?"

"Absolutely," Calhoun said.

"Okay, what do you want to ask me?"

"I'm making a list of people who disliked Hodges," Calhoun said. "Do you have anyone to put on my list?"

"Half the town," Traynor said with a short laugh. "But I don't feel comfortable giving names."

"I understand you saw Hodges the night of his murder," Calhoun said.

"Hodges burst in on a meeting we were having at the hospital," Traynor said. "It was an unpleasant habit of his that he indulged all too frequently."

"I understand Hodges was angry," Calhoun said.

"Where did you hear that?" Traynor asked.

"I've been speaking to a number of people in town," Calhoun said.

"Hodges was angry all the time," Traynor said. "He was chronically unhappy with the way we manage the hospital. You see, Dr. Hodges had a proprietary feeling about the institution. He was also dated in his thinking. He was an old-school 'doc' who ran the hospital when it was a cost-plus situation. He had no feeling for the new environment of managed care and managed competition. He just didn't understand."

"I don't think I know too much about that, either," Calhoun admitted.

"You'd better learn," Traynor warned. "Because it's here. What kind of health plan are you under?"

"CMV," Calhoun said.

"There you go," Traynor said. "Managed care. You're already part of it and you don't even know it."

"I understand when Dr. Hodges burst into your hospital meeting he had some hospital charts with him."

"Parts of charts," Traynor corrected. "But I didn't get a look at them. I was planning on having lunch with him the following day to discuss whatever was on his mind. It undoubtedly concerned some of his former patients. He was always complaining about his former patients not getting VIP treatment. Frankly, he was a pain in the ass."

"Did Dr. Hodges bother the new hospital administrator, Helen Beaton?" Calhoun asked.

"Oh, God, yes!" Traynor said. "Hodges would think nothing of barging into her office any time of the day. Helen Beaton was probably the person who suffered from Hodges' barrages the most. After all, she had his old position. And who knew how to do it better than himself?"

"I understand that you ran into Hodges a second time that night he burst in on your meeting," Calhoun said.

"Unfortunately," Traynor said. "At the inn. After most hospital meetings, we go to the inn. That night Hodges was there drinking as usual and as belligerent as usual."

"And he had unpleasant words with Robertson?" Calhoun asked.