Charlene s Roommate
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Phelps established to his own satisfaction that the girl worked regular hours and a five-day week. He learned her name, learned, as he had guessed, that she was a paralegal staff member at the law firm, and discovered, somewhat to his disappointment, that she was not a frequent habitue of the town's department stores or supermarkets in her daring costume of the previous week.
He decided that his constant vigil was both unproductive and far too conspicuous. He settled on walk-bys past her residence after working hours. So far as could be determined from his intermittent contacts, the girl was a homebody. Early Wednesday evening, in the midst of an all-day drizzling rain, he followed her, on foot, to a supermarket not far from her home. But the market was relatively small, and the clothing she was wearing was not provocative. He decided it would be unwise to follow her inside.
It rained heavily all day Thursday, and Phelps confined himself to a single after-work drive-by. He saw nothing.
Friday night, he observed her being picked up at 7:30 by the same young man who'd accompanied her to the beach the previous week-end. They drove away, dressed for an evening out. Phelps made no attempt to follow.
But he didn't go back to his hotel. Her street was quiet and dark, and the house's rear yard was unlit and accessible. Careful not to be seen, Phelps crossed the side yard near the rear of the house and tried the back door.
It was locked, but the old-fashioned door was easily breached. Phelps entered the darkened house with confidence. Clearly, the girl lived alone and would most likely be gone for hours. He decided he couldn't risk turning on a light, but with reasonable care, he felt there was little danger of his being detected.
He explored the house, aided only by a penlight and the dim glow that filtered in from the street. It was unnecessary to go upstairs to confirm his earlier belief that the upper floor was not in use. The otherwise-tidy house had a dusty stairway that clearly hadn't been traveled by anyone in weeks, if not months. The house, seemingly large when viewed from the street, was surprisingly compact inside. The main floor consisted of an ancient kitchen, through which he had entered, leading through a long narrow dining room to a front parlor. The furniture, probably coming with the house in a rental deal, was modest and extraordinarily old-fashioned. The other side of the main floor, reached from the parlor and separated by a broad front hallway from the three-rooms through which Phelps had entered, consisted of one large and one small bedroom, with a bathroom in the middle.
It was evident that the girl occupied the large bedroom near the front. The smaller bedroom was almost empty of furnishings, other than a small chest of drawers and a single bed. Retracing his steps to her darkened bedroom, Phelps cast about with the penlight. The shades were drawn, and virtually no light entered from the street on this side of the house. He explored the bureau drawers, finding an unremarkable assortment of underwear, panty hose and costume jewelry. Phelps gave no thought to the taking of souvenir lingerie; it wasn't his style.
A small photo album on a bedside table yielded snapshots of Emma, the man she was out with that night, the plump girlfriend from work, and several other people Phelps didn't recognize. Nothing exceptional. He pocketed a snapshot of Emma.
The bedroom closet was large, well-stocked with clothing and shoes, and filled on three sides, under the clothes and against the back wall, with cardboard boxes -- the kind used to ship copy paper. Closing the closet door from the inside, Phelps pulled an overhead string that provided an alarmingly bright ceiling light within the closet. He checked several of the boxes, being careful not to disturb the many high-heeled shoes strewn about the floor.
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