Tuesday morning I began my day by sifting carefully through a huge stack of reports, making notes as I read. When I reviewed the notes I’d jotted on a yellow pad, one name stood out. Both the victim’s roommate and people at the club mentioned a young drag queen wannabe named Tommy to whom the victim had been giving instructions in the noble art of lip-synch. I took a red felt-tip pen, printed “Find Tommy” at the bottom of the page, and called Janet to my office.
“Have you read all the reports?” I said, the moment she stuck her head in the door.
“I think so.”
“Is anybody looking for this would-be drag queen named Tommy?”
“Two of the guys are on it. We don’t have an address, only his first name. The victim’s roommate doesn’t seem to have a clue.”
“If we haven’t found Tommy by the end of the day, send Carl out to ask the roommate politely but firmly to come in for a session with a sketch artist.”
“Will do.”