I’d given her one of my business cards, which she studied while I stood across the desk from her. From her expression, I couldn’t tell whether she felt antagonistic or kindly disposed toward private investigators.

She tossed the card on the desk and leaned back in her chair. “Welcome to Burning Oaks. What can I do for you?”

I sat down without invitation and put my shoulder bag on the floor by my feet. Psychologically speaking, I didn’t want to tower over her. I wanted us eye to eye like we were equals. Her more than me.

“I’m wondering how I could obtain a copy of the autopsy report on a woman who died here in 1961. Her maiden name was Redfern, first name Lenore. She married a man named Ned Lowe. She died of a drug overdose from what I’m told.”

“If you’re talking about an autopsy close to thirty years ago, that file would be in storage. Burning Oaks is a small town. We rely on contract pathologists, most of them located up in Bakersfield. No offense, but asking one of my staff to track that down would be a pain, and what’s the point?”

“What about the investigator’s report?”

“I doubt they’d make that available, but even assuming you laid hands on it, paperwork like that would be useless. In those days, officers weren’t as well-trained. Case notes were sketchy and sometimes incoherent. Some of the spelling errors are downright comical. Generally speaking, no agency’s going to open their files to scrutiny by someone outside law enforcement. We could get our butts sued. People are entitled to privacy, even dead ones. Especially dead ones.”

“Is there anybody here who might actually remember the case?”

“I’ll be happy to ask around, but it doesn’t sound like it would have generated much buzz. What’s the husband’s name again?”

“Ned Lowe.”

“And he’s still here in town?”

“He left four months after his wife’s death.”

“They have kids?”

“One. A little girl who was three at the time. She’s married now and living in Santa Teresa.”

“You have a copy of the death certificate?”

“I don’t.”

“Write to Sacramento. Maybe you’ll discover something pertinent.”

“Thanks. I should have thought of it myself.”

• • •

I returned to my car and made notes, although I noticed I was feeling sheepish. Chief Duncan had been polite, but she’d made it clear we weren’t going to sit around discussing old news. She didn’t know the case and wouldn’t speculate. If I’d thought about it, I’d have known how little encouragement I’d get. I rubber-banded the cards and returned them to my bag.

I checked the map for Burning Oaks High School and headed in that direction. I wondered if Pete Wolinsky had had better luck than I was having. For the first time in my life, I wished he were in the car with me. We could have compared notes or bounced around ideas about how to get what we were after. For all the corner-cutting he did, he was a wily old bastard and doubtless had a million clever tricks up his sleeve.