He could because he had seen it before. A deputy sheriff on his father’s force had the same name. Colin had seen thebadge when the deputy drove Roger Eames back from the cop bar and helped him up the home’s front steps. Colin spelled it, making sure to put thedbefore thet.
As he opened one of the files, Arnold Weinbrandt watched Colin. “How old are you precisely?”
The way he emphasized that last word,precisely, seemed important. “What time is it?”
Arnold glanced at his watch. “Eleven-seventeen.”
“Six years and four weeks and seven hours and twelve minutes.”
Arnold studied Colin as he shifted pages. “Six years and four weeks and seven hours and twelve minutes. How many seconds does that make?”
Colin found it easy to look at the man while he calculated. Arnold Weinbrandt seemed so impersonal. So disconnected. There was no danger here. He knew Celeste was worried about something. Something that had to do with him. But he also knew he was safe here. “Sixty thousand nine hundred and fifteen.”
Arnold drew out his phone, tapped swiftly, glanced at Colin, then took a pen from his shirt pocket and made swift notes. Then he opened the second file and took out a sheaf of papers inside a smaller plastic sleeve. “I want to give you a test of logic. Do you know that word?”
“Yes.”
“Define it, please.”
“The computer logic or the other, I don’t know what that one is called.”
Something in the way he answered eased the hard glint in Arnold’s eyes. “It’s called the philosophical definition.”
“‘Reasoning conducted or assessed according to strict principles of validity.’”
“Where did you read that?”
“The Webster dictionary. We have one at home.”
“Do you know what those words mean?”
He nodded. He had looked them all up. “It means figuring out the solution of a problem based on evidence. Nothing else. Not how much you want it to be one way or another. Not the way you hope things will be. Just evidence. Lining it all up in the right order and then accepting the answer. The only answer.”
Arnold turned and stared at the mirror for a long moment. Then, “Tell me why that interests you.”
“It’s a way to test everything. Look away from the confusion. Find what is really there. Find the real answer.” He didn’t know if he had said what he should, but he thought he found a hint of something new in Arnold’s gaze. Almost a smile. But one that came nowhere close to his mouth.
“There are three basic kinds of logical reasoning. You understand those two words together, yes? Good. These are deductive, inductive, and abductive. Have you heard these before? No? Can you say them back to me?”
“Deductive, inductive, abductive.”
“Good. Deductive reasoning is where the conclusion is guaranteed. A general rule combined with solid evidence leads to one specific conclusion. Inductive is where the conclusion is probable, not certain. Abductive reasoning begins with an incomplete set of observations and proposes a set of likely solutions.” As he spoke, Arnold lay out a series of pages. Each one held drawings. “We are going to apply inductive reasoning to geometric designs. I want you to study each of these. Take as long as you need. When you are ready, I want you to tell me what is the one aspect that all of these designs share.”
Colin knew the answer before Arnold finished speaking. “I’m ready.”
“Don’t speak until you’re absolutely certain—”
“They all share something that’s not there.”
This time, the doctor rocked all the way back in his seat. The chair squeaked softly as the legs shifted on the cementfloor. He looked at the mirror again. “What is the missing aspect?”
“An isosceles triangle.” He took his time and said the hard word as best he could. Isosceles.
Arnold kept his gaze on the mirror and said, “You were right and I was wrong.”
Colin figured he was speaking to whoever was on the other side of the glass, so he did not reply.
Arnold turned back to him, studied Colin a long moment, and then said, “Okay. We’re going to shift gears. Ready?”