Out of the Cold by Norah McClintock Page B

The man who owns one of the grocery stores said the same thing—except he actually caught Mr. Duffy in the act. The man said he was taking packages of spices—coriander, cumin, stuff like that.” She looked intently at me, checking to see if I grasped what she was saying. “Fruit, bread, canned goods—that would make sense. But why would a homeless guy steal spices? The man said Mr. Duffy begged him to let him keep the stuff. The guy finally gave in, but he told Mr. Duffy that he’d call the police if he ever came back. He said Mr. Duffy was so grateful that he actually thanked him.
    â€œI went to the public library. Sometimes people like Mr. Duffy go there to beat the weather. The librarian I talked to was really nice. She remembered him and said mostly he was well behaved. She said there are several homeless people who stop by regularly. They just want a place to sit for a while. She said that Mr. Duffy read a lot of magazines. Especially computer magazines. Like, cover to cover. And you know the couple of shelves of old books that have been taken out of circulation, that they sell for a fifty cents or a dollar? She said Duffy bought one or two almost every time he came in. Novels, usually classics—Dickens, Tolstoy. Lately, though, guess what? He started buying picture books. Kids’ books.
    â€œHe visited the neighborhood walk-in clinic every couple of months.” When she saw my expression change, she added, “Yeah, I perked up when I heard that too. I thought maybe we’d lucked into something. But no one could tell me anything about his medical history,
of course
. That’s confidential. Apparently he always insisted on seeing the same doctor. Turns out
he’s
out of the country with Doctors Without Borders. I left a message on his office phone in case he ever calls to check his messages. Who knows? Maybe he’ll get in touch with you. And that’s it—that’s all I could get.”
    I stared at her.
    â€œWhat?” she said, annoyed—at me, at the spit on her coat, at the lukewarm non-latte coffee, at our surroundings.
    â€œYou did good, Morgan.”
    â€œYou sound surprised.”
    I
was
, a little. I had asked Morgan to help me, and she had agreed. But deep down I’d had my doubts about her ability (or willingness) to coax information out of complete strangers about another complete stranger.
    She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “So,” she said, “what did
you
find out?”
    What I had found out, item one: “I talked to workers at the two shelters around here. They both said more or less the same thing. They know him only by the name Duffy. They have no idea where he came from, what his past life was. No idea how he ended up on the street.”
    â€œAre you detecting a pattern here, Robyn?” Morgan said.
    I continued: “One of the workers I talked to has been at the shelter for maybe five years. He said that Duffy used to sleep at the shelter from time to time, but not very often. Both of them said that he didn’t feel comfortable at the shelters.” Ben had told me the same thing.
    â€œBut you hear yourself, right, Robyn? Mr. Duffy did know where those shelters were. He could have gone to one if he’d wanted. He didn’t
have
to sleep outside.”
    Maybe.
    â€œThey also said that in the past few months they’d caught him sneaking in a couple of times and stealing stuff. They never pressed charges. They just made him leave. And both of them said that up until recently, Mr. Duffy drank
a lot
. They said most of the money he made begging probably went to buying booze.”
    Morgan reached for her coffee cup, and for a moment I thought the caffeine addict in her was going to win out over the quality-snob. But she sighed and tucked her hands in her lap.
    Item two: “Mr. Duffy was a regular at the soup kitchen at St. Brigit’s Church. They offer a hot