There was no way to get through, no way to warn him.
Prime Suspect wondered whether the police had actually shown up at
Mendax's and whether, if he had been able to get through, his phone
call would have made any difference at all.
The house looked like it had been ransacked. It had been ransacked, by
Mendax's wife, on her way out. Half the furniture was missing, and the
other half was in disarray. Dresser drawers hung open with their
contents removed, and clothing lay scattered around the room.
When his wife left him, she didn't just take their toddler child. She
took a number of things which had sentimental value to Mendax. When
she insisted on taking the CD player she had given him for his
twentieth birthday just a few months before, he asked her to leave a
lock of her hair behind for him in its place. He still couldn't
believe his wife of three years had packed up and left him.
The last week of October had been a bad one for Mendax. Heartbroken,
he had sunk into a deep depression. He hadn't eaten properly for days,
he drifted in and out of a tortured sleep, and he had even lost the
desire to use his computer. His prized hacking disks, filled with
highly incriminating stolen computer access codes, were normally
stored in a secure hiding place.
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