“Yeah,” said Denning as he bagged and tagged the slug. “Even if we had the time and equipment to process this house like one of those CSI shows on television, so many people have tromped through here the last few days, there’s no way you could separate out what’s relevant from what isn’t.”
From his aggrieved tone, Dwight knew he was still smarting over having to admit in court last week that no, he had not lifted fingerprints off the digital camera that a thief, the meth-addicted son of a local businessman, had walked out of the store with.
“He had it inside his jacket,” Denning would say to anyone who would listen. “Why the hell would we bother to match his fingerprints to it? He was holding the fricking thing when he was arrested!” Nevertheless, until someone with a little common sense finally spoke up, the jury had almost declared the shoplifter not guilty because of that lack.
“Anything else disturbed or different from when you were here last?” Dwight asked them as two more deputies returned from canvassing the neighbors, who, predictably, had seen nothing.
Richards shrugged. “Denning and I think that her room is messier than it was before. But then she moved back in on Saturday, so she had at least a day and a half to trash it some more. Drawers and cabinet doors are open all over the house, and there’re some cardboard boxes in her bedroom and in the kitchen, like she was starting to pack up whatever she planned to keep.”
“Can’t say for sure if she tossed the house or someone else did,” said Denning. “Looking at the kitchen, I’ve got her pegged as a natural slob. Most of the drawer knobs are too textured to show prints. I got a couple of smears off the smooth knobs in the kitchen, but that’s it.”
One of the EMS techs pointedly tapped his watch. “How ’bout it, Major Bryant? Can we transport her now?”
“Yeah, okay,” Dwight said, and watched as they zipped Dee Bradshaw’s small stiff body into a body bag, lifted her onto the gurney, and wheeled her through the doorway.
Outside, beyond the yellow tape that bounded the yard, a knot of uneasy neighbors had gathered to watch. More deputies were keeping them back, but he saw cell phones raised to record the scene. No doubt it would soon be on someone’s website. The local TV crew left when the door of the EMS truck swung shut.
The days were steadily getting longer. Four o’clock and the sun was only now starting to settle into the trees. A shaft of sunlight through the leaves caught Richards’s auburn hair and turned it bright as a new copper penny.
The EMS truck pulled away just as Terry Wilson’s car coasted to a stop on the circular drive.
“Sorry,” the SBI agent said as he opened the door and got out and slipped on his jacket to cover his shoulder holster. “Got held up on another case. What the hell’s going on here, Dwight? Why was she killed? You reckon she found that flash drive?”
“Who knows?” Dwight turned back to his deputy. “Where’s Bradshaw?”
“In the sunroom with his office manager,” Richards said. “McLamb’s babysitting them.”
“Show me,” he said.
The east-facing sunroom was at the back of the house and looked out onto a grassy berm that was topped with a thick mixture of evergreens—cedars, hollies, camellia bushes, and boxwood—that disguised the highway beyond and effectively screened the house from both passing motorists and nearby neighbors. The far wall consisted of wide arched windows with French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace, where a set of white wrought-iron patio furniture waited invitingly.
The room was furnished in the colors that Candace Bradshaw apparently favored: white carpets, rose- patterned fabrics on the chairs and couches, deep rose accent cushions, and crisp white shades on the table lamps. A wet bar had been discreetly hidden in a cherry armoire, but the doors were folded back at the moment and a bottle of bourbon sat on the counter.
Deputy Raeford McLamb stood up when they entered the room, and Mrs. Farmer gave them a sad smile, but Cameron Bradshaw remained huddled at one end of a couch and seemed oblivious of their presence. He cradled a highball glass in his hands and looked closer to eighty than sixty.
If ever a man had a right to look shattered, though, it was this man, thought Dwight. First the wife that he had continued to love, and now his only child. And he had been the one to find her.
“We were supposed to have lunch together,” he told them in disjointed sentence fragments, as if it was an effort to think in logical sequence. “We were going to go over Candace’s will again—she left the house to Dee. Talk about selling it, decide what to do with the furniture. She wanted to get your brother-in-law to come over and give us an appraisal. He was nice to her, giving her a job like that. She liked him. But she was going to go back to school. Make up the work she missed. Get her life on track. But she didn’t meet us and she didn’t answer her phone, so Gracie and I came over. Her car was here, and—and—”
“You have a key?” Richards asked gently.
He nodded. “I opened the front door and called and there she was. On the floor. Soon as I saw her, I knew it was no use. Blood all over Candace’s white carpet. So much blood for such a little thing. My beautiful little girl. All that blood.”
He lifted the glass to his lips with both hands and drank deeply. It was clear that this was not his first nor even third drink.
Tears puddled in Mrs. Farmer’s eyes as she watched, but she didn’t try to stop him.
“Who would do this, Bryant?” Bradshaw asked in a voice that was rough with grief. “What did Dee ever do to make a monster shoot her down in her own house? She was just a girl still.”
“When did you last see her?” Dwight asked.
“Yesterday. After the service for Candace. Gracie made us come home with her for supper so that we wouldn’t have to go to a restaurant. Not that any of us were very hungry, but Dee left before dark. She wanted to get started packing up her clothes and the things she wanted to keep.”
“Did you talk to her later that evening?”
“I didn’t, but Gracie—?”
