The home is a slice of America sans California. A large, whitefenced front yard, the requisite tree made for climbing, a hand-laid flagstone path to the front door, and a general sense of comfortableness to it. The home itself is painted in off-whites and beige, and appears kept up.
'I guess there's a management service?' I ask Alan. He nods. 'Yeah. Gardeners come out once a week, brush clearing done before fire season, new coat of paint every two years or so.'
'Two?' Barry says. 'I do mine every five.'
'Salt air,' Alan explains.
'Where's the lawyer?' I ask.
'He got a call from a client and had to go.'
'Do we have the key?' I ask.
'We do.' Alan smiles, opening a huge hand to reveal a ring with two keys on it.
'Then let's go inside.'
When I enter the home, that sense of disconnectedness rushes over me again. I'm back in the time machine.
The problem, I think, is that Sarah's story was too vivid. She gathered up everything she could still feel and used it to bring her story to life, to take us down to the watering hole.
I half expect Buster and Doreen to come running, and I feel a twinge of sadness when they don't.
The home is unlit. The sunlight creeping through plantation shutters provides a dusky illumination. I move to just inside the doorway, and my shoes touch a floor of rich cherry hardwood, layered with a patina of dust. The wood continues forward into the kitchen on the right. I make out granite countertops, well-matched cabinets, and dusty stainless steel. The left is dominated by a large open room--not a living room per se, but a place to entertain. Ten people could mill around in it comfortably, twenty if they don't mind brushing up against each other. The hardwood continues there. Past this room is more open space, edged on the right by the kitchen, leading to the living room proper, which is where the carpet begins. It's bold, a dark brown. I move forward for a better look and smile a sad smile. The brown is matched by the rest of the living room, from paint to furniture. Decorated by a dead artist with an instinctive understanding of color.
A hallway heads off to the left from the living room, leading to the rest of the house. On the right, past a large and very comfortablelooking couch, are a series of sliding glass doors, thick-glassed, leading into what looks like a large backyard. The house is silent, almost oppressive.
'Feels like a tomb,' Barry mutters, an echo of my own thoughts.
'It is,' I say. I turn to Alan. 'Let's go through this step-by-step.'
He flips open the case file--which I note is pretty thin--and consults it.
'No sign of forced entry,' he begins. 'Perp probably got a copy of the keys. Responding officers Santos and Jones entered through the sliding glass doors from the backyard. The bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Langstrom were found just inside.' He nods his head toward the spot. We walk over and look.
'You weren't kidding about nobody being here since CSU,' I mutter.
A square of the brown carpeting is missing, cut away by the Crime Scene Unit for the blood evidence it contained. They only took what they thought they'd need; dark splotches are still visible elsewhere, including spots on the wall and couch. Gunshots to the head are messy.
'Mr. Langstrom was handcuffed nude--they both were. Position of his body was facedown. Mrs. Langstrom ended up on her back, with her head resting right about where that missing piece of carpet is.'
I gaze down, envisioning the tableau.
'The ME notes on-site that Mr. Langstrom's eyes show petechial hemorrhaging, and that bruising around the neck is consistent with strangulation. Autopsy confirmed.'
'Did Mrs. Langstrom get an autopsy?' I ask.
As a suicide, she might not have.
'Yeah.'
'Go on.'
'Lividity confirmed that they hadn't been moved postmortem. They died as and where they were found. Liver temps put time of death at roughly five A.M.'
'That's the first thing that reads weird to me,' Barry says. I look at him. 'What's that?'
'TOD is five in the morning. The cops were called hours later. What kind of gun did she use?'
Alan doesn't have to consult the file. He's already considered the question Barry is posing. 'Nine mil.'
'Loud,' Barry opines. 'Noisy. She shot the dog and she shot herself. Why didn't anyone hear anything?'
'Cathy Jones asked the same question,' Callie replies.
'Sloppy,' Alan says in disgust, shaking his head. He's talking about the inductive police-work. Alan spent ten years in Los Angeles Homicide before coming to the FBI, and he was known for his attention to detail and his refusal to take shortcuts. He would have thought about the sound of the gunshot if he'd been the one investigating ten years ago.
'Go on,' I tell him.
'Sarah was found outside, in a near catatonic state. No mention of a burn on her hand anywhere in the file.' The look he gives me is significant. 'So when we went to see her in the hospital, I checked. She's got a small scar there.' He frowns, more disgust. 'Sloppy again. They didn't check shit, just ate what they were spoon-fed.'
I point out what's important. 'Bad then,' I say, 'but good for us now. They weren't looking, which means that there could still be something here that will lead us to him.'
'What about the gun?' Callie asks, thoughtful.
Alan gives her a quizzical look. 'What about it?'
'Did they look into it? Did the Langstroms even own a gun?'
Alan flips through the file, nodding as he finds something. 'It was unregistered. Serial number filed off. Says here they figured she'd bought it on the street.' His voice becomes sarcastic. 'Yeah, because Linda Langstrom would know exactly where to go to buy a hot gun. Why would she even bother? If she planned to kill herself, she wouldn't have been worried about it being traced.'
I look at Barry. 'Would the gun still be in evidence?'
'I'm guessing yes. Evidence destruction is a hassle. It takes about an hour to fill out the paperwork, and from what I've seen so far, the guys on this case didn't seem inclined to go the extra mile.'
'Then let's get it, Alan. Have Ballistics check out the gun.'
'Might have a history,' he says, nodding.
'What next?' I ask.
'Bullet was a hollow point, so there was maximum destruction on exit.' He flips a page. 'Linda Langstrom's fingerprints were found on her husband's neck. Consistent with her being the doer. There was the note, and the antidepressants.'
'What about that?' I query, interested.
'Nada,' he replies. 'Just a note that she had them. No follow-up.'
'Other physical evidence?'
He shakes his head. 'CSU only fine-toothed in here, and even that was pretty perfunctory. They left the rest of the house untouched.'
'They weren't looking for evidence to break a case,' Callie muses.
'They were collecting evidence to confirm what they already knew.'
'
'Where was the dog killed?' I ask.
Alan consults the file again. 'Near the entryway.' He frowns. 'Take a look at this.'
He hands me a photograph. I peer at it and grimace. In it, Buster the faithful dog is headless, lying on the hardwood floor near the entryway. I take a closer look and my eyes narrow.
'Interesting, huh?' Alan asks.
'Sure is,' I reply.
The photograph shows Buster lying on his side. His head--or where his head would be--is pointed toward the front of the house. A bloody hacksaw lies a short distance away.
'If Linda Langstrom was the killer,' I say, 'why was the dog in the entryway? And why was he facing toward
