The roar of rain falling on the metal roof covers the sound of my footsteps as I make my way back to Chandler’s office. There’s no sign of the numbered cones and tags or other detritus of forensic data collection. Doesn’t look like the scene has been processed yet. They probably don’t have a local CSI team. Lucky for me.
I hope they’ve at least taken the body.
Steeling myself to peek around the jamb, I’m relieved to see there’s no corpse in the chair, no near-sighted bookkeeper with an eye for the ladies. The office doesn’t have windows, so it feels safe to flick on the light and shift into observation mode.
The harsh illumination reveals bloodstains, sprinkles of reddish drops on the desk and walls and a big smudge on the chair back. A line of backspatter across the ceiling tiles. Even without the body, evidence of a severe beating is clear. I glance around, trying to remember what the place looked like earlier. Piles of papers, computer, sagging bookcase, uncomfortable guest chair. Check, check, check, and check. The office still looks untidy, but not searched. Or if it has been, it’s been by a consummate professional. And I doubt that anyone of that caliber has any interest in Daniel Chandler.
I nudge the mouse a tiny bit to awaken the computer. I’d love to see an appointment schedule appear on the monitor, complete with names and addresses, but it’s only the login screen. I never seem to get the same breaks the TV detectives do.
Look again at the papers. Is one of the piles shorter? It’s hard to tell. And Daniel might have continued on working after I left. The truth is, I wasn’t paying that much attention to his desk. I take a barrage of pictures to study later, and notice the small red spots that crisscross the papers. The arcs look uninterrupted. The papers haven’t been moved since the attack; ditto flash drives and pens and post-it notes.
Whoever killed Chandler didn’t care about what the bookkeeper was doing in here. They weren’t after money, or incriminating documents, or blackmail material. Or if they were, they got what they wanted before the attack. There doesn’t even appear to have been a fight. Just one guy walking up to another and beating his head in.
I glance up at the backspatter, mime a swing over my head and adjust my position until I’m under it. The killer seems to have been standing at the side of the desk. But. There’s a lot of variables. Where Daniel was seated. The angle of the wound. The length of the weapon. All I know is the killer got close. My intuition goes clickety-clack. Chandler knew his killer. Knew him, and didn’t expect the violence. Didn’t see or recognize the weapon as a potential threat.
So, not an enraged husband. Or, a husband who kept himself so cool that Daniel didn’t clock the threat. Was that even possible? Even if the guy was cool, wouldn’t the bookkeeper have been a teensy bit nervous? Chandler wasn’t stupid. Would he have stayed sitting down? Seems like anyone would instinctively address a potential threat by standing up.
He wouldn’t have been afraid of Claire.
Shut up. It isn’t her. Women hardly ever beat people to death, remember?
Hardly ever isn’t never, though, is it?
I ignore Zoe, try to put myself in Chandler’s point of view. Close my eyes. Imagine that I’m sitting down, working, it’s late at night. I’m here alone…
A vision starts to form behind my eyelids. The ergonomic chair cradles my aching back, the computer keyboard is smooth under my fingers, clicking as I type. There’s a sharp pain behind my right shoulder, and I massage the muscle. My eyes are burning with fatigue. But I’m almost finished. The spreadsheet numbers blur and I rub my eyes. The sound of the rain is a background hum, white noise. The door creaks open. I look up in surprise, expecting to see my wife.
A steel hand clamps on my shoulder, jolting me back to the present. I scream a little, jabbing an elbow into whoever is behind me. I feel a body twist away from the impact, a grunt of aggravation more than pain.
“Ms. Lake,” says a masculine voice, “You are out of your jurisdiction.”
Detective Olafson gives me the option to go without handcuffs, but makes it clear that I’m coming with him to the station. I’m numb, still in shock from my experience. I don’t understand what just happened. I’d tried to imagine a sequence of events, and got something else, something more autonomous. Another vision? But how? What causes these? And why did Olafson have to interrupt before I saw the intruder?
Irritation replaces fear.
After a silent ride to the APD, we move past the curious gaze of the guy at the front desk and go right in to the same interview room we used when I came looking for a consultation.
“So, Ms. Lake, want to tell me why you’ve broken in to a crime scene which was clearly marked? I doubt you’ve forgotten what that means, despite the number of months you’ve been off the job.” The detective sounds genial, but the flash of his canines behind his upper lip and the hard glint in his eye reveal that he’s pissed.
I think about lying, but why? I think about not answering, but again, why? Just to annoy Detective Olafson? Doesn’t seem like a smart choice at this point. So, the truth it is, then.
But first: “I think ‘broken in’ is too strong a term, Detective. I didn’t break anything that wasn’t already.
