I feel the ringing begin, the high pitched tone, and I shake myself. I can push the image away, but I can’t focus on anything else. It lurks behind my every thought like a half-seen stalker in the woods.
Maybe that’s why, despite the pressure of the investigation, I stay in my house all morning and into the afternoon. It’s not fear. Or anxiety. It’s not. I’m giving my subconscious the time to process and collate, and come up with a solution for what to do next. I don’t want to be distracted, which is why I ignore Phoebe’s phone calls.
The scanner app on my phone is playing non-stop, a curtain of white noise, and between bouts of static I hear about loose dogs, an argument on a downtown street corner that becomes a fistfight, complaints about noisy neighbors. And then I hear an arrest go down. It isn’t that explicit, but I know the codes and can read the intent contained in terse bursts of dialogue. Backup units called to aid in apprehending a dangerous suspect. My anxiety spikes. I get a hollow feeling in my belly. The address is one I recognize. Because I was just there.
Claire Chandler has been taken into custody. And my brain snaps back into focus.
Within hours the Church of the Spirit social media page is crawling with speculation. All comments are couched in appropriate rhetoric, offering prayers and thoughts, but everyone has an opinion. The majority agree her motivation is supposed to be revenge for his philandering.
I guess Daniel’s secret life isn’t so secret after all. Astoria is a small town, and there’s no one like your neighbors for rooting out the dirt.
Honestly, I’m reeling. Claire, guilty? I just didn’t get a resentful, good-riddance vibe from her, when she told me about her husband’s death. She didn’t say anything about his ‘getting what he deserved’ or ‘well, at least I have the life insurance.’ Although she was angry and hurt because of his cheating, she’d known about it for years. So why kill him now? And what about Harkness’s murder? I had half-assumed both killings would have the same perpetrator. But the M.O.’s are different: forced drowning versus bludgeoning with a blunt object.
I pace around my house for what seems like ages. The lack of furniture enables me to cover a lot of distance without tripping over anything. Bonus.
The police couldn’t have arrested Claire without evidence for the warrant, so there must be something. Strong circumstantial evidence, plus the statistical likelihood that the surviving spouse is the guilty party. Depends on how stringent the judge is.
I don’t believe that Claire is guilty. But. Is it just because I know her, and don’t want to think of her that way? Anyone can be a killer, given the right provocation. But a murderer? No. Murder demands a certain detachment, a certain coldness, a certain level of ego. Or desperation.
But. My beliefs don’t mean anything. What’s needed is evidence. And I don’t have any. Not yet.
I go down to my incident room. Stare at the collage of photos, strings, and notes. Who among my suspects had connections to Daniel? Jason Morganstern: I remember how Daniel treated him at the vigil, Morganstern’s flash of belligerence and anger. My own evaluation of ‘no love lost.’ Next, Eric North: he gave a picture to the church, but his relationship with the bookkeeper was minimal. There is a connection between Jason and Eric, though. A successful artist mentoring a beginner.
Could they both be involved? That might explain the difference between the two killings.
Or am I completely wrong, and Claire has been guilty all along?
First, I go to Jason Morganstern’s place of work. The sound of welding and metal banging on metal echoes throughout the warehouse. Shouts. Ribald jokes. Smell of diesel and heat.
“Morganstern’s not here,” says the foreman.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Let go.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“What for?”
The foreman looks around, shifts a toothpick in his mouth from one corner to the other. “Stealing. I heard.” He shrugs.
“Stealing what?” I remember the missing tools Jason talked about when I interviewed him last time.
“Don’t know. He was caught breaking into the tool shed.”
“This is separate from the other incident, right?”
The manager nods, shrugs again, looks bored. He glances over the busy floor of the warehouse. Boats up on blocks.
I persevere. “Can you tell me where he lives?”
“No.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“No.”
“Do you think he was stealing?”
“Doesn’t matter much what I think.”
“But really. You’re the guy who’s out here, who really knows what’s going on.” Just a bit of butter. “What do you think?”
Finally he takes the toothpick out of his mouth and spits on the ground. “I think Jason’s a dumb fuck who can’t control his impulses. I don’t think he’s dishonest, but I wouldn’t put it past him to just ‘borrow’ some tools. Company has lots of money. They can always buy more, right?”
“Right.”
Nothing more of value from the foreman. I go back to my car, find an unsecured wifi channel. It takes me a while on various search engines, but eventually I find Jason’s digs, an old apartment building on Bond Street a few blocks from the shelter. There’s no buzzer system, but the front door of the building is propped open and a wall of mailboxes is visible with names and numbers. I shake my head. Bad security. Anyone could just walk in. Jason’s name is on box 224, so I head upstairs and knock on his door. He actually answers, looking somewhat the worse for wear. A patchy beard stubbles his jaws, and his hair looks like he slept on it wet. The place is a sty, with dirty dishes and beer cans and soiled laundry everywhere. It smells like hamburger grease and unwashed dude.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I heard you got canned,” I say.
He mumbles something and looks away, wandering into the kitchen. I follow him. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Nah, not really. Assholes. I was putting something back, not taking something away.”
“Oh.
