“Don’t believe notifications have started yet, ma’am,” Clarke said diffidently. Sheila nodded. People expected the police to get on the phone immediately when a family member was found dead. But it was a rare death where a please-notify list was taped beside the phone. Bartlett would be going through the victim’s wallet and scrolling through his smart phone.
Clarke went on: “Mrs. Kirk said she’d just got off work at the library.
She came over to talk to her husband about some personal business. Detective Bartlett asked her to ID the victim, which she did. I was just kinda keepin’ her comp’ny while she’s waitin’ for him to interview her.” She nodded in the direction of the house. “He’s been in there with the judge and the crime-scene photographer.”
Sheila nodded. First the JP, for a ruling. Then the photographer, for videos, digital stills, and Polaroids. After that, the forensic specialist would get to work. “It was called in as a suicide, I understand,” she said.
“Yep.” Clarke squinted at her. “I made sure he was dead, did a quick search of the house to be sure there were no other victims or shooters, and secured the scene. The gun’s in his hand,” she added. “Looks like suicide.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sheila frowned slightly. The recoil of the weapon on firing or the act of falling could have (perhaps should have) dislodged the gun and sent it flying. But where guns were concerned, anything could happen and often did. “Thanks, Clarke.”
Sheila looked up to see Maude Porterfield limping across the yard toward her, leaning on her cane. The old judge’s arthritis had been bothering her for a while. Getting around was difficult—which had nothing to do with her eyesight or judgment, of course. The judge was as sharp as ever.
“I’m finished in there, Chief Dawson,” she said in her cracked voice. “Got my grandkids comin’ for supper and we’re cookin’ up a big pot of chili and a pan of cornbread.” She looked around. “Where’s Captain Hardin?”
“On his way to Rockport. He’s got some vacation time coming.”
Judge Porterfield snorted. “Gone fishin, huh? Then it’s all yours, Chief. This one might be interestin’.”
Interesting? Sheila raised an eyebrow but said only, “Have you ruled yet?”
“Leavin’ it open for now,” the judge replied. “Body’s on the floor. Gunshot wound to the head, right temple.” She lifted her blue eyes to Sheila’s. “Thirty-two automatic—Llama—in his hand.
In
his hand,” she repeated. “Wallet on the table, two fifties and a couple of credit cards. Didn’t see a note.”
Sheila considered the implications of this. There weren’t too many Llamas around—the gun was Spanish and hadn’t been manufactured since the fifties. It wasn’t big and didn’t have a lot of recoil, so maybe he could have held on to it. The wallet and credit cards would seem to rule out robbery. And no suicide note. “Powder burns?”
“Not so’s I noticed right off. I’ll wait for the autopsy report before I rule. Let me know if you turn up a note somewhere.” Judge Porterfield pursed her lips. “Messy in there, Chief. A small space to work in. Not easy to tell exactly what happened, just lookin’ at things.” She added, “I’ll start the paperwork in the mornin’. Gotta feed those grandkids tonight.”
“You bet,” Sheila said with a smile. “Can’t let the kids go hungry. We’ll get back to you if we uncover anything. You have a nice evening, Judge.”
“You, too,” the judge said. She paused and looked Sheila straight in the eye. “And remember what I told you and that ex-sheriff of yours. ’Til death do you part.”
“We’ll give it our best shot,” Sheila said, with immense gravity.
“See that you do,” the judge snapped. “You young folks got to learn to take your vows serious. Won’t work ’less you do.”
As the judge left, Sheila turned to see Jack Bartlett watching her with a quizzical look on his face. She lifted her hand.
“Detective Bartlett, may I have a word?” They stepped over to the side of the garage. Sheila cleared her throat. “Captain Hardin is taking a few days’ vacation.”
“He told me, Chief,” Bartlett said. “Also told me to report direct to you while he was gone.”
The young detective was taller than Sheila, with crisp dark hair, olive skin, a slender build. Not much over thirty, too craggy to be handsome, but with a reputation as a ladies’ man just the same. And a hard drinker. Sheila had heard a couple of stories about his good-time style, although tales of that kind had a way of snowballing as they rolled around the department. He had come from the San Antonio PD a couple of years back, bright, ambitious, self-confident, with an air of danger about him and tales of a temper with a dangerously low flashpoint. He was dressed in plainclothes today—pressed jeans, dark shirt, and dark tie, tan corduroy jacket, and cowboy boots.
He gestured toward the house. “We don’t get many like this one. Looks like suicide. My guess, it’s a homicide.”
“No note anywhere?”
“No, although I haven’t checked the laptop.” He paused. “Think we should let Captain Hardin know? He might want to postpone his trip. Hell, for a homicide, he’d probably even turn around and come back.”
“The captain has the time coming to him,” Sheila said. “Anyway, I’d like to assist on this investigation, Jack. Not because you couldn’t handle it alone or with Matheson, but because I want to get out from behind the desk for a while. Put in some time in the field.” She paused. She could tell him that she’d had it up to here with politics and paperwork, but complaining to the troops was probably not a good idea. “Do you have any problems with that?”
“Problems?” Bartlett gave her a calculating, narrow-eyed look, then relaxed into a crooked grin. “Hey, I’m happy to hand it over, Chief. It’ll be a pleasure to work with you.”
She knew Bartlett just well enough to guess that he meant what he
said, and she was glad. But she shook her head. “I’m not taking this case, Detective Bartlett. I said ‘assist.’ This one is yours. You call the shots.”
He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “That isn’t necessary, Chief Dawson. I’ll be glad to backstop you, same way I’d backstop Captain Hardin.” He added, matter-of-factly and without judgment, “Case like this, he’d take the lead for sure.”
Take the lead and take the credit, Sheila thought, out in front of the team that did the work. “Do I have to pull rank?” she asked. “Look, Detective. I want to get my head out of the office for a while. Do some footwork, talk to people, take notes, do some serious police work.” She shrugged. “Not that what goes on in the office isn’t serious. But… well, you know. Anyway, you’re taking the lead. It’s your show. I’m here to assist.”
He studied her with a wary mistrust, as if he were trying to figure out her real motives. “Yes, ma’am. I hear you. But Captain Hardin isn’t going to like—”
“Noted,” she said briskly. “And for the duration, can the ‘ma’am.’ It’s Sheila when we’re together. Okay?”
He hesitated, guarded, cautious. “Roger that.” He looked around, then added, testing the word, “Sheila.”
“You got it, Jack.” She straightened. “Judge Porterfield said she didn’t notice any powder burns. What did you see?”
“I did a close visual before the county team got here. Looked for stippling but didn’t see it. I did spot a thirty-two cartridge casing on the floor.” He frowned. “I’m thinking that we should have the autopsy done locally, rather than sending it to the Travis ME’s office. We’ll get the report back faster.” Adams County autopsies could be done either at the county hospital or sent to the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office, which served a forty-two-county region in Central Texas. There,
the out-of-county corpses got in line behind the local traffic, which could mean a delay of several days.
“Works for me.” Sheila glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the weeping woman. “Have you talked to the wife? Widow,” she corrected herself. “Mrs. Kirk.”
“You want to handle that?” Bartlett was diffident, and Sheila knew why. Next-of-kin conversations were always tough. He didn’t want her to think he was dumping something unpleasant on her plate. “The county photographer will finish up pretty quick and the forensic tech is ready to get started. I’d like to keep an eye on the scene. And I haven’t walked the house yet. There might be a note somewhere.” He gave her a testing look. “Of course, if you’d rather take over inside, I’ll do the interview.”
“I’ll have a look when you’re finished.” Sheila took out her notebook, thinking ahead. The scene was important, but so was the wife. The Department of Justice had recently reported that, in spousal murders, women represented 41 percent of the killers. If this turned into a homicide, Dana Kirk was automatically a suspect. And if she had killed her husband, her defense—when the case came to trial—might be spousal abuse. That was what made this first interview so critical. It would tell them something about both the victim and the woman he left behind, who could benefit from his death. The
how
and
when
were easy—forensics would tell them that.
Why
was another matter. And
who
, if this turned out to be homicide.
“Anything special you want me to check out with Mrs. Kirk?” she asked.
“Find out what guns her husband owned.” Bartlett glanced at his watch, frowning. “You know who this guy is, right, Chief?” She saw his jaw go red. “Uh, Sheila,” he said, in a lower voice.
She nodded. “The owner of the computer shop that George Timms broke into.”
“Yeah.” He shifted his weight. “I’m wondering about Timms’ arrest. He was supposed to be booked over an hour ago, and both of us should have been notified. I’d better see what—” He reached for the radio clipped to his belt.
She put out a hand. “Don’t bother, Jack. Timms is a no-show. Charlie Lipman called my cell phone a few minutes ago, looking for him.” She grinned wryly. “You know Lipman. He was hoping we had his client so he could accuse us of holding him incommunicado.”
“I’ll bet,” Bartlett muttered. “I can hear him now.” He looked back at the house again. “Hey, maybe we should—”
“I called in the APB right after I got off the phone with Lipman,” she said, reading his intention. “I saw your interim report on the break-in. After his surrender, Timms is supposed to come clean about that blackmail business—his so-called motivation for the burglary. Did you get any sense from Lipman of what that’s about?”
“Nope. In fact, I got the idea that Lipman himself didn’t have the full story, although you never know with that guy.”
“Did you uncover any sign of a personal connection between Timms and Kirk?” Sheila asked. “Anything—” She hesitated. “Anything suggesting that maybe Kirk was helping himself to a little blackmail on the side?”
Was
, she thought. Past tense. “Might not be too hard, if he had Timms’ computer in the shop for repair or cleanup and happened to notice something incriminating on it.”
Happened to notice, or went looking on purpose
. Maybe it was part of an ongoing racket, and Timms wasn’t the only victim.
Bartlett shook his head. “I didn’t pick up any personal connection. It looked like Timms got out of Kirk’s shop without finding what he was
after. Kirk himself wasn’t involved, so far as I knew, anyway. But this—” He jerked his head toward the house. “This is something else. And I don’t like coincidences.”
“Here’s another thing,” Sheila said. “I just ran into China Bayles, out there on the drive. She’s a friend of the woman who stumbled onto the body. She told me that Kirk had emailed her about a stalker—his word. China is a former criminal attorney and one of Kirk’s computer clients. He was looking for some inside advice on how to deal with the situation, maybe thinking he needed a lawyer.”
“A stalker, huh?” Bartlett’s head jerked up, his eyes bright, alert. “Interesting. Wonder what that means, exactly. Male, female?”
“Kirk didn’t give her any details. I’ll get her to forward his email. And it’s likely on his computer.”
“Yeah.” Bartlett pursed his lips. “I wonder if the widow knows anything. Maybe Kirk mentioned the stalker to her.”
“The Kirks were getting a divorce, I understand.” In response to his questioning look, she said, “Got that from a neighbor out front, and also from Bayles, who said the divorce was quote ‘messy,’ unquote. And wives sometimes hire private detectives to find out what their husbands are up to. Could be our stalker right there.” Sheila opened her notebook. “I’ll check back with you when I’m finished with Mrs. Kirk.”
“Yeah,” Bartlett said. He looked at her. “Thanks, Sheila,” he said, testing again. It sounded awkward and he straightened his shoulders. “Thank you, Sheila,” he said more firmly.
Sheila smiled. “No problem, Jack.”
D
ANA
Kirk was as soft and round and sweetly attractive as a stuffed doll, her makeup muted, her brown hair tumbling in soft curls around her
flushed and tear-stained face. Her voice was soft, too, and so choked that Sheila had to ask her more than once to speak up. Sitting down in a chair across from her, Sheila expressed condolences on the loss of her husband, then took notes as the story spilled out in rapid, breathy fragments, between gulps and swallowed sobs. Sheila kept her talking as much as possible. Tears could be a distraction. Or an act.
Dana had been at the Pecan Springs Library all day. She worked in the office there eight-to-five, five days a week, which sometimes but not always included Saturdays, in which case she took a different day off. Lots of people could vouch for her being there today, with only bathroom breaks and an hour for a late lunch between one and one forty-five, which she had eaten with—hesitation, a quick breath—a friend, at the diner on Nueces, about six blocks away. Asked the name of the friend, she hesitated again, then said, with eyes cast down, “Actually, my boss. Mr. Vance.”
She had worked at the library for six years, before that, for Jackie Harmon at Harmon Insurance, in Pecan Springs. Then she and Kirk had married and she’d gone to work at the library. They’d lived in an apartment first, then they bought this house. No, they’d never had any children. (A pause to wipe her eyes with a tissue and blow her nose.) Not even a dog or a cat. She’d wanted at least that, but Larry was allergic.
No, she wasn’t living here now. Yes, she and her husband had been separated for a couple of months, since (a pause to think about it) last April, which now that she thought about it, was more like (a pause to count on her fingers) six months. Had there been any spousal abuse? No, of course not (the answer delivered emphatically). When asked to reflect and be sure of that answer, she repeated it, watching Sheila make a note. No, no abuse. Larry was a kind person—thoughtless, too busy, but
basically kind. Yes, she had filed for divorce. The name of her lawyer? Angela Binder. Had she and Binder hired a private investigator to work on the case? Eyes widening, she said no, no, of course not. She had no reason to hire an investigator, and anyway, she didn’t have any extra money until Larry could sell the business.