“The killer must be pretty strong if he carried her.”
“So far, I’m not seeing any sign that she was dragged,” I reply.
“The blood is where the trunk might be if the vehicle was backed in.”
“And this is what it was like when you first got here?” I ask. “The light was on?”
“It was.”
“And the door you just opened was shut and locked?”
“It was shut but unlocked.”
“The garage door was down?” Using my phone, I take pictures of the tire tracks, the bloodlike drops in a gory blackish-red constellation on the concrete.
“Yes, and I don’t know how he did that from here unless he had a garage opener,” she says. “You can’t push the button on the wall and run through while it’s shutting. The safety mechanism won’t allow that.”
“What would you have done?” I always like to ask what others might come up with to solve a problem.
No need to be criminal, just human. Because at the end of the day, our nature is what it is, and we don’t have to be a monster to imagine one.
“I would have put the body in the trunk, and driven the car out,” Fruge says as we stand inside the lighted garage, looking around.
“Gwen doesn’t have a car. And if her killer stalked her, he would have known that.”
“If it was me, I’d have some type of vehicle parked off the property but close by.” Fruge plays it out.
She’d tuck it inside the garage, closing the door behind her. After she loaded the body inside the trunk, she’d drive out.
“Then I’d shut the garage door from inside,” she says. “And I’d exit through the house.”
“How would you do that?”
“Probably through the same door I’d used earlier when I first got there,” she says.
I strongly suspect it was the one off the dining room that leads to the patio, I tell her. It might explain why the blinds over the sink were open while the kitchen light was on after dark.
“She might have looked out to see who was on her patio, possibly knocking on the door,” I add as we return to the kitchen.
“And it seems she let the person in. What does that tell you?”
“That she wasn’t afraid at first,” I reply. “Possibly, they were familiar with each other.”
We walk back through the living room, and there’s no sign of Marino, August or anyone else. Taking off our PPE, we leave the townhome, walking past the pup tent and police cars. The storm has retreated, soon to be followed by another one, and wet dead leaves litter pavement and bricks like soggy bits of cardboard.
“I’m always running out of everything important.” Fruge insists on carrying my scene case, deciding she should keep something similar in her police car. “I’m constantly going through stuff like Purell, Lysol. Not to mention Narcan.”
Referring to the nasal spray naloxone hydrochloride that reverses the effects of opioids, she says that the last drug overdose she worked was in an alleyway this past Friday. She went through the Narcan she had in the trunk.
“Both victims had gotten hooked on pain meds, and now are hard-core heroin addicts who’ve had to be revived several times before,” she explains. “Whatever they got hold of was really bad stuff. You’ve got to be desperate to trust what you buy off the street, and they’ll O.D. again if something else doesn’t get them first.”
“I’m happy to share,” I reply.
I let her know that I insist my medical examiners and investigators are well stocked in Narcan, also EpiPens. You never know when you might be able to save someone, including saving yourself.
“Nice ride.” Reaching Marino’s stealthy Raptor truck, Fruge gives it a once-over. “Your sister must do pretty well with her books. It must be kind of weird though, him being married to her.”
I wonder what else she knows about my life as we walk off in the drizzly fog. Crime scene investigators suited up in protective garb are carrying equipment and forensic supplies through the front door, and another television news truck is pulling up. At least Dana Diletti and her crew have left, and uniformed officers are guarding the perimeter.
Marino and August are ghostly figures in white Tyvek probing the patio with flashlights. Fruge walks swiftly toward them, returning Marino’s key while neighbors walk their dogs around the cul-de-sac, staring at what’s going on. I text Benton that I’m headed home, informing him that an officer is driving me.