“Relocated from where?” I put on a long-sleeved black tactical shirt with the OCME crest on it, a caduceus and the scales of justice embroidered in blue, gold and red.
“Boston,” August says as I walk out of the bathroom, buttoning up. “I texted you a picture, what Fruge sent me. A ten-pound kettlebell weight that’s in the townhome’s entryway. A weird place for it unless it was being used as a doorstop, right?”
“I’m opening the photo now,” I tell him as I do it.
The kettlebell is round, flat-bottomed, bright blue with a shiny stainless-steel looped handle. It’s lying on its side to the left of the front door on the hardwood floor, and August wonders if an attacker might have used it to hit Gwen in the back of the head.
“Assuming she and the murdered woman from Friday night are one and the same,” he adds.
“Are we sure Officer Fruge didn’t move anything?” I enlarge the photo on my phone.
“She says she didn’t except for looking inside the knapsack. When she did her walk-through, she had on a mask and gloves, was being careful. That’s what she says.”
“And then what?”
“And then she waited until the crime scene unit got there. They’ve done their overall, taken video and photos. But they won’t come in and process anything until you and I take a look.”
“Except we don’t know if it’s really a crime scene, do we?” I ask the most glaring question.
I imagine the missing biomedical engineer returning home and finding cops inside her place, turning it upside down. Even worse if the medical examiner is there, and I don’t need that my first month on the job. I have enough trouble.
“Do you feel you have probable cause for a search warrant?” I ask August.
“We’ll have the warrant within the hour.”
“What makes you think something violent happened?” Opening a cabinet, I pull out the big black Pelican case I take to scenes. “What signs of a struggle are we talking about?”
“Apparently there’s blood inside the garage, and the furniture is disarranged in the living room. I think you’d better come,” he says, and we end the call.
Putting on my coat, I lock up for the night, following the windowless corridor of shut office doors, the walls and floor pale gray, the lighting low. Wyatt the security guard is walking off the elevator, headed toward me, carrying what I suspect is his bagged supper.
“Have a good night,” I say to him. “Hopefully, a quiet one.”
“It’s always quiet around here, ma’am. Too quiet.” He hangs a left into the breakroom where the on-call forensic investigator is making a pot of French press coffee.
Fabian is dressed in the same uniform of tactical field clothes that I have on, and my preference would have been not to run into him right now. It’s obvious that I’m headed to a scene, my big Pelican case in hand, and I don’t want him riding shotgun or even thinking about it.
“You shouldn’t show up by yourself,” he says, and obviously my secretary got to him. “I saw Maggie when she was leaving a few minutes ago, and she felt it was better if I went with you to the townhome. I’m ready and waiting, and the coffees can be to-go. Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
Clearly August shared the details with her, and he shouldn’t have. I imagine Maggie then passing them along to Fabian, giving directives as if she runs the place, and that shouldn’t have happened, either.
“YOU SURE YOU DON’T want me to drive?” He flashes a smile, and he can turn up the charm when he wants, I’ll give him that.
A physician’s assistant in Louisiana before working here, he’s in his late twenties and could pass for a goth model with his silver jewelry, tattoos, fine features and Cher-like long black hair. By far he’s the best investigator of the three I’ve got, one of them about to retire, the other nothing to brag about.
“I’ll let you know if I need you,” I tell Fabian. “But I don’t think so.”
“I haven’t heard about any deliveries,” Wyatt is quick to pipe up over the noise of the microwave oven, looking at me suspiciously. “There’s nothing expected, isn’t that right?”
“Not so far, and we’ll hope it stays that way,” I reply.
“It sounds like where you’re headed might be related to the murdered lady from the railroad tracks.” Fabian pours a cup of his strong coffee, a smoky chicory blend that his mother ships to him from Baton Rouge.