Tonight, he wore tactical cargo pants and a black polo shirt bearing the sheriff’s department logo. They’d been dating for several months, and she knew the body under those clothes did not disappoint. They’d gotten to know each other in the course of multiple murder investigations. Bree had resisted a personal relationship, concerned that their working one would suffer. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, they’d become a comfortable, mutually respectful, and efficient team.
She could count on one hand the number of people she trusted, and Matt was one of them.
“Bernard teaches history at a small local college,” Matt began, scrolling on her vehicle’s dashboard computer. “He’s been at the same job for more than twenty years. He has no criminal record. There’s nothing more serious than a parking ticket on his motor vehicle history. He’s lived in the same home for nearly fifty years. He drives a ten-year-old Mercedes.” Matt typed on the keyboard. “Nothing even remotely scandalous comes up in an internet search.”
It was nearly eleven thirty when she parked at the curb in front of Bernard Crighton’s house. The neighborhood was well-established suburban, with tidy lots and mature trees. Tall, narrow houses were separated by skinny strips of grass. Some homes showed signs of remodeling. Others needed it.
Crighton’s house fell in the middle of the spectrum. The shutters and garage door looked to have been recently replaced but the landscaping was tired, with shrubs that had surpassed their useful life and gone dead inside.
“Quiet neighborhood.” Matt scanned the street.
Bree glanced at the house. The windows were dark. “We’ll probably wake him.”
“Can’t be helped.” Matt reached for his door handle. “We don’t want him to find out when he turns on the news to catch the weather report with his morning coffee.”
“No.” Bree sighed.
News vans had arrived at the crime scene before Bree and Matt had left for Scarlet Falls. Bree had promised the reporters a statement in the morning. But the presence of the medical examiner’s van would tell them someone had died, and they had the address. A quick public records search would tell them who lived there. Some would no doubt speculate, and Bree couldn’t guarantee information wouldn’t be leaked, not with so many people at the scene. The family of the victims needed to be informed ASAP.
But she hated this duty more than any other. She’d rather face a killer than bring grief to a family’s doorstep.
She stepped out of the car and started up the cement walkway. With a deep breath she knocked on the door. The house remained quiet for a minute. Bree pressed the doorbell and heard the echo of the chimes inside the house. A light went on in an upstairs window. A face appeared behind the glass, peered down at them, and then withdrew. A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps approached the front door.
A man in his late sixties answered the door. He was tall and slim, in leather slippers and a navy-blue robe over old-fashioned pajamas. His face was narrow. He wore his silver hair on the long side and swept back from a high forehead in a dramatic wave. His eyes narrowed at them. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Bernard Crighton?” Bree asked.
“Yes,” he said in an anxious tone.
Bree didn’t want to give him the news on the doorstep. “May we come inside?”
His eyes were heavy with sleep. “Yes. Of course.” He stepped back to give them room. The foyer was like its owner, dated but well kept. The wallpaper and dark-stained molding looked more antique than run-down.
“What’s this about?” Mr. Crighton’s tone was clipped.
Bree supposed the foyer was as far as she was going to get until she explained their visit. “I’m Sheriff Taggert from Randolph County.” Bree introduced Matt. “I’m sorry to inform you that the bodies of Camilla Brown and Eugene Oscar were discovered this evening on Ms. Brown’s farm. We’re sorry for your loss.”
Crighton didn’t react for a few long seconds. Then realization dawned in his eyes and he pressed a hand to the V of his robe. “They’re dead?”
“Yes, sir.” Unfortunately, Bree had done enough death notifications to know it was best to deliver the news quickly and directly. Police did not arrive on a doorstep in the middle of the night to deliver good news. Anticipation only added stress. Euphemisms could confuse people, and confusion made everything worse. “Camilla was your sister?”
Instead of answering, he waved them inside, turned, and walked through a wide doorway. Bree and Matt followed him into a wood-paneled study. Crighton navigated the space in the dim light spilling in from the hall, but Matt went to the wall and flipped a switch, flooding the room with soft light from several lamps.