“Maybe. Or maybe she dropped it and reached for it and knocked it away by accident, while struggling. Who knows? That’s not the problem. The phone sliding across the floor the first time isn’t my problem.”
“What’s your problem?”
“The phone sliding the second time. It’s a slight difference in angle, right?”
“Yeah, no question.”
“It’s a second, independent movement of the phone.”
“Agreed,” Jane says. “The phone was moved a second time. It slid across the floor, probably during the struggle, then slid a second time at a slightly different angle. Maybe . . . maybe she dove for it again, desperately trying to call 9-1-1. Or maybe the offender kicked it away, to make sure it stayed away from her grasp.”
“Sure, all possible in theory, but here’s the thing,” says Ria. “If you swat or kick or push a phone to make it move across the floor, you’re probably going to come in contact with the floor itself, right?”
“I . . . I suppose it’s likely, yes.”
“It’s very likely, Jane. If I dive for a phone in a desperate attempt to reach it, that first trail of blood that we see? I’d be diving right into it. I’d mess it all up. It wouldn’t look like this pristine line.”
“So nobody dove across the floor for it. How about kicking it?”
“Well, nobody stepped into the pristine line of blood, either. No shoe prints.”
“Okay, then they could have stood to the side, away from the original blood line, and lightly kicked the phone under the table. That would work, wouldn’t it?”
Ria turns on the lights.
“Well, yeah,” Ria says. “But isn’t that weird?”
Jane takes a moment to adjust her eyes.
“I mean, who are we talking about? There are only two people in this hallway, Jane. The offender and the victim. The victim isn’t going to walk over and calmly stand to the side and gently kick that phone under the table like she would tap in a putt on the eighteenth hole.”
“Of course not,” Jane says. “The victim wouldn’t be doing anything calmly. She was struggling to survive an attack. It must have been the offender.”
“Agreed. But while Lauren is still alive, the offender isn’t doing anything calmly or carefully or gently or methodically, either. Not until the victim is dead. Until the struggle is over. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Jane takes a breath and thinks about it. “The phone was moved by the offender, and it was moved after Lauren was dead.”
“So picture it.” Ria walks over to reconstruct the theory. “After she’s dead, the offender walks over and is careful to avoid stepping in the original blood, and . . .” She kicks with her left foot toward the table. “He kicks the phone under the table, careful not to make contact with the floor.”
Jane gives it some thought, nods her head. “I agree, that’s probably how it happened,” she says.
“But why kick it under the table?”
“To . . . to hide it. No?”
Ria doesn’t think much of that theory. “Jane, by that point, Lauren is hanging from the rafters. There’s blood. The offender has to know there’s going to be an investigation. Cops are going to scour this scene. He thinks the police won’t look under a coffee table that’s five feet from where the victim was subdued?”
“Okay, but look, Ria, criminals make mistakes all the time. Especially if they aren’t pros. Especially if this was heat of the moment. He’s just killed Lauren, he’s freaking out, he sees that phone and he kicks it under the table. He won’t win any awards for intelligence, I grant you that, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen the way I’m saying.”
Ria shakes her head.
“What am I missing?” Jane asks.
Ria shrugs. “What you’re saying, that may be right. He sees the phone and panics and kicks it under the coffee table.”
“Right.”
“But why not take it with him?”
“Why not—huh.” Jane starts to pace, as she usually does when working through something, but thinks better of it, considering the fragility of the crime scene. “Okay,” she says. “I’m the offender. I’m having an affair with Lauren. We have burner phones, and we’re using them for one reason and one reason only, to send each other little love notes.”
“Right.”
“I’ve just killed Lauren,” Jane goes on, “maybe premeditated, maybe more of a heat-of-passion thing, and there I see her pink burner phone on the floor. I know what that phone represents. I know if the cops get inside that phone, they’ll read all our text messages, they’ll know all about our affair. So I walk over to that phone . . .”