“Victim’s name?” I hated coming onto a crime scene cold, but it happened when dispatch cut me off after giving me the address.
The uniform picked up a clipboard, skimmed it. “Don’t remember.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “Go see Parker back there. She’s the one that made the call.”
Making an effort to keep my eyeballs facing forward, and not visibly rolling to the back of my head at the actions of this obvious rookie took everything I had. This one needed going back to cadet training.
I walked into the apartment. It was pretty nice. Not your usual crime scene location. After my promotion to homicide, I was spending nearly as much time in alleys and drug houses as I’d done when I’d been on the beat.
With a place this pulled together, I had to wonder if I was walking into an episode of Law & Order. Those detectives spent more time in penthouses than rich people.
Tasteful paint and nice furniture didn’t mean I was oblivious to my surroundings. In fact, I walked slower than normal as I admired the inside of the condo. Once I walked in, I realized I was in one of the new Schilling Square developments on the ten thousand block of Detroit Avenue. The neighborhood had once been the west side’s illegal drug marketplace hub. But some shrewd developers had the wild idea to turn the area around with hundred-grand condos. Gentrification had more or less worked. Homeowners had taken on the criminals head-on.
I took a closer look. This was one of the 1925-era townhouses. When I’d been looking for a place for myself a few years back, I’d seen a different unit on the block, but had hated the directions the renovations had taken.
The aesthetic problems with Shilling Square remained. The renovation was an architectural crime scene. All the period details had been removed on the inside of the eighty-year-old building. It had been papered over with drywall, the ceiling pocked with too many recessed lights. Pergo instead of wood.
“Parker,” I called when I finally came upon the lieutenant.
“Scene’s in the bedroom. Victim is a guy named Malcolm Pointer.”
“What do you know?” While I liked to develop my own theories, some background often gave me a jumpstart.
“The vic was on a date with the owner. She got some kind of call and went out. She said she was gone only about twenty minutes or so. When she came back, her date was dead. Has the worst date story ever.” Parker stated the obvious.
“For sure.” I could feel my eyes going wide. I’d dated a bit after my divorce. Didn’t want to think about my bachelor life turning out like Malcolm Pointer’s. “Point me.”
“Bedroom on the right.”
Careful not to disturb the ever-growing group of techs, I tiptoed to the bedroom. Slipped gloves from my pocket and onto my hands. I pushed gently at the door and took a look around.
Swallowed.
After these first months in homicide, I still wasn’t quite used to the sight of violent death. Looked like Pointer had been shot in the heart. His arms and legs had been tied to the metal bedposts with ribbons. He had a silk mask over his eyes. The windows were closed, though some kind of balcony door wasn’t quite on the latch.
While Pointer was obviously a man, this was a woman’s bedroom. The iron head and foot boards had decorative curlicues. The bedspread under the man and his blood was covered in tiny wildflowers. A corner chair had some kind of lavender fur throw. The dresser and side tables had just the right combination of cute knickknacks and clutter. No man ever got a house this homey.
I’d come back to this room. Do a detailed look. First I wanted to talk to the girlfriend before she thought better of confiding in a cop. I made my way back to Parker.
“Where’s his date?”
“Dining room.”
I didn’t waste any time making my way to the skinny room that looked like an architectural afterthought.
“You the owner?” I asked in my softest voice possible.
A woman, whose head had been in her hands until then, looked up at me. Nodded.
She looked familiar. Couldn’t place her. Tentatively held out my hand.
“Loren Logan,” I said. “I’m a detective who will be investigating the death of Malcolm Pointer.”
Before the woman could say anything, my partner bustled in noisily. Whenever he was late, which was…always…Neil Walsh made his presence known so that no one ever remembered his arrival time.
“How’s it going here?” Walsh asked the room in a booming voice.
I walked up to him and shuttled him to an unoccupied corner. Debriefed him. Tried to gauge whether or not he was interested. If this were a run-of-the-mill death, I’d happily hand it over to my partner. That kind of crime with an easy question and answer is what my nearly retired partner thrived at.
The true whodunits, rare as hen’s teeth, were the kind of thing I lived for. It was the reason I’d transferred over to homicide. It was the closest I think I got to genuine policing. The real work tonight was to get Walsh out of my hair and away from this murder.
“Is this the kind of case that needs a veteran like me?” Walsh asked while nodding to technicians he’d likely known for years.
This felt like a trick question. Watching the techs gave me a minute to figure out the answer that would get me the result I wanted.
“Could you organize a canvas?”
Walsh nodded vigorously, then strode away, letting me know I’d made the right choice. Naturally outgoing and gregarious, if not detail oriented, my partner loved facetime and I needed to get on with talking to the resident and most likely suspect before she thought better of it and asserted her constitutional rights.
I poked my head back into the bedroom making sure that the photographer wasn’t missing a beat, then headed back to the dining room. The woman hadn’t moved from her seat, though someone had the presence of mind to bring her some kind of hot tea. She sipped from the mug, the teabag tag dangling over the side. When her eyes met mine this time, her tears had dried.
“Sorry about that. That was my partner, Neil Walsh, you’ll get to meet him sometime soon, I—”
“Tall Irish guy in a tan sport coat?” With my slight nod of confirmation, she said, “Nice guy. He got me this tea with warm milk.” She held up what looked like a handcrafted mug. “Said his mum made tea whenever something went sideways.”
I took out the small writing pad I’d started to keep in my pocket. It was so cliché, but I found note-taking to be critical to keeping track of all the threads. It was far less intrusive than using a handheld recorder I’d have to transcribe later.
“I didn’t get your name.” I clicked my pen.
“Tia Wetzel.”
I schooled my face so it was free of outward emotion. It was something I’d learned early on in this job. Didn’t do cops any favors when we were caught on video as dispassionate onlookers to violence, but when questioning it was a key skill.
“Were you born in Cleveland? How old are you?”
“Born and raised in Akron. Moved here in ninety-seven. Just turned forty-three last month. I actually met Malcolm at my birthday party. Thought my life had finally turned around.” She put down the tea, waved an arm at the beehive of activity. “Happy birthday to me.”