Chapter 11

The following day finds Harlow interviewing family and friends of the deceased. They have been gracious enough to meet him at the Atwater St. station to review their whereabouts the night before and explain their relationship with the man. There are plenty of tears and genuine sadness, but not a lead amongst them. The perceived enemies and possible partners are being contacted now from his email, paper trail, and mobile contact list. The list spans continents. Presently, they are only interested in those contacts he’s spent time with or spoken to over the past three months.

Harlow sees the last of the relatives out and stretches his back. The bandage on his forearm pulls at the tender, burned flesh hidden beneath his shirt sleeve. He scratches his head and looks at the latest casualties trapped in his ragged fingernails. His hair isn’t long for this world, he thinks regrettably.

His captain asks him to join her in her office a moment later. He follows, admiring her form as she moves elegantly in her pencil skirt and tight-fitting blouse. She is young to have made captain, just a few years Harlow’s senior. Her dark complexion and athletic frame create discord in Harlow. He respects her leadership qualities but fantasizes about how they might hook up. He does this often. He’s been single for a while and made no effort to date. But fantasies are just that, and he doesn’t deny himself their healing qualities.

“Preliminary autopsy is in. They didn’t want us to wait for this information.” She doesn’t sit, so Harlow remains standing as well. She picks up a folder and hands it to him. Their fingers touch, and he questions whether she meant to do that. She is an attractive woman; straightened black, shoulder-length hair frames out her dark features intensifying the whites of her eyes. He flips the folder open and reads.

“An injection site,” he reads aloud. “Orphenadrine.” It’s a paralyzing agent used for surgical procedures. “Then we’re dealing with a murder and not a suicide.”

Captain Anderson confirms this with a nod. “You’ll be assigned this case as the lead investigator and follow up on any murders, including a similar calling card. We can expect at least one more within the next thirty days. The FBI has been notified and will send a profiler to review our evidence.” She notices Harlow’s face fall. He can feel it.

“Don’t get too territorial with the profiler. They’re here to help.” Her arms cross below her breasts. Harlow focuses on her large, round eyes.

“I’ll be good,” he smirks. “So, you believe this is the first in a series of killings?”

“The note,” she says, “its only purpose is to let us know there’s a killer in town. They clearly want the recognition for whatever reason.”

“I guess I’d better do my homework on serial killers.”

“The profiler will brief us when they arrive, but I won’t discourage you from doing your own research.” She rounds her desk and sits. “I hate to think we’re wasting our time talking to his relatives and business partners, but we need to cover all avenues.”

Harlow nods. “When can we expect the completed autopsy?”

“Within the next 24 hours, I’m told. Until then, continue your interviews and review with forensics what’s turned up on the victim’s phone and computers.” She looks out her window which overlooks the Detroit River and the city of Windsor beyond it. “We can’t shelve the idea that the note could be a distraction rather than a breadcrumb to the truth. His life insurance is requesting more information. I’m liaising with their investigator.”

Harlow grunts, and she dismisses him. He sits in front of his computer and pulls up the victim’s bank statements acquired earlier this morning. The victim has been on three trips in the last three months that took him overseas. Four more hotel stays appear where he remained on the continent. Lots of drinks at various hot spots within the city and a few tickets to sports venues. He was living his best life, but not in the eyes of his wife and child. Why do people have wives and children if they aren’t cut out to be family men?

The new information about the needle is interesting, he ponders. He wasn’t paralyzed off-site; the video clearly shows his car entering the garage. There is no camera footage of anyone else entering the home after that. So, did the wife stick him and carry out the murder or – Harlow pauses a moment, is it someone he’d met that night. Someone he might have snuck in. Or did they follow him home? If they evaded the cameras, they knew where to go. The victim let them in. Maybe through the side door where the four-car garage lacks cameras? Maybe. Worth another look.

Harlow refers to where the victim has shopped regularly. He looks at everything. Nothing produces the gut reaction he tends to lean on.

There is a lot to wade through where this man is concerned. He was an active person. Maybe not with his family, but certainly on the road, in the bars, overseas. Texts seem unhelpful. All these contacts have been identified. No mistress he can find. No enemies demanding anything from him. Emails are business only. Social media doesn’t exist for him save a business-related one. They will have to use bank statements to track his actions and whereabouts and follow up on each of them. It’s arduous work but can be gratifying when done right. He’ll visit the bar he ended up at the night of his murder. Perhaps a bartender or server will remember him. He has a good photo from the victim’s LinkedIn profile to show around.

The paper and ink linked to the note found with the body have been identified. The brand isn’t what he cataloged in the victim’s home office, and the paper is sold at 14 stores within Detroit’s city limits. Of course, in the age of Amazon, physical stores were the last place people shopped for stationery. Still, he would check it out. This and the bar from the night before are his only leads thus far.

Harlow grabs up his jacket, exits the station, and starts up his matte black Dodge Charger. Grand Rapids is just over a two-hour drive. It is well past noon, so the restaurant ought to be open. All the same, Harlow calls ahead. Someone knows something.