Detectives Michael McConnell and Aaron Simmons as well as a forensic team carefully inspected the bedroom. McConnell, slightly taller than six feet, had brown hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw. He was wearing a pale blue sports coat, white shirt, light and dark blue striped tie, and navy-blue pants. Simmons was about three inches shorter than McConnell and had black hair, brown eyes, and a prominent nose. He was wearing a dark brown sports coat, white shirt, brown and white striped tie, and light brown pants.
Dr. Carl Stricklin, the ME, appeared older than his actual age, which, he claimed to anyone who asked, was forty. His hair was prematurely gray. His face had a few lines, especially around the mouth and eyes. Although he typically wore a white smock when examining bodies in the laboratory, he seldom wore one when he was called to a scene of a crime. Now, he was wearing a seersucker suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. As he examined the body, two members of his staff watched.
“Doctor,” McConnell said.
Dr. Stricklin turned and looked at McConnell. “Yes?”
“Have you found the wound?”
“Wound? I’ve found at least two so far: one on the top of her head and one on the left side of her neck. The wound on the top of her head appears to have been caused by a blunt instrument. The one on her neck seems to have been caused by a small sharp knife. However, I’ll know more when I examine the body at the lab.”
“I'd like to see your report as soon as possible,” McConnell said.
“I should be finished by late afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
Dr. Stricklin instructed his personnel about the handling of the body and followed them out of the bedroom.
McConnell and Simmons watched them leave and then looked at each other.
McConnell shook his head. “We have to be careful with this one. According to the press, she was wealthy.”
“And well known,” Simmons said. “I remember reading about her divorce in the papers. When she was married she and her husband sponsored numerous events to raise money for charities. According to the stories, they raised millions of dollars.”
“I know. I read the stories, too. If we blow it, the Captain will get upset―and you don’t want to be around the Captain when he gets upset.”
Simmons looked at McConnell, but he didn’t say anything.
McConnell turned toward the bed where the body had been. The silk sheets had several large spots of dried blood. He moved to the bed and bent down. He thought he had seen something shiny in one of the spots. He turned his head toward Simmons. “My eyes must be playing tricks on me.”
“Why’s that?”
“I thought I saw something in one of the spots, but it’s nothing.” He stood. “Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
“Check out the other rooms. I’ll search in here again and in the adjoining bathroom.”
Simmons nodded and left.
McConnell got down on all fours and scanned the carpet, especially under the bed. Nothing. If the killer had used a small knife, he had taken it with him. McConnell then searched the closet but found nothing except expensive clothing and dozens and dozens of expensive pairs of shoes. Then he moved to the bathroom, which was large and lavishly furnished with white marble and tile. He raised the lid attached to the toilet. He noticed a small piece of colored paper floating on the water.
“What’s this?” he asked no one in particular.
He stooped down in front of the bowl, making sure his tie didn’t go into the water. It wasn’t a piece of colored paper, however. It was part of a colored photograph. He stood and removed a pair of tweezers from his inside coat pocket. Then he leaned toward the bowl and carefully retrieved the piece of paper. He shook it several times and then examined it closely. Although the piece was small, he could see what appeared to be part of a person’s shoulder.
Simmons entered the bathroom. “I’ve searched every room. Nothing appears to be out of place.” He stepped toward McConnell. “Find something?”
McConnell glanced at him. “Maybe. I found this in the toilet. What do you think?”
Simmons took the tweezers and looked at the piece of paper. “It appears to be part of a photograph. But I don’t know which part.”
“Do you think it could be part of a person’s shoulder?”
Simmons carefully examined the piece of paper. “Could be,” he finally said.
“I think it’s from one of the lower corners of a photograph―you know, a photograph that reveals the face and the shoulders. What we used to call a mug shot.”
Simmons nodded. “I think you’re right.”
McConnell removed a clear plastic bag from one of his sports coat pockets. “Put it in this.”
Simmons dropped the piece of photograph into the bag. McConnell sealed the bag and put it in his shirt pocket.
They left the bathroom, glanced once more into the bedroom, and then went outside, where they instructed several officers to cordon off the area to keep curious onlookers from the scene.
McConnell, having learned earlier from Smitty about Carla Holt’s telephone call, asked Smitty to identify her, which he did by pointing at her.
McConnell approached Holt. She looked up at him. He noticed that she had been crying. Her eyes were red and glassy. “I understand you made the call,” he said. “Am I correct?”
“Yes,” she said. “As I told the two officers, I saw Madalyn through the bedroom window and tried to make her respond. Nothing. That’s when I made the call.”
“Do you know when you made the call?”
“Oh, I guess about seven-twenty.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I arrived at seven and probably spent fifteen or twenty minutes knocking on the door, ringing the doorbell, going to Miss Turner’s unit, going to the back of Madalyn’s unit, pounding on the window, and then going to Miss Turner’s unit again to phone nine-one-one.”
“Miss Turner? She’s a neighbor?”
“Yes―that is, she lives in the unit over there.” Carla was about to point when she realized that she had seen Margaret Turner just minutes before standing in the crowd of onlookers. She searched the crowd. Margaret, still wearing the large yellow curlers and the white terry cloth bathrobe, was standing about fifty feet away. Reporters surrounded her. “There she is. She has curlers in her hair.”
McConnell followed Carla’s stare and saw the woman. He looked at Carla. “Thanks. Before I leave, may I have your complete name and telephone number, in case I have to contact you?”
“Of course.” She provided the information.
McConnell thanked her again and went to rescue Margaret Turner from the reporters. When he approached her, the reporters started firing questions. He ignored them, hoping they would stop, but they persisted. Finally, he informed them that a formal statement would be issued later.
“When will that be?” asked an enterprising male reporter.
McConnell looked at the reporter and noticed from his badge that he was from one of the local TV stations. “Before five.”
“Today?” asked the reporter.
McConnell nodded. Then he turned to Margaret. “Miss Turner?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective McConnell. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. But I really don’t know anything.”
“Well, maybe you do and you don’t realize it.”
“Oh. All right.”
"Why don’t we go over there." He pointed at the taped area.
“Fine.”
McConnell learned that Margaret had not heard anything unusual during the night. Indeed, he learned that her husband had died several years ago and that she lived alone.
“I went to bed early and I didn’t wake up until seven,” she said.
He asked for her full name and telephone number, and told her his name, in case she remembered something. Then he pulled a card with his name and telephone number on it and handed it to her.
McConnell looked at his watch before he got into the three-year-old white sedan. It was almost eleven. He turned toward Simmons and shook his head. “One of the neighbors informed me that, as far as she was concerned, nothing unusual happened last night.”
“That sounds familiar,” Simmons said. “The neighbor who lives beside Miss Ross―a Mrs. Edwards―said she and her husband didn’t hear anything last night. And the security guard at the entrance gate doesn’t remember allowing any stranger into the complex while he was on duty, and he was on duty from midnight until eight.”
“You’d think that the security system inside the unit would have gone off―that is, if one of the windows had been jimmied.”
“We checked every window. None appeared to have been bothered,” Simmons said.
“Madalyn Ross apparently knew her killer and let him or her in.”
Simmons digested what McConnell had said. He looked at his watch. “You ready for lunch?”
McConnell glanced at him. “Why not.”