“The victim was a woman in her thirties. Julia Murphy. Wife of Harold Murphy, a Silicon Valley tech engineer. Parents of two teenage sons.”
We were in my office, Al Striar, Buzz Farmer, and I. Farmer was reading from notes he had made earlier. “Husband’s distraught. Can’t imagine why this happened. Says she has no known enemies. Claims she had an appointment at the bank.”
“And?”
“His story checks out. She did her banking and, as best Forensics can figure, she was pulling out of the parking space when she was shot. Likely someone approached the car, shot her through the window, and vanished.”
“Security cameras?”
“Nonexistent where she was shot.”
“What was she doing at the bank?”
“Signing a mortgage refinance agreement.”
“They had financial difficulties?”
“On the contrary. They were reducing the size of their mortgage. Seems they were doing quite well.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think, Buddy,” Farmer said with the authority of someone who had been down this road many times before.
“We’ll need to investigate further, but all things considered, this one’s a bitch.”
“What about the husband?”
“Not a likely candidate. He’s a tech nerd and, from what we’re learning, a successful one. And a devoted husband and father.”
“You’ll keep digging.”
“For sure.”
“I’m sensing a but in there somewhere.”
Farmer glanced briefly at Striar, then back at me. “I don’t like it.”
“Because?”
“It defies logic.”
“And?”
“As we learned in Afghanistan, things that defy logic tend to be worse than they first appear.”
“Which means?”
“Just that, Buddy. Just that.”