Rachel Souza sat within the surreal glow of flashing red-and-blue lights. Hunched and facing outward from the police car’s open rear seat.
Her face was despondent. Morose. She gazed absently down upon the inert gravel beneath her feet.
“You okay?”
There was no reaction.
“Ma’am?”
Rachel’s eyes refocused and traveled upward to the partially silhouetted face of a woman.
“I’m Detective Weinberg. Can you answer some questions?”
Rachel nodded.
“The officers told me you know Mr. Williams?”
Her eyes fell, staring forward, and she nodded again. “Dr. Williams.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Williams.” The detective glanced back at the house. “Do you know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Dr. Williams, Ms. Souza?”
She felt like she was in a trance. “Dr. Souza.”
“Doctor Souza.”
Rachel’s eyes suddenly blinked, and she peered up again. “Wait? Hurt him?”
“That’s what I said.”
Rachel whirled around inside the patrol car’s back seat. “B-but no one hurt him. He was just…”
“At the table.”
“Yes.”
Weinberg sighed, then lowered her head closer while resting one arm over the open door. “I’m afraid we’ve found some indications of a struggle.”
Rachel stammered. “But … I just saw him, there at the table. He didn’t seem—It just looked … natural.”
“Apparently, someone wanted it to appear that way. There’s no bruising on his neck, so something was probably used to avoid that.”
“You’re saying he was strangled?”
“Looks that way.”
Rachel wore a look of incredulity. “What did they use?”
“Probably some kind of cloth. It helps distribute the tension to avoid pressure points.” Seeing the look on the younger woman’s face, Detective Weinberg changed the subject. “Do you know of anyone he was having problems with? Maybe a neighbor? Maybe someone else?”
Rachel shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Anyone else living with him?”
“He lived here by himself.”
“Divorced?”
“Widowed.”
“I see. Any children around?”
She tried to think. “He has two daughters. In Florida. And some grandchildren. Three, I think.”
The detective scribbled notes on a small notepad. “Where in Florida?”
“I’m not sure. Miami, maybe.”
“Different last names?”
“Yes. But I can’t remember what they are at the moment.”
The woman standing over her continued writing. “And how did you know Dr. Williams?”
“From work.”
“And where is that?”
“At a research lab. In Flagstaff.”
The detective nodded. “And what do you do at this lab?”
It was then that Rachel paused. Their project was secret. And Williams warned her about going to the police. Her eyes shifted. My God, the lab. Masten!
“Something wrong?”
She shook her head. “No. I, uh, just remembered something. Something I forgot at work.”
“Something important?”
“Something I forgot to turn off,” lied Rachel.
It was impossible. Masten would never have done anything like this. Or Lagner. Not over a project. Not over—Rachel gazed absently at the back of the front passenger’s seat.
“Dr. Souza?”
But Perry had just discovered those things about Masten. And the project. And the money.
“Dr. Souza?”
She turned when she felt the detective’s hand on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I—I just can’t believe it. We were just talking a few hours ago.”
“About what?”
“Just work stuff.”
“And how did the conversation end?”
Rachel looked up at the detective. The face was still shadowed, preventing Rachel from making out the woman’s expression. “What?”
“I said, how did your conversation end?”
“What do you mean? Are you asking if I had an argument with him?”
The detective shrugged. “Did you?”
“No! No, we weren’t arguing. We were colleagues.”
“Sometimes colleagues argue.”
“What are you saying? That I did this? That I,” she sputtered, “strangled Perry? What is wrong with you?”
“Easy, Doctor. I’m just asking. It’s my job.”
“Yeah? Well, guess what? I didn’t do it! I came here to talk to him about something. And I found him there, sitting at the kitchen table. Just … slumped forward.”
“What did you come to talk about?”
Rachel began to answer but stopped. Incensed at the implication in the woman’s voice. Was she a suspect? Were they trying to tie her to this? Perry was right. The police couldn’t be trusted. Not these days.
“I came,” she finally said, “to talk to him about work. About part of our project. About something we were working on together. I’ve been here many times for work.”
“What did you say this project was again?”
Rachel glared at the woman. “I didn’t.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“A vascular surgeon.”
The detective continued writing. “And what is that, exactly?”
“The circulatory system.”
“I see. Was Dr. Williams a vascular surgeon, too?”
“No. He’s an internist.”
“Which is what?”
Rachel sighed. “And organ specialist. The heart, lungs, kidneys…”
“I see. And what time did you get here?”
“I already told the officer.”
“Tell me again please.”
“A little before midnight,” said Rachel.
“Isn’t that kind of late to be collaborating?”
“Doctors have erratic schedules.”
“I guess so.”
Rachel then stood up, out of the car. Facing the detective.
Under the glowing lights, Weinberg studied Souza, noting the look on the woman’s face. And smirked. “Something on your mind?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
Weinberg tilted her head, examining. “You seem a little anxious, Doctor.”
“Of course I’m anxious. I just found my friend and colleague dead at his home. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I don’t know. Would I?”
“I know how this works,” said Rachel. “If I’m not being arrested for a crime, then I’m free to go. At least I know that’s still the law.”
“I’m just trying to get information.”
She shook her head defiantly.
“Dr. Souza, I’m not implying anything. Now, if you’re inferring something based on my questions, then perhaps—”
“Hey, Detective!”
They both turned to one of the officers, perhaps a hundred feet away, studying part of Williams’s unkempt lawn, beneath the bright beam of a flashlight.
“We have footsteps over here.” The man’s silhouette knelt down and appeared to touch the grass. “Looks like someone running through this grass. Maybe a possible print.”
Weinberg’s eyes returned to Rachel and remained on her as she called back, “How big?”
The officer’s light flashed forward and then back to the ground in front of him. “Looks pretty large. And heavy. Probably male.”
Weinberg lowered her eyes. Down Rachel’s body to her feet. And her white size-six tennis shoes.
Her eyes returned to Rachel’s. “Stay in town.”
With that, the detective turned and walked away, wading out into the tall grass, leaving Rachel alone and fuming.
She tried to focus and grabbed her phone, redialing Henry. If it was true that Henry Yamada put Williams in touch with someone to dig up that information, then Henry could put her in touch with them, too.
She listened as the ringing repeated and once again rolled over to Yamada’s voicemail.
“Henry, it’s Rachel. Call me right away. Something terrible has happened.”
She paused, wondering if she should say more, but instead ended the call. She didn’t want him to find out over a voicemail.
How could it come to this? she thought. How could Masten do this to Perry? It just seemed so impossible. So …
Still grasping her phone, she had a thought. What if the police were wrong? If the detective jumped to conclusions about her, maybe they jumped to conclusions with Perry, too?
She returned to the image in her mind. Turning on the light and finding Perry. Motionless. Leaning forward, with both hands on the table in front of him.
What if he wasn’t murdered? What if there was another reason they didn’t find marks on his neck? And what if the impressions in the grass they were now studying were Perry’s? After all, it was his house. And his lawn.
Before talking to Henry, she asked herself, what did she actually know for a fact?
If the police were wrong, if they had jumped to conclusions, what would that mean? That there wasn’t any foul play inside Perry’s house? And if that was true, then her assumptions about Masten were wrong, too. Was she about to accuse an innocent man of murder?
It was possible. Believable if one just removed the element of suspicion. And paranoia.
Was there still something underhanded about who was funding the project? Most likely. But how unusual was that really in the grand scheme of things? How many businesses, or governments, had never engaged in some level of grift? Rachel didn’t know, but if she had to guess, she’d put the number close to zero.
She remained standing on the gravel of Perry’s drive for a long time, thinking carefully, before raising the phone to dial a different number. Innocent until proven guilty. And if Masten was indeed innocent, he, of all people, should be told about Perry. That their friend and top medical expert was gone.