by Diane Kelly
The detective turned the shoes upside down and ran her gaze over the soles. I took a look over her shoulder. The wear pattern was typical of someone with moderate pronation, meaning the wearer tended to walk with their weight shifted to the inside of their foot. While the tread was clearly visible on most of the sole, it had been worn flat on the inside ball of the foot.
Jackson pointed down at the floor of the closet. “Mind if I look at the other pairs?”
Shelby sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a tissue she’d pulled from her pocket. “Anything that will help.”
Jackson knelt down, and I crouched beside her. She matched another pair of shoes and turned them soles up. While these shoes showed less wear, the pattern was the same. Moderate pronation. Two other pairs confirmed the finding. The detective lifted the tongues on each of the pairs to check the size, and lined the shoes up along the floor with the soles facing up. She rose and I stood, too.
Jackson turned to Shelby. “Wait here until I come back. I’m going to send a tech here to take some photos and bag these shoes. He might have some questions for you.”
“Okay.”
We headed back to the foyer, where Jackson pulled back the curtain and addressed the crime scene tech with the flashlight. “Get some pics of the shoes in the master bedroom, then bag them as evidence.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I ordered Brigit to lie down and stay in the foyer. Detective Jackson and I slid clean booties over our shoes. We returned to the kitchen, where we crouched and compared the wear patterns on the footprints to what we’d seen on Greg Olsen’s shoes.
I kept my voice low as I pointed to one of the prints. “The wear pattern on this print is the same as on his shoes.” I moved my hand to indicate another. “That one, too.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jackson stood and turned to address the tech collecting blood samples in the kitchen. “Got a measuring tape?”
The tech opened the plastic toolbox he’d situated inside the pantry where it wouldn’t come in contact with the blood. At the bottom of the pantry sat a large bag of fancy dog food, the top rolled over and secured with a clip to keep it fresh. After retrieving a measuring tape, he handed it to the detective. She put a finger under the tab and pulled it out. She measured the most complete print, which was eleven inches long. “Looks to be a size eleven. That’s Greg’s size.” Using the tape, she measured the other two sets of prints. “We’ve got what look to be a size twelve and a size nine and a half, too.”
“The size twelve has mild supination,” I said, noting the narrow strip of wear on the outer part of the sole.
Jackson stood and called out to the tech. “Process the wallet. I want to know what’s in it.”
The tech complied with her order, coming over and carefully using small tools and tweezers to open the wallet. “There’s two singles and one five-dollar bill in the slot.” He used the tweezers to gently pull out the two cards. One was a debit card. The other was a Visa credit card.
Jackson turned to me, raised an index finger, and circled it in the air. “What do you make of all of this?”
I looked around. “It looks like the victim put up quite a fight. It also looks like it could be personal.”
Those who killed for non-personal reasons, such as theft, usually made things easy on themselves, hurting the victim only as much as was necessary to get what they came for, or to ensure the victim wouldn’t survive to identify them. A bloodbath like this generally indicated the attack was personal in nature, rooted in rage at the victim. Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. If the attackers had, in fact, targeted Greg Olsen for the theater’s cash, Greg might have fought back harder than his attackers expected, or he might have injured them in the brawl, which could have caused matters to escalate. Until the blood samples were processed, we’d be unable to tell how many people had lost blood in the altercation, or extrapolate how badly each of them had been hurt. But the multitude of footprints indicated the trio had danced a fairly intricate, and probably murderous, mambo. The fact that Greg’s wallet had been left behind also seemed to indicate that they hadn’t come here to take it. Then again, his wallet contained mere chump change. Maybe they’d been furious he’d had such a small amount of cash and made him pay the price with his life, or maybe his wallet had simply fallen out of his pocket as they wrangled.
Jackson angled her head in the general direction of the master bedroom and whispered, “You get any sense that she’s involved?”
I tossed the idea around in my mind. Shelby had an alibi. She’d gone straight from work to dinner and drinks with coworkers. She couldn’t have killed Greg herself. Sometimes a jealous lover in an extramarital affair did away with their paramour’s partner. But there appeared to be at least two attackers here, not just one. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of for a husband or wife to hire a hit man to kill their spouse. The contract killers portrayed in movies were expert snipers who could whisk in and out of buildings undetected, as if made of magical vapor and shadows rather than flesh and bone. That kind of hit man rarely existed in real life. In most such situations, hired assassins were bumbling guys named Bubba or Snake found guzzling cheap beer in sleazy dive bars. Their lack of training, planning, skill, and discretion led to many of them being apprehended and charged, along with their clients, for homicide.
I shared my thoughts with the detective. “Think she could have paid someone?”
“Maybe. If we don’t get other plausible leads, we’ll take a look at their bank accounts, see if there’s any evidence she made a large cash withdrawal to pay for a hit. But for now, let’s check out their social media.” She whipped out her phone.
I followed suit, pulling out my cell phone and searching the woman’s name on various social media sites. There were several people named Shelby Olsen, but her strawberry blonde hair was easy to spot in her profile pics. Just as the photographs in their home depicted two people in a happy marriage, so did the posts on Shelby’s social media. In fact, some could only be described as sappy, such as the pics of her gazing adoringly at her husband with the caption How lucky am I to be married to such a great guy? #Always&Forever #ARealLoveStory. At noon, she’d posted a pic of herself eating lunch in her office break room with the caption You’re never too old for PB&J! At 5:27, she’d checked in on Facebook at The Library Bar downtown. An hour later, she’d posted a group selfie with her coworkers on both Facebook and Instagram. She’d posted two more pics approximately an hour apart. In one, she and Regina were raising frozen margaritas. In the other, she and another woman held up conversation hearts that read BE MINE and I’M YOURS. In all of the photos, she’d been wearing the same black skirt and pink sweater she still wore.
I thought out loud. “The dog had clearly run through the blood, but there wasn’t any of it on Shelby’s clothes. Do you think she cleaned the dog’s feet before she picked her up?” Having the presence of mind to clean the dog’s feet before she picked her up could be a sign that she had known the attack was coming, that she wasn’t as flustered by finding her kitchen full of blood as she would’ve been if it were a complete surprise.
Jackson raised a noncommittal shoulder. “Maybe the dog licked the blood off herself.”
Ew. The detective had a point, though. As icky as it might be, it would be natural for the dog to clean her paws.
After we’d taken a good look at Shelby’s accounts, we ran searches on the major social media outlets for Greg Olsen. We found nothing. He appeared to have no accounts.
“Let’s ask Mrs. Olsen some more questions, see if we can learn anything else.” Jackson held out an arm to invite me to return to the couple’s bedroom where Shelby was waiting.
Brigit and I took a position just inside the master bedroom door, while the detective pulled a stool from Shelby’s dressing table and situated it next to the bed where Shelby sat with Marseille on her lap, her shoulders slumped as if she were trying to curl into a sitting fetal position. Jackson perched on the edge of the stool, lea
ning toward the woman.
“I’m going to have to ask you some difficult questions, Shelby. Okay?” Detective Jackson reached out and took Shelby’s hands in hers in what to the untrained eye would appear to be an act of support and concern. In actuality, it was the detective’s way of getting a peek at Shelby’s forearms, to see if they bore any defensive injuries to indicate her husband had fought back against her. For all we knew, Regina could be in on things and could have lied to the detective to cover for herself and her friend. Jackson raised her arms a few inches and rolled her wrists slightly, turning Shelby’s wrists inward where they would be visible. Shelby’s skin was smooth, though, no marks to be seen.
“I don’t mean to offend you,” Jackson continued, “so please don’t take any of my questions personally. Keep in mind that I don’t know you or your husband, and that I have to be as thorough as possible so we’ll have the best chance of figuring out what happened here and finding Greg.” With that, she released Shelby’s hands.
Shelby worried her lip between her teeth. “Do you think Greg was taken for ransom? Do you think whoever took him will call?”
While I could understand the woman wanting to retain some hope, with all the blood we’d seen in the kitchen it seemed questionable whether her husband was still alive. Ransom demands were rare but, then again, so were kidnappings. Most often, attackers left their victims behind and hoped they hadn’t also left incriminating evidence. Dealing with an injured person or a corpse was a big burden, and the risk of being caught with a hurt or deceased victim was one most criminals wouldn’t take. Besides, judging from their vehicles and their modest home, the Olsens didn’t appear to be particularly wealthy people, the type kidnappers would target.
Jackson released a long breath. “It’s impossible to know at this point, Shelby. We’ll just have to see how things play out.”
Shelby nodded and swallowed hard.
Jackson glanced around as if looking for something. “Do you have a landline?”
“No,” Shelby said. “We didn’t have one installed when we moved in. It didn’t seem to be necessary.”
“I understand,” Jackson said. “If you happen to get a call on your cell phone from your husband, or someone who claims to have your husband, call the department immediately, even if they make threats and tell you not to contact law enforcement. All right?”
Shelby nodded again.
“We’ll look into the theater angle,” Jackson said, “figure out if your husband might have been targeted for his access to the safe. But we need to consider other potential suspects, too. Is there anyone your husband doesn’t get along with? A family member or coworker? A neighbor, maybe?”
“He doesn’t have much family,” Shelby said. “He’s an only child. His father and mother divorced when he was little. His dad never came around much, and his mother passed from cancer three years ago. He hasn’t mentioned any problems with coworkers. He would have told me if there were. We’ve never had any trouble with our neighbors here, either.”
“What about friends? Buddies?”
“He hasn’t had a chance to make friends here yet. He was just transferred to Fort Worth from Oklahoma City three months ago.”
“Is that why you’ve got all those boxes in your bedrooms?”
“Yes,” Shelby said. “We both started our new jobs right away, so we haven’t had time to finish unpacking yet.”
The detective tried another tack. “What about a customer at the theater? Anyone complain, cause a scene? Did they have to throw somebody out for any reason?”
“If anything like that happened, Greg never mentioned it.”
“What about you two? Have you and your husband had any marital issues?”
Shelby looked taken aback. “Me and Greg? No. We get along very well. We’ve been very happy together.”
“Do you two owe anybody money?”
“Not a dime,” Shelby said. “We paid off our student loans and our cars years ago. We pay our credit card bill in full every month, and we don’t have any other loans.”
“Does Greg gamble?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Either of you use street drugs?”
Shelby shook her head. “No. Never.”
“Engage in any other illegal or risky activities?”
“No.”
Jackson went on to ask about Greg’s usual routine, and whether he had varied from it recently.
“His work schedule is irregular,” Shelby said. “He and the other managers trade off covering evenings and weekends and holidays. He puts in some overtime, too. But when he’s not at work, he’s usually running errands or at home. He doesn’t socialize a lot.”
I’d guessed as much from his lack of social media accounts.
“Does he belong to a gym?” Jackson asked. “Or any clubs or organizations?”
“No.”
Jackson exhaled slowly. “Is there any chance he could be romantically involved with someone else?”
“No.” Shelby shook her head emphatically. “He’d never do that to me.”
Don’t be so sure about that, I thought. The department received plenty of disturbing-the-peace calls when a shocked wife discovered her husband hadn’t been faithful and confronted him about it, often at a hotel or on his mistress’s front porch and, just as often, at the top of her lungs.
“All right,” Jackson conceded for the time being. “What about you? Are you involved with anyone?”
“No!” Shelby jerked her head back as if the mere insinuation were a slap in the face. “I love Greg. I’d never cheat on him!”
“Understood.” Jackson raised her palms in a conciliatory gesture. “Has anyone expressed a romantic interest in either of you? A neighbor or friend? Maybe a coworker who engaged in some harmless flirtation on the job? Anyone seemed jealous?”
“Greg never mentioned anyone, and everyone at my office is very professional.”
“So you’ve never had any issues with anyone there? An argument? Maybe a boss that got too handsy?”
“No,” Shelby said.
“Where do you work?”
“Fritz and Winkleman. It’s a law firm downtown. I’m an executive assistant to one of the junior partners.”
Jackson jotted another note before her gaze traveled the room. “Have there been any signs of anyone trying to break in here recently? Maybe a screen missing, or scratches around a lock?”
“Not that we noticed.”
“What about a key?” Jackson asked. “Do you keep one hidden outside somewhere? Maybe a spare somewhere in the garage?”
“No. Our only keys to the house are on our key chains with our car keys.”
Jackson gestured around the room. “You two own this place?”
“We’re renting.”
Jackson readied her pen and notepad. “I’ll need your landlord’s contact information. I need to find out if they left a key hidden somewhere outside.”
Shelby reached over to pick her phone up off the bedspread. Using her thumb, she typed in her password and pulled up her landlord in her contacts list. She held the display out to show Detective Jackson, who jotted down the landlord’s name and number.
“Have you had any work done around here lately?” Jackson asked, circling her pen in the air to indicate the house. “Plumbers? Electricians? Lawn guys? Anything along those lines?”
“Our landlord gave us a form to fill out when we moved in so we could document damage and things that needed repairs. He hired a handyman to fix the things we’d listed on the form.”
“What things?”
Shelby looked up in thought. “The outdoor faucet on the back patio. It had a drip. The door to our bedroom was off kilter and wouldn’t shut right. Something with the hinges, if I remember right. One of the ceiling fans didn’t work. The motor had burned out. The handyman replaced it.”
“What about the damage behind the door that leads from the kitchen to the garag
e?”
Shelby’s brow furrowed. “What damage?”
Jackson referenced the damage I’d noted earlier. “It looks like the knob punched through the drywall.”
Shelby took a shuddering breath. “I never noticed it before. That must have happened while we were gone today.”
“The front window, too?”
“Yeah. That was my first clue that something was wrong. Regina and I noticed it when we were coming inside.”
Jackson glanced around the room a second time. “You’ve got that nice TV in the media room, but do you have any other valuables visible around the house?”
“Like what?”
“Jewelry,” Jackson said. “China. Silver. Maybe electronics or guns?”
“I’ve got a pair of diamond earrings Greg bought me for our tenth anniversary, but the stones are small. He only paid two-hundred dollars for them. We don’t have any guns or silver, only everyday china. We’ve each got a laptop but they’re cheap ones and we share a tablet but, other than the TV, that’s it as far as electronics.”
I noticed she used the term “we” quite a bit, and spoke as if Greg were still alive. These facts could provide further evidence of her innocence. When a person had been involved in the death of someone else, and knew that person was no longer alive, they sometimes inadvertently referred to that person in the past tense.
Jackson asked some follow-up questions in an attempt to determine possible motives for an attack and means of entry, though none of Shelby’s responses yielded useful information. When the detective finished, she said, “Okay if I take Greg’s laptop with me and have a look, see if there’s anything on it that could point to a perpetrator?”
“Of course,” Shelby said. “Anything that will help.”
“Then you won’t mind me taking your computer, too, right?” Jackson said. “It’s routine in matters like this to consider anyone close to the victim as a potential suspect.”
“I understand,” Shelby said. “The sooner you can rule me out, the sooner you can focus on whoever really hurt Greg.”