by David Roys
After about twenty minutes, Naylor came into the room. He was carrying a stack of papers, or folders, with a tape recorder perched on top. Another cop followed him into the room, with two coffees. He placed them on the table and then left, closing the door behind him. There was no handle on the inside of the door. Naylor spread out his papers and folder on the table and put a cassette in the recorder.
He said, ‘You don’t mind if I record your statement do you?’
Chris recognized the question as rhetorical. He nodded and then took a sip of coffee. It tasted burnt, like it had sat in the percolator all day.
Naylor said, ‘So, Chris, tell me about Jasmine. How well did you know her?’
‘I already told you.’
Naylor said, ‘For the record.’ He tapped the table near the recorder. Non-threatening. Just routine.
Chris recounted his relationship with Jasmine and Naylor made notes, occasionally glancing up and making eye contact, smiling. Friendly, reassuring. He said, ‘Can you tell me where you were on the day Jasmine was killed, between 6:00AM and 7:00AM.’
‘I was at work. Alone. I was asleep on the sofa in my office. I’d had a long night, working, finishing some code for my presentation, remember?’
Naylor said, ‘Can anyone confirm that’s where you were at that time?’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Chris. ‘I was asleep. I don’t know if anyone saw me, but I doubt it. It’s a bit early for staff and students. Michelle came in around 7:30AM, she brought me breakfast.’
‘So I understand Mr. Sanders. When was the last time you saw Jasmine alive?’
‘I already told you this,’ said Chris. He was starting to feel frustrated.
‘Indulge me,’ said Naylor.
Chris went through the details of when they had last met once more. Naylor waited for Chris to finish and then continued writing for a minute or so. It seemed longer. Then he put the pen down and looked up. He said, ‘Do you know how we identified Jasmine, Mr. Sanders?’
Chris thought about it and said, ‘Dental records?’
Naylor’s expression changed. Half interest, half puzzlement. He said, ‘It’s funny, most people think of driving license, or other personal effects before they think of dental records.’
‘She was running,’ said Chris. ‘She wouldn’t be carrying her ID.’
Naylor said, ‘Actually we got her ID by unlocking her phone and tracing her records through her network provider.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of the folder and slid it to the front of the table. ‘We also got details of her most recent activities, calls made, missed calls, that sort of thing. Do you know what we found Mr. Sanders?’
Chris didn’t like the way he was suddenly Mr. Sanders and no longer Chris. This conversation didn’t seem to be the friendly chat, he thought it would be and he began to wonder whether he should be finding a lawyer. But he had nothing to hide, so there was no reason to get a lawyer. Yet. ‘Judging from my phone,’ he said, ‘I’d say she made at least twenty-three calls, with that number to my mobile phone.’
‘Interesting,’ said Naylor. ‘You’re a smart man Mr. Sanders. You obviously know that in this modern age, people leave a trail. The web sites you visit, your emails, your social-networking activity, phone calls. Everything is recorded. If there’s anything you think you should be telling us about your relationship with Jasmine, now would be a good time to come clean. It’s better that we find out from you than from examining your computer.’ He looked up from his paper and his eyes darted from side to side, as though trying to read his mind. More likely he was trying to read his expression. Was he sweating? Was his gaze casting up to the right? Was he about to lie?
Chris looked at him straight, no glancing away, no touching his face, no nervous gestures. He said, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. You can check my phone records, my computer, if you want. It’s true Jasmine had been trying to reach me. I didn’t see the missed calls until this morning. She left me a voicemail too, I’ve only just heard that. My relationship with Jasmine was purely platonic. I love my wife. I wasn’t having an affair with her and I certainly didn’t kill her.’ Chris pushed back from the table and folded his arms.
Naylor’s expression softened and he seemed genuinely concerned that he may have somehow upset Chris. ‘I’m only taking a statement, Mr. Sanders, really there’s no need to get upset. I’m trying to get an understanding of who was close to Jasmine, who was the last to see her and who, if anyone, may have had a motive to kill her. So far, you have a lot of circumstantial evidence that points to you being quite involved with her, and certainly having had a lot of contact with her just prior to her death. No one can account for your whereabouts at the time she was killed. If you didn’t kill her Mr. Sanders, you must be the unluckiest son-of-a-bitch on this planet.’
Chris said nothing. He was beginning to suspect that he may actually be the unluckiest S.O.B. on the planet. He’d had fun working with Jasmine, but nothing more. Now everyone thought he was screwing her, and this asshole cop thought he’d killed her. The situation was getting beyond his control.
Naylor opened a bag on his desk and pulled out a plastic envelope. He put a pair of silicone gloves on, the kind a dentist would use, then he started to open the bag. He said, ‘I’m pleased you have nothing to hide Mr. Sanders, and that you want to cooperate. I’m wondering, would you allow me to take a swab of your hands? We’d like to perform a test for traces of gun powder that may indicate whether you have recently fired a gun. Just to eliminate you, you understand.’
Chris looked at the swab in Naylor’s right hand. He said, ‘I think I’d like to speak to my lawyer now.’
The man in Chris’s office, logged on to his computer. He’d been given the username and password he needed by a technician when he’d shown the warrant allowing him to search and seize all computer records or equipment that may have been used by Chris Sanders. He wasn’t going to take anything away at this stage, but he did take a dump of all emails from Chris’s inbox, and his deleted items too. He noticed there was an email from Jasmine, Ben would like this, and maybe he was right about this guy after all. He finished copying the emails to his thumb-drive and then printed the one from Jasmine. He then logged out of Chris’s account and signed in as Jasmine. He took a copy of all of the emails, which he backed up to the small storage device. The flash drive was no bigger than a dime, yet could store over four thousand copies of War and Peace. He looked for the latest sent items. He found the message that had been sent to Chris and printed it, the others would be examined back at the station.
TEN
When Chris had heard the news that Jasmine had been killed, he hadn’t imagined for one instant that the police would have him pegged as their prime suspect. The evidence had been laid before him by Naylor and he knew he was starting to look guilty and when they swabbed his hands, they would probably find residue from his shooting session on Sunday afternoon. It was time to get some professional help. He needed a good lawyer and was pleased that his father-in-law was one of the best. Michelle’s father, Bob Whittaker, was a senior partner at Whittaker and Brown, one of D.C.’s premier law firms. Chris called Bob and asked him to come over to the station and to call Michelle, tell her he was OK and not to worry. Bob was with a client, but said he would be over in less than half an hour. He got the impression that he had decided to drop what he was doing and get over. Family comes first.
Chris sat on a bunk in a holding cell. The room was twelve feet by six with a toilet, sink, and a single bunk bed with springs that creaked and groaned as he sat. The room smelt sterile, like a hospital, with a slight hint of coffee and cigarettes. He hadn’t been arrested, but he figured it was just a matter of time. He should probably just get up and demand to be let out, but he didn’t want to push things. That may be all Naylor was waiting for to place him under arrest, and Chris really didn’t want that additional complication in his life. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. He went throu
gh the events of the last few days and could see why Naylor was pushing him hard. He probably had the closest relationship with Jasmine out of everyone in D.C., but he knew that that didn’t mean much. She was a loner, and she was desperate to learn from him. He was the last person, as far as he knew, that had seen her alive. All fairly innocent so far, but then there were other things. The email, the phone message: they made it look like there was more going on than there actually was. Why the hell did she have to start sending emails like that? Why now? It’s not like they were having any kind of relationship. Chris thought about his gun and the session at the gun club. They would soon figure out he had been shooting a handgun within the last forty-eight hours. He had a legitimate reason, and the records at the gun club would show that he was there, shooting targets. Unfortunately they would also show that he had been there the following day for a brief visit, to collect his phone, but he knew how it looked. The cops would think that he had gone to the club and collected his weapon, then after killing Jasmine had returned it to the club the following day. The only thing in Chris’s favor was that he was an intelligent man and only a stupid person or a madman would kill their own student with their own handgun and then put it back in their locker. He really hoped Naylor was smart enough to figure that out.
The cell door opened and in walked Bob. He looked sharp in his expensive, tailor-made suit and Italian leather shoes. He wore a Rolex wristwatch that cost more than Chris’s car. He held out his arms wide. Chris stood and gave the man a hug.
Chris said, ‘Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.’
‘It’s OK Chris. I’ve called Michelle, she knows you’re fine. She’s a bit worried, but she’s happy that I’m here to help you. Now listen to me, you haven’t been arrested, at the moment you’re simply helping them with their enquiries. We’re going to have a chat with Detective Naylor, I don’t want you to say a thing. Let me handle this. We’ll be home for dinner, and then I can see how you’re looking after that beautiful wife of yours. OK?’
Bob’s smile was reassuring and Chris began to feel better, no wonder he was so good at his job. Finally, Chris felt his world was starting to make sense again. He said, ‘You make it sound so easy, but there’s a lot of evidence stacking up against me.’
Bob took a long and serious look at his son-in-law. ‘Did you kill that girl?’ he said.
‘No. No I didn’t,’ said Chris.
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ said Bob. His smile was one of total assurance. ‘You may think things look bad, but believe me, if they had any evidence at all, you would be arrested and we would be having a very different conversation. You just need to understand how these things work. They pull you in for a nice friendly chat, no doubt you were asked to give your statement down here for some trumped-up reason. Am I right?’ Chris nodded and Bob continued, ‘They get you to repeat your statement, over and over. They’re looking for you to make mistakes, minor differences, and then they pick away at that, until they’ve opened up your story enough to get some leverage, like scratching away at a rock face, waiting for a crack to open up. They want you to sweat. They’re trying to get you to lie, to cover yourself and then when you get caught in the lie, you’ll lie more to get out and before you know it, you feel you’ve nowhere left to hide. It’s standard police procedure, son, but don’t let it get to you. They’re talking to you because this is one hell of a mystery. They have nothing.’
‘But what about my gun? I was at the firing range the day before she died. I’ll have residue on my hands.’
‘So what? There’s plenty of people shoot, there’re plenty of legitimate reasons for a positive GSR test and, without other evidence it means nothing.’
‘I’m pleased you’re here Bob.’
‘So am I Chris.’
The meeting with Detective Naylor went as Bob had predicted. The emails from Chris’s computer were a bit of a surprise but Bob was not fazed. There were plenty of reasons why Jasmine may have wanted to meet with Chris on the day she died. The chances are, Bob argued, she had gotten herself in some kind of trouble and was worried. She wanted Chris’s help in getting things straightened out. She was either killed by some crazy in the park, or whoever she was having problems with got carried away and shot the poor girl. There was no evidence linking Chris to the primary crime scene, there was no motive for Chris to have killed her. The cops had nothing. Bob pushed Naylor to either arrest his client or let him go. It was a heart-stopping moment for Chris. Naylor looked at Chris, and then at Bob, a penetrating gaze that was asking the question, did he do it? He broke off the stare and looked down to his file, as though he was waiting for something theatrical to happen, some new evidence to be brought in by his assistant that he could spring on his suspect and close the case. Nothing happened. He looked up again and nodded. They were free to go. Chris felt he hadn’t seen the last of Naylor, but for now he didn’t care. He wanted to get out of there and get back to Michelle.
Bob offered Chris a ride home. His car was a Mercedes CLK in silver with gray leather seats. He pressed the button on his key fob and the alarm chirped as the doors unlocked. Chris thought of Detective Naylor’s car. It was the polar opposite to this luxurious automobile that was in pristine condition. The car smelled of new carpet and leather.
As they drove Bob spoke in a serious tone, not as Chris’s lawyer now, but as Michelle’s dad. He said, ‘I’m sure you’re itching to call Michelle, but before you do we need to have a little chat.’
Chris waited, but he knew what was coming.
Bob said, ‘I believe you didn’t kill the girl. If I didn’t, I would not be driving you back to be with my daughter, and I sure as hell would not have gotten you out of that police cell. You should bear that in mind if you ever call on my services again. Family comes first you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Now the detective seemed to think you may have been having some kind of affair with the dead girl. I’m going to ask you once and I want you to be truthful. Were you?’
Chris looked over at Bob, ‘Are you asking me as my lawyer or as Michelle’s father?’
‘I’m asking you man to man. I think you’re a good man Chris, if I didn’t you wouldn’t have married Michelle, no matter what she thought of you, I would have made sure of that. Michelle’s a smart girl and I trust her judgment, but I want to know the truth and I want to hear it from you.’
‘I was not having an affair with Jasmine. I love Michelle. I would never do anything to hurt her.’
Bob gave a slight nod, as though he’d heard what he wanted to hear. He said, ‘OK, that’s good enough for me. Let’s get you home to your wife. You should focus on getting your life back to normal. Don’t wallow in this shit Chris, let it go. Let the cops figure out what happened to the girl and move on. OK?’
It was OK. Chris was happy to get back to his old life. But that wasn’t really possible was it? Life wasn’t like a computer program, you couldn’t undo the bits you didn’t like. Jasmine was dead, and before she died, she’d been reaching out to him. He wanted to know why. The rest of the car journey was in silence. What needed to be said had been said. Chris knew that once they were back in the house, Bob Whittaker would be Dad once more. They’d joke and smile, share a whiskey or a beer and watch the Redskins play. He also knew that no matter how well he got on with Bob, if he ever hurt his little girl, he would be sure to find out what kind of justice he was prepared to mete out.
Naylor climbed the stairs to the dormitory room in the Foggy Bottom campus that had, until recently, been occupied by Jasmine Allan. The room was at the south end of a long corridor that had five similar doors. Each door was painted gunmetal gray, the floor in the hallway was linoleum. Everything was uniform and plain, except for the last door that had a tape across the door, Police Line, Do not Cross. A patrolwoman was standing at the door. Guarding the room, preserving the evidence.
Naylor nodded to the policewoman as he approached the door. He showed hi
s badge, a formality, but necessary nonetheless. The policewoman acknowledged Ben and smiled as he ducked under the tape and entered the room. The room was simple: bed, desk, sink, mirror, and a noticeboard with tickets, photographs and letters pinned to it. He took down a photo of Jasmine and some other girls. College friends on a night out, he guessed. They looked happy and carefree. Jasmine was a pretty girl, her jet black hair tied back. Her big brown eyes shone with the joy of the moment. He didn’t recognize the girls in the photo, maybe they were friends from her home town. A farewell party perhaps? The bed was unmade, a pair of cotton shorts and a baggy Nirvana tee-shirt looked like they’d been thrown to be picked up later. The sink was clean but surrounded by cotton wool, cleansers, toners, and other cosmetics. The desk had a mixture of books on computing, make-up brushes, powders and lipsticks and a laptop computer. He picked up the computer and opened the lid. The fan and hard drive simultaneously whirred into life and the screen displayed a brief message in white text on black before changing to show dancing lights that swirled around the screen before grouping together into a corporate logo, then some text told him it was restoring from a saved state.
The screen prompted for a user, there was a single option, a tiny picture of Jasmine with her name underneath. He clicked on the picture and after a few seconds the menu options and folders of her computer were displayed. No password. He clicked the icon to launch a word-processing application and checked the most-recently-used files. There were some assignments that sounded technical, too technical for an old cop like him, but also a document that had been saved to a folder called diary, with a filename that appeared to be the date. Naylor sat at the desk and started to read the entries. There was no mention of any close friends, but she did write about her fellow students. The girl in the room next door, Beth, was a permanent annoyance. From the frustrated words on the page, it seemed she was always either playing her music too loud or screaming as her boyfriend fucked her brains out. Jasmine had written that she didn’t know if she resented the noise or the fact that Beth was getting sex on a regular basis and she wasn’t. There was no mention of Chris. There was nothing that indicated she was in any kind of trouble. He closed the file and opened the folder where it had been stored. There were hundreds of entries, each one had a number as the file name that could be interpreted as a date. He traced back to a week before her death and opened the file.