Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “Except when it is,” I say.

  “We need DNA from her parents,” Kate adds. “Whoever’s DNA is under Lana’s nails is probably our culprit.”

  “Think they’re going to be cooperative?” I ask.

  “We’ll just get a warrant if they aren’t,” Kate says.

  We talk a lot about Tracy as we drive over to the Moores’ house. I still haven’t told Kate everything. You know, that Tracy’s blackmailing me, or that she hates me but still wants to marry me, or that I’m still sleeping with Beth—the fact that I’m sleeping with Beth at all. I keep telling myself that I need to break things off with Beth, but seeing as Tracy and I aren’t getting along so well, and I can’t escape from her, I need an outlet.

  “Why don’t you break up with her before you get married?” Kate says, driving a little too fast down the highway. We just finished talking about last night’s dinner. Tracy cooked, and it actually tasted good, once I convinced myself it was safe to eat and I wouldn’t wake up tied to a chair in the basement. No, the real problem had been our conversation.

  I’d asked Tracy to stop having me tailed, since all of my secrets are already out in the open. She agreed. Yesterday, I saw the guy tailing me again. The irony of seeing him now that I know he’s following me is not lost on me. I confronted Tracy about it because I wanted to know what she’d say. If she’d squirm in her seat and deny it, or give me another one of her evil smiles, something I’m getting rather used to, and gleefully admit it.

  Her response was somewhere in between. She squirmed a little and seemed to think about denying it, but in the end, she owned up to it.

  “I had to see if you were up to anything else I don’t approve of. You know, drugs, prostitutes. I really hope you’re not a dirty cop. I mean, not that it would really affect me, but it would just bum me out.” She looked at me, her head tilted, an annoying look on her face.

  “I’m not a dirty cop,” I said.

  “See, I used to believe that,” she retorted. “That those investigations were bogus and just something that happen to cops. But I used to believe you’d never cheat on me either, especially with someone involved in one of your cases, which kind of feels like ‘dirty cop’ to me.”

  She twirled her hair around her finger a few times, turning me on. I want to hate Tracy, but she’s so sexy and I’ve loved her for so long that I can’t. I just can’t.

  “So what are you going to do with the information your bullshit PI is providing you, assuming you actually think it’s true and not something I led him to believe?”

  Once I spotted the asshole, I confronted him and told him to fuck off. He didn’t, so I ditched him before ever visiting Beth. I’ve learned a few things in my day.

  “Well, if you’re making yourself look worse than the truth, that’s your problem.” She paused to take a bite of the lemon chicken she’d made. She chewed thoroughly, then continued. “I haven’t decided how to use my knowledge yet. Maybe I’ll anonymously send it to your sergeant. Or maybe I’ll keep it to myself. It does piss me off you’ve still been seeing that lady. She’s hot and all, and I get that suburban housewife thing, but I’m all that and more, baby.”

  She got up from her chair and walked over to me, sitting on my lap and ruffling my hair. She kissed my cheek, then my lips. Then my neck. And I let her.

  “Let me be your everything,” she said.

  I enjoyed it; I didn’t want her to stop, but at the same time I felt like the deeper we got into this mess, the less likely I would be able to come out okay on the other side. Tracy has become the most dangerously unpredictable person I have ever known in my entire life. Maybe unpredictability is sexy.

  “I can’t break up with Tracy,” I say to Kate in the car, knowing breaking up with her would just make this whole situation worse.

  “You can’t?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Uncomplicate it.”

  “I don’t think that’s a word,” I say.

  “I don’t care if it’s a word. Don’t change the subject.”

  “I always thought I’d end up with Tracy, and I still love her, even if she is kind of nuts.”

  “Bad news,” Kate says. “We’re all nuts. Every single one of us. But there’s a difference between using-too-much-hand-sanitizer nuts and kill-you-in-your-sleep nuts. You don’t think Tracy’s gonna kill you in your sleep, do you?”

  I pause too long. Kate pulls the car over.

  “We have to get to the Moores’ house,” I say in protest.

  “We have time. Do. You. Think. Tracy. Is. Going. To. Kill. You? It’s an easy question.”

  “No, of course not,” I say, not at all sounding like I believe it.

  “What happened between you two?”

  I pause again. Kate stares into my eyes.

  “She caught me cheating.”

  “Then you two should just break up.”

  “She doesn’t want to do that,” I say.

  “As long as you want to, I don’t really think that matters.”

  “She’s blackmailing me.”

  It just comes out. I’m not sure if it says more about Kate’s skill as a detective or my inability to keep my fucking mouth shut.

  “Who’d you sleep with?” Kate asks.

  I say nothing.

  “Who the fuck did you sleep with, Ryan?” she asks again.

  “Beth,” I mutter, so low that even I’m not sure what I said.

  “What?”

  “I slept with Margaret’s sister. Beth Cambridge.”

  “Oh my God!” Kate shrieks, then flops back in her seat. She pops back up and continues staring at me. “Slept with, or are still sleeping with?”

  “Still sleeping with.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You could be fired! You could put this entire case in jeopardy. You are going to ruin everything.”

  I say nothing. She is right. This issue is black and white. Plain and simple. I fucked up.

  She puts the car in drive and pulls back onto the road.

  We drive in silence until we reach the entrance to the neighborhood.

  “Are you going to turn me in?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Don’t talk to me. Let’s just do this and worry about everything else later.”

  She’s mad at me, I can tell. I don’t like it, but I know I deserve it, and at this moment, there’s nothing I can do to change her mind.

  We walk up to the house. Margaret answers the door, looking a bit worse for wear, not like her normal put-together, perfect-suburban-housewife self.

  “Detectives,” she says with a sigh when she opens the door.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Moore,” Kate says.

  “What can I do for the two of you?”

  “Is your husband home?” I ask.

  “Actually, he’s returned to work—finally. It’s been a good distraction for him,” she says, with a slight smile.

  “We’re glad to hear that,” Kate says. “May we come in?”

  Margaret doesn’t reply, instead opening the door further and directing us inside. She looks at us once the door is closed and we are all in the foyer.

  “We need a DNA sample from you, ma’am,” I say, to break the silence and get this day moving.

  “For what?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know why we could possibly want a sample from her.

  “Because we found DNA on your daughter’s body and we need to see if you’re a match,” I reply.

  “I have no doubt my DNA could very likely be on my daughter’s body. We lived in the same house, shared food and hairbrushes, makeup, even. I’m sure Dave’s DNA is on her body as well.”

  “We just need a sample.”

  “Well,” she says after a pause, “I
have nothing to hide. My daughter committed suicide.”

  In the chaos of the ride over, not only had my excitement over confronting Margaret waned, but we had neglected to fill her in on the most important fact.

  “Your daughter’s death has been officially ruled a homicide,” Kate says matter-of-factly, not making eye contact with Margaret.

  Margaret puts the back of her hand against her forehead and leans on the wall.

  “A homicide? You are telling me someone broke into our house and killed Lana? I demand a new autopsy—a new investigation. New detectives!” she shouts.

  “You would have to exhume your daughter’s body for that,” I say.

  “I’ll do it!”

  “Chances are that another autopsy would be much less conclusive and not stand up very well in court, since the body has been embalmed and buried. The samples used in this autopsy were taken before embalming. The reason we had to wait so long for results was because our medical examiner was running extensive and thorough tests,” Kate calmly explains to Margaret, in soothing tones meant to calm almost anyone down.

  Anyone except Margaret.

  “How am I supposed to go on?” Margaret wails.

  “I don’t know,” Kate says.

  The house is too quiet for my comfort. I can hear our breathing. In and out. In and out. I’m pretty sure there’s a chance we would all like to stop breathing at this point.

  “But for now,” Kate continues, “at this moment, we need some of your DNA to help us find Lana’s killer,” Kate says.

  Margaret grimaces as she looks at both of us, snapping into a different mode, practically a different persona.

  “How do we go about this?”

  “It’s easy,” Kate says, looking over at me, standing there like a statue. When I don’t make any move to help, Kate pulls a DNA kit out of her bag. “I’ll just swab the inside of your mouth and we can be on our way. We’ll also need a sample from Mr. Moore, so if you could tell him to drop by the station, or let us know when he’s home, that would be great.”

  “Sure,” Margaret says, then opens her mouth. She stands there like that while Kate opens the packet, puts on the enclosed latex gloves, frees the swab from its sterile plastic tube, and forcefully wipes the inside of Margaret’s mouth. Her jaw must be tired after the two or so minutes it takes for all of this to take place.

  “We are all set,” I hear Kate say as I pick up my phone, vibrating away in my pocket.

  It’s Sarge.

  I walk to the other side of the room, giving me some semblance of privacy.

  “Yeah, Sarge.”

  “I need you to come back to the station. Are you almost finished there?”

  “Yup. We’ll be on our way in a couple,” I say.

  “Make it speedy,” he says.

  He’s never called me before to tell me to come back to the station when I’m out on a case. Ever. I wonder if I’m headed for another investigation. My mind spins with the possibilities.

  Shit. Tracy must have turned me in. I have no idea why she would do such a stupid thing, but I’m almost certain this is all because of her. Sarge needs me to return to the station, turn in my badge and gun. I’ll probably be charged with obstruction. The case will have to be dropped. A murderer will go free. It had seemed so good, so nice, so easy to sleep with Beth in the moment, but now it’s about to make things really complicated.

  At least I won’t have to stop sleeping with Beth. That’s a relief. How disgusting am I that this is the only thing I can think of right now? Not what will happen to my relationship with Tracy, or my job or my friends, but what will happen to my relationship with Beth. I was muddling through just fine, partially miserable like everyone else, until this case came along.

  “Kate, you ready?” I ask as soon as I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Moore. You’ll be sure to let Mr. Moore know we need his sample as well, right?”

  Margaret nods.

  Kate walks out the door and I follow, just a few steps behind her, completely distracted.

  “Detective, how are your girlfriends?” Margaret says to me as I walk by.

  She catches me by surprise, startles me. I look at her; she’s smiling this evil smile. She knows. She knows.

  This is bad. I shouldn’t be worried; I should be certain that I can stop this woman in her tracks, but I’m not. I knew Margaret Moore was bad news, and now I’m at the top of her shit list.

  I trip on my way out the door and practically fall flat on my face.

  Kate turns around, looks at me. “Serves you right,” she says, and keeps walking.

  I get to the car and open the door. I slump inside, clutching on to anything that might steady me. I can’t catch my breath. I’m coughing, choking on my own saliva and the pollen-riddled air.

  Kate looks at me. Not with sympathy, but not with anger either. Curiosity, maybe.

  “Are you okay?” she asks impatiently, ready to drive back to the station.

  “Margaret knows I’m sleeping with her sister.”

  “Well, that’s bad,” Kate says stoically.

  “I’ll say, and Sarge wants me back at the station. Something went down.”

  “Relax,” Kate says in a soothing voice, perhaps starting to feel bad for me. “It could be anything. Just wait until we get there before you freak out.”

  I don’t know why she’s being nice to me.

  “I don’t know why I’m being nice to you,” she says.

  At least we agree on that.

  I follow Sarge into his office. He shuts the door. This is going to be bad, I just know it. Add whatever this is to whatever Margaret is going to do, or has already done, and I’m well and truly fucked.

  “Sit down,” he says.

  I do.

  He sits next to me instead of going behind his desk. I don’t like this, or the pitying look on his face.

  “I can explain everything,” I say, just wanting to get this the hell over with.

  “What’re you talking about?” he asks.

  “Nothing . . . I thought—what’s going on?”

  “It’s Tracy.” Sarge grabs my hand. No man has ever grabbed my hand before, let alone Sarge, who’s the manliest man I’ve ever met in my entire life. He drinks beer and eats hamburgers rare. He played college football and smokes the occasional cigar. He doesn’t touch another man’s hand.

  “There’s no other way to say this, Ryan. Tracy’s dead.”

  The whole room gets fuzzy. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Sarge said Tracy’s dead, but that can’t be. It’s not possible.

  Sarge grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “You with me here?” he asks.

  Suddenly I am. I’m still in shock, but I’m with him.

  “Yeah. How? What happened? Where is she?” I ask, rapid-fire. I feel like I should be crying, but I’m not. I can’t make myself cry. I don’t know if I’m really that upset. I’m surprised.

  “A neighbor called us because she heard screaming coming from your house. I talked to her at the scene. Said she’d never heard anything like it before.”

  “Was it a robbery?”

  Sarge shakes his head. “Not much was out of place. TV still there, computers, jewelry. Whoever did it took Tracy by surprise, and they were only interested in her, it seems. You’ll have to do an inventory to be sure nothing is missing, but the guys said it looks like everything’s still there.”

  “Do you have a suspect?” I ask, even though there’s only one suspect in my head: Margaret Moore. I know Margaret did this, and now she’ll come after me. Margaret found out about me and Beth and killed my fiancée so she could destroy me and save herself. How could I be so stupid?

  Sarge takes a deep breath, looks down.

  I keep talking. “I know I can’t be on the case, but K
ate’ll find the person responsible. She won’t give up.”

  He looks at me. “You’re the prime suspect at the moment.”

  I choke. “Excuse me? How is that possible? I’ve been at work.”

  “It was called in before you got here. The neighbor saw a man with brown hair, about five-foot-ten, wearing a mask, walking out of the house. You fit that description.”

  “Yeah, me and half the male population of the city.”

  “We found a gun next to Tracy’s body. It’s registered to you. We’re still waiting on ballistics, but . . .” Sarge trailed off.

  “Like I’d shoot Tracy and then leave the gun to be found. Come on.”

  I’ve turned from surprised to angry. I didn’t kill my fiancée.

  “I’m being framed,” I add, getting up and walking around the room. I glance out, see that everyone is staring into the office. They must know what’s going on. They must think I killed Tracy. It’s what I would be thinking if it was someone else in this position.

  “You believe me, right?” I say to Sarge. “Right?”

  He looks at me with pity. I can’t tell if it’s because Tracy’s dead or if he’s about to arrest me, or at the very least, take my badge.

  “Sure, I believe you, Ryan, but we have to do a thorough investigation. If you’re innocent, we’ll prove it.”

  “If I’m innocent? I am innocent. It’s Margaret Moore. She framed me.”

  I’m becoming frantic.

  “Didn’t you hear me? It was a man.”

  “It could have been her husband. Or she could have hired someone. It’s not that hard, especially since she also killed her daughter.”

  “Now we don’t know that,” he says. “We’re investigating; she’s a person of interest, but not a suspect.”

  “Check me for gunshot residue,” I say, holding out my hands. “I haven’t fired a weapon today. You won’t find anything.”

  “We can do that, but that doesn’t put you in the clear. You could have worn gloves. You know how this works. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  “So I am officially your only suspect?” I ask. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Not at this time, but I will need your badge and gun while we investigate.”