by Kayt Miller
“Around back, garage,” he says using his thumb to point me in the right direction.
I turn and walk through the narrow area between two homes and make my way toward the back. Kent is standing near the alley talking to the medical examiner or M.E. as we like to call them. I nod to the examiner and ask Kent, “What’ve we got here?”
“Male. Name William Gibbons. Age forty-two. Gunshot wounds––head and heart.”
“Yep. Sounds professional.”
“Yeah. It looks like the place was turned over too. Hard to tell, though, the guy was a slob. The owner is in the big house,” he says pointing to the old Victorian home, “…one Katherine Kincaid, discovered the body. She’s waiting to answer questions. I thought I’d give you the honors since you took your sweet-ass time getting here.”
“Jesus, you called fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yeah, I was already here. Don’t you ever listen to dispatch?”
No. I don’t. I figure if I’m needed someone will call me. “Whatever asshole.” I turn toward the garage. I want to walk through the crime scene before I go in to question the old lady. I need my ducks in a row. When I stand in the open doorway, I see crime scene techs everywhere. I sure as shit hope they aren’t fucking anything up. The CSI department here does a good job, but every once in a while, they blow our case for us. If this is a professional hit, we need all of the evidence we can get.
I step over the threshold and stop just inside the door. There’s a box of rubber gloves and shoe covers sitting on the floor. I reach down and grab two of each. I slide the light blue paper shoe covers over my size thirteen’s and then snap the gloves on my hands. As I scan the place, I see the garage has been converted into an efficiency apartment. I’d bet my Beemer that this little renovation was never granted a permit by the city. If that’s the case, the owner is going to be on the hook for some nasty little penalties and taxes. Poor bastard.
The place wasn’t badly done, though. Whoever did the work spent some money making sure it was livable. It’s nice and cool in the room thanks to the window air conditioning unit, thank God. July has been hot as hell. To my right is a small kitchen with full-size appliances. Not much counter space but there’s a small island with one stool to help with that. The apartment is decorated in man-cave chic. You know the kind, right? It’s when a guy gets all of his crappy furniture from family members, thrift stores, and garage sales. Nothing matches, and it’s all falling apart. The walls are white, or they used to be.
Beyond the kitchen is a small area with a nice flat screen television and a loveseat. There are several video game controllers on top of the small coffee table. The vic was a gamer. A relatively substantial desk sits against the far wall. I can see a dust outline on the top––a computer. Another doorway lies between the desk area and the bed––the bathroom, no doubt. The bed is up against the wall on the left side of the open space. It’s here where our victim lies.
I approach the bed slowly, making sure I’m not treading on anything of importance. “Is this all clear here?” I ask one of the techs.
“Yep.”
I approach the deceased and look down into his gray face. As I stare, the M.E. walks up behind me, “Been dead about forty-eight hours; I’d guess. Obviously died from gunshot wounds, probably in his sleep. There’s minimal blood splatter. I’m guessing the killer held the pillow over his face. I’ll know more once we do the autopsy.”
Duh. Jesus. Why do these medical examiners have to do that? There’s a pillow sitting next to the guy's face with two bullet holes in it. Any idiot could surmise that the pillow was involved in some way. “Okay. Call me when you have the results.” Best to stay on his good side, though. He can delay the autopsy results if I piss him off.
As far as assuming he was murdered in his sleep, I’m not so sure. No defensive wounds, at least at first glance, so it’s possible. I take a closer look at our vic. He’s lying on his back on top of his bed covers. It’s been pretty hot the last few days so I can see why he’d be on top of the covers but they hadn’t been turned down yet. That is curious. He’s not wearing a shirt, and he’s only in tighty-whities. Damn, those things do look ridiculous. Boxer briefs are the way to go, gentlemen.
I look down his short legs to his toes. Pink? Are his toenails painted pink? I take a quick photo of his feet with my phone. A fetishist? One thing about murder, especially a hit like this, is there are only two real motives: sex, and greed. My eyes move back up his body to check out his fingers. Not painted. When I examine his face, his eyes are closed, and his mouth is slightly open. Because of the air conditioning unit, the smell is minimal. I’m a pussy when it comes to the odors associated with death. Ten years at this job and that’s something I’ve never gotten used to.
I make a quick sweep around the room again, peeking into the bathroom––looking for anything that seems odd or out of place. Experience has taught me that the little things matter. Hopefully, the old lady in the big house can tell me more.
I spend extra time looking at the large desk. Dust outlines tell me that there were two computers on this table. “Did the techs take the computers or were they already gone?” I ask the woman closest to me.
“No computers found at the scene. Either the perp took it, or they were gone prior.”
Another comment deserving my silent––Duh. Hopefully, these crime scene techs are like this for everyone and not just because they think I’m a fucking idiot. I slide open the three drawers on the left side of the desk. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in the first one––stapler, pens, pencils, ruler, scissors, and staples. The second drawer is filled with printer paper and the third hanging file folders. I run my fingers over the tabs but don’t see anything out of the ordinary just folders labeled: utilities, credit card, electronics, pay stubs, personal correspondence, and miscellaneous.
“Hey,” I say to the tech closest to me. “I’ll be back after I talk to the old broad in the big house so don’t bag these up yet. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” says the female tech with a limp salute.
“Smart ass,” I grumble.
When I reach the alleyway, Kent it gone. Bastard. I guess I’ll question the lady all by my lonesome. It’s okay I prefer that. Kent tends to interrupt the witness and me during questioning because he thinks he’s the Jedi-master of interrogations. Master of anything––he is not. Plus, he ruins my detective mojo.
I walk the narrow sidewalk to the back door of the old Victorian. The place has character, but I can tell from the peeling paint on the wood siding and the broken concrete steps that the place is falling apart. Shame. I knock three times on the back door and wait.
And wait. I knock again and hear a woman say, “Just a second.”
I can hear the woman groan and curse as she wrenches open the door. “Damn thing sticks,” mutters the woman.
Without looking up, I start my spiel, “Hello, I’m Detective Flynn with Chicago P.D. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” I lift my head and peer right into the eyes of my little Sophie from the tux shop. “Katherine Kincaid?”
“Yes,” she murmurs.
“May I come in and ask you a few questions?”
“Yes,” she repeats softly.
She holds the rickety old back door open for me and then steps to the side. “Would you like to sit here in the kitchen or the living room?”
“Here is fine.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee? I just brewed a pot.”
“Sure. Coffee would be great. Black.”
Sophie or I guess its Katherine, makes her way over to the small counter area that holds her four-cup coffee maker. She’s wearing sleepwear that consists of some tight little yoga pants with something printed on them. Little slices of pizza? Those are paired with a tight pink V-neck tee. There’s some sort of logo or character on the front, but I didn’t get a good look at it. I’ll check it out when she turns around. I remember those perky little breasts pressed up against my chest earl
ier today, though. That’s hard for a man to forget. As she turns around, I can’t help but notice how they look even better in her tight little tee.
I clear my throat, “Katherine? I thought your name was Sophie?”
She looks up suddenly. Did she think I could forget her? It’s only been twelve hours. Seriously, everyone must think I'm dense.
“I remember you from the tux shop,” I add.
“Of course. Um, well, my full name is Katherine Sophia Kincaid. I’m named after my mother, Katherine, who died in childbirth. My dad started calling Sophie, after my grandmother, because hearing my mom’s name made him sad.”
“I’m sorry. I can see why that would be hard for your dad. Is your father here?” I hope there’s another witness. The more people we can get to add to the story, the easier my job is.
“No, he died about four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Jesus. This girls’ life sounds damned tragic.
“Does anyone else live here?”
“Nope. Just me. My grandmother died a little over three years ago. She left this place to me, so besides Willy, I’m here by myself.”
“Willy?” Who the fuck is Willy?
“William? You know, the guy…” she says pointing out the kitchen window toward the backyard.
“Oh, right, William Gibbons.”
“Uh huh. But we called him Willy.”
“Okay, Sophie. Can I call you Sophie or do you prefer Katherine?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie, how long has Willy lived in your garage?”
“Carriage house,” she corrects me.
“Carriage house. How long has he lived there?”
“Well, my father did the work to the garage to help gran out with some of her bills. He did it about, let’s see,” she says tapping her chin with her tiny finger. “I was a sophomore in college, so I’m going to say it was about ten years ago.”
“Okay.” What? “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty in a couple of months.”
“Shit. I thought you were early twenties, tops.”
Chuckling, she explains, “Being fat helps me appear younger.”
“You’re not fat.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, anyway, Willy’s been the only tenant.”
What’s with the fucking eye roll? I’m going to move on but I’ve got to say, I don’t like Sophie’s self-deprecating attitude.
Chapter 4:Sophie
Why do people think they need to correct you when you openly admit your own flaws? I’m fat. I know it, you know it, and Henry knows it. Actually, I’m probably an average weight for a woman my age. Heck, I may weigh the same as Arianna does. But, she's at least five nine; I’m barely five feet tall, my height to weight ratio makes me plump. It’s just the way I’m built.
“Okay, that’s good, Sophie. So, now, can you please start at the beginning? Tell me everything you can think of that could help me here. What time did you get home from work?”
“I already told the other officer all about it.” I don’t want to relive this.
“I know. But tell me too. Okay?”
I sigh. “Okay. Well, let’s see. I got home from work at about eight forty-five.”
“That’s a long day, Soph.”
Soph? “It’s a normal day in retail. Besides, you’re still at work. Your day has been longer.”
He chuckles quietly, “It has been a long day. But, murder won’t solve itself.”
I gasp at that comment. It was obvious Willy was murdered but hearing it out loud like that is a shock.
“I’m sorry, that was rude. Willy was your, what? A friend?”
“Um, not really. I saw him occasionally. He did his laundry in my basement but we didn’t hang out or anything.” I continue. “He was nice but a little odd.”
“How so?”
“Well, he wasn’t very social. I don’t think I ever saw anyone visit him. He was into computers and video games, you know?”
“What did he do for a living, do you know?”
“Yeah, he worked for Luciph Corp. You know the huge company just west of the city?”
“I know it. What did he do there?”
“I’m not sure. I'd guess it had something to do with computers, though.”
“Anything else about him you found out of the ordinary?”
Hmm, I need to think for a second. “Well, he usually stayed up super late. His lights were always on at night. He may have slept with his lights on. I’m not sure.”
“How do you know they were on late?”
“I have a hard time sleeping so I sometimes read late at night. His lights were always on. That’s why I went to check on him.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“His lights were off––two nights in a row. I thought it was odd. At first, I assumed he was gone but his bicycle was still leaning against the back of the garage.”
“His bicycle?”
“Yeah, he rode it everywhere. He rode it to the train every morning and left it there while he was at work and then he rode it home––even in the winter. So, the lights were off and his bike was there. Red flag for me.”
“So, what did you do next?”
“I was worried about him so I walked out and knocked on his door.”
“And… What time was this?”
“Probably nine fifteen or so.”
“What did you do next?”
“The door was ajar and when I knocked, it opened slightly. I leaned into the doorway and yelled his name but there was no answer.”
“Then what?”
“I remembered the light switch was at my right, beside the door, so I flipped the light on.” Henry remains quiet so I keep going. “I pushed the door open further so I could see into his place without actually going in. I didn’t want to do anything that would make him angry with me, you know, tenant and landlord rules.”
Henry nods his head. “Please continue.”
“Once the door was open, and the light was on I saw him, on the bed. I could see blood underneath his head. I ran up to him to see if he was okay but as soon as I got to him, I could tell he was, um, dead.”
Recalling all of this is getting to me. I feel the tears burning in the back of my eyes. Willy was a bit strange, but he was nice enough. Plus, he always paid his rent on time. What am I going to do now? I need that rent money. Oh, shit, I’m going to cry. God, I’m such a bitch for only thinking of myself after the poor guy was murdered.
“Shh, Soph, it’s ok.”
I feel big, warm hands wrap around my upper arms and pull me out of my wooden kitchen chair. Before I know it, I’m against his hard, warm chest. I’m standing up between his legs as Detective Flynn hugs me. Damn, he smells so good as I take a deep breath. Is this appropriate?
“Um, I'm okay.” I say as I press my hands against his hard chest trying to push away from him.
“No, you’re not,” he says holding me in place. His hands are now running up and down my back in a reassuring way. “You’ve just seen a dead body, babe. That’s traumatic. You’ve been holding it together surprisingly well. You were bound to let go. It’s good I was here with you when it happened.” Henry pauses, “Speaking of which, is there somewhere you can stay for a few days? A friend’s house? A Boyfriend’s?”
“No.”
“No Boyfriend? An aunt? Cousin? Coworker?”
I snort at the last one. “No. I’ve got no living relatives. My only friend lives in Iowa. I can’t go away, I have to go to work.” I leave out the coworker option. I don’t think he needs to hear about that train wreck.
“It’s not safe for you to be here, Sophie,” Henry whispers. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. The person may come back, we don't know.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be sure to lock up tight.”
“Sophie…”
“I’ll be fine, Detective. I have nowhere else to go.”
“How ‘bout a hotel?”
“You can’t stay here, Sophie.”
“I can and I will. The crime scene is out there,” I say pointing out the window again. “Besides, I can’t leave my house.”
Henry takes a deep breath, “Fine. I’ll see if I can get a uniform over here to keep an eye on things but tomorrow, you need to have an alternative place to stay for a couple of days, at least.”
“I’ll try,” I say knowing full well that I won’t be staying anywhere but here.
Henry rolls his eyes and then stands up. Damn, the man is tall. He’s got to be a foot taller than me, maybe more. I look up and smile. “Thanks, Detective.”
“You’re welcome, Sophie. And call me Henry, please. If you think of anything else, will you call me?” he asks handing me his business card. “My cell is right there. Don’t hesitate to call, Soph, day or night. Whatever you need. If you think of anything, or if you just need to talk, call me. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say saluting him.
“Smart ass,” he mutters.
I giggle. He’s kind of funny. A gorgeous man with a sense of humor? Pinch me.
Chapter 5:Henry
Damn, she’s got a sweet little giggle. I could imagine hearing her little laugh in my bed as I’m teasing her. Fuck, what is wrong with me? She’s not my type. At all. I’m usually interested in the leggy blonde variety of women. Not the petite, brunette, with freckles and a turned-up nose kind of girl. But, that’s just it, she’s not a girl, she’s a woman––a twenty-nine-year-old woman.
Sophie’s a twenty-nine-year-old woman who may or may not be in danger. I hate the thought of her being here alone. She’s got no friends? What the hell is up with that? No boyfriend, but that’s good. Wait. What? Why do I care if she’s got a man in her life or not? Damn, I’ve gotta get laid. It’s been too long––three weeks, but it feels like three years. Maybe I should stop at Murphy’s pub to see if there’s anyone there worthy of a night in my bed––just a night. I don’t do relationships or anything more than a night––two if she’s extra special.