“I was just going to grab a coffee and some breakfast around the corner. Want to come?”
Great, an interview over food. Talking and taking notes while trying to shove food in my face was the worst.
“Sure,” I said as I followed him out of the office. Oh well. Maybe they would have donuts.
Clearly, Tyler didn’t want to invite me into his office, for whatever reason, but that was fine with me. Sometimes I have better luck when I talk to people on neutral turf.
“How’s Mitch?” I asked.
“They’re going to set the bond really high,” Taylor said. “Even though he doesn’t have much money, his family does. That makes him a flight risk.”
My stomach dropped. Now that it looked like Mitch was innocent, the thought of him stuck in jail made me queasy.
“He’s innocent,” I said.
Tyler smirked.
“Reporters aren’t supposed to have an agenda,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I have the same agenda, so I’m fine with it. But I’ve dealt with reporters lots of times and they were never like you.”
“Well I’m not actually a news reporter, anymore. I usually write fun stuff, features, travel stories. I just got stuck on this assignment, I guess.”
“The police were pressured to make an arrest too quickly. Even though Bunny Malone didn’t have many close surviving relatives, the wealth and influence of her family’s estate is still far-reaching, politically,” he said. “Besides that, the police chief and city officials do not like having Denver in the news for open cases of high-profile murders.”
“Mitch’s DNA in her office—it’s probably just incidental, you think? We know he went over there sometimes to talk to her.”
“Could be, but when you put that evidence next to motive—he had a huge one—and then you top it off with the fact that Mitch’s alibi is sketchy at best, well, they think they have a case.”
“I thought Mitch was at the brewery when Bunny was killed.”
“He was. Her estimated time of death is a window, though. For part of that time, he was with you, doing the interview. But before that, it’s fuzzy,” Tyler said. “Robyn and August told the police he was in and out of the stock room and the cooler. He only needed three to five minutes to go over there and come back. His coworkers have admitted Mitch was not with them the entire time.”
Tyler held the coffee shop door open for me as he explained, “But to answer your question, Mitch is doing well, considering the injustice he’s enduring.”
He stopped and smiled at me. “Aren’t you going to write that down? I’m giving you pure gold here.”
I laughed and pulled my notebook out of my bag. I had to admit he was right—it was a decent quote. Today’s story might turn out okay.
After we bought our coffees and sat down, Tyler said, “Off the record, the police must have messed something up. Chamberlain’s got a chip on her shoulder and the investigation was rushed. If I can find where they slipped up, then I can get Mitch out.”
“Or you could, you know, find the real killer,” I said as I gave him my biggest I-believe-in-you smile.
“That would be nice,” he said with a chuckle. “But my job is to serve my client first.”
I looked down and swirled my finger around the plastic lid of my coffee cup. “Well, what about Bunny’s boyfriend? You know what they say: It’s always the boyfriend.” I shamelessly stole Jennie’s line.
Tyler frowned and gazed out the window for a moment. Then he asked, “But what motive?”
“I don’t know. Lover’s quarrel? His business is on that block—they share the alley. He had just as much opportunity as Mitch.”
“The detective’s report said Bunny and Grubler hadn’t been together for years.”
I looked Taylor squarely in the eyes. They were pretty—dark brown with gold flecks. “Wherever that information came from, it’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Do I want to know why you’re so sure?”
I looked down at my coffee cup and then out the window. He most certainly did not need or want to know about the flowers I’d seen when I snuck into Bunny’s apartment or the lanyard I’d seen when I broke into Gus’s office.
“Got it,” Tyler said.
I asked him a few questions about Mitch’s arraignment for my next story.
After, as I stood to leave, I said, “Tell Mitch that me and Colin and Jennie are on the case.”
Outside, it was starting to feel like spring. Today the sun was warm on my face and the sky was a shade of blue that was so vibrant, I was pretty sure the sky back east didn’t come in that color.
I wanted to enjoy the weather. It had been a long winter and I’d spent most of it writing about wintery places—mountains and ski towns and places where they drive their snowmobiles to McDonald’s. But I couldn’t enjoy the sunshine today. It made me think of Mitch, innocent and incarcerated.
I tried to shove away the sour memory of how pleased I had been when I found out he was arrested, just because I thought it meant I could leave.
I started walking toward the police station. I’d gotten lucky with my pop-in for Tyler. Maybe I could ambush Chamberlain, too.
A group of lost-looking, hygiene-deficient, twenty-something kids were in front of me in the security line to enter the police station. They were laughing and talking about Ugly Steve and how they wanted to bail him out with one of their parents’ credit cards. Their understanding of the American justice system seemed a bit shaky.
After walking through the X-ray machine and getting my bag scanned, I followed them to the information desk. An irritable officer explained to the group that Ugly Steve would not be released today and no, they could not go into the jail and “just say hi for a sec.”
They shuffled away, heads hanging and grumbling complaints. Then it was my turn. I introduced myself, asked if I could speak with Detective Chamberlain, and was directed to have a seat in the waiting area.
I couldn’t believe my luck at not getting the “she’s not in” run-around—not yet anyway. Not only was I going to have a great story for work, maybe she would give up some information that would help Mitch. Or, just maybe, I could lead Detective Chamberlain down a line of questions that would cast doubt on Gus and make her realize the murderer was still free.
But that was all a fantasy. The sound of clomping high heels approached me at a startlingly quick pace and rapidly increasing volume.
A woman with bushy, straw-colored hair and bright fuscia blush on her cheeks, applied in harsh streaks, emerged from a corridor behind the information desk.
“Lovejoy,” she said, her voice sharp, like a bark. “Come with me.”
Part of a news reporters’ job is not allowing themselves to be intimidated. Which is one of the reasons I got out of covering the news—I never figured out how to do that. This lady already had me rattled.
I stumbled but caught myself as I scrambled to get out of my chair and follow the woman. Then I got to play a fun round of “buzz me in/don’t pull yet” with the officer at the information desk who was attempting to unlock a glass door that would allow me to follow the woman. But apparently, in my eagerness, I tried to open the door too soon, causing the lock to engage.
After twenty seconds of pure, shameful awkwardness, I finally caught up with the woman and followed her into a small conference room.
She introduced herself as Carol Hancock, the public affairs officer for the police department.
“Detective Chamberlain is busy. She requested I meet with you instead. What can I do for you?”
My mouth was dry and I hoped I didn’t look as panicky as I felt. I had not planned on this contingency. After a moment of studying the woman’s black, drawn-on eyebrows and pink war paint, I decided to go with the journalistic integrity angle, which was mostly the truth.
I took a breath. “Mitch Evans. It seems like everyone’s made up their minds about him—just because they heard the w
ords DNA evidence,” I said. “But I need to know you have more than that. I don’t feel like it’s responsible reporting to write this accusation without something more substantial.”
“Miss Lovejoy, as you well know, you are free to report or not report whatever you like. Whether the State of Colorado has enough evidence to charge him with the murder is up to the district attorney and, ultimately, the grand jury. It’s really not your concern.”
“It’s exactly my concern if he can’t get a fair trial because everyone in the state has been inundated with news reports of this so-called evidence,” I said.
Carol didn’t respond. I stalled for time by rummaging through my bag for my notebook and my digital recorder. Having her wait on me to get set up felt like a power play. Finally, I ran my hand across my notebook page, poised my pen over it, and looked at her.
“Where, exactly, was the DNA found?” I asked.
“His fingerprints were on the doorknob and a hair was in the rug near the body.”
“Is it possible they have been there for days or weeks, especially if the door is usually left open? I saw that shop. It looked like it hadn’t been dusted or swept in a long, long time.”
“Yes, that’s possible, of course. That’s why the DNA evidence is only one part of our case. There’s also motive and opportunity.”
“Where’s the murder weapon?”
“Solid cases are built all the time without murder weapons.”
Carol nodded to my wrist, which had just been exposed when I’d dragged my arm across the desk while I was taking notes. Gray and purple bruises encircled my wrist. They were shaped like fingers—more specifically, Gus’s fingers.
“Got yourself a mean boyfriend, Miss Lovejoy?”
Her smug tone made my cheeks hot with anger—anger and, oddly, shame at what she was implying.
“Parkour,” I said, matching her smug tone with my own cool indifference.
“Really? What aspect of the discipline of parkour involves arm-twisting?”
“I fell doing a wall run. Someone helped me up.”
She cocked her head to the side and gazed at my arm, letting me know she didn’t buy that explanation.
“Now that we’ve discussed my personal life, should we examine yours? Or would you rather go back to talking about the case?”
She glared at me.
“What about Bunny’s boyfriend who lives nearby? Or her heir who was the last person to see her alive?”
“They’ve been questioned and ruled out as suspects.”
“Why? Do they have alibis?”
Carol’s phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up, ignoring my question. She typed something into her phone, then turned the screen toward her palm as she looked up at me.
“I may as well tell you now, the autopsy is done. Stick around. We’ll start the press briefing in about an hour. It’ll be a short one.”
She escorted me back to the police department lobby where I called Lance to tell him to expect a longer story from me today, one that included autopsy results and comments from Mitch’s attorney.
What happened next should have made me ecstatic, but it didn’t. Lance told me this would be my last story from Denver. Interest in the Bunny Malone murder was cooling off, so I could stay on schedule for Las Vegas.
“You still have your news instincts, Jae. You did a good job—got us a lot of exclusives,” Lance said. “We’ll just go with wire coverage from now on, and you can keep your plans for Vegas. If it goes to trial, I’ll send someone out to cover it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” My own voice sounded far away.
“Call me if anything comes up.”
“Okay.”
I held my phone in front of me and watched the screen flash red letters reading “call ended.” Then I opened my email app to begin confirming my plans and interviews for Vegas. There was an email from Quinn with “Denver Murder” in the subject line. I scrolled past it, just for now.
Colin’s expression looked as grim as I felt when he walked up to me. We were gathering with the other reporters—yet again—for a press conference on the front steps of the Denver PD. This time the Medical Examiner would be giving his report.
“Lance texted me,” Colin said. “Guess that’s it. On to Vegas.”
“Yeah.”
I squinted at the horizon, hoping the press conference would begin soon, because I didn’t know what I was supposed to say next. I had an instinct to apologize, but why?
“The flight’s tomorrow night?” Colin asked.
“Yeah, at nine,” I said. “Should be pretty easy. Up and down.”
He nodded.
I’d been so excited about the story we’d be working on there—especially our chance to see a show behind the scenes. But now I couldn’t even stand to talk about it.
“Mitch’s lawyer seems okay,” Colin said, as if he were trying to convince himself. “He’ll be all right.”
I nodded, not quite looking him in the eye. “Plus Jennie—she won’t give up on him. And she knows law enforcement, so…”
The police chief took the podium.
“Good morning. The autopsy on Ms. Guinevere ‘Bunny’ Malone was completed yesterday. The official report was submitted this morning,” he said. “Her death has been ruled a homicide. Mr. Mitchell Evans remains in police custody, charged with her murder. His arraignment will be this afternoon. Now, I’ll turn things over to the Denver County Medical Examiner, Dr. Rene Vasquez.”
Dr. Vasquez was a handsome man who was clearly not intimidated by being in the spotlight.
“Good morning,” he said. “As the police chief said, Miss Malone’s death was a homicide. Abnormal findings include evidence of attempted ligature strangulation. There was a six millimeter abrasion caused by a string or rope that was wound transversely around Miss Malone’s neck. I was able to recover fibers from that item, but due to the fact that the investigation is ongoing, I am not releasing that information, and it has been redacted from the copy of the report that’s being made available to the press.”
When Dr. Vasquez paused to take a breath and rearrange his papers, reporters started calling out questions.
“Were there any other injuries? What about defense wounds?”
“Was there DNA evidence on the body? Was there sexual assault?”
“How do you know it’s not suicide?”
He ignored the questions, other than to say, “Let’s remember that Ms. Malone does have grieving friends and relatives, so let’s keep this as respectful as possible.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if this were an ME report on a non-wealthy, non-white person, would the government officials be so concerned about respect for the deceased and their loved ones?
Dr. Vasquez continued, “Although Miss Malone was strangled with moderate force, strangulation is not the cause of death. Her trachea is intact. It appears both her airway and circulation were unharmed by the attempted strangulation. It is my conclusion that, during the attempted strangulation, Miss Malone was pushed or fell to the floor. She sustained a seven millimeter skull fracture and a very large, eighteen centimeter subdural hemorrhage, causing rapid cessation of all brain function and, ultimately, cardiopulmonary arrest.”
“Does this mean the charges will be manslaughter, not murder?” a reporter shouted.
“My determination of the cause of death is homicide,” Dr. Vasquez said before saying thank you and stepping back.
The police chief took the podium again.
“The family has agreed to make arrangements for the press to attend the funeral discretely and respectfully. You are asked to contact Ms. Malone’s attorney, Edgar Bachman, to make arrangements.”
| Twelve
It took all my willpower to walk past the kettle corn booth at Centennial State Flea Market. We were supposed to be looking for Mary Pettigrew’s booth, but I was ready for lunch and Colin was getting sidetracked taking photos of all the colorful booths, merchants, and shoppers.
I wa
s here reluctantly—at Quinn’s urging to find Mary Pettigrew’s booth and check her out before we left town. But really, all I wanted to do was find some lunch.
Quinn had found an open complaint that Mary filed against Bunny with the Better Business Bureau—something about Antiquities’ pricing tactics. That didn’t surprise me. After all, this is the woman who came to Mission Lager House to drink free water, eat free crackers, and stiff Robyn on the tip.
Quinn had also managed to find Mary’s Ebay account. Mary did deal in crafts and knick-knacks, like she’d told me on the day we met. But she also bought and sold some select high-end coins, stamps, and antiques.
I only gave in to Quinn’s nagging to check Mary out again because the flea market would be a great place to find one more Denverite to interview. That would help me put the finishing touches on my travel story. With Jennie and the parkour group, the bicycle shop owner, the Garden of the Gods feature, and now the flea market, my travel story would round out nicely.
Of course on the first warm day of our trip, Colin and I ended up in a dusty field. Colin, in his jeans, T-shirt, and Ray-Bans, seemed comfortable. But I had foolishly worn boots and a sweater. It didn’t take long for our walk around the grounds to feel like a sweaty death march.
After a stop for lemonade and funnel cakes, and many pauses for Colin to take photos, we finally came across a booth with a black and yellow sign that said “M*P*Treasures.” Quinn had told me that Mary Pettigrew’s user name on Ebay was MPtreasures.
The curtains around her booth were closed, with a “Lunch” sign hanging from the M*P*Treasures sign.
“I guess this is it,” I said to Colin. I looked around for Mary, but I didn’t see her.
I leaned close to the curtain opening, which was about six inches wide. I wanted to snoop inside, but wouldn’t take the risk of sneaking into her booth in broad daylight in this crowded place.
I could see tables and shelves covered with glass bowls, vases, candlesticks, goblets and other pieces. There were also silver knick-knacks, old wooden toys, and quilts hanging on wooden rods. Unlike Bunny’s Antiquities shop, the items here were clean, shiny, and organized in neat rows.
Assignment Denver: The Case of the Eccentric Heiress: Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mystery One (Jae Lovejoy Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Page 9