by Blake Pierce
The den itself held a single elegant couch and a piano.
“The victim’s office is right through here,” Bannerman said, leading them
through the den and into an area tiled in the same fashion as the foyer. A
simple desk sat against the far wall. To the right, a window looked out onto a
keyhole garden. A large vase of cotton plant fragments sat in the corner. It
looked simple and was clearly fake, yet it fit the room nicely.
“The body was discovered at her desk, in this very chair,” Bannerman
said. He was nodding toward a very plain-looking desk chair. But it was the
sort of plain that would usually boast a steep price tag. Just looking at it made
Kate’s back and backside feel comfortable.
“The victim was Karen Hopkins, a local for most of her life, I believe. She
was working when she was killed. The email she never finished was still on
the screen when her husband discovered the body.”
“The reports say there were no signs of forced entry, is that right?”
DeMarco asked.
“That’s right. In fact, the husband told us all the doors were locked when
he got home.”
“So the killer locked up before he left,” Kate said. “Not unusual. It would
be a surefire way to try to throw off any investigation. Still, though…he had
to get in somehow.”
“Mrs. Hopkins is the second victim. Five days ago, there was another. A
woman of about the same age, killed in her home while her husband was at
work. Marjorie Hix.”
“You said Karen Hopkins was working when she was killed,” Kate said.
“Do you know what she did?”
“According to the husband, it wasn’t really a job. Just a side hustle to
make some extra cash to speed up retirement. Online marketing or something
like that.”
Kate and DeMarco took a moment to look around the office. DeMarco
checked the waste bin by the desk and the few pieces of paper in the small
tray at the edge of the desk. Kate scanned the floor for any possible
fragments, finding herself once again standing by the vase of fake cotton.
Almost instinctively, she reached out and touched the soft head of one of the
stalks. Just as she imagined, it was fake but its softness was almost calming.
She noted a few broken stalks before returning her attention to the desk.
Bannerman kept a respectful distance, meandering back and forth between
the edge of the den and the window, looking out to the garden outside of the
office.
Karen noted right away that the office desk was facing the wall. This
wasn’t too uncommon; as she understood it, it was a great way for people
with short attention spans to improve their focus. She also knew it meant she
likely never even knew what was coming until it had happened.
Her suspicions automatically turned to the husband. Whoever had killed
her had entered the house quietly and made very little noise.
That, or they were already in here and she wasn’t suspecting a thing.
Again, all signs pointed to the husband. But that was a dead end because
based on everything they knew, the husband had a solid alibi. Sure, she could
check up on it but history told her that when someone had alibis pertaining to
work, there were seldom any cracks in those alibis.
Before stating such a thing to DeMarco or Bannerman, she stepped into
the den. In order to get into the office, one had to pass through the den. The
floor was covered in a very nice Oriental rug. The sofa looked like it was
rarely used and the piano looked as if it were an antique—the sort that was
never played but was nice to look at.
The books on the walls were an assortment of titles, most of which she
assumed had never even been opened…just coffee table books to look nice
on shelves. Only near the end of the furthest shelf did she see any books that
showed signs of wear and tear: some classics, a few thriller paperbacks, and
some cookbooks.
She looked for anything odd or out of place but saw nothing. DeMarco
stepped into the den as well and gave her a frown and a shrug.
“Thoughts?” Kate asked.
“I think we need to speak with the husband. Even with the rock solid alibi,
maybe he can uncover some small nugget of information.”
Bannerman stood by the entryway of the den, his arms crossed as he
looked at them. “We’ve questioned him, of course. His alibi is pretty much
bulletproof. At least nine people at his work saw him and spoke to him while
his wife was being killed. But he’s also stated that he’s willing to answer as
many questions as we have.”
“Where is he staying?” Kate asked.
“At his sister’s place, about three miles from here.”
“Sheriff, do you have a file on the first victim?”
“I do. I can have someone email you a copy of it if you like.”
“That would be great.”
Bannerman’s age brought with it experience. He knew the agents were
done in the Hopkins home. Without being told, he turned and headed for the
front door with Kate and DeMarco behind him.
As they walked back to their cars, thanking Bannerman for meeting with
them, the sun had finally reached its place of permanence in the sky. It was
just past eight o’clock and Kate felt as if the case were already on the move.
She hoped that was a good omen.
Of course, when they got into the car and she noticed a few gray storm
clouds meandering in, she tried to ignore them.
CHAPTER THREE
Bannerman had called ahead to give the husband a heads-up that the FBI
was coming by to speak with him. When Kate and DeMarco arrived at his
sister’s house ten minutes later, Gerald Hopkins was sitting on the porch with
a cup of coffee. As they climbed the stairs to meet him, Kate saw that the
man was exhausted. She knew what grief looked like, and no one wore it
well. But when exhaustion was part of the equation, it made it so much
worse.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Hopkins,” Kate said.
“Of course. Anything I can do to find who did this.”
His voice was haggard and wispy. Kate imagined he had spent a great deal
of the last two days crying, sobbing, and perhaps even screaming. And
getting very little sleep in between. He gazed into his cup of coffee, his
brown eyes looking like they might droop closed at any minute. Kate thought
that if he had not been overcome with such horrendous grief, Gerald Hopkins
was likely a rather handsome man.
“Is your sister here?” DeMarco asked.
“She is. She’s inside, handling the…arrangements.” He stopped here, took
a deep breath to fight off what Kate assumed was a bout of weeping, and then
shuddered a bit. He sipped some coffee and went on. “She’s been amazing.
Handling it all, fighting for me. Keeping the nosy assholes in this city away.”
“We know the police have already questioned you, so we’ll keep it brief,”
Kate said. “If you can, I’d like for you to describe the last week or so you
spent with Karen. Could you do that?”
He shrugged. “I guess it was like just about any other week. I went to
work, she stayed at home. I c
ame home, we did our basic married couple
stuff. We had gotten into a routine…sort of boring. Some couples might call
it a rut.”
“Anything bad?” Kate asked.
“No. We just…I don’t know. The last few years, ever since the kids were
all moved out, we sort of stopped trying. We still loved each other but it was
just very plain. Boring, you know?” He sighed here and then shuddered once
more. “Ah, shit. The kids. They’re all on their way here. Henry, our oldest,
should be here in the next hour or so. And then I have to…have to go through it…”
He lowered his head and let out a desperate mewling sound that tapered
into a hiccup-style weeping. Kate and DeMarco stepped away, giving him his
space. It took about two minutes for him to regroup. When he did, he wiped
his eyes and looked up apologetically.
“Take your time,” Kate said.
“No, it’s okay. I just wish I’d been a better husband at the end, you know?
I was always around, but never really there. I think she was feeling lonely. I actually, I know she was. I just didn’t want to put forth any extra effort. Isn’t
that just miserable of me?”
“Do you know of anyone she might have met with the last few days?”
Kate asked. “Any meetings or appointments, anything like that?”
“No clue. Karen sort of ran the house. I don’t even know what was going
on in my own house…my own fucking life half the time. She did it all.
Balanced the checkbooks, made appointments, set the calendars up, planned
dinners, planted that damned keyhole garden of hers, kept up with family
birthdays and get-togethers. I was pretty much useless.”
“Would you allow us to have access to her calendars?” DeMarco asked.
“Anything you need. Anything. Bannerman and his men already have
access to our synced calendar. We did everything on our phones. He can get
you on there.”
“Thank you. Mr. Hopkins, we’ll leave you for now but please…if you
think of anything of interest, could you please contact us or Sheriff
Bannerman?”
He nodded, but it was clear that he was only a few moments away from
weeping again.
Kate and DeMarco took their leave, heading back to their car. It hadn’t
been a very productive meeting but it did help to convince Kate that there
was no way Gerald DeMarco had killed his wife. You just can’t fake grief
like that. She’d seen plenty of men try it during the course of her career and it
had never come off as authentic. Gerald Hopkins was beside himself with
grief and she felt incredibly sorry for him.
“Next stop?” DeMarco asked as she got behind the wheel.
“I’d like to go back to the Hopkins house…maybe talk to the neighbors.
He mentioned that keyhole garden, right outside the office window. There
was a neighbor just within sight of that window. It’s a long shot, but maybe one worth taking.”
DeMarco nodded and pulled the car out of the driveway. They drove back
toward the Hopkins residence as the first of those storm clouds started to
creep in front of the sun.
***
They started with the neighbor directly to the right of the Hopkins
residence. They tried the front door but got no answer. After waiting thirty
seconds, Kate knocked again but to the same result.
“You know,” Kate said, “after working neighborhoods like this one long
enough, you almost expect at least one member of the couple to be home.”
She knocked one more time and when no one answered the door, they
gave up. They left, crossing across the Hopkinses’ yard to venture over to the
other neighbor. As they did, Kate peered across the lawn between the two
houses. She could just barely see the edge of the house that was visible
through Karen Hopkins’s office window. She was looking at the back of that
neighboring house, the front of it situated along a street that apparently
intersected the one the Hopkinses lived on.
As they made their way to the house on the left, Kate noticed the first few
droplets of rain coming from the scattered storm clouds overhead. They
started for the stairs just as she felt her cell phone buzzing in her pocket. She
pulled it out and checked the display. It was Melissa. A small knot of guilt
gripped her heart. She was sure her daughter was calling to bemoan the fact
that she had left Michelle with Alan last night. And now, a bit farther
removed from the decision, Kate felt that Melissa had every right to be
pissed.
But it was certainly not a conversation she was ready to have right now, as
they climbed the stairs to the neighbor’s house. DeMarco knocked this time.
The door was answered almost right away by a young-looking woman
carrying a child who might have been sixteen or eighteen months old.
“Hello?” the young woman said.
“Hi. We’re Agents Wise and DeMarco with the FBI. We’re investigating
the murder of Karen Hopkins and were hoping to get some information from
the neighbors.”
“Well, I’m not exactly a neighbor,” the young woman said. “But I might as well be. I’m Lily Harbor, a nanny for Barry and Jan Devos.”
“Did you know the Hopkins couple well?” DeMarco asked.
“Not really. We were on a first-name basis, but I maybe spoke to them like
once or twice a week. And even then, it was just a quick hello as we passed
one another.”
“Did you get any sense of the kind of people they are?”
“Decent enough from what I could gather.” She stopped here as the child
in her arms started to tug at her hair. He was starting to get a little fussy. “But again, I didn’t know them on a deep level.”
“Do the Devos know them well?”
“I suppose. Barry and Gerald would borrow things from one another every
now and then. Gas for the lawnmowers, charcoal for the grills, things like
that. But I don’t think they ever really hung out. They were polite to one
another, but not really friends, you know?”
“Do you know of anyone in the area that did know them well?” Kate
asked.
“Not really. People around here are pretty private. This isn’t really the
block party kind of neighborhood, you know? But…and I feel bad even
saying this…if you want to know anything about practically anyone in the
neighborhood, you might want to check with Mrs. Patterson.”
“And who might that be?”
“She lives on the next street over. We can see her house from the Devos’s
patio. I’m pretty sure it would be visible from the Hopkinses’ back porch.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s easy enough to find. She’s got these scary-looking
cat statues everywhere on her porch.”
“You think she’d be much help?” DeMarco asked.
“I’d think she’d be your best bet, yeah. I’m not exactly sure how truthful
any of her information will be, but you never know…”
“Thanks for your time,” Kate said. She gave the little boy a smile, making
her miss Michelle. It also reminded her that she very likely had an angry
voicemail from her daughter waiting on her phone.
Kate and DeMarco went back to their car. By the time they we
re in and
backing out onto the road, the rain had started to come down a bit harder.
“It sounds like this Mrs. Patterson who lives in a house that is visible from
the Devos’s patio could very well be the one I saw through Karen Hopkins’s office window,” Kate said. “All those connected back yards with only fences
to break them up…that could be a paradise for a snooping older lady.”
“Well,” DeMarco said, “let’s see what Mrs. Patterson has been up to.”
***
Kate could not help but notice how wide Mrs. Patterson’s eyes got when
she realized two FBI agents were standing on her porch. It wasn’t a look of
fear that touched her face, though; it was one of excitement. Kate imagined
the older lady was already planning how she’d tell the story to all of her
friends.
“I heard all about what happened to Karen, yes I did,” Mrs. Patterson said
as if it were a badge of honor. “Poor dear…she was such a charming and kind
woman.”
“You knew her then?” Kate asked.
“A bit, yes,” Mrs. Patterson said. “But please…come in, come in.”
She ushered Kate and DeMarco into her house. As they went in, Kate
looked back at the several items that had clued them in to the fact that this
was indeed the right house. There were eight different statues of cats,
ornaments that looked like they had been plucked directly from some weird
swap meet or yard sale. A few of them did look unnerving, just as Lily
Harbor had suggested.
Mrs. Patterson led them into her living room. The TV was on, tuned to
Good Morning America with the volume quite low. This made Kate assume
that Mrs. Patterson was a widow who could not get used to being alone.
She’d read somewhere that older people tend to always have a television or
stereo on in the house after they lose a spouse, just so the house seems alive
and active at all times.
As Kate settled down into a recliner, she looked out of the living room
window that sat on the east side of the house. She saw the street and did her
best to estimate the layout of the yard and the street. She was pretty sure they