by Kim Knight
“Chelsea’s approximate time of death was around ten last night. She’s been dead coming up on twenty-four hours now.” Dunne flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. He noted it was eight-thirty at night.
“Thanks, cause of death?”
“Strangulation, plain and simple, probably a belt.”
“Right, okay, thanks, Doc.”
“No problem.”
Dunne placed the phone down, then headed out. On the way, McDonald strode out of his office, and they met in the narrow corridor.
“Any news?” McDonald slipped his notebook in his pocket.
“She’s been dead almost twenty-four hours. Strangulation,” Dunne said.
McDonald gave a cool nod and adjusted his tie. “Let’s see what the wife’s got to say. I went over the last interview scripts again. She was very clear, stating she had no idea about the affair.”
Dunne considered the situation further. “So, if she lied, and she did, it places more weight on her involvement with the notes—possibly Chelsea’s death too. Only one question, why would she go through all the trouble of sending the notes to frame Chelsea and lead us to the murder weapon, only to finish her off? Doesn’t make sense.”
The question hung in the air between them. Dunne further contemplated the theory he and his partner had pieced together ever since the notes had appeared, as well as the interviews that had taken place. Manisha was the last point of pressure to see exactly what she may have been capable of. Between interviews with Chelsea, Lance, and now Chelsea’s death, all roads seemed to lead to her.
“This is what we’ll find out,” McDonald said.
Dunne shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels. A co-worker headed toward him, he moved out of the way, making room for others to pass him in the corridor.
“Let’s go,” Dunne said. “We have a date in Interview One with the widow.”
25
The Alibi
Manisha
Manisha sat in the interview room, fidgeting with her fingers. She was well aware that on the other side of the blacked-out glass, she was being watched by the officers on guard.
Keep calm, stay in control, she reprimanded herself and tapped her nails on the table.
The door flew upon, and Dunne’s large frame walked in.
She froze, averting her gaze from his and focused on the fine scratches on the wooden table.
Dunne took a seat in front of her. His cologne invaded her senses. The fresh scent filled her nose and caused her to glance up at him briefly. Her eyes moved over his frame.
“Ahem.” He adjusted his tie, then locked eyes with her.
She looked away like a nervous schoolgirl. From her peripheral vision, she noticed McDonald take a seat on the other side of Dunne.
“Hello, Mrs. Patel,” Dunne said.
Manisha remained mute and avoided his eye contact.
“Okay, Mrs. Patel.” Dunne started the recording, and the light flashed on. “Detective McDonald and I are interviewing you because, as mentioned, yesterday, new evidence came to light regarding your husband’s murder.”
“Yes, I understand,” Manisha muttered.
“Mrs. Patel, do you still have access to any of your husband’s properties?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Just the empty property on St. Clair Road, so I could clear out a few things I wanted to keep before Chelsea does whatever she plans to do with the house.”
“Is that the only property?”
Manisha paused, then bravely moved her stare from the table. She looked at Dunne, then McDonald. “Why? What’s this about?”
“Please just answer the question, is this the only property?” Dunne reconfirmed.
“Yes, well, no. I have access to all of them. I have a bunch of keys somewhere in the house. But that’s the only one I’ve been to since Tony died. I can’t stand to go in any of them, plus I have no business to now, do I. They belong t-to that gold digger.”
Manisha paused, and grinded her teeth together. Her face moulded into a look of disgust. She felt Dunne and McDonald watching her every move.
Stop it, she cursed herself again, then fixed her expression into a more neutral one.
“I went over there yesterday as planned, to St. Clair Road,” Manisha continued after a beat. “I cleared the house of what I needed, then put the keys in the post to Chelsea, I can’t face that woman.”
“Why is that?” McDonald asked.
“Well, look at what’s she done. She stole mine and my children’s inheritance. She had an affair with my husband.”
“Around what time did you go to the property?”
“Late afternoon, just before I was due to meet with you. I got home around four-ish.”
“When was the last time you saw Chelsea?”
“Month’s ago, like I said, we’re not exactly best friends.”
“Okay, point taken,” Dunne said.
Manisha felt his gaze on her again. She had watched enough CSI and crime shows on television, so she knew he was studying her body language, as well as each frown line that formed on her face at the mention of Chelsea’s name.
I must be more mindful of my reactions toward Chelsea, she thought. Something’s come up. They know more than they are saying.
She tried to stay one step ahead and watch how much information she gave away—content that might land her in deeper shit than she was already in, but for God knows what?
How much do they know? She pondered.
“So, you cleared out the house, returned home. How did you spend the rest of the evening after we left. And what about today?” Dunne asked.
“What is this all about, Detective?” Manisha huffed. “I was home all day today, I was due to have lunch with a friend, but decided to cancel I felt unwell. I was home, like always. The same yesterday evening. Life isn’t exactly a bed of roses for me and my family right now.”
“You never went out?”
“No, I never.”
“Chelsea was found dead yesterday.” Dunne paused and leaned forward.
Manisha fought the urge to celebrate. She didn’t want to react to this news in an incriminating way.
“What?” Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, and her eyes widened. “Dead?”
Bingo, there it is, she mused.
Manisha high fived herself internally. Now, with the news of Chelsea’s death, she knew exactly why she had been called in for questioning—to confirm the possibility of her involvement in the gold digger’s demise. It was nothing to do with guilt over Tony’s death. She took a deep cleansing breath, then held her head up confidently.
“Yes, and you say you were home all day. Did you have contact with anyone?”
Manisha took full advantage of emphasising exactly where she was yesterday, to remove any suspicions over her involvement. “After you left, my son stayed with me. That’s the only person I had contact with. He was with me, I promise. Ask him. I was with him.”
“What time did he arrive?”
Manisha paused and looked around the stuffy interview room. “Around eight-ish, I guess. We had dinner, and he stayed with me. I didn’t feel well, so I went to bed early. He stayed up watching television in the living room. This morning, he went to work, then checked in on me again today.”
Dunne nodded towards McDonald.
“Okay, that’s all for now. No further questions.” McDonald cut the recording.
Manisha sensed Dunne’s frustration.
“I’m free to go, yes?” Manisha asked.
Dunne nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Chelsea, but I have no idea what happened to her. She upset me, we’re not the best of friends, but I’d never want her dead. Just locked away. I’m convinced my husband is dead because of her.”
Manisha rose from her chair and gathered her emotions, mindful to keep her expression neutral and un-readable. She was pissed on the inside but had
to keep up the show of the upset and distraught widow.
Dunne ignored her statement and rose to his feet.
Not wanting to say more than she needed, she remained silent and made her way toward the door.
“We’ll call if anything else comes up.” McDonald opened the door, escorted her out into the hall, and then released her to the care of the waiting officer.
26
Off The Hook
Sandip
Sandip shut off the engine of the car and stepped out. He slammed the door shut behind him, turned, and then pressed the button on the key.
The fog lights flashed, and an audible click confirmed the vehicle had locked behind him. He raised the hood of his jacket, to shield himself for the relentless rain, then made his way to the entrance of the police station, lit with bright lights.
A gust of wind whipped around him during the short walk. He shivered, shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and then took the steps two at a time. On the top step, he swung open the door and entered.
Stepping over the threshold, a few officers looked his way.
Quickly, he lowered his hood, removed his glasses that had steamed up from the change in temperature, then adjusted his eyes to the bright lights of the station.
Sandip spotted his mother standing by the reception desk, deep in conversation with an officer. She seemed tearful and distressed. With an uneasy feeling, he approached the reception desk.
“Mum, what happened?” He pulled her into his arms.
A female officer busied herself with paperwork behind the desk. She glanced from him, back to his mother, then the computer screen, continuing to release his mother.
“It’s Chelsea, she’s dead. They found her yesterday, probably thought I had something to do with it.” she sobbed in his arms.
“Shit,” Sandip whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”
The female officer handed Manisha her handbag and coat in a clear plastic bag.
Manisha picked up a pen and signed her name to claim her things.
Sandip felt like he was being watched. He glanced over his shoulder, and locked eyes with Dunne, who was leaning against a desk.
“Sandip, just a second,” Dunne called out.
Releasing his mum, he walked over to Dunne and stood at the other side of the reception desk just out of earshot of his mother.
“I guess your mum told you about Chelsea?”
“Yeah, she did.”
Sandip sized Dunne up. “I was with her all evening—all night, like she probably told you already, right?”
He knew the games officers played, and he knew full well what he was doing—what was needed. Re-affirming his mother’s alibi took top priority. He knew she would have given the police the details of last night, so all he had to do was confirm them.
Dunne looked Sandip squarely in the eye, then smirked.
“Right, of course she was.” Dunne glance over his shoulder in his mother’s direction. “Did she seem okay? She said she went to bed early. What’s up with that?”
“Ahh, ya know, emotions. C’mon, Detective, she lost her husband. The only man she’s ever loved, and there’s no one to account for his death. What do you expect? She’s hardly in a social mood these days.” Sandip glanced back towards his mother. She sat on the plastic bench sobbing and picking at her nails.
Dunne followed his gaze, then sighed. “All right, I’ll be in contact if anything else comes up.”
“She’s never done anything to Chelsea,” Sandip protested. “Never would.”
“I didn’t say she did, Sandip. I’ll be in contact.”
Dunne turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye and left Sandip rooted in the same spot.
“Come on, Mum, let’s go,” Sandip called out, then looked over his shoulder one last time.
Dunne kept watch, sipping on a drink by the water cooler station.
Sandip didn’t need to hold the detective’s gaze because he felt the intense doubt radiating from his accusatory stare. Coaxing his mum to stand, he helped her with her coat, and then handed her a tissue.
27
Conspiracy Theories
Detective Dunne
“Sorry about that. I wanted to catch Sandip before he left.” Dunne entered his office.
McDonald sat patiently with a file open on his lap. “No worries.” He snapped the file shut.
“So, this is where we’re at.” Dunne stood in front of the board, staring at pinned pictures of Manisha, Chelsea, and Lance.
“Yep, Lance put Chelsea in the picture, uhm . . . over Tony’s death.” McDonald tapped the file on his lap. “And Manisha—”
“We ruled her out originally. So far, she still seems in the clear.” Dunne smoothed his short hair back. “Now, Chelsea’s dead. So, we can’t pin her down on the accusation Lance made.”
“True.” McDonald got to his feet, refilled his coffee mug, then pulled out a fresh cup for Dunne. “But doesn’t that leave Lance in the clear or imply he’s not guilty.”
McDonald sat the mugs down, then joined Dunne over by the board.
“It’s an accusation yes,” McDonald said. “But he admitted they both had an interest in Tony’s money. His death would have been music to both of their ears.”
Dunne cocked an eyebrow at Tony’s mug shot. “Agreed. Now she’s gone.” He pointed to Chelsea’s picture. “We have two murders to close. Hers and Tony’s. He’s still in a holding cell, so we know he didn’t take Chelsea out.”
“Why would he want her dead though? It’s not in his interest really, is it?” McDonald sipped his coffee and narrowed his eyes at Lance’s picture on the board.
“Maybe so she didn’t talk. What if he did kill Tony and didn’t want her to accuse him or confirm it,” Dunne theorised.
“It’s likely. But he’s had no contact with anyone from the time we remanded him up until now.” McDonald pointed over to the pictures on the wall. “Chelsea died within the time he’s been in the lockup.”
“He could have placed a hit on her. I looked at his phone records, he and Chelsea had been in contact, in fact, the day we released her after questioning, they talked,” Dunne stated.
“Very possible then. Maybe she told him that she had been pulled in, and he got wind of what was going on, then organised her murder?” McDonald pushed further, as if he had read his partner’s mind. He refilled the mugs, crossed the room, placed one down for Dunne, then took a seat.
“That’s my thinking, yes.” He took the mug and took a sip.
McDonald leaned back in his chair and considered the possibilities some more.
“Okay, say that’s what happened, how did Chelsea’s murderer get into her apartment? My money’s still on Manisha, she said she has access to her late husband’s properties.”
“Hmm, the alibi, she was with Sandip. It’s possible, but that alibi is tight,” Dunne responded. He moved his gaze from McDonald back to Manisha’s picture. “He confirmed it too. I spoke to him as his mum was booked out—their stories matched.”
McDonald smirked. “I’m sure he did. Okay, what do we have? The murder weapon found at one of the properties Chelsea was the new owner of, but no prints. Now, she could very well have been part of Tony’s death. Just a shame we never got to question her again before someone offed her.”
“Right, what ya thinking? “Dunne asked.
McDonald leaned forward in his chair. He placed his elbows on his knees and pointed over to the pictures. Dunne followed his direction.
“Lance already confirmed there was a plan to get rid of Tony,” McDonald continued his theory, Dunne listened with interest. “Now, as for Chelsea, that could’ve been his doing too—he’s got the background.”
“Yeah, the connections for a hit.”
“Think about it. Strangulation as the cause of death, no prints, no weapon, we’re stuck for evidence apart from the contact that they had earlier that day, and a theory,” McDonald said.
Dunne glanced back to the
mug shot of Lance. “I need to dig into this deeper. Let’s interview him again.”
28
Crunch Time
Lance
The metallic tick of a key engaged the cell lock, making Lance flinch. He rolled over and sat on his bed.
A uniformed officer entered the cell, his co-worker remained at the door.
“Let’s go. Up on your feet.” The officer held a pair of handcuffs. “And turn around.”
Lance resisted, shrugging the officer off. “Where am I going?”
“Turn around and face wall. You’re going back to the interview room. Don’t make this harder, man, co-operate and turn around, sir,” the guard demanded.
Lance rolled his eyes. “What do they want now? I told them everything.”
As instructed, he turned around, allowing the officer to cuff him.
“This is bullshit,” he said under his breath.
The guards led him out of the cell, and the heavy door closed behind him with a thud.
“Don’t move,” the officer ordered.
The other officer slipped a key into the lock, then engaged the locking mechanism with an audible click.
“This way.” The officer with the keys lead the way.
Escorted, sandwiched between two male officers, he made his way down the long hallway. The more he walked, the deeper his dread grew because he knew where he was heading—to the interview room.
Inside, the detectives, Dunne and McDonald, sat, waiting for him, looking fresh and well-rested. Whereas he arrived fatigued, dehydrated, and was sure the circles under his eyes had darkened several shades.
What day is it? He glanced around but didn’t find anything of reference.
Paranoia sat on his shoulder, keeping him from sleeping. And the mounting fear over the shit Chelsea had landed him in, kept his mind wired.
The past couple of nights in his holding cell—or has it been a week—passed slowly. He’s skin was a sickly pale colour, and his greasy hair was lank, hanging limp against his itchy head.