It's In The Eyes

It's in the Eyes

Nick Vellis



Brilliant golden rays of late afternoon sun filtering through the window made rainbow patterns on the table and easily drew my attention away from the drone of the meeting going on around me.  Outside, individual leaves shimmered on the trees, alternately turning shiny then dull sides towards the sun in the stiffening sea breeze.  This was no tender zephyr but instead a precursor to a storm.  The dark, distant clouds reminded me of the summer thunderstorms of my childhood. They began, like these, with an ominous, sultry thickness in the air, rising wind and clouds clustered in the sky like black mountain ranges ready to unleash torrents and thunder and tear the sky with flashes of blinding white.  These days though, the clouds passed harmlessly overhead, without the rush of cleansing rain.  The rising winds were full of false hope.  This was after all South Florida in the time of drought.



There would be no torrents today and nothing was clean or new inside or out.  My fourth meeting of the day was coming to an anticlimactic close.  This one had been to review the Detective Division’s budget.  I had ten of the best detectives in the state working with me and I wanted to see they had what they needed.  We had finished the meeting by discussing the finer points of sending four or six people to an auto theft intelligence meeting, micro management at its best.  It was during this high-minded discussion that thoughts of breezes had overtaken me.  The others wrapped up and set another meeting time.  I just nodded, knowing one of them would remind me.



As the gang of bean counters filed out of the office my eye fell on the black and white photo of Raymond Chandler.  It had cost me a fortune to get it with its authenticated autograph.  Chandler’s detectives never met with accountants!  When my senses overload, I reach for an old mystery novel. Mysteries are my version of a cheap vacation. A trip I can take without buying a ticket, packing a bag or coping with airport security.  On the one real wall of my office, the others being glass or taken up with windows, were the best pieces of my collection.  Along with the autographed Chandler were stills of Bogie from the “Big Sleep” and “The Maltese Falcon” both autographed by Bogart himself and two framed covers from “True Detective” magazine.  I took a lot of ribbing, a real detective fantasizing about fictional ones, but mystery fiction had been a passion and a refuge since I could choose my own books.  The bookshelves here in my office and in my apartment were lined with them.  They were my escape.  The melodramas, the tough guys and their tough talk gave me something else to think about, a diversion from the wife beaters, gang bangers, robbery, burglary, city councilmen, budgets and real murders that populated my daily routine.

 

I sat back to do some serious daydreaming about all this when Lt. Stan Lee came to the door. 



“What’ cha doin’ tonight?”,  he asked already knowing the answer. 



Nothin’ much.”



“Wanna come over for pizza and wings”?  “Sally and the kids been asking about ya”.

 

Stan and I had worked together for more than 15 years.  Like noncoms in the Army, cops like Stan took care of the new guys on the force, holding their hands and never letting them get too far out of line.  He had helped me make Lieutenant and then later Captain on the back a major and particularly screwed up homicide.  I had returned the favor helping him finally be recognized with a promotion to sergeant after years twenty years as a patrolman.  We worked well together so when I got the Detective Division I brought him along and helped him with a bump up to Lieutenant.  It had been a good move for both of us.  Our understanding was I kept the big brass happy and off his back, deal with the press and "his squad" solved cases.  It didn’t really work that way but he chose to ignore that reality. Stan was a good man, straight, honest, an old time cop.  He had a thin skin at times though and more than once I had smoothed things over with the chief or a citizen because of his red headed temper.  The squad called the short, freckled, broad shouldered guy a "banty rooster".  I called him a bulldog because he never let go.  I declined his offer and asked him to make my excuses to his bride. His bride, after twenty-two years he called her his bride.



As the day crew filed out most of them said some kind of good night, a couple even warned me not to stay to long.  I tried to plough through the ubiquitous paper piled high on my desk but spent more time staring out the window than working.  I watched the slow creep of darkness over the city, then the menagerie of lights that captured it as the sun went down and finally the play of the distant lightning that lit all up in the early summer sky.  I had had enough for one week.





The name of the place was Marcella’s.  It had a comfortable feel.  The look was distinctly South Florida with the fishing nets; glass floats and starfish you come to expect. The main room was a deceptively large but inviting.  Twenty odd tables each round with a complement of leather captain’s chairs that swallowed you with softness filled the space.  Everywhere the eye fell on dark polished wood, paneling, wainscoting, moldings and trim, eventually leading to long curved bar accented with brass rails at the far end of the room.  The stools at the bar were backed with the same glossy leather as the chairs.  I can account for their comfort.  One of them against the back wall is my usual Friday evening spot.  The place had a nice mix of locals, snow birds and out and out tourists.  Everyone who entered made audible acknowledgement to the heat, welcoming the coolness that met them at the door.  Even at this hour the air was palpable. 

The bartender’s name’s was Cathy.  She had auditioned as a singer years ago. The three-piece combo that plays on Friday and Saturday nights during the season had even hired her.  Her slim, 5'6" body, knock out figure and long dark hair had made her a natural for the job but she ended up behind the bar when the owner figured out she just couldn’t sing.  She had a good ear for the customers though and her looks didn’t hurt the trade any.  She was easy to talk to when she had the time but this Friday evening wasn’t going to be one of those times.  The place was packed.  Cathy got a stool from the back handing it to me with a smile.



“Your late tonight”, she said with her usual gleam.  I mumbled something about work and she went right back to pouring drinks.



I was never exactly sure why I came here.  It wasn't going to help, the drinking.  It never did.  The rough liquid only dulled my senses, never relieved the ache.  I was never very comfortable being around other people.  That’s why I sat at the bar, my only communication with Cathy.  Her only communication with me unless invited was to put down a double Jack Black and hold up a glass to ask if I wanted another.  But tonight after three of those the evening took a different turn. 



She was very attractive, and would have been so even before I started drinking.  I was sitting in my usual spot when she came over to order a drink.  She was tall, very blond, about 35, maybe a little older, but she carried it off well.  I notice the cheek bones first, a real looker.  She spoke to me for a few moments while she waited for her drink.  Idle chatter about the heat, how long the week had seemed and she left with a smile and her drink.



Cathy gave me a hopeful wink.  I signaled with my glass and was rewarded with a frown.  Why is it all lounges seemed to have huge mirrors over the bar?  To more easily check out the back of the room?  I could see she had returned to her table with several other women.  From the body language I saw they seemed to be teasing her.  They were here for the occasion of the end of their week.  I was surprised as I watched her walk back to me arriving at the same time as my next Jack.

 

She had a sweet something about her. Women never talked to me.  Maybe I just got away from them before they could.  Anyway that's where it started.  I had kept my secret for the better part of my life.  My parents knew, of course and there was that one woman in my life, I had shared it with her.  She quickly found she couldn't deal with it.  My parents were both dead now, and the woman gets monthly alimony checks repaying me with her utter hatred.  I try hard not to think of any of them.

         If she said her name I never heard it.  She talked.  I listened, adding the appropriate ahs and um-hums that keep people into the fiction you are following what they're saying.  All a while I was watching her mouth, or her nose, anywhere but her eyes, always avoiding her eyes.  I try not to look into people's eyes when I'm not working.  It's seems so unfair to them.

We did the usual, who are you, what do you do, where do you work and live sort of thing.  I learned all about her; she got little from me.  She talked about time spent with friends. I had little to add except listening.  She was out tonight with a group of co-workers from the hospital.  She was a nurse.  She told me about working with the most wonderful patients in the world who were certainly going to die.  They had cancer and it seemed the nicer the patients were, the worse their disease.  She was sad for them and proud of them at the same time. We talked about several of them and her pain was genuine.  She talked and talked.  She didn't make me feel odd for not revealing myself as she did or even for being so of quiet.

 

I caught a Midwestern sort of accent as we talked about growing up in small towns.  We talked about art and music. We had disparate tastes, mine classical and hers 70's rock and Andy Whorhol.  She asked a load of questions about me that I answered as best I could.  I asked no questions at all.  She was very surprised how well I knew her.  She was pleasant and fun too, but there was a hidden sadness.  You could see it in the corners of her smile.  I liked her.  She didn't try to hide too much as though anyone could hide anything from me.  She didn't know that, of course, and it was refreshing to be with someone like her.  The evening was calming, no expectations.  But when I finally looked in her eyes as she leaned toward me I knew.  I always did.  I caught the shudder in her as our eyes met.  The longer we sat there, the more the situation changed. When she laughed nervously, she poked at my side.  When she wanted to emphasize a point she patted my hand.



When I didn't return her playful touches after a while she asked, "What's wrong?" 



"Nothing, "It's just that it's getting late and I have to work tomorrow."  I knew instantly she saw that was a lie, my first real one of the evening.  It made me nearly as sad as it did her.  Not only had I lied but also I could no longer suppress decoding of her every thought.  I was looking into her eyes and they grew sadder.



It all became clear.  What she wanted and the choice I had to make.  Cut to the chase, tell her yes or no right here, right now or let it play out as it would with two normal people.  Normal people, that's what my ex had wanted to live like, two normal people.  I'm not and I never will be.  That didn't help with the problem at hand, however.  I had learned to suppress my accursed gift for the benefit of social convention.  Social convention was my mother's term and it had been a hard lesson.  Well, it was very clear where this very attractive woman wanted this evening to go.  She had even opened the top few buttons of her blouse for my benefit.  I was about to tell her when I was saved by the bell, my cell phone actually.  I felt the relief wash over me, but I saw the crest fallen look on her face.  It was an odd moment.  I looked at the little gadget on my belt, gave her an apologetic shrug when I stood to answer the cell phone. I could hardly hear the voice over the throbbing din of the place.  When I turned to look at my place at the bar she was already gone. Cathy caught my eye.  As if to say, “She left her name and number”, she waved a napkin at me.  Just then the dispatcher came back on the line and I turned my back to the bar. 



The dispatcher was clear and concise.  “Captain  Mitchell?  Yes sir, they need you……” it trailed off as my mind wandered.  I had to have her repeat it twice more.  My destination was across town, down a quiet residential street.  A dead end street as chance would have it.  The dead end bothered me a little.  It was sort of a standing joke in the office.  It was a well-known fact that most people are killed in their homes, by someone known to them and most of them are on dead end streets.  The last factor was not really true but typical of the humor of my squad.



It took me about forty minutes to drive across town to the address.  It was a comfortable one-story place in a nice neighborhood.  It had a brick façade and looked to be about three or four bedrooms, probably with a fireplace.  The front yard was small so the back would be predictably big.  It was the kind of place a family would want to live.  The neighbors would be shocked.  They'd tell the canvassing officers they were the nicest couple and only argued occasionally.  They weren't unlike anyone else on this or any other street.  It was like a thousand other streets around country and many of them were here in Riverton, my town.

 

I could see the uniform guys were already starting the neighborhood checks as I pulled up to the address.  It was always easy to find a homicide scene like this one.  It was the house with the door standing open, night or day and a crowd of uniforms coming and going.  Then there was the obscene yellow barrier tape.  When my big Ford came to a stop at the curb one of the uniforms came my way to run me off.  When I got out he was immediately apologetic.

 

"Captain, I didn't know it was you" he said nervously, "They're waiting for you inside."  I tried to thank him but he had already turned away.

 

The uniform at the door was a familiar face.  I knew his name in the back of my mind, Joe something.  He'd been on the three to eleven shift so long it seemed to rotate around him rather than vice versa.  Which was why it bothered me I couldn't remember his whole name.  He greeted me with his usual scowl of complaint.



"Well Captain, here's another one for you" he said in half mock, half admiration.  "I was the first here. Got the husband waiting for ya’ inside."



"You haven't figured it out yet?"  I huffed at him as I approached.



He shook his head and said quietly leaning his toward me, "There's a lot’a blood in there Captain.  She put up a fight.  The husband found her." 



He knew what the odds were too. 

"What's he say," as if I had to ask.

. 

"Says he was doing 12 oz. curls with the boys at a local joint and found her when he came home.  He called from the neighbor's house across the street.  She says she heard him drive in and then beat on her door.  I would talk to her first Captain, something not quite right there."



What’d you mean?” I asked, turning back to him.



“Dunno, just a hunch” he said shrugging.



"OK Joe, thanks, I will.  Who's with her now?

 

"One of the guys was with her but Griffin wanted the neighborhood started," Joe replied.



Sgt Griffin would be the Patrol shift commander.  He was tough, efficient and more than a little stuck on himself.



"OK, I'll have someone catch up with the neighbor and get a statement. What's her name.”

 

Joe just shrugged again and looked away, indicating the limit of his knowledge and tolerance for talking with me.



I walked in the front door.  It was as I had guessed.  It was a modest but comfortable place, nicely furnished.  The living room was neat, rag dolls on the sofa, collection of ceramic animals on a corner curio cabinet, framed art works on the walls.  The furniture in this room was never used.  There would be a family room elsewhere.  I caught a glimpse of a big man sitting in the far corner of the room with one of the uniforms standing near by.  There were so many new ones.  I didn't know this cop at all.  He knew me though, and threw me a wave and an OK sign.  I pointed an index finger of acknowledgment toward the young cop and he nodded.  The big guy, who must have been the husband, sat looking very alone in a wing back chair, his head bowed, cradled in his hands.  I could hear occasional sobbing.  He could wait.



I found my crime scene guy, Alvin Neil, coming out of what looked to be the kitchen.  He was only 28 but knew his stuff.  Al had been Army CID before I got him.  Degrees in chemistry, and biology had made him a sure thing for command of a lab or something, but he was passed over for promotion twice, I never had asked why.  He landed in my lap six years ago and I’d depended on him since.  He waved, gave me a half smile and met me half way across the dining room.

 

"Captain, glad you’re here," stress apparent in his tone. "The M. E. will be at least two hours getting here, the husband is hysterical and I can't get these uniform guys out of here.  I got no room to work. "



Without replying I used my best badass command voice.  "Clear this building NOW!  Unless you are assigned a job get your butts out.  Give your names to Joe on the door on your way out."



With some grumbling they began to shuffle out, six by my count.  There was no reason for so many cops to be in here.  They were just trying to beat the muggy June night.  At least they didn't seem to be in the actual crime scene itself.



"Who is in charge of this scene," I said to no one in particular.  All I got were shrugs from the stream of people leaving the house.  I caught the last man filing past me and said, "Have the sergeant report to me right away."  He nodded nervously and seemed to flee from me without a word.



Turning back to Neil I asked, "What’a we have?"



He replied slowly, mechanically looking down at his hand written notes, "White female approximately thirty, found in the back yard.  The attack took place in the kitchen, through there."  He paused without looking up pointing behind himself past his left shoulder with the top of his pen.  Continuing he said, "there're multiple stab wounds to the chest and legs, oh yea, several to the face and probably the back too.  There're defense wounds on both hands, a couple look through and through."  Finally, looking up, he added, "I've got the photography finished in the kitchen but I can't do much more until the M. E. gets here."  “I’m settin’ up for the pics outside”.



“I know how you love that”.



Neil hated the paint-with-light stuff.  The body outside at night made it a necessity.  The extended exposure coupled with multiple flash shots was the only way to photograph effectively outdoors at night. Portable lights would be brought in later but initial photographs need to be taken in situ. The technique was tedious, unforgiving and with crime scene photography there wasn’t a chance to go back and do it again.  He would grumble but do a 4-0 job of it.



"Any sign of the weapon" I asked skeptically "or forced entry"? Neil nodded in the negative and said, “ Not yet”.  “Don’t know about the forced entry yet either.  We haven't done a search of the house yet."



"What!"  I couldn't believe it.  All those cops in the house and no search!  Under my breath my frustration slipped out as I hissed. 



Neil replied, knowing he wasn't supposed to hear, "Yep." 



“OK, Is there any way I can look at the scene without messing you up," I asked.  Neil turned and waved over his shoulder for me to follow.  I fell in behind him walking slowly pulling out my cell phone.  I needed to find out why my detective squad or at lest one of them wasn't here yet.  Just as I dialed the number to page all of them at once, we called it a gang page, in strode Stan followed by two of my troops, John Kelly and Connie French. Before I could say anything Stan walked straight to me.



"Don't jump me yet", he said, dispatch sent us to the southwest instead of the northwest. This address on that side of town is an empty lot.  We're on it now.  The guy at the door filled us in."



I told him about the mass of cops in the house, as if he hadn't seen them, the witness situation and that no one had talked to the husband yet.  He was not disturbed there had been no search.  He preferred to do such things himself with Neil at his shoulder.  He put Kelly on the husband and French on the woman across the street.

 

Turning to the crime scene tech he said, "Neil, wait before doing anything else until I look at the scene.  Then looking directly at me at me he changed that to until "we" had looked at the scene.  Then he and I turned to review the last moments of half the residents of this cozy home.



It was your normal galley kitchen, an island with a sink and grill, the whole room no more than 10 x 16.  Cabinets on both sides were painted a pleasant white with some ugly designer green trim.  The prominent feature in the kitchen tonight, however, was an amorphous pool of red on the white tile floor. The blood made the room seem to draw it in on itself.  Blood was splattered, mentally I caught myself, the term was spatter, on the cabinets, and appliances, walls, ceiling and spread in an irregular oval around where I could imagine a prone figure had been.  A pair of blurry red streaks blazed a trail of pain and death through the kitchen. These drag marks in the blood were apparent behind the island, in front of the refrigerator and out a side door to the garage.  They went through a back door of the garage to the yard.  The kitchen was neat, except for the blood of course.  There was the soft glow of an orange light on a coffeepot at the far end of the counter opposite the fridge.  Stan asked Neil a couple of questions I didn't quite hear then suggested we go to the back yard.



She was on her back, arms splayed out as if her hands were tied over her head there in the dewy grass.  Like most of the dead she seemed to be asleep. This would not have been a peaceful sleep though.  She wore large bloody wounds everywhere I could see.  It wasn't hard to tell what had happened.  Fight in the kitchen, stabbed until she went down then drug like a sack of garbage out the kitchen door.  But who? The husband?  So many times it is that simple.  The killer is the person closest to the victim.  The light from the kitchen window shone down on her. You could see the shimmer of her nightgown between the gray-red stains.  She had been a beautiful woman in life, probably careful and neat and in death she seemed to be looking over her kitchen from her place in the yard lamenting the mess she had left there.



Stan and I examined the area careful not to disturb any little thing.

 

"No loose soil for foot prints here boss, no blood prints either," Neil was saying. 

I was lost in thought so it was Stan who said "OK thanks" to him.  I knew what I had to do.  I had to look into the eyes of her husband.  I had to find out now.

Looking at Neil, but talking to Stan I said, “I’m going to take a quick walk through the house.  “Neil, walk with me”.  Stan and Neil were used to this ritual.  I wanted a feel for the place, to get to know the victim and maybe the suspect.

The house was a simple rectangle with the front door in the middle of one of the long sides.  Once inside the front door to the left was a spacious living room, where I had seen the husband sitting.  Straight ahead was a large dining room with the bloody kitchen to the right just beyond.  To my left was a dark narrow hall.  Along the walls were groupings of framed snapshots, a group of skiers, a group of tennis players, still another in New Orleans at Mardi Gras.  She had been a beautiful woman. She looked her best having fun it seemed.  Along with the pictures were plaques, To Sharon Norse for outstanding contributions… There were a ton of them, all for Sharon Norse.



There were two bedrooms next to each other on the right side of the hall.  Each appeared to be about 10x10.  They were both tastefully decorated, obscenely neat and unimpressive in appearance or importance.  The master suite on the other side of the hall was another story.  It was immense, easily measuring 20 x 40.  The room dwarfed the king size bed and it was obvious this bed had been used for something more than sleeping recently.  The covers were tossed on the floor and the bottom sheet had a noticeable, irregular outline of stains.  I noticed an open nightstand drawer on the far side of the bed.  When I went around to that side of the bed I could see the drawer was empty.  There were also two white tile coasters with brown cork liners and an empty bottle of cabernet on the floor in front of the drawer.  As Neil and Stan took this in I poked my head into the master bath.



It had double vanity sinks, a bidet and huge garden tub-shower combination. It wasn’t the fantasy bath that caught my attention.  It was the fact the shower had been used fairly recently as the plastic curtain was wet but there was no wet towel.



I had seen enough for tonight.  I would return in the morning when Cathy’s mixology had had time to fade.  I turned to Stan to tell him but saw he was ahead of me. 



"Listen, he said, why don't you and Kelly take the husband to the office to talk to him?  French can talk to the neighbors and coordinate anything with the canvas. I'll start the search, wait for the ME and go to the morgue with her," meaning the bloody corps on the lawn.



I nodded in agreement. Stan was used to my nearly vulgar lack of conversation when I was deep in contemplation.  I walked down the hall to find Kelly, who had relieved the uniformed officer in the living room.

 

“Mr Norse, this is Captain Mitchell”. 



“Mr. Norse, we are very sorry for your loss.  Unfortunately we need to ask you some questions.  Will you please come to the police station to make a statement”?



Head still hung low George Norse nodded and rose slowly.  Our eyes met as he stood and in that instant I knew we had a lot of work to do.  What we needed now were more suspects.  I paused in the kitchen doorway and gave it one last look then turned to go.



Kelly, Norse and I walked out the front door and down the curved drive.  I put George Norse in the front seat of Kelly's car.



"Just stay calm, I said quietly to him.  You'll have a quiet drive and then we can talk for a while.  We will explain everything that's going to happen". 



He never looked up, never acknowledged he heard me, but he had.



“ Kelly go in by the  rear entrance in case the press is there. “I will be along shortly.  Oh keep your radio low.” I said, nodding toward Norse.



Kelly nodded his understanding. He knew we were setting poor George up.  Even the chatter from the police radio could give him something to concentrate on to get himself together.  That was the last thing we wanted.



I walked to my car and sat heavily in the seat.  It's never easy to see violent death.  This case was not going to be a slam-dunk.  I cranked the key in the big Ford and the Motorola came to life humming in tune with the engine and filling the car with the chatter of police work.  I picked up the mike and made my presence known to dispatch, requesting the duty sergeant meet me at the front of the homicide scene.  Sgt. Dan Griffin answered nearly instantly and acknowledged my summons.    A couple minutes later he walked up from behind my car startling me when he tapped on the window.  I motioned for him to come around and get in.  Griffin was a young man, maybe 35, short, with a bit of a pot belly, and a head full of dark straight hair.  He was full of himself and seemed all too eager to suck up anyone higher in the chain of command than himself.

 

He began immediately with a report of activity so hurried he seemed to begin in mid sentence.

"… the neighborhood canvas as soon as the scene was secure at 2145 hours.  I assigned a man to stay with the victim's husband in the event he made a spontaneous statement.  No search of the premises or property was conducted pending approval from higher authority. There is nothing to report concerning the door to door canvas that is now complete, sir."  He was nearly out of breath.



"Sergeant you covered all the bases except posting someone with the neighbor who witnessed the husband call in.  Was she questioned at all?"

 

"No sir, he replied, we have just her initial statement to the first officer on the scene.  I had only enough men to cover the neighborhood.”



"OK, it's a small error," I replied, “You can clear your men if they are finished, except for the man on the door.  We need him until crime scene is finished.  Call me before you let him go.  You may have to get the next shift to relieve him." The little whimp nodded like a doggie in the rear window of a car.  It was painful to see him try not to appear to grovel.

 

“Good night Sergeant”, I said to get him out of my car.

 

"Thank you sir. Good night sir, thank you sir," he stammered as he backed out of my passenger seat.



What was the use?  There were always people like him, transparent to anyone who will look.  I rolled down the window and gave a wave and thumbs up to Stan who was standing in the curved driveway.  As I drove away I wondered how we could have men like Sgt. Griffin and Stan on the same department.  It didn't make any sense. The ride to the station was quiet.  The constant chatter of the police radio made a background for my thoughts about all I had seen as I burned it all into my memory.  I took my time going back to the station.  There was no traffic and I needed time to think.  I parked in the rear of the three-story barn like police building.  I wanted to avoid any press if they were hanging out after listening to their scanners.  There was no reception committee so I went straight in.  I found Kelly and sent him to get some coffee for Mr. Norse, good old George Norse.  I was going to take a crack at getting the truth out of that man right now.



I had learned when you interview a suspect, anyone, never ask a question if you don't know the answer.  That's hard for some but never was for me.  I always know.  What's hard for me is not just shaking it out of people who lie and lie and lie.  This man would be easy though I could see that right off.  He sensed it.  Now all I had to do was prove what I knew.



I ushered him into the hard room.  It was sparsely furnished with a straight-backed, intentionally uncomfortable chair for him, a softer, nicer one for me and for the witness, who tonight would be Kelly.  There was a small table for note taking and a tape recorder.  Harsh overhead light came from a clear cover over a florescent light.  I hated the room but it was perfect for George Norse.  The man who knew he was lost already.



I came in behind him offered him the hard seat next to the table and sat in the more padded of the three chairs.  I opened my notebook and began filling out an interview form, his name, address, work, age, and all the mundane personal stuff while waiting for Kelly and the coffee.  I wanted him at ease.  No questions yet slow and easy.  I was nearly finished with the form when Kelly knocked softly and came in with the coffee.  George took the coffee and seemed to draw strength from the warmth of the steaming cup.  He steadied himself as he drank.  He sat up straighter and continued to avoid my gaze. His calm and comfort wouldn’t  last very long.  Kelly sat in the corner to the side and just out of his line of sight.



I began by asking simple, straightforward questions, how long had they been married, what did they like to do together, any family locally, and all simple stuff?  He reacted in a predictably distracted manner struggling to think both out of grief and his efforts to hide.  By the end of the first hour I knew quite a lot about them both.  Her name had been Sharon, age 31.  They met in college, married after graduation and had moved from the apartment they had shared while in school to the nice little house five years ago.  He was the shy one it seemed.  His wife had been outgoing.  She was friendly with the neighbors; active in the Junior League, book clubs and sports both tennis and golf.  She never met anyone she didn’t like or who didn't like her.  He by contrast went to work and came home had no outside involvements or hobbies and was his wife’s complete opposite.  Straight answers, no nonsense except I knew the truth.  He was hiding something.  I asked about the neighbors, people she knew through her activities, the gym where she worked out.  Who might want to hurt her? 



"Everyone liked her, he said, "why would someone kill her?"



"That's what we are going to find out," I replied, trying to reassure him.



I had spoken in complete generalities for nearly an hour.  Until the key question nothing would happen.  The key question would set the pattern.  It was only a matter of time.  He had been lulled into a safe, secure feeling by my soft, easy questions.  Even the coffee had played its part. There had been only a little probing, no high pressure.  Until now.  Now he would fall apart.



"Tell me about Connie French", I asked softly.  It had the effect of an unexpected slamming door.  He sat up straight in his chair, jerked backwards as though I had pushed him hard, sloshing what was left of his coffee on his shirt.



"How, how do you know about her", he stammered, realizing immediately he shouldn't have.



Poor Kelly who had been sitting quietly in the corner all this time nearly fell out of his chair. George blathered and protested about keeping her out of this, she was none of my business and so on.  When he settled down I continued quietly. 



"Tell me about her, George, tell me how you met Connie French."  He stared straight ahead for a few moments then he spoke quietly.  He told me all I needed to prove what I knew. He talked about being in a loveless marriage, being lonely and lost, no consumed, by being around with Sharon.  Connie was different.  She was funny and their time together was exhilarating.  He was a different man when he was with her.  Looking straight ahead at the bare wall he spoke like a man in a dream.  When he finished he looked at me.  I could see he knew there was nowhere to hide.



"I never thought anything like this could happen.", he said, looking me square in the eyes.  Then he put his head on the table.  When he looked up a moment later it was not at me but at Kelly.  A plea for sympathy he didn't get.  He put his head down again and began to sob.  I turned to Kelly, who was still looking puzzled, and nodded to him to step outside with me.



Outside, behind the closing door Kelly said, "What the hell was that, how is Connie involved - what the hell has she has got to do with this?



I looked at him sternly and replied, "that was a confession and Connie French is a person we need to find quick."  I had walked out of the room knowing I had a lot more work to do.  Feeling suddenly drained I looked at my watch. I understood why I was spent.  It was 4:40 a.m., more than four hours into the investigation.  I needed some sleep.



I called Stan to check his progress.  He reported the M. E. had the body, they were finished searching the house and about to begin in the yard.  A knife and two wine glasses had been located in the dishwasher.  Our killer had apparently been very careful having started the dishwasher before leaving.  Mrs. Sharon Norse had carefully coordinated everything in the house including the kitchen so it appeared the knife was her own.  I told Stan to wrap up for the night.  They could do the outdoor search in the daylight after a couple hours of sleep.  I told him to leave a uniform guy at the front door.



We got George a room at a hotel on a lower floor and Kelly checked him in for the night.  A uniform officer would be stationed outside the room, however.  No sense tempting fate.  I killed the light in my office and curled up in my chair for a quick hour of needed sleep.



My quick naps do an amazing job of refreshing me.  I awoke at 7:05 feeling as fresh as if I had eight hours sleep.  I found Stan just coming in the back door, notes of the neighborhood canvass in his hand.



He looked up and asked, "Got it closed yet Captain?”, he chided good naturedly struggling with his fatigue.

 

I ignored his question and asked for the notes on the woman across the street from the victim, Sarah Sharpe.



Stan leafed through several pages and shook his head.  "No Sarah Sharpe here.”  "Who was supposed to talk to her Stan," I asked curtly, already knowing the answer. 



"That would be French," he quickly replied.  Maybe she just hasn't turned in the notes." 



"Stan I need those notes quickly and I need Connie French."

 

French was nowhere to be found.  The essential notes from an important witness were on her desk and were useless.

 

Stan said, "I've never seen her do this, two pages of notes from a vital witness?  She didn't even cover the time period in question? What is she thinking?  It doesn't make sense.”

 

I had been scanning the writing while he was talking.  When I got to the end the answer was there.  All I could say was "Find her, Stan."

 

"Why, what's wrong," he stammered, now a little unnerved by my cold attitude.

"When did she come to work last night, on time, or late?"  Who took the call from dispatch to the Norse murder?" These came in rapid succession, just as if he was a suspect.



"French was a little late, and she took the call too, say what's going on?"

 

"I hope I am wrong Stan. I hope I'm wrong.  We have to find her."



Connie French was divorced three years, nine years a cop, and four on my detective squad.  She wasn't the first woman homicide cop I had worked with but she was the best. She was a 40-ish woman, not exactly slender.  She dressed well but not expensively.  She always looked and acted the professional.  No one on the squad would say anything about her looks or clothes though; she would have shot a look straight through them.  She had her boundaries.  She could joke around, but nothing about sex and no rude comments.  Since her arrival in the squad the usual foul language had nearly disappeared.  She could do more from her desk on the phone then any three other detectives could pounding the streets.  She was a tough, knowledgeable cop but now her future was uncertain.  I hoped she wasn't in too deep.



We looked for her all morning.  We tried her apartment,  her haunts, and the scenic drive by the beach, all nothing.  We searched and fumed all day.  Then she just walked in at her usual 3 p.m. reporting time and sat down at her desk.  Stan came to the office window, rapped and pointed towards her desk.  She was writing rather frantically at when I walked in.  She looked beat, as beat as I would have had I not gotten some sleep.



"Connie," I said quietly. 



She looked up slowly, knowing what was coming.  Avoiding my eyes she got up without a word and headed for my office.  She sat quietly and waited for me to sit before saying a word.

 

"I knew you would find out.  I should have told you right away."  Her words were measured, with  little emotion.  She looked me straight in the eyes and they were very sad and full of truth.  I never knew she had a sister, never knew she had an affair, never knew how deep her feelings could be or she could be so troubled, until now.



Calmly, following her lead I asked "Tell me about it, you and George, you and your sister Sarah.  Tell it all to me, please.  "Maybe I can help."



She explained how she had met George when her sister, the Norse’s neighbor, had been invited her to a neighborhood block party.  He was quiet, lonely and lost next to the outgoing Sharon.  Sharon was always active, competitive and going places.  George was a  steady working guy, the stay at home, do the housework and shopping kind of guy.  He had something special about him though. He was kind and warm.  He paid attention to little things, most of all he liked her and she liked him and they were both lonely.  They had run into each other at in the produce section of the grocery store, shortly after the block party.  They laughed and talked and had the best time you can have in the grocery store.  It changed them both because the next week she waited for him outside that very same grocery store and when he arrived she suggested they have a drink.  The drinks lead them to her apartment and to the affair that had lasted more than six months.



"I didn't kill her Cap,” she said with pleading, truthful eyes.



"I know detective, I know," was all I could manage to say.  We both knew who had killed Sharon Norse and there was nothing either of us could do about it.



I had Connie write a statement.  I hoped I could protect her in some way, maybe save her job.  She had misdirected the squad from the scene, but had done it to have time to think.  There was no real harm done.  I collected Stan and headed back to the scene.

 

When Stan parked in front of the house I got out and headed across the street. 

I called to Stan saying, "We're going over here",  I said pointing to the house across the street.  "Watch yourself, we may make an arrest," I told him as I noticed movement at the front curtains.



Stan looked at me quizzically but went to the door.  Sarah Sharpe came to the door before Stan knocked.  She was strikingly beautiful.  Conservatively dressed but looking anything but conservative.  I could see the resemblance to Connie in her face but the figure and the attitude made her different animal.  Strange, George should fall for the less obvious appeal of the female cop.



Stan introduced us and apologized for bothering her.  She said she understood and she had just gotten home from work.  Their conversation was far off for me, as though I was at the far end of a tunnel.  I tried to look her in the face, into her eyes, to know for sure, but she avoided me.  Stan had begun the standard follow-up questions.  Explaining why we needed the information again.  The conversation still seemed a thousand miles away.  I just stared at her.  I stared waiting for her to look my way.  Had French somehow warned her?  No.  She turned toward me and in that instant the whole ugly truth was there before me.  My mind was afire with the passion and fear in her mind. She stopped talking and looked at me quizzically. She stammered slowly, then turned back to look at Stan, back to answering his questions.  I had my answers.  Now I needed the questions.



Their conversation was entering my hearing.  I heard the questions and I tuned in to her slow, soft answers.  Listening to her easy lies I saw how it had all happened. I interrupted Stan with a question of my own.  "How long have you lived here Miss Sharpe?" I asked, to Stan's annoyance.  Surely I had heard him ask that earlier.



She slowly turned toward her face towards mine and said, "a little over two years."



“And how long have you been involved with Sharon Norse?"  Stan whipped his head in my direction. "We know the truth, it will only be more difficult if you lie now," I said not even believing it myself. 



She sat and stared at me for what seemed an eternity, was she going to deny it?  Then a tiny, cold smile began at the corner of her mouth.  It spread across her face and she began to snort and laugh through her nose than burst out in a laugh that had Stan totally confused.  The words that followed were as arrogant as the laugh.



"We did it together before she met George, before they lived together" she began.  "She didn't want anyone to know.  When they got married I listened to her complain about him, his dull ways, his lack of performance in bed.  I bought this house to be near her.  It was so convenient.  We were together whenever we wanted.  Can you imagine my shock when I found out my boring, straight-laced sister was sleeping with boring George? I thought it was perfect and teased Sharon about it.  But when Sharon found out about them she was pissed.  She was going to get him back. I wished I had never mentioned it.  You see competitive Sharon couldn’t handle someone taking something that was hers.  She wanted boring George back.  She thought she was going to take him back and leave me.  Can you imagine how that made me feel?  Me, who had given up everything for her.  She was going to dump me?  She didn't even scream when I stabbed her.  I left her in the yard where we usually met.  She was going to dump me?  I don't think so."  She made this last statement with an odd turn of her head like a dog does when it appears to be listening to you.  It gave me a cold chill.  It wasn't over love, it wasn’t even about sex, it was territory, a fight over possession.  Stan sat staring at her.  Sarah looked at him, then at me.  She seemed proud of what she'd done and waiting for our approval.



I asked Stan to place her under arrest.



It wasn't until we had finished the paper work at the detention center and were headed back to the squad office that Stan broke his silence.  He hadn't said two words since I had started questioning Sarah.

 

"Is French going to be OK in this," he asked sheepishly?



"I think so" I replied, "she only suspected her sister was responsible."  That's why she steered you to the other side of town, so she could have time to think.  She never really did anything to impede the investigation.  She just delayed her own arrival.  That's how I see it, can you back me on that?", I said hopefully looking over at him.



"Yea, when you figure her sister and boyfriend were both involved she had to get her head on straight. Tell me, how did you know?", he asked with some exasperation.  "I had it down for the husband.  … was sure he was guilty as hell."



"Well, he was guilty, just not of murder."  I wanted to tell him I knew because I  saw it in their eyes.  Instead I said, "When I talked to the husband he admitted the affair with Connie.  When I looked at the notes Connie had taken I saw her initials CSF, Connie Sharpe French.  I knew there had to be a reason for her shoddy work and guessed Connie was doubly involved.



"That's a pretty big stretch to make murder, Stan said.



"Have you ever heard the eyes are a window on the soul?  Well, I just looked through the window."  Stan looked at me oddly then quickly looked away.  It was almost exactly like my wife had looked at me when I had tried to explain it to her.  Stan talked on about something else as he drove but his words just faded away from me.  I stared out the window looking into the coming darkness heightened by the threatening, distant black clouds.  The reflection of my own eyes in the window seemed sad.  Strange thing about those eyes in the night, they didn't look back.