Inspired by Murder Page 11

  “Really? I didn't notice.”

  “It was obvious.” Adams shot him a sideways glance. “I hope you're not planning to ask her out before I do.”

  Stephenson grinned at the overly-concerned look on his partner's face. “Relax. I'm not planning on asking anyone out. I've got other things on my mind.”

  He stepped out into the hall and Adams followed behind. It was easy to spot Robert's friend. The young man had taken a seat in the hallway with his back resting against the wall. His knees were pulled to his chest. As Stephenson approached him, he saw that his eyes were red from crying.

  “Hi, I'm Detective Stephenson and this is Detective Adams. You're the one who found Robert this morning?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I already gave the other detectives my statement, but they asked me to hang around in case there were any more questions.” He stared at the wall opposite him as he spoke, avoiding eye contact with the detectives.

  “When was the last time you talked to Robert?” Stephenson asked.

  “Um...I texted Rob before my flight left from Boston yesterday and he texted me back saying he'd be there to pick me up when I got to Seattle.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Around nine p.m. in Boston, so I guess around six o'clock here.”

  “Did he ever mention any problems with any of his neighbors?”

  “No. Why?” Travis looked up and made eye contact with the detectives for the first time. “Do you think one of his neighbors killed him?”

  “How did you get into Robert's apartment this morning?” Adams asked.

  “I knocked a bunch of times and he didn't answer. I called his phone and could hear it ringing inside his apartment. When I tried the door, it was unlocked. I went inside and that's when—” his voice broke. Travis cleared his throat. “That's when I found him.”

  Stephenson watched Travis' eyes brim with fresh tears.

  “Thank you for staying. We're very sorry about Robert.”

  “Are you going to catch whoever did this?”

  Stephenson made a point not to make promises he couldn't keep to friends and family of homicide victims. But, in this case, he felt strangely confident he would bring Robert's killer to justice.

  “Yes we are.”

  Stephenson could feel Adams' eyes on him as they walked back down the hall to Robert's apartment. But if he felt Stephenson was wrong for promising to catch Robert's killer, he didn't say so.

  Pete turned Robert’s body onto its side and pulled his t-shirt up to his arm pits as the detectives reentered the apartment. Richards knelt beside him, listening intently, as the medical examiner took advantage of the teachable moment with the young detective.

  “This is the lividity I’m talking about.” Pete pointed to the purplish discoloration of Robert’s back as Stephenson and Adams approached. “When the heart stops, blood pools in the dependent parts of the body. Since there is no lividity present on the victim’s abdomen, it would seem he died in this position. The discoloration doesn’t shift when I turn the victim, which means the lividity is fixed. This tells me the victim has been dead for at least eight hours.” Pete looked up at the two detectives standing over him. “The victim’s liver temperature is seventy-eight degrees; he’s in full rigor, and, as I was just showing Detective Richards, his lividity is fixed. Right now, I’m estimating he’s been dead for approximately eleven to thirteen hours.”

  Adams checked his watch and turned to Stephenson. “That puts our time of death between seven thirty and nine thirty last night.”

  “I’ll notify Robert’s parents if you want to chase up that security footage,” Stephenson said.

  “You sure?”

  Stephenson nodded.

  “Okay. Call me when you’re on your way back. I’ll probably still be here. I want to see what else CSI finds in Robert’s apartment before I go back to the homicide unit.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll call you when I get done with the autopsy,” Pete said.

  “Thanks.” Stephenson took a deep breath as he moved toward the elevator and prepared to do the hardest part of his job.

  Stephenson checked his phone before pulling out onto the street as he left the home of Robert's parents. He’d placed it on silent before doing the notification.

  He looked out his window at the landscaped lawns that lined the steep street as he drove to the end of the block. The Benson's large water-view home was like all the others in its Kirkland neighborhood. Overlooking Lake Washington, the newly-built, two-story house left little space between them and their neighbors. Like many homes in the area, the lot was developed for a much smaller structure in the sixties or seventies, which would've been demolished and replaced with their current dwelling. The upscale neighborhood was just up the hill from the lake and offered a mixture of both mature trees and new homes.

  He felt drained after informing the Bensons of their son's death. It didn't matter how many death notifications he'd done before, it never got easier. He doubted it ever would. The Bensons were obviously well-off, but Stephenson didn't envy them. No amount of money could ever replace their loss.

  He reflected on his conversation with Robert's parents as he drove across the floating bridge over Lake Washington back to the city. On a bright summer day, the view of the lake with Mount Rainier in the backdrop made for a spectacular sight. But on this dreary day in January, the visibility from the bridge was poor. Stephenson could only make out the water close to the bridge, which rippled on the surface from the wind and rain.

  He called Adams when he got to the other side of the bridge.

  “How did it go?” Adams asked.

  “They were in shock. Grief stricken, as expected. I wish I could unsee the look on their faces when I told them. I hate that part of the job.”

  Adams exhaled into the phone. “I know. Me too.”

  “Are you still at the scene?”

  “Yeah, CSI is still processing it. After you left, I noticed Robert’s drumsticks reeked of acetone. We dusted them for prints but there were none. It seems they were wiped clean with the paint thinner that had spilled on the floor. I’ll have them sent to the lab to be tested for mineral spirits and acetone.”

  Stephenson wasn't surprised by the finding but still found it disturbing. It left only two possible scenarios in Stephenson's mind. Either the doctor had played his neighbor's drums prior to killing him or he’d played them after strangling Robert and while his dead body lay at Dr. Leroy’s feet. He thought the second scenario more likely, which meant they were dealing with a psychopath.

  “I’m still going over the building’s security footage so I’ll be here a little longer. You coming back?”

  Stephenson passed the exit that would take him to Robert’s apartment, deciding to make another stop first. “No, I’m going to pay Leroy a visit. I’ll meet you back at homicide this afternoon.” The only positive thing that had come from his visit with the Bensons was it made him even more determined to catch their son's killer.

  “Okay, see you then.”

  A few minutes later, Stephenson pulled into the parking lot of Dr. Leroy's psychiatry practice. He was all but convinced the doctor had murdered his neighbor. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let him get away with it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Eric was half asleep listening to a typical whiny millennial complain about the stresses of her day job when his drab new secretary rudely interrupted them. She threw open his office door and butted into the middle of his client's private session. He noticed she didn't even have the good grace to look sorry. He felt his left eye begin to twitch.

  After sleeping off his few too many drinks in a jail cell, he'd been released early that morning. Slapped with a thousand-dollar fine, Eric was told he would receive a subpoena in the mail with an upcoming court date for his misdemeanor charge. His head throbbed despite the aspirin and half a pot of coffee he'd consumed before coming to the office. He tried not to feel down on himself f
or the absurdity of his actions after he'd left the theater.

  “There's a police officer here to see you. He says it's urgent,” she blabbed.

  “Police officer?” His client sat forward in her chair.

  He really needed to get a new secretary.

  “Well, tell him that he has to wait. As you can see, I'm with a client.”

  “I don't think he's going to take no for an answer.”

  It seems like the one who's having a hard time taking no for an answer is you, he wanted to say. He checked his watch. There was only fifteen minutes left in his client's session, and he had lost interest in anything she said nearly an hour ago. He looked down at her chart to find her name.

  “I'm sorry, Bridgett. But it looks like we will have to pick this up again next week. My apologies for the interruption.”

  Bridgett looked at his secretary and then back at him.

  “Okay.”

  She sheepishly stood from her chair and followed his secretary out of the room. It was moments like these when he missed Daisy almost more than he could bear.

  The door hadn't yet fully closed behind them when Blondie pushed it back open. He did not look happy to see him.

  “Good afternoon, doctor.”

  Eric crossed his leg and set down his notepad.

  “Good afternoon, detective.”

  He shut the door but remained standing just inside of it. Eric looked from him to the chair and then back to him again, as if daring him to sit down. He didn't. Probably afraid Eric would start reading his mind if he did. And then he would know they had nothing on him.

  “What were you doing last night between seven p.m. and midnight?”

  Well, fair dinkum. They'd found his body already. That was quick for a bloke who never seemed to leave the apartment. Eric thought it might be weeks before his body was discovered, after someone finally complained of the smell or a relative came to check on him.

  “Um...let me think.”

  He picked up his pen and tapped it against his notebook.

  “I went to the movies. I think I have my ticket stubs in my wallet if you'd like to see.” He reached into his back pocket.

  “I would. What time was the movie?”

  “I actually saw two movies, back to back. Well, the same movie. Twice. The first showing was around eight thirty.” Eric pulled out the movie tickets and held them up. “Eight fifteen to be exact,” he read aloud before handing it off to the detective. He had made sure to also have the receipts handy. He pulled them out next and held them out. “Here's my receipt with my credit card information.”

  Blondie took it from him, looking unimpressed. His expression changed, and Eric realized he must've seen the movie title.

  “Fifty Shades Freed, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You go by yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “Interesting. And it was good enough that you had to see it twice?”

  “What can I say? I liked it. So kill me.” He smiled. Blondie frowned. “No pun intended.”

  “You were late,” he said, ignoring Eric’s joke. “This receipt is timed eight twenty-one.”

  “Only a few minutes. They were still playing previews for a while after I took my seat.”

  “What did you do from seven p.m. until the time you got to the movies?”

  “Let me think.” Eric motioned toward the chair across from him that was usually occupied by his patients. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to have a seat?”

  “I'm sure.”

  The detective shifted his weight from one foot to another and Eric could tell he'd made him uncomfortable.

  “Suit yourself. Anyway, I got home about six. I made dinner and then watched TV until I decided to go to the movies.” That last part was a lie. He never watched TV that early in the evening. But there was no way he was going to tell him about his book. Or murdering his neighbor. “Why do you ask?”

  The cop looked like he was trying to read him before he answered.

  “I'm afraid that yet another person that you know has been murdered.”

  Eric portrayed a look of surprised concern. “I hope you're joking.”

  “I never joke about murder.”

  His stone-cold expression and unmoving form reminded him of a statue, and something about this struck Eric as funny. He did his best to suppress the laugh that rose to the surface but was unable to control the smile that escaped his lips.

  “Something funny?”

  He relaxed his mouth.

  “No. It just doesn't seem like that could be possible.”

  “You're not going to ask who it is?”

  “I assume you're going to tell me.”

  “Your neighbor, Robert Benson. The one you asked to stop drumming the night of Patricia, Martin, and Daisy's murders.”

  “That's awful. He was so young.”

  “Yes. I've just come from notifying his parents of their twenty-three-year-old son's death. Their lives will never be the same.”

  If he was trying to make him feel guilty about killing the drummer, he was wasting his breath. Eric had heard the TV going in his neighbor's apartment during the day and all throughout the weekends. He shuddered at the thought. What kind of lowlife watched TV during the day? His neighbor, apparently.

  Eric had always been revolted by people who watched TV during the daylight hours. It seemed a little more civilized when it was at least dark out. But people who sat on their ass wasting the daylight hours by numbing their brains with mindless television and having no ambition whatsoever never ceased to disgust him. Eric reminded himself of this whenever he started to feel sorry for killing him.

  “Did you go straight home after the movies?”

  “Well, no. But that's a long story.”

  “I have time,” he said.

  Eric sighed. Of course he did. “I stopped at a bar on the way home.”

  “You have a receipt to show for that too?”

  “No. I got arrested before I was able to pay my tab.”

  His face perked up. “Arrested? For what?”

  “Disorderly conduct. I had a few too many. I slept it off in a jail cell and they released me this morning. I'm sure you'll be able to verify that without a problem.”

  “I will.”

  Eric could see the detective was intrigued by his arrest. More so than he thought he should be.

  “Was something bothering you that caused you to drink so much?”

  Eric scoffed at his lousy attempt to psychoanalyze him. “Nope.”

  “Have you ever been inside your neighbor's apartment?”

  He was about to say no but changed his mind in the off chance that he’d left some trace of himself inside the drummer’s apartment.

  “Yes, once.”

  Blondie waited for him to offer more information. Eric obliged.

  “We rode together in the elevator one afternoon, and I asked if I could have a go at his drum set.”

  “Have a go?”

  “Yes. I was the drummer in a band during my youth in Australia.”

  He paused, proud of this fact. The detective looked back at him blankly. What a buzzkill, Eric thought.

  “Anyway, I asked if he would mind if I had another crack at it since it had been so long, and he said sure.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  He should probably make it recent. “Two nights ago.”

  Blondie crossed his arms and Eric had difficulty reading his expression.

  “A few of the tenants complained about his drumming to the building's manager, but not you. I would imagine you felt he was pretty inconsiderate though. Living right next to him and all.”

  He was fishing for information, but Eric didn't take the bait. “I wasn't bothered by it. But I guess I've always had a deep appreciation for the arts.” Eric looked at him like he knew he would understand, even though he knew he wouldn't.

  “Did you hear anything last night, before the movie?”

  �
�Mmm...” He pretended to think for a moment. “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

  Blondie seemed to study him, obviously not believing what Eric had said.

  “It would help if you allowed me to search your apartment. Would you consent to that?”

  “I’m afraid not without a warrant.”

  Blondie looked as though he’d expected this.

  “It must be hard to trust people after all the terrible things you see on the job,” Eric said. “You have a family, detective?”

  When he didn't respond, Eric continued. “I imagine it's difficult to switch off from the dead bodies, heinous crimes, and murderers you encounter when you go home and feel obligated to act normal with your family, wife, or girlfriend. Like it's all just another day at the office. That must be wearing.”

  Eric could see he'd struck a nerve, but not in the way he intended. He had misjudged him.

  “Oh, wait. You don't have any of those,” Eric corrected.

  Now he had gotten under his skin. The detective’s eyes narrowed, but he otherwise tried to ignore Eric’s observation. Blondie was young, probably not yet thirty. But old enough to have a family, or at least someone to go home to.

  “You let the job consume your life, don't you? Well, I guess that makes things easier. No one to have to interact with after some of the grotesque things you must see.”

  “While I'm here, I may as well inform you that your client, Patricia, and her husband's deaths are being treated as a double homicide. So, don't leave town. I'll probably need to speak with you again soon.”

  If the young cop was trying to shock him, he failed.

  “Anytime. You know where to find me.” Eric took a business card off his desk and held it out for the detective. “Here, this has all my contact information.”

  He hesitated to accept it. “Thanks, but we've got all your information already on record.”

  He lifted the card higher. “Just in case.”

  Reluctantly, Blondie took the card and slipped it into his back pocket before turning to leave.

  “Thanks for your time, doctor,” he said as he opened the office door.