“Yes,” she began, and knew where he was going with his narrative. “It’s wonderful, but we both have fairly hectic schedules right now.” Katie knew that the next logical step would be more of a commitment, but there was no way she could make such a huge decision like that right now.
Thirty-Seven
Tuesday 0810 hours
The early morning rain caused Katie to run a little bit late. She hurried from the car to the sheriff’s building trying to stay as dry as possible. Her thoughts weren’t far from Chad. He didn’t ask her to marry him, but he was hinting at something. His restlessness about their relationship was showing and even though Katie had no doubt that he loved her, he wasn’t going to wait forever.
What do I say?
Once inside the building, she shook off the raindrops, wiped her feet, hurried down the corridor and was about to run her security pass card when the door burst open and McGaven charged out.
“What’s going on?” she said, taken aback that her partner almost knocked her off her feet.
“Saw you on the security cameras,” he said, almost breathless. “Just got a call from the sheriff and Detective Hamilton; patrol brought Bob Bramble in last night.”
“The contractor?” she said, accessing her memory for the day of the crime scene at Elm Hill.
“Yep. You’ll never guess what for?”
“Murder?”
“No, it was a routine traffic stop and they found something interesting in his car.”
“Just tell me,” she said, teetering on her last nerve.
“They found three things: a roll of twine, a large bag of old-fashioned ink pens, and… a lock of brown human hair with a pink ribbon attached. And a small amount of cocaine.”
Katie’s jaw hit the floor.
“When the deputy asked him what all this was, he said something casual about the twine and pens for his daughter’s art project, but he finally confessed that he took the lock of brown hair at the Harlan crime scene before we got here.”
Katie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What?”
“I know—you heard me.”
“Where is he now?”
“He was in jail last night but they are bringing him up to one of the interview rooms for us to talk to him.”
“Okay,” she said. “What about a search warrant at his house and office?”
“They’re already on that, but they left the interrogation up to your discretion.”
“Let me put my briefcase away and dry off a bit first.”
Katie and McGaven rushed into the detective division to find a commotion underway. Several detectives were speaking loudly to a civilian making the area feel busy and claustrophobic. Jennifer, the office assistant, intercepted them at the door and said, “Detective Hamilton told me to tell you that the suspect is in interview room 4. This is for you,” she said, giving Katie a file.
“Thanks, Jen,” said McGaven.
Outside the door, Katie skimmed through the reports and photographs of the items seized from Bramble’s car. There was also a brief resumé and background check for Bramble.
Katie said, “You want to do it?”
“It’s your party,” he said.
Opening the door, Katie stepped into the room followed closely by McGaven. She chose to stand while McGaven took a seat uncomfortably close to the prisoner.
Robert John Bramble, age 52, sat quietly in his orange jumpsuit, his eyes darting from Katie to McGaven and back to her again. His wrists were cuffed but kept moving nervously—which was common for many suspects.
Katie slammed down the file folder, making it snap loudly against the table. “Mr. Bramble, how did we get here? You were so helpful at the crime scene, and now you’re here in cuffs. What’s up?”
He stared at her, his eyes almost black, his skin washed out. He shook his head.
“C’mon, do I need to spell it out for you?” Katie paced the floor to keep him on his toes—to fix his eyes on her.
“I don’t know,” he said in a whisper.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t, we didn’t quite hear that.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s a lot of ‘don’t knows’ you have.” She paused. “Wait, I’m sorry, but I didn’t properly introduce myself and my partner,” she said dramatically. “I’m Detective Scott and this is Deputy McGaven.”
Bramble stared at her without any reaction.
“And we’re investigating the homicides of Carol Harlan and Mary Rodriguez. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know them.”
“It says in the police report that you’re being charged with drug possession, being a possible accomplice to murder, and impeding a murder investigation. What do you think about that?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you know Carol Harlan?”
“No.”
“Do you know Mary Rodriguez?”
“No, I don’t know those women.”
Katie was warming up for the real questions she wanted answered. “Have you ever been part of a murder investigation before?”
“No.”
“You seemed fairly competent when your crew found the body of Carol Harlan. You knew what to do: stop the work and keep everyone away from the murder scene. That says a lot, don’t you think?”
“I’ve seen enough TV to know that you’re not supposed to disturb a crime scene.”
“I see.”
“I have a daughter about that girl’s age.”
“You have two daughters,” she said. “What do you think they think about what’s going on right now?”
The mention of his daughters made him break and cry.
“These young women are murdered. Do you understand that?”
“Please, I don’t know those women and I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. It’s not up to me to say if you’re innocent or guilty. It’s up to a jury. What do you think they’ll say?”
He sat and stared at Katie as if to discern why she was being so mean to him. Leaning back, trying to push himself out of the way—as if he could disappear.
“This brings me to the big question. Can you explain why you had a lock of woman’s hair with a pink bow in your car?”
“I…”
“Did you take evidence from the crime scene at Elm Hill? When we get back the DNA report—who do you think we will find the hair belongs to?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Did you take evidence from a murder scene?”
“It’s just—”
“Tell me, did you take evidence from a crime scene?” Katie paused. She saw in her peripheral that McGaven had scooted forward a couple of inches, making it extremely uncomfortable for Bramble.
“I have a problem,” he said.
“A fetish? A perversion? What would you like to call it?”
“I can’t help myself. I take pretty things from women.”
Katie was taken aback, not expecting that answer. It didn’t initially occur to her that he was more creep than serial killer.
“Explain to me. How does that work? What triggers you? What goes through your mind?”
“It’s…”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s hard for anyone to understand.”
“Try me.” She knew that he was embarrassed because she was a woman but he would have to deal with it.
“I can’t help it. I’ve had this problem since I was young. I love girls. It makes me want something of theirs. Anything,” he said, trying to compose himself, shifting in his chair. “I collect things. A discarded cup they’d been drinking from, a piece of fabric from their clothes, a barrette, sunglasses, anything connected to them.”
Katie took two steadying breaths and lowered her intensity. “Take me through the events from when you found the body until the police arrived.”
“Okay. It was a pretty stressful morning. One o
f my men came to me and said they had found something horrible. I saw it was a woman’s body so I moved closer to see her. That’s when I saw her naked body… I saw the fingernail but it was too close to some of my men that had gathered around.” He paused.
“Go on,” she said. “The more you tell us about that day, the better prepared we are to investigate and find the real killer.”
“I wanted the fingernail. Badly. I ached to have that beautiful pink nail from that once beautiful girl. But I couldn’t let my crew see what I do—what I am…” He picked up his hands and banged them on the table. “I turned and saw the lock of hair held by a pink ribbon. It was so pretty…”
“And so you stole it from a crime scene?”
He nodded.
“Did you realize what you were doing?”
“Yes, I knew. I always know. Don’t you get it?”
“And the twine and calligraphy pens?”
“I… I… wanted to pretend… to re-create in my mind that it was me that tied her up and wrote on her back… I bought those things after the crime scene—I have a receipt.” He wept. “I didn’t kill anyone. I can’t even kill an insect.”
Katie sat down and flipped through the file again. There was a quick background check done on him, showing where he went to school from kindergarten through college.
“Where did you live when you were in high school?”
“Cloverdale. Just over in the next county.”
“I see,” she said. “Where were your parents? What did they do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where they were or what they did?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Do you know a Shelly McDonald?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do you know a Hugh Keller?”
“I don’t know anyone named Hugh.”
“Who did you live with when you were in high school?” She kept the questions flowing to keep him off guard—sometimes the person being interviewed gave little insights and honest answers when they were fired at them without a break.
He kept shaking his head in defiance.
“You had to have lived with someone. Who?”
“I never knew my parents. I lived in several foster homes my entire life—no one ever wanted me. I cursed every single one of the homes I was forced to live in—every single one.”
Katie paused. This revelation changed some things, but not everything. It didn’t mean that he was that much more likely to be the killer—it put a further twist in the investigation.
“How did you feel about the other kids in foster care?”
“Just like anywhere else. Some were okay but there were always those that you steered clear of.”
“Did you ever meet girls that were in foster care?”
“No. But we met up with girls a lot.”
“How did you feel about them?” Katie gently pushed. She glanced at McGaven and he remained stoic, eyes fixed on Bramble.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean?” he said.
“It’s a simple question. How did you feel about the girls you met up with?”
“I don’t know. We were just excited to be out with the opposite sex.”
“Any girl in particular you liked the most?”
“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.” He intentionally turned his body away from Katie, trying to focus on something else.
“Try,” said Katie. Her tone had a sharp bite to it, causing Bramble to look at her.
“Okay I liked her.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I tried to get into her pants, she wouldn’t go for it, and then nothing.”
“What did you do when she refused you after flirting with you?”
McGaven turned his head slightly toward Katie as if to warn her to stay on track.
Bramble pressed his lips tightly almost to the point they turned pale. It was clear by his body language, tense shoulders, shallow breathing, fidgeting hands, that he did not like the question. Something triggered him, but he fought against it.
“Mr. Bramble, did you hate her, didn’t care, wanted to get even, what?”
“I…”
“C’mon, it must’ve made you mad?”
“Didn’t…”
“Did she make fun of you?”
“Kill…”
“How did she make you feel? I can tell you are still angry about it today.”
Bramble stood up and yelled, “I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Take it easy,” said McGaven.
“I like fantasy! That’s all it is—fantasy! I’m sorry… Is that good enough?”
“Sit down, Mr. Bramble,” McGaven ordered.
“What’s wrong with you, lady? I told you that I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Just sit down,” McGaven repeated as he guided the man to sit back down in the chair.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he repeated sarcastically.
“Sorry about what? Sorry that you took evidence in a homicide investigation, or sorry that you got caught?” said Katie.
“NO!” He banged his hands on the table and pushed himself back as far as he could away from Katie.
Katie didn’t blink. “Thank you, Mr. Bramble, we’ll be in touch.” She picked up the file and left the room.
After McGaven had let the detective division know that they were through with Mr. Bramble for the time being, he caught up with Katie.
Katie saw his expression. “I know…”
“That was…” he began.
“Look, I had to push him or…”
“Brilliant,” he finished.
“What?” She was shocked that he had apparently approved of her tactics.
“You heard me. That was brilliantly done.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, but it didn’t really give us anything. We have to wait and see what is found at his home and business after the search.” She paused at the forensics door, turning to McGaven and making sure that no one was within earshot. “How long would you wait before asking your significant other to marry you?”
“Wait a minute. You’ve switched gears on me here.”
“I know. Just curious. How long?”
“I don’t know. It depends on the situation. What’s going on in their lives. Katie, there’s no set timeline for the right time to ask someone to marry you.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Wait,” he said and stopped her. “Did something happen that I don’t know about? Did your firefighter…”
“No. Well, maybe… well, actually, no. I’m just curious, that’s all.” She swiped her badge and pushed the door open, abruptly ending the potentially embarrassing conversation.
Katie and McGaven returned to the office, trying to piece together what they had from the social worker and from Bramble’s interview.
Katie’s cell phone buzzed and she looked at the text: Katie, I can meet you at Gypsy’s Diner at 2pm, Dottie.
“Oh no,” she said in a low tone.
“What? News?”
“I forgot that I said I would have lunch with the undersheriff today.”
McGaven made an unhappy face. “Good luck with that.”
“She cornered me yesterday. What was I supposed to say?”
“Well, it’s better to get it out of the way.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It seems to me that she wants something—or…?”
“Or what?”
McGaven swiveled his office chair. “Look, it’s none of my business.”
“We’re way past that.”
“I’m just saying that it seems like she might be fishing for something or giving you a warning, considering her new position and all…”
Katie nodded. The thought made her cringe, but the sooner she found out what this transplant from Fresno Police Department wanted, the better. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She sent a text back: Looking forward to it.
I’ll see you there.
Thirty-Eight
Tuesday 1350 hours
Gypsy’s Diner was a new restaurant Katie hadn’t had a chance to check out yet. The interior was decorated in black and white with pink highlights and silver accents in a 1950s-type diner atmosphere. There was no jukebox, but pop hits from every decade were piped in from speakers embedded in the walls.
Glancing at her watch, Katie saw that it was nearly 2 p.m. She didn’t see the undersheriff yet, so she decided to get a booth and wait for her. It was then that she noticed that all the staff were dressed as celebrities from the past eighty years. With everything going on in her professional and personal life, Katie thought this lunch distraction might be what she needed. She began perusing the menu, deciding on what she wanted.
Just as Katie began to relax, she saw Undersheriff Dorothy Sullivan enter the restaurant. She was dressed in a pricy suit and her blonde hair seemed to be more on the platinum side than yesterday. The undersheriff smiled brightly to the waitress, dressed as Marilyn Monroe, and then was directed to where Katie was sitting. She made her way through the restaurant and around tables of patrons before seating herself across from Katie.
“Hi. I’m so glad that you could make it,” she said with an overly friendly smile.
“My pleasure,” said Katie forcing a smile.
The undersheriff took her jacket off and made herself comfortable.
The Marilyn lookalike appeared and asked, “What can I get you two ladies to drink?”
“Iced tea,” said Katie.
“Sounds good,” said Dottie.
The server left.
“Well…” began Dottie.
Katie felt a heaviness of dread, but maybe she should have more female friends. The fact was she was more comfortable around men than women after so many years in the military and the police department.
“It’s been quite the transition coming from Fresno PD but I was up for the challenge when it was offered to me. I’ve been following the interesting cases of the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department.”
Katie nodded politely.
“And of course, I know all about you.”
Katie tried not to gulp.
“When you came back to town after being released from the army and you found yourself in the middle of a missing persons case; and you find her grave after everyone had searched for her for almost five years, and you were trapped, and, well, I don’t need to tell you about it—you were there.”
Last Girls Alive: A totally addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Katie Scott Book 4) Page 20
