A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  “What you should have done is come straight to me.”

  “I was going to, after I had a look at the scene.” I run a hand through my hair in exasperated bewilderment. “Look, Detective, you and I haven’t exactly clicked like Legos. I honestly didn’t think you’d listen to me. If you knew I was one of the last people to see him, you’d still be grilling me and I’d have missed my chance at the scene.”

  I hear voices, unintelligible, beyond the door. Laughter.

  At last he speaks. “How did you find out about the murder?”

  “I told you. Daniel’s wife. Claire Chandler.”

  He taps his pen on the table, first the nib, then the clicker. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “When?”

  “She called me this morning.”

  “So. Why. Didn’t. You. Call us. And tell us about your involvement?”

  “There’s no involvement. I just talked to the guy yesterday evening.”

  “Don’t pretend ignorance, Lake. You know the procedure, better than anybody.”

  He’s right. I shrug. My position is delicate. But he’s not going to throw me in jail for this. There’s nothing to gain, and a whole lot of paperwork to file. Since the scene was left unattended, he’s got some culpability, too.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Lake.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. “Describe your visit with the deceased.”

  I really don’t want to end up in a cell, and figure a bit of cooperation is in order. So I tell him. About selling the art, the church finances, the things Daniel had said about Victoria. He asks questions, I answer. He repeats the questions, I answer again, adding new details. I ask for a soda and get a tepid can of cola. At last he runs down and we look at each other for a few silent minutes.

  “Anything else?” Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I hesitate. I’m reluctant to break Claire’s confidence.

  He picks up on my hesitation and leans forward again. “Anything else?” he repeats, with more emphasis.

  I relent. “Only copper’s suspicion.” I tell Olafson about my sense that Daniel had been expecting someone else. I don’t mention my own quivering antenna when I asked him about his past work experience. Or what Claire in her emotional distress had told me about her husband’s affairs. Client confidentiality. Plus, dignity. However, I do mention that the possibility of infidelity was raised during the course of my investigation. And that Victoria’s mother has threatened to sue the church.

  “Her kind always does.” He grimaces, and we share a moment of camaraderie. Then he says, casually, “Did you kill him, Ms. Lake?”

  Eye roll. Splutter. “Of course not. He’s my client, not my enemy. Now I’ll probably never get paid.”

  The silence stretches out between us. If I had been a real suspect, I’d be squirming to fill it with denials and justifications. But I’m an experienced interrogator. So I sit quietly, waiting for the next question.

  The overhead fixtures emit a barely detectable hum. I feel a trickle of sweat run between my shoulders.

  Finally, he says, “What did you think of the scene on your second visit?”

  Relief relaxes the tightness in my chest. He’s going to let it go. “It didn’t look like anyone had tossed the place. It was a little haphazard before, papers and things lying around. I couldn’t swear to the contents of every stack, but it didn’t look any different from the previous day. It didn’t have a vibe. That’s what I was doing. Standing and trying to see if anything clicked as out of place. And then you scared the life out of me. Kudos on your ninja skills.” A little butter never hurts. But actually, I feel grateful for that intrusive hand. In trying to bring forth the memory of the office, I’d somehow precipitated something else. Another vision. And I want — need — to think about the implications.

  Olafson smirks. “You were pretty zoned out.”

  Subject change. “Have you released Takahashi?”

  “Huh?” He blinks, and stops playing with his pen.

  “I heard you arrested him.”

  Eyes narrow. “Don’t believe everything you hear. We asked him some questions, no more.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Nothing you need to know.” He taps his pen. “Where were you on the Wednesday a week before the vigil?”

  Emphasis on the ‘you.’ He’s checking my movements. Wednesday before last — the day before the service where Victoria turned up missing.

  That must be when she died.

  Tap, tap, tap. “I’m waiting.”

  “I’m thinking. Let’s see — Wednesday, that was the day I first came in to the station to talk to you guys.”

  The pen stills. His face is expressionless, but the flicker of his eyes…he’s thinking back himself, remembering.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I came in to chat with you guys. Voluntarily. And then —” And then I was so upset I went to a bar.

  “And then?”

  I shrug and stretch. “I went home, and later to the Portway Tavern for a burger. That’s where I met Claire Chandler for the first time. She told me about the Church of the Spirit. Suggested I come to a service. You can check with her. She’ll remember.”

  “Good. Because we will.”

  We engage in a staring match. I can feel the hard edge of the chair under my thighs, hear the distant patter of rain on the roof. The HVAC begins its cycle and blows a fresh gust of dusty air into the room.

  “What else were you doing yesterday?”

  Where to start? “I talked to Victoria Harkness’s mother.” I raise my hand before he can start a tirade. “She called me. I interviewed Seth Takahashi, before you guys dragged him in. That must be why Detective Candide showed up at my door and brought me back here.” I look around. Had it only been yesterday? “When she let me go, that’s when I walked down to the church and talked to Daniel Chandler.” I give him times of day, as near as I can guess. I have the recording of my conversation, but I want to keep that up my sleeve.

  “You were apparently the last person to see Chandler alive.”

  “Except for the killer,” I remind him.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Finally, Olafson rubs his eyes with thick, callused fingers. “Get out of here, Audrey. Don’t enter any crime scenes. Don’t interfere with us. And come forward if you find anything regarding either of these cases. Don’t play a lone hand.” He glares. “Understand?”

  “Yes, Detective. I understand.” It’s all bluster, and I’ve heard the subtext. They’ve got nothing, and he doesn’t want to lose a thread, however thin. He needs my help, whether he wants to acknowledge it or not.

  “Stop at the front desk and have Larsen set you up to get fingerprinted. For elimination purposes.”

  It’s a reasonable request, but all the same I feel the walls closing in a little.

  Still, leaving the station, I walk a little easier, with head held high. I’m not going to be arrested. At least, not today.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MY GOOD MOOD is tempered by the fact that I have a two-mile walk in the rain to get back to my car, which is still parked at the church. This is getting to be a habit.

  The visit to the cop shop has reminded me about my previous profession. The methodical plodding. The tedious ticking of boxes. The reports, the forms, the paperwork, the procedure, all intended to boost the prosecutor’s case when it came to a trial. I haven’t been doing any of that. I’m not used to working alone without the scaffolding and structure of the police force. Other eyes to examine findings and other minds to bounce ideas off of. But. No excuses. I’m a team of one; even more important to regroup and rethink.

  At home, I shower, change, and head down to the incident room in the basement. I’ve posted pictures of the suspects and victim; now I add Daniel Chandler’s to the collage. I use string to illustrate connections between victims and suspects, multiple strands to indicate stronger ties. I tie one between Morganstern and North, between Morganstern and Takahashi. I make the last one a double.

  Finally,
I sit with my back to the wall, laptop on my thighs, and begin to type. Collate my notes on each of my interviews. Make lists of bullet points: known facts, things I have to confirm, questions to follow up on.

  SETH TAKAHASHI (minister at Riverside Christian)

  Motive for VH: didn’t want Victoria to lead people astray.

  Opportunity: unknown, but talked to her before Thursday when she invited him to come to the service and a discussion after.

  Motive for DC: blackmail?

  Opportunity: the police picked him up on the same day Daniel was killed. Was he in custody at the time of death? If not, would he have committed murder the same day? Seems unlikely.

  Connections: VH - both part of the faith community; DC - unknown

  Remarks: The police let him go. Meaning, there’s no evidence to charge him.

  JASON MORGANSTERN (welder and aspiring artist)

  Motive for VH: thwarted affection? No evidence, just a guess.

  Opportunity: unknown. He might have met up with her, Claire says V. worked with him to find a job and pursue art. V. probably trusted him.

  Motive for DC: blackmail?

  Opportunity: unknown. but the church was open.

  Connections: VH - congregant at her church; DC - unknown.

  Remarks: did he steal a welding torch? Why? Is it relevant? Eric North was teaching him about being an artist. Could this have inspired him to use Eric’s picture as place to kill the pastor?

  ERIC NORTH (professional artist/painter)

  Motive for VH: unknown, did she reject his advances?

  Opportunity: unknown, but she probably trusted him

  Motive for DC: he sold Eric’s artwork? No evidence, but the picture is missing. Blackmail?

  Opportunity: unknown, but the church was open

  Connections: VH: knew her as a child; DC: unknown

  Remarks: his painting showed VH at the kill site.

  DANIEL CHANDLER (bookkeeper for Church of the Spirit)

  Motive for VH: unknown. Related to money? Does he get control of the insurance proceeds? Whatever, if he’s a cheater and she’s beautiful and vulnerable, that seems a recipe for trouble.

  Opportunity: they often worked together, it would be natural for him to set up a meeting with her. Was the last person to see her alive at 10:45 meeting on Wed.

  I shake my head. In theory, any of these men could have killed Victoria Harkness. Or none of them. I don’t know exactly when her death occurred, but based on Olafson’s questions, I’m pretty sure it’s the Wednesday before the aborted service. I haven’t talked to anyone who saw her after her meeting with Daniel, but she arrived home after, so he didn’t kill her at the meeting.

  But what if he killed her later, and someone saw him do it? And that person later attacked him in revenge?

  What is this, a mafia movie?

  Okay, okay. It’s unlikely. And I’m also going to bet that it wasn’t Seth Takahashi. He might have drowned Victoria to protect others, but I just don’t see him beating Daniel to death. Splattering blood all over his nice white shirt after a grueling session in a police interview room. I remember him from the first time I went to the church. He’d said it was his first time there as well.

  Click.

  His first time. That means he hadn’t ever seen the painting of Victoria. It couldn’t have given him the idea for the kill site. It wasn’t him. I’m sure of it. It had to be one of the others.

  Don’t forget Claire.

  I’m not. But the guys are much more likely.

  You should make some notes for her too.

  Okay, okay.

  CLAIRE CHANDLER

  Motive for VH: jealousy

  Opportunity: wide open, she was associated with the church, trusted by VH

  Motive for DC: jealousy/revenge for philandering

  Opportunity: unlimited

  Connections: VH - friend and associate; DC: wife

  Remarks: the obvious suspect

  Happy now?

  I have to take a different approach. Look at Victoria herself, find out why it was necessary for her to die. I sit for a bit, drumming my fingers on the floor. Rain splashes against the windows and wind tosses the trees. I can’t see the river beyond a boundary of mist.

  Forget about who for a minute. Why would someone murder her? I think back over the cases of my career in Denver. Murder can be, and often is, incredibly banal. It’s not usually the convoluted rigmarole portrayed in mystery novels. On the contrary, there’s almost always a direct link between perp and victim. So, why kill?

  Fear. She knew something someone was afraid she’d reveal. She was going to do something that was going to hurt someone else.

  Anger. Revenge for a past wrong.

  Greed. Her death would benefit someone monetarily. This is the mother of all motives. Her trust fund went to her cousins, all of whom are out of the picture. But if Harkness was insured, and the church was the beneficiary, who had access to the money? Daniel? And now that he was dead, who was next to hold the reins? Claire might know.

  Or maybe she’s the one with access.

  Next. Jealousy. A slighted lover. No one could tell me about her love life — she seemed remarkably chaste, or discreet, or both. But. What about Daniel? Were they having an affair? Did a spurned boyfriend, or someone who wanted to have a relationship with her — maybe Jason, maybe Eric — kill Victoria, and then Daniel when he found out about their affair? Or, put it another way. Someone interested in Daniel discovered the affair, killed Victoria out of jealousy and then Daniel out of revenge? In that scenario, only Claire herself fits the bill.

  The light dawns.

  I don’t want to believe that Claire is capable of murder. But. I know from bitter experience that given the right provocation, anyone is.

  Part of a homicide investigation means determining what it is about the deceased that led to their death, what they did or didn’t do. Sounds like victim-blaming, I know. But there’s some reason Victoria was killed and not someone else, something unique to her. In each of my visions, the man said something about not allowing her to spread her lies. Does that fit with anyone?

  Takahashi. He thinks her teachings are wrong and dangerous. But I’ve already ruled him out.

  Morganstern? Nothing comes to mind. Ditto North. But North has the ego, and Morganstern had issues with women, according to Takahashi. Except, now that I think of it, I only have the preacher’s word for that. As well as the information regarding Jason’s criminal past.

  Argh. I want to pull my hair out in frustration. People are dying. I’m afraid that, if I don’t find the murderer, more people will die. I don’t trust the police to get this one right. They’ve already consigned Victoria to the accidental death category. I pace around the small room, eyes glued to the collage of pictures and notes. When in doubt, just keep digging. Just keep shaking the trees.

  I know Harkness lived in Astoria until she was thirteen years old. She must have gone to school somewhere. I access the district website, discover that there is one high school, one middle school, and two elementary schools. Click through to the middle school website, access the staff. Choose the oldest looking teacher, and discover in her profile that she’s recently been recognized for teaching 20 years in the district. I do a search on the award, and find a list of five teachers who have been at the district for twenty years or more. Cross-reference with the current staff at the middle school, and discover that the principal herself is a long-time employee. Her LinkedIn profile indicates she was a former English teacher before becoming vice-principal and then full-fledged principal, a position she has held for three years.

  Hooray. Someone in authority. As good a start as any. I don’t expect her to answer her phone on Saturday, but I can at least leave a message. But after three rings, a brisk voice says, “Astoria Middle School, Principal Collins speaking.”

  “Oh,” I’m thrown off-stride a little, but arrange to meet her at the school in half an hour.

  The middle schoo
l building has a red brick veneer and one of those faux-mansard roofs, which looks weird on a one-story structure. The principal is waiting to let me in, and wishes me ‘top o’ the morning.’

  Rhonda Collins is a spherical redhead with an open smile, a cheerful laugh, and green eyes that miss nothing. Her brow is furrowed with lines, the corners of her eyes with crow’s feet. Her office is sparsely furnished and liberally inhabited by houseplants. The Easter cactus is getting ready to bloom and a philodendron drapes its leafy tresses along the edge of a bookcase filled with yearbooks, textbooks, and assorted three-ring binders. She gestures me to a squarish visitor’s chair and leans back in her own upholstered throne, folding her hands on her belly.

  “So, you are a private investigator.”

  “More like a consultant. I’m not technically a P. I.”

  “What are you investigating? I hope there’s been no trouble with any of our students.” She makes the statement an interrogative and cocks her head.

  “Not a current student, no. I’m looking for information on a past student, one I’m hoping you knew personally.”

  This interests her, as I thought it would. But she says, “I hope you realize I can’t share any information about students without parents’ permission. Or a court order.” She smiles brightly.

  “And I’m hoping in this case you’ll bend the rules.” I recross my legs and straighten my jacket. I left my weapon in the car because bringing a gun into the school might send the wrong message, but I miss its comforting weight on my shoulder.

  She laughs a rolling Irish laugh. “Oh dear, Ms. Lake. What on earth makes you think I would do that?”

  “Because this student — former student — is dead.”