Glad they were somewhat pacified, Lana thanked them for their time and then quickly said she had to be going. “I have a case to solve.”
As they closed the door, Lana turned back to the crime scene. She checked her watch. An hour. That’s how long visiting the all neighbors had taken. And what was there to show for it? Nothing. Another wasted endeavor. She was no closer to a logical explanation of the events that had led to Roselyn Wymer’s death than she’d been earlier.
Lana sighed, at least her Precinct Commander, who was currently on an extended leave of absence, wouldn’t be around for this case. And for that, she was both thankful and relieved. She certainly didn’t need the added distraction of being second-guessed at every turn. Or the hassle of dealing with the man.
Commander Tom Olsen, a curt and ill-mannered man, arrogant and slightly condescending, rarely had a friendly word for anyone. It was no secret he held a special disdain for Lana.
Whether it was because she was a woman or due to the fact she had beaten every one of the records he’d previously held in the department, no one was sure.
In his day, Olsen had been a fine officer and detective. He’d moved up the ranks quickly, eventually becoming Commander of the Central Precinct. No one, including Lana, begrudged him the glory of the coveted position. He’d worked hard to get where he was and deserved it.
Problem was, the Commander was from a by-gone era. Police work, and in particular, detective work, had changed in recent years. Computers and forensic science had opened a whole new world in investigative techniques. The benefits were, without question, enormous.
But Commander Olsen refused to accept these “new-age nonsensical practices” as legitimate. While everyone else readily embraced the wonders of technology, Olsen stayed rooted in the ways of the past. And because of it, he was being left behind. This then produced a bitterness and contempt that he took out on anyone who dared suggest his methods were ineffectual. Needless to say, the man was not well liked among the officers.
With the Commander absent, the usually strained atmosphere at the precinct had drastically improved. Yet, no one was actually celebrating, knowing the man would be returning soon.
When his leave was first announced, Lana had considered resigning while he was on leave to avoid any ugly confrontations with the man. had just wrapped up a previous case. With no current investigations, it would have been the perfect time. But for some reason she had hesitated. And then, this case had come along.
Figuring it would be a routine matter, easily cracked long before she’d have to deal with Commander Olsen again; Lana had decided to take the time to consider her next steps while she worked the case. But her hopes of quickly unraveling the “trivial” details and finding the murderer had been dashed almost from the moment she’d arrived at the crime scene.
Now, two weeks later, as Lana stood in the middle of the room, she wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery than on that first day. She had discovered no new evidence and had little to go on; only what the CSI guys and the Medical Examiner had provided.
The time of death had been placed between the hours of three and five—right around daybreak—on the morning of the sixth; a two-hour window. While establishing the time of death was important, it had so far proved of no use. The only real evidence, the only thing of a tangible nature, was the 9mm bullet the ME had recovered from the body.
The bullet was in remarkably good shape, suggesting the round hadn’t passed through anything else before impacting the body. Forensics had easily determined the brand of ammunition was a common one, distributed to virtually every gun shop and department store in the country. That wasn’t much help. But the fact ballistics tests had determined the bullet had been fired from a Smith & Wesson semi-automatic did provide a glimmer of hope.
That was the extent of their findings. No DNA, other than the victim’s, had been pulled from the bullet—or from the entire apartment for that matter.
At the scene, the forensics team, like the ME, had also been hampered by the lack of physical evidence. They were able to conclude, as Lana had suspected, that the victim, Mrs. Wymer, had been seated in the rocking chair and stood to her feet just before being shot. The trajectory of the single bullet through the woman’s body revealed that she had been slightly hunched over at the time of the shooting—like she hadn’t quite had time to stand up fully.
That suggested her attacker had surprised the woman, Lana surmised. That little tidbit of guesswork didn’t tell her a whole lot but it might prove useful later, she hoped.
Given the known attributes of the firearm and the type of ammunition in relation to the wound in the chest, forensics had provided one last detail; the victim had been shot from a distance of not more than six feet away. Further supporting this was the fact there were no powder burns on the body.
Assuming the lady was facing forward at the time, and following the trajectory, the shot would have come from the direction of the hall. The wall was just over six feet from where the body had been discovered. Yet, repeated searches had revealed no holes in that wall or the door.
That was all the evidence she had to go on.
Lana smiled wryly. Not exactly earth shattering, none of it. She’d figured out most of it on her own.
Running a background check of the victim the next day, provided her with very little useful information as well. Roselyn Wymer was a retired schoolteacher, had no known family, and aside from the usual assortment of utility bills and such had left virtually no financial footprint. For the last several years, it appeared the woman had spent nearly every moment of her life secluded inside her apartment. A check of her phone records had proved just as futile, showing no outgoing calls from her number—other than to her neighbor, Nellie—as far back as a year.
What possible motive, Lana wondered, could anyone have to kill a woman who had no association and no contact with anyone outside the few friends on her floor? Of course, she had fully vetted the tenants but each had resulted in a dead end. There simply existed no evidence that pointed to anyone in the apartments being guilty. And even though she found the building manager, Paul Borland, a little creepy, he had an alibi—of sorts.
Footage from his own security camera showed him lounging in his living room, which doubled as an office, watching TV at the time of the murder. And while such evidence—videos and the like—could be easily staged, there was no evidence suggesting that either.
The dead ends, the lack of evidence, the absence of witnesses; it all combined to make Lana feel slightly overwhelmed. This was her third visit to the scene of the crime in as many days. And she was growing frustrated. The story was there somewhere. She only needed to listen.
“Let the crime scene talk to you,” she could hear her mentor, Detective Daniels, saying. “Don’t try to fit the evidence to your theory. Listen.”
Of course, by “listen,” he meant to use all the senses, including that often forgotten sense of reason and logic. That was the one sense that sometimes was hardest to master.
Lana surveyed the room and then closed her eyes again, trying to picture the scene the way it would have been just before the murder. The chair, where the victim was seated had been removed—along with any other items of importance; carted off to the crime lab soon after the woman’s body had been hauled away.
Opening her eyes, Lana moved to the center of the room, where the chair had set. She crouched low until her eye level reached what she supposed matched that of a seated Mrs. Wymer. Slowly, Lana looked around the room. Things did look a bit different from this perspective.
She studied the cluttered room with a careful eye. Obviously, something had warned the woman of what was to come—at least enough to force her to rise from her seat just before being shot, but what? What could the lady have seen or heard?
Having noticed the apartment, and indeed, the entire complex, was in bad need of maintenance, Lana at first dismissed the wide crack at the bottom of the door. Light from the hallway trick
led through and something about it struck her as meaningful but try as she may, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Then, without a clue as to what prompted the thought, it hit her that in the darkened room, Mrs. Wymer would have no doubt seen the shadow of anyone approaching her door in the hall. If the person were close enough, she would likely have seen his feet. Or, her feet. No need to go assuming things not in evidence, Lana reminded herself.
Mrs. Wymer, having lived in the apartment for a good many years, was presumably accustomed to this early warning device, depending on it to afford her that little bit of extra time to get to the door if someone were to knock. So, perhaps the woman hadn’t known she was in danger at all, as has been previously supposed. Lana gave a short sigh, while that theory was certainly noteworthy, it didn’t really change anything. And still, it didn’t account for the lady being shot to death with no sign of entry and no bullet holes in the walls or door.
Moving closer to the doorway then, Lana studied the jam and the latch. She was well aware there were multiple methods of defeating the mechanism: sliding a credit card or knife beside the latch, lock picking tools, or even a key, among others. Any of them would have made opening the door a simple chore. But if someone had done that, why stop there? The flimsy safety chain, common in many households, in reality, did not offer much safety. This she knew from her own experience as a homeowner—and a detective. Safety chains were more about feeling safe than actual safety.
Yet, the chain had still been fastened when the two officers had initially responded to the building manager’s 911 call. A fact the officers and Paul Borland had independently verified.
Lana remembered also that all three had insisted the doorknob was locked when they arrived. “Hmm,” she said to herself. Maybe this line of thinking was going down the wrong track.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer’s access to the apartment had something to do with the door. Maybe it was the realization that given the setting, the door was the only plausible way inside—unless the murderer possessed the ability to transcend walls. And that, she sincerely doubted.
Almost absent-mindedly, Lana reached up and screwed the chain holder that had been ripped out by the officer’s shove, back into the doorjamb. The busted wood wouldn’t hold much and tightening the screws only finger tight, she carefully slid the chain into place. Then slowly, she turned the knob and pulled the door inward. It scarcely opened more than a couple inches before the chain was snug.
Studying the small space, Lana’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Could a hand, holding a firearm, fit through the opening? Reaching for her service weapon, she held the gun in her right hand and tried to slip it through the crack. There was enough room—barely. But barely, meant her theory was possible.
The question as to whether anyone would be able to fire accurately under such conditions still remained. The perpetrator would not have been able to see the chair where Mrs. Wymer had been seated, Lana reasoned, or know that she had been standing up. Any shots would have been fired blindly.
Since the CSI guys had recovered no other bullets, Lana knew that only one shot had been fired—the fatal shot. It hardly seemed realistic that one blindly fired shot would have found its mark. And how would the shooter have known the shot had been successful?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a nervous voice from the hallway. “I’ve called the police. Stay where you are.”
Chapter Three
Lana quickly holstered the gun and, unlatching the chain, swung the door wide. “No need to call me, I’m already here,” she said.
Standing in the hall was Paul Borland. In his hands, he firmly gripped a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Recognizing her, the man slowly lowered the bat. “You should let me know if you’re coming into my building,” he grumbled, clearly agitated.
As an active crime scene, Lana was under no obligation to notify Mr. Borland, or anyone else, if she needed to do further investigating. And considering her recent discovery, anyone with a key, such as the building manager, made for a good suspect. Alibi, or no alibi, she didn’t trust him.
Some things are better left unsaid and for the moment, she chose to not clue him in on just who was, and was not, on the short list of suspects. Flashing an apologetic smile, she said, “I should have, I guess. But I didn’t want to bother you.” Then in an effort to diffuse the man’s surly mood, she gestured to the bat. “I’m flattered you were willing to use a Collector’s Edition bat on me. That’s got to be worth some money.”
Glancing at the bat in his hand, the man nodded. “It is. But I ain’t afraid to use it.”
Lana nodded bleakly. “You might want to make sure who you’re swinging at first,” she cautioned. “Assault of a police officer is a serious offense and a bat would be considered a deadly weapon.”
“How was I to know you were a cop?” Borland spouted. “You didn’t inform me beforehand that you were coming.”
“No, I didn’t,” Lana stated with just a touch of indifference.
“That’s why I need to know when anyone is coming into my building,” Borland said, sounding subdued but still trying to maintain his air of authority. “That includes the police. My tenants depend on me.”
“I can appreciate your concern Mr. Borland,” Lana said. “But I might remind you that the reason I’m here is because one of your tenants is dead.”
The man was unmistakably miffed at her words. “Just check with me before you come next time,” he blustered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Borland, I can’t promise that. I’ll try to let you know but this apartment is a crime scene and I need to have access. I may not have time to notify you.”
Borland sighed loudly as a sign of protest but didn’t argue.
“By the way,” Lana added, changing to a more businesslike tone. “The other day, one of Mrs. Wymer’s neighbors mentioned that the lady didn’t have many visitors anymore. Did she used to have a lot?”
“No,” Borland shook his head. “Only one, her nephew. Haven’t seen him around in probably a year or better.”
Lana looked puzzled. “According to our information, Mrs. Wymer’s last living relative passed away more than five years ago.”
Borland shrugged. “Pretty sure the guy was alive the last time I saw him.”
Lana was willing to assume the man knew what he was talking about. “Do you have a name?”
Borland frowned. “I don’t think I ever knew his name. Roselyn just always referred to him as her nephew.”
Lana nodded thoughtfully. “You say he hasn’t been here for about a year. Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Did Mrs. Wymer ever mention why he stopped coming to see her?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. You might want to check with Nellie, next door. She and Roselyn were good friends—neighbors for over ten years. If anyone would know, she would.”
“Thank you, I will,” Lana said, doing her best to sound cordial. Closing the door to Mrs. Wymer’s apartment, she moved down the hall, indicating she was finished talking with Paul Borland.
The man took the hint and still carrying his bat, ambled off to the stairs. He disappeared into the stairwell as Lana knocked on the door to apartment 609.
Answering the door right away, Nellie eyed Lana guardedly. “Aren’t you that detective who is investigating Roselyn’s murder?”
“Yes, I am,” Lana said. “Do you–”
“Why haven’t you found her killer yet?” Nellie demanded.
“We’re working on it,” Lana told her. “Investigations take time though.”
“Time the killer has used to move his whole family, the dog, and cat to China by now,” Nellie snapped. “It’s been two weeks and you’ve still got nothing.”
Lana bristled at the cutting remark. But knowing it wasn’t personal, she remained professional. “I wouldn’t say we have nothing. We’re following several–”
Nellie cut her off again. “I watch the news,”
she said as if that qualified her previous statements. There’s been nary a word about any arrest. Besides, if you had any clue at all who the killer was, you wouldn’t be here asking me questions.”
“I do have a few questions for you,” Lana said, ignoring the woman’s disparaging analysis of the investigation. “Did you know Mrs. Wymer’s nephew, the one who came to visit her?”
“Well, of course I did. We were neighbors after all. And friendly neighbors too. From the day she moved in, back in... Hmm, I can’t remember the year, but we’ve been friends a long time. We did everything together: shopping, cooking, Bingo—at least up until the last few years when she started becoming too feeble to get around. But even then, I still took her to the store and anywhere else she needed to go. That wasn’t a whole lot the last couple of months, I guess. She was just too weak to go.” Nellie paused, with a slightly confused look on her face. “What was it you wanted to know again?”
Having waited patiently for a chance to get a word in, Lana almost laughed out loud. Nellie may have been a little contrary and demanding but once she got to talking, she didn’t want to stop. “I was asking about Mrs. Wymer’s nephew.”
“Oh, yes. Roselyn’s sister’s boy. He used to come visit her quite regularly. The two of them liked to dine out, at least once a week—until a couple of years ago, that is. Like I said, it became harder for her to get out, especially after the elevator broke,” Nellie explained.
“They never bothered to repair it? Isn’t that illegal?”
“No. The fire marshal is the one who shut it down. Claimed it was too dangerous.”
Lana frowned. “I would still think the property management or building owners would want to have it fixed.”
“Maybe where you live, they would. But this isn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton, you know,” Nellie said.
“Well, I don’t know how much you think cops make but I promise you it isn’t nearly enough to support living in the Ritz, or anything close to that.”
“I think you make a lot more than an old retired lady and I doubt you live in anything as rundown as this place,” Nellie snapped back with a bit of a huff.
Dead Broke (Lana Denae Mystery Series Book 1) Page 2
