I’m impressed with Robinson. The bully cop with a no-nonsense determination to take down whoever he thinks is guilty has shown a sensible side. It’s just hard to gauge him when I wasn’t part of his past investigations. I only saw interviews in the interrogation room, after not seeing the collection of evidence and the questioning of potential witnesses in the field, and I never saw the mechanics of how he came to certain conclusions and why.
“Robinson, can you look over the photographs taken by me and King from the crime scene, and tell me if you can spot something that might be a lead?”
“I’ve looked them over already. I didn’t see anything out of the norm, other than part of her skull missing. Her brain and skull were all over the place. Gruesome. Did you throw up?”
“No,” I respond quickly.
“You got a steel stomach?”
“I guess.”
“What do you think the murderer used to kill her?” he asks.
“I couldn’t begin to tell you.”
“Whoever did it must have hated her. She must have done something really bad. It’s like they were trying to literally destroy her.”
“I didn’t get the impression Finley hated her.”
“Even killers speak highly of their victims. They’ll say whatever makes them look innocent. For now, our boy and the sister are suspects. We check her handwriting. If it matches, then we’ll push them for a confession, pit them against each other.”
I hate to admit it, but I hope they’re innocent. Those two are in bad shape. Accused of murder is the last thing they need, but if Finley and Erin conspired to kill Ruby, then they deserve to go to prison. What a horrific way to treat a loved one that took care of them.
Chapter Eleven.
I’m on my way to Hunt Projects, a construction company worth eight million euros and Finley Price’s former employer. They specialize in building condos in District One, but they’re known for eclectic shopping and sport centers. Their corporate office is in the Longworth Building in Exeter City Centre. While I’m gone, Robinson will be handling the handwriting samples from Erin Mitchell and Finley Price. In my novice opinion, trying to get a writing sample from Finley Price is a waste of time, but Robinson says that despite Finley’s inability to read, he can copy what he sees. Letters are in essence simplistic drawings, like stick figures. Anyone can mimic them. I never thought of letters like that. I guess we’ll see if he’s right.
Robinson is going to send the samples to Exeter’s resident handwriting expert. There’s only one in the entire city. Once she compares my suspects’ lettering to the parchment, she’ll update her findings in the case file. I’ve decided to wait for the results instead of forming an opinion. I’ll let the evidence do all the talking.
I park my car in the multi-level garage next to the Longworth Building. My shot-up ride is an embarrassing piece of crap compared to the luxury cars all around me.
Everything in Exeter City Centre is posh and over the top. From asymmetrical to oblong buildings, they’re gigantic works of art. Statues, fountains, and gardens soften the glass and metals of the architecture. It’s especially beautiful during the spring and summer. The Longworth Building is no exception. This odd structure mimics uneven toy blocks, without the color and wood. Squares of different sizes are stacked to forty floors. During the summer, flowering vines hang from the roof. It’s strange and stunning at the same time.
To get to Hunt Projects, I have to stop at the lobby first. Their floor is closed to the public. Three guards are manning the front desk. They’re tall, standing straight as a board, stone-faced like they haven’t smiled since the day they were born.
I flash my badge. “My name is Detective Victoria Kipling. I need to get to the tenth floor.”
The guards are stuck in their amazement that I’m a cop, but the middle guy blinks out of it and says, “You must be employed with Hunt Projects or have an appointment to gain access.”
“My badge is my appointment,” I reply firmly. “Call them. I’m not going anywhere.”
The middle guard picks up the phone. He turns his back and speaks low, so I can’t hear. It’s not long before he hangs up and asks me to follow him to a set of elevators. He swipes a chipped card into a scanner. The door opens. Both of us step inside. As soon as the door closes, he swipes the card again and presses the number ten button. The only noise going up is the ding of the elevator as it hit every floor. The guard doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look at him.
When we reach our destination, the guard leads me through an elaborate space filled with silver-trimmed white furniture. The entire floor has ceiling to floor glass walls. Desks are in illogical spots. Ergonomic chairs are filled with young people, staring at large computer monitors. The designs on the screens are 3-D linear art with points on a blue background. I have no idea what they’re deciphering or drawing, but the work looks complicated.
I’m taken to an office, where a guy with wild green hair is at a desk. His smile is wide. Even his eyes beam. His entire face is captivating. The strange gentleman stands up with an outreached hand. He closes the gap between us quickly. I’m a little taken back by his white velvet jacket with a neon green hanky in the breast pocket. His shirt, pants, and shoes match, brilliant pink in the same shade. The man is a colorful enigma in this washed out space.
“Ollie Hunt,” he says, giving me a firm handshake. “Detective Constable Kipling? Am I right?”
“Yes, thank you for seeing me on short notice.”
“Short notice? You mean no notice.” He laughs. Big white teeth gleaming brighter than the sun. “I don’t mind. I'm ready anytime I can help an officer of the law.”
“That’s good to know. I’m not going to keep you long, Mr. Hunt.”
“Ollie. We’re not formal around here.”
“Okay, Ollie,” I repeat. “I need to find information about a former employee of yours.”
“I have hundreds. Most of them are offsite.”
“Then you can point me to the person who would have known him. His name is Finley Price.”
Ollie frowns and says, “Actually, I do know a Finley Price.”
“Excellent. What can you tell me about him?”
“Finley was hired to drive a concrete truck. It turns out he was a high-risk employee with a serious medical problem.”
“What kind,” I ask.
“He suffered from seizures. He didn’t have the proper meds, and it was not under control. As you can imagine having seizures in his line of work can be dangerous.”
“You said that you have hundreds of employees. Why did he stand out?”
“I tend to never forget the employees that almost lose their life while working. Finley was one of them.”
“What happened?”
“He was driving back from a job site when he started having a seizure. He ran a red light, hit a truck, almost killed the other driver and himself. After that, we had to let him go.”
“Finley didn’t tell you about his medical problems?”
“He wouldn’t tell me per say. He would have to reveal the seizures to his direct supervisor or our human resource officer at the time of the interview. But we also do background checks on all employees before they are hired.”
“What exactly is checked when it comes to their background?”
“Prior employment, arrest and prison record, medical-as you already know, driving, and credit history.”
“How about their education level?” I ask.
“Oh yes, most definitely.”
“So, would you hire a guy like him that couldn’t read or write?”
“For that type of work, yes, we would. Anything and everything Finley needed to learn about operating a concrete truck would be hands on.”
“Who worked closely with him?”
“I wouldn’t know, but…” Ollie saunters back to his desk and presses a single number, “my human resource officer would. I’m calling her right now. Her name is Georgia Knight.”
The phone beeps and a voice echoes from the speaker. “Yes, Ollie?”
“Georgia, I’m speaking with a Detective Kipling. Could you be a gem and come to my office, please?”
“Any questions about Hunt Projects career opportunities need to be forwarded to me through email.”
Ollie picks up the phone and says with embarrassment, “Police officers don’t ask questions through email. Get in here. Now.”
Georgia Knight arrives within a minute. She sees the guard first. I’m second. Then she looks to Ollie with a strange smile.
“Georgia, this is Detective Kipling. She’s with the Exeter Police Department.”
“Nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand and says, “I didn’t hear Ollie say you were a detective. Speaker phone isn’t all that great in my office.”
“No problem,” I reply. “Do you know Finley Price?”
“He sounds vaguely familiar.”
“He had seizures,” Ollie reminds her. “Drove a concrete truck. Had an accident on his last day with us.”
“There was actually a guy who had seizures that drove a concrete truck for us?” she asks to be certain she heard right.
“Yes, Georgia, you would have hired him.”
“I don’t directly hire anyone. The onsite manager for the concrete plant hires who he wants, but I do new hire background checks.”
“Well, seeing how you were involved during the hiring process, you would know who he reported to directly.”
“I can tell you that every concrete truck driver is based out of the warehouse in District Two. They have a single manager, and he works onsite at that location.”
“Do you have the application for Finley Price?” I interject.
“Yes, I do. Our employment records are never thrown away.”
“Can you show it to me, please?”
“Our records are confidential,” she replies.
“Now, you know that’s not true when it comes to the police and the government. Understand, Ms. Knight, I will contact the necessary government agency to have them pull every single file this office has, digital and physical, and they’ll do it without probable cause. Or you can make it easy for yourself and for this firm by giving me the one thing I ask for.”
“We’re going to cooperate. Georgia, use my computer to give the detective whatever she requires.”
Ms. Knight taps on the keys with quick precision. I stand behind her to watch what she’s doing. When the screen pops up, she makes a little noise, surprised by what she sees.
“His application was dictated,” she says, reading the red text at the bottom of the screen. She scrolls the page until she reaches the bottom of the application. There’s an X for his signature.
“Print it for me, please.”
She does as I request. The printer comes to life and spits out two pages. All of the fields are typed. On the bottom is a notation indicating the dictation of voice to text was used to fill out the form.
“Ms. Knight, how often do you use the dictation program for the applications?”
“Only when the applicant is illiterate.”
“How often is that?”
“When it comes to the labor jobs that don’t require reading and writing, I find about fifteen percent of the applicants need the dictation to fill out the application.”
I read through the form quickly. In the education level portion of the application, Finley marked his highest education at first year. So, he wasn’t lying, but something else comes to mind. The nondisclosure agreement. Hunt Projects is a construction company, just like Bensington Construction where Ruby Taylor used to work.
I wonder.
“Question for you or Ollie. Are your employees required to sign nondisclosure agreements as a term of their employment?”
“Depends upon the position,” Ms. Knight answers. “Architects and executives are required. Laborers and support positions to onsite managers are not.”
“What about a secretary?”
“Only when he or she works at high levels within the corporation. Secretaries at local worksites, who mostly answers the phones or filing, wouldn’t be required to sign a contract. They would have zero access to sensible information.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” I remark with a nod. “All of you were extremely helpful.”
“Detective Kipling,” Ollie says, lifting a finger. “May I ask you a question before you go.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to know about Finley Price. Are you looking into his accident while he was here?”
“I’m investigating a murder.”
“A murder? Is he dead?”
“No.”
Ollie is confused. He wants more answers, but I’m not giving up details on this case.
“Once again, thank you.” I look to the guard, letting him know I’m ready to leave.
Chapter Twelve.
The squad room is at a standstill. Several detectives are facing a woman, I guess blocking her from wherever she’s trying to go. She yells for them to let her through. Seeing they're not going to budge, the wild-haired woman curses, pushes a computer and a lamp off of a nearby desk. Two detectives grab her, but the woman flails, getting in a lucky shot at one of the men.
“Let me go!” she screams, and they do.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing. A woman is losing her mind. She has hit another detective. Obviously, she’s not a cop, but when she tells them to let her go, they let her go. Aren’t they supposed to arrest her? Am I missing something?
The woman points a finger at no one in particular and says, “All of you can go to hell!”
She wheels around, meaning to leave, but when she sees me, the woman stops. I step out of her way, not wanting to block her path, but she makes a direct line towards me.
“You’re the one,” she says through clenched teeth.
I shrug, having no idea what she’s talking about.
“You’re the one that’s been sleeping around with my husband.”
“Lady, I don’t know your husband.”
“You are a liar! Don’t deny it!”
“You’re accusing the wrong person. I’m not sleeping around with your husband.”
“Yes, you are.” She gets closer. “I’m not going to let you destroy my marriage. He’s mine! Do you hear me? He’s mine!”
“I have no idea who or what you’re talking about. You’re insane.”
She spits in my face. I’m so in shock, I just stand there. But then out of nowhere, she takes a swing at me. I block her intended punch, and before I realize it, I’ve grabbed her wrist and slung her around, slamming her into a nearby desk. I twist her arm behind her back and is about to throw on the handcuffs when I’m pulled away by other detectives.
I’m totally baffled by their reaction. Why won’t they let me arrest her? Who is this crazy woman?
She loses her mind again. The biggest detective in the room carries her out, kicking and screaming. Someone hands me a handkerchief to wipe the spit off my face. I don’t see who it is, but I thank them. Calm settles into the room, but all share an internal shock.
“Detective Kipling, my office.” DS Green walks by. She’s carrying a brown leather satchel and a bulky binder in her arms. I guess she just got to work.
Still, I’m a little embarrassed and ticked off. I have no idea who that lady was or what she’s talking about, and now I’m in trouble.
I follow DS Green to her office, where she places her satchel and binder on the desk. She takes off her coat and hangs it up on the pin in the corner. She’s not in a hurry, and for some odd reason, she doesn’t appear to be mad. I know she saw what happened out there, and she must have formed an opinion.
“I don’t know that woman,” I speak up first. “I’m not dating anyone. I don’t have a boyfriend. She’s lying, DS Green.”
My boss finally settles into her chair with a heavy exhale and says, “How do you not know who she is?”
The question co
mes as a surprise. “Why would I?”
“You’ve never met her?”
“No, I haven’t.”
DS Green nods. “Okay, you’re dismissed.”
“Do you know who she is?” I ask, not willing to let this go.
“Her name is Anna.”
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “The name means nothing to me.”
“Detective Kipling, don’t worry about it.”
“But she’s accusing me of something I didn’t do, and no one would let me arrest her.”
“Mr. Price is in interrogation,” DS Green plainly states. “Ms. Mitchell is in the break room.”
“Are you going to tell me who she was or not? I deserve to know.”
“Detective Kipling, when I say don’t worry about it, that’s what I mean. I’ll handle this myself. You have a case to work. I recommend you get to it.”
Unsatisfied with the outcome of this short meeting, I walk out. Anger simmers in the pit of my stomach. My face burns, but I have to put my fury in check. I’ll get to the bottom of this. Someone is going to give me answers.
Chapter Thirteen.
Robinson has taken the actual parchment and the two samples from Erin and Finley directly to the handwriting expert at headquarters to see if they match. She’ll only consider the real documents as opposed to the pictures. According to Robinson, she’s seen doctored photographs too many times in her profession and refuses to pass judgment on their authenticity. A nudge on the script or a slight erase can lead to erroneous findings, resulting in the wrongful arrest of a suspect. Whoever this handwriting expert is, her work is exemplary.
While I’m waiting for Robinson to return, I decide to speak with Erin away from Finley, since I didn’t get a chance to talk to her the first time. I’m hoping I can get more out of Erin. After all, she is Ruby’s sister, and sisters do share secrets.
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