“‘Attempted’ sounds like you haven’t got it done.”
“No I haven’t. I just was unable to connect with her on Monday and was in Prairie du Chien on Tuesday. I’ll be following up today. She’s the last of the first round of interviews.”
Keith thought for a moment. “Hold off on that. I’ll handle that interview.”
“I’ll have to get that okayed by the chief.”
“Do that. She’s my daughter, you know.”
When they rolled past the Jasmine Peterson crime scene, the area nearest the minipark (already bordered with a red “no parking” curb) was closed off and crime scene tape was posted from there to the edge of the grass. Several yellow evidence markers were in place. A chalk outline indicated where the young woman had fallen, and died. Three CSIs in blue jumpsuits were packing up their toolbox-like kits. Several of Krista’s officers were still on the scene.
At the station, Cortez dropped Keith off and he went in the front way, through the reception area, buzzed through by clerk-dispatcher Maggie Edwards.
From her chair at the reception window, Maggie looked over and pointed past him. “Your daughter’s in interview room A. She said to tell you to duck into the observation booth.”
“Who is she interviewing?”
The redheaded dispatcher smiled. “That ex-beau of hers — Jerry. He’s such a nice boy.” The smile vanished. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”
“Hmmm. If they’re in there patching things up...”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think she’d want me watching.”
Maggie looked startled for just a moment, then smiled big. “You are a bad man, Keith Larson.”
“Not the first woman to make that observation, Maggie.”
In the shallow, unlighted nook behind the one-way mirror, Keith stood and watched. The eight-foot-by-ten interview room was home to a rectangular pine-topped table with chairs for four, light green walls, a window with its blinds shut, a big-screen TV over some low-slung cabinets, a clock, and a wall locker for officers to stow weapons during the interview.
Only two chairs were in use. Jerry — his unbrushed dark curly hair and extra-scruffy beard as if he’d been hauled out of bed and dragged here — wore a pale blue shirt and pale white expression. His hands were folded and he was leaning forward, his body posture suggesting he was begging police chief Krista for his life.
He kind of was.
“I was home last night,” he said, sounding pitiful. “I was watching a movie! My folks went out for dinner. They took the car! I don’t have a car right now — you know that.”
Keith had apparently missed the part where Jerry was upset that his latest girlfriend had been murdered.
Krista, businesslike, asked, “You were home all evening? By yourself?”
He shook his head more than was necessary. “No. Mom and Dad came home shortly after eight. You can check with them.”
“Your parents are your alibi.”
Keith smiled to himself. Using the word “alibi” would rattle Jerry’s cage. Innocent or guilty, Jerry squirming a little was fine with him.
“Yes,” Jerry said, exasperated. “My parents. Do I have to tell you they’re honest, upstanding people? A banker? A librarian?”
“No. But you have an apartment downstairs at their house. An entrance of your own. After they got home, you could have borrowed their car without asking. Slipped out. Slipped back.”
Jerry’s expression was so pained Keith almost felt sorry for him. “You can’t think this of me! That I would... Jasmine’s a sweet girl... I would never... she doesn’t deserve...”
He covered his face. He was crying.
This Keith didn’t enjoy at all.
Krista pushed a box of tissues across the table to Jerry. He used several, to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. His embarrassment embarrassed Keith.
His voice came back softer. Less shrill. “My folks came home around eight, eight fifteen. I was just finishing up a movie — Red Sparrow. Jennifer Lawrence? They yelled down and said they were home. I answered. I yelled up that if they wanted to watch something with me, all it would cost was Mom making some popcorn.”
“Did they take you up on that?”
He nodded. Swallowed. “Yes. They’ll tell you as much. You won’t have to prompt them in any way. It’s the truth and that’s how they’ll tell it.”
“What did you watch together?”
“Game Night. It’s... really funny.”
“Netflix?”
“Blu-ray. I can’t prove that last night’s when we watched it, or even that we watched it together. But that’s the truth, too.”
Keith exited and asked Maggie to get him the numbers of Jerry’s parents at their various places of work. She provided that, Keith made the calls, and when Krista emerged from the interview room, leaving Jerry behind, Keith told her he’d verified Jerry’s alibi.
She shrugged. “I believe him. Let him sit awhile. He was crying again.”
“For himself or Jasmine?”
“I’d like to think for Jasmine.”
“But you don’t really.”
“No.”
Maggie, at her window, called over to Krista, “The Illinois crime scene investigator is waiting in your office, dear! Hope it was all right to just send him in like that.”
“Thank you, Maggie,” Krista said. “That was fine.” Then she motioned to Keith to join her.
He did, saying, “You let Maggie call you ‘dear’? Aren’t you the chief?”
“Yes. And at least I’ve broken her of calling me ‘honeybunch,’ if you’re wondering about my ability to maintain discipline.”
Deitch was the only officer in the bullpen. Keith nodded to him and he nodded back, looking frazzled.
Keith asked her, “Everybody else at the crime scene?”
“Or home grabbing a couple hours’ sleep,” she said. “I worked everybody all night, canvassing South Main. Needed to catch the apartment dwellers before they went to work, and see if anybody heard or saw anything.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“Nice to know you can scream on Main Street and nobody notices.” Or maybe cares, he thought.
In the office, just inside, Eli Wallace was seated at the mini conference table at right, his arms folded, his body leaned back, eyes closed. The African American CSI in the blue jumpsuit was snoring softly, his thick mustache riffling in the self-created breeze.
Keith said, “Kind of a shame to wake the little darling.”
Eli’s eyes popped open and he shook his head, clearing it, and said something rude to Keith that should never be spoken in front of a man’s daughter, especially if she is chief of police. Keith and Krista laughed and sat at the table, her opposite the CSI, Keith next to him.
“Put in a long night, did you?” Keith said.
“Might say that,” Eli said. “Anyway I wasn’t relaxing in a hospital bed being waited on, like some people I know. How you feeling?”
“Not bad. Excellent drugs. Wrapped up like this, I look twenty years slimmer. Your team about done?”
He nodded. “Rest of the work’ll be at the lab back in Rockford. We’ve recovered some items that might be useful.”
“Oh?”
Eli nodded. “We checked the trash bins. Plenty of those to go through.” He gave Krista half a smile. “You guys keep your little town nice and clean for the tourists.”
“Part of why they keep coming back,” she said. “Find something interesting?”
“Two somethings. A hooded raincoat, black, with plenty of blood spatter. Not much doubt the source of the latter. Also a butcher knife. Blood-smeared. Almost certainly the murder weapon.” Eli shifted in his seat. “You’ve got a problem, Chief.”
Krista said, “You think?”
“I think. This appears, strongly — as if I have to say it — to be the same perpetrator. The stab wounds this time are mostly on the back. The previous homicide, of course, the blows came from the front. Same is true of the Clearwater homicide.”