Doug dialed Marsha. “Hi, hon.”
“Did everything go okay?” Marsha answered.
Doug smiled because Marsha sounded happy. “Yeah, better than I thought it would.”
“Will you be home soon?”
“I can’t come now. Chad Spenser is getting married, and there’s an office party at the Monaco. I forgot all about it, but I’ve got to go. You eat without me.”
“Okay,” Marsha said. She sounded disappointed.
“I know, babe. I miss you, too. I won’t stay late. I promise.”
They talked some more. Then Doug hung up and started to go through his mail. That’s when he remembered that Frank wanted to talk to him.
Doug smiled. The luckiest thing that had ever happened to him occurred twenty years ago. He’d moved to Oregon from Arkansas looking for work, and Frank Nylander had taken a chance on him when no one else would hire him.
Doug’s personal life had also profited because of Frank. His partner had introduced him to Lois, his first wife, and later, after Lois passed, he’d hired Marsha as his secretary.
Doug sobered when he remembered Lois’s final days. There had been endless rounds of chemo and the beyond-sadness moment when she’d passed. Doug didn’t know how he would have survived without Frank’s support in the dark days of depression and grief that had followed Lois’s death. Frank was his best friend, and Doug owed Frank everything.
Doug decided that the stuff on his desk could wait. He got his coat and headed down the hall to Frank’s office. They could talk about Seattle and New York on the way to the restaurant.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A narrow hallway ran between two banks of elevators on the eleventh floor of the Pacific Northwest Bank building. The hallway connected an insurance company with offices that took up one side of the building with the law offices of Douglas Armstrong and Frank Nylander, which took up the other side. At the request of the police, the building had blocked all the elevators save one from going to the eleventh floor.
A deputy district attorney was always dispatched to the location of a homicide so he could see the scene before the body was removed. Rex Kellerman was squeamish and he hated going to crime scenes, but he was excited to discover the identity of the body that was waiting for him in the offices of Nylander & Armstrong. What if the victim was Douglas Armstrong? He smiled as he imagined Marsha Armstrong’s tears.
Kellerman assumed a serious demeanor when he entered the firm’s reception area. Roger Dillon, Carrie Anders’s partner, a lanky African American with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, was talking to someone from the crime lab, but he cut the conversation short when he spotted the DA.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Kellerman said. “Traffic was awful coming in.”
“Not a problem.”
“So, what do we have?”
“There was a party last night at a steak house for one of the firm’s associates, who’s getting married. Most of the employees left the office Tuesday evening between four thirty and five to go to the party. Kate Monday, the receptionist, says that Frank Nylander returned from New York around four fifteen and Douglas Armstrong came back from Seattle around five thirty. They were the only ones left in the office when she left for the party around five forty-five. Neither Nylander nor Armstrong showed up at the restaurant, which surprised everyone.
“Ken Norquist, one of the associates, came in around seven this morning because he had been doing some work on one of Armstrong’s cases. Armstrong wasn’t in his office, so he went to Nylander’s office to see if he was there. He found Nylander’s body and called 911.”
“Cause of death?” Kellerman asked as he hid his disappointment.
“That one is easy. Unless the autopsy turns up an exotic poison, I’m going with massive head trauma inflicted by the bloodstained stone sculpture we found on the floor next to the body.”
“Was the sculpture from Nylander’s office?”
Dillon nodded. “It’s some abstract thing with a lot of curves. Unfortunately, it also has a lot of heft. The receptionist told me that Nylander’s wife got it for him as a birthday present and he kept it on his desk.”
“Fingerprints?”
Dillon shook his head. “It was wiped clean.”
“Do we have an estimate for the time of death?” the prosecutor asked.
“Sometime last night between five thirty and ten.”
“Where is Armstrong?”
“He hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Does anyone know where he is?” Kellerman asked.
“No. The receptionist called Armstrong’s house to tell him that Nylander was dead. Armstrong’s wife said he wasn’t home and didn’t come home last night.”
“Hmm.”
“The receptionist said that Mrs. Armstrong was very upset.”
“Let me take a look at the body,” Kellerman said. “Then let’s talk to the employees.”
Kellerman tried to breathe through his mouth as he followed Dillon down the hall, but he still smelled the cloying scent of death before he arrived at Nylander’s spacious corner office. Inside the office, Carrie Anders was talking to a lab technician who was snapping photographs of the room. Another forensic expert was taking measurements and placing an occasional object in a Ziploc bag.
“Morning, Rex,” Anders said.
Kellerman didn’t answer. He was stunned by the violence that greeted him. It was so extreme that it was hard for the DA to take in.
Frank Nylander was sprawled across a Persian rug. His arms were stretched out in front of his head with the palms of his hands touching the carpet as if he’d tried to break his fall. His legs were spread apart and his shoe tips were pointing toward the windows. It was his head that commanded Kellerman’s attention. The back of Nylander’s skull had been crushed to pulp, and his face was surrounded by a halo of blood. The lawyer’s hair was drenched in blood, the scalp had been split in two places, and Kellerman thought he saw a piece of brain peeking through where the bone had been crushed.
“Jesus,” Kellerman whispered. “Someone really had it in for this guy.”
Dillon and Anders didn’t respond. Kellerman looked around the room. Most of the objects on the desk had been swept to the floor, files and desk drawers had been wrenched open, and furniture had been overturned.
Anders noticed another member of the team from the crime lab standing in the door. “Do you need to see anything else in here? If not, we should leave so these guys can do their job.”
“I want to see Armstrong’s office,” Kellerman said, eager to get away from the fetid odor and the gore.
Dillon led the way to the other end of the suite and the second corner office. A photographer was leaving when the detectives and the district attorney arrived. The contrast between the two offices was stark. Armstrong’s desk was a bit messy. He’d thrown his attaché on top, and mail and files were spread across the blotter, but the rest of the room was orderly.
Kellerman looked at the walls. The one behind the desk was floor-to-ceiling glass. A colorful abstract oil hung on the wall opposite the windows and over a couch. The wall to the left of the desk held diplomas from West Virginia University, the Warren E. Burger School of Law at Sheffield University in Arkansas, and certificates attesting to Armstrong’s membership in various state and federal bars. The fourth wall was covered with clippings from Armstrong’s successful cases and plaques from civic organizations and the bar. Under the plaques and clippings was a bookcase. Most of the books were law-related, but Kellerman spotted several old-time mysteries including a number by Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellery Queen, Dorothy Sayers, and Agatha Christie. Next to Murder on the Orient Express was a biography of Dame Agatha.