“We’ll fill you in,” Jamison assured him.
They rose and headed up the stairs, leaving a troubled-looking Kelly and Shane staring after them.
Chapter 75
The space above the bar was a series of rooms. One was a large open area that probably served as an event space. Chairs were stacked against the wall along with folding tables. Piles of linen napkins and tablecloths were on a long buffet set against one wall. Decker, Jamison, and Southern walked through this space to a bar area that was a replica of the one below, only much smaller. Decker spotted a spool of twine sitting on one table. He scooped it up and put it in his jacket pocket.
“What’s that for?” asked Jamison.
“You’ll see.”
Next they passed through an open doorway, turned left, and ran into the only other door there.
Decker stepped up to it and knocked.
“Caroline, it’s Decker and Jamison, we’d like to talk to you.”
“Please go away. I don’t feel well.”
“Caroline,” said Southern. “I’m here too. I really think you should talk to them.”
“I’m too tired. I’m going to bed.”
Southern looked helplessly at Decker.
“Your father didn’t kill himself,” Decker called out through the door, drawing a surprised look from Jamison. “He was murdered.”
Now they could hear footsteps. The door opened and there was Dawson, barefoot and her eyes welling with tears. But the look on her face was one of anger. “What the hell are you talking about? He killed himself. We all saw it.”
“Can we come in?” asked Decker.
For a split second she looked like she might slam the door in their faces. But then her expression softened and she stepped back.
Jamison sat in a chair and Decker stood while Dawson curled up on the bed. Southern hovered near her, looking anxiously at her friend.
“What are you talking about?” demanded Dawson.
Decker took out his phone. “I just got these pictures and reports from the forensic tech who worked your father’s crime scene. They tell a very different story than suicide.”
“How?”
In answer Decker took out the spool of twine and rolled out a length of it about a foot longer than he was tall and held it up.
“Twine?” said Dawson, looking confused.
“I had the tech measure the twine that was found at the scene. It was seven feet, four inches long. That’s about the length of this section of twine.”
“So?”
“So why would he use a length of twine that long? From the triggers to the gun stock and back to his hand was about forty-three inches. He had to wrap it around the stock to pull the triggers the right way to discharge it. Then he wraps it once around his hand, that’s maybe a few inches. What’s the other three feet or so for?”
“I... I don’t know. Maybe he just cut off a long length without measuring it. The rest was just extra. So that proves nothing.”
“No, all of that length was actually needed.”
“What do you mean?”
“A mark made by the twine was found around your father’s wrist, and another trace of it through one of the handles on the desk drawer. I also had the tech take pics from overhead, to show the top of the desk.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Caroline.
“Blood spatters can be worth a thousand words and a thousand convictions. Blood and other organic matter were everywhere, except the photos I just got reveal a long, thin line that ran across the top of the desk. A thin line that was not impacted by the blood spatters.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Decker is right,” said Southern, who had been following Decker’s words closely. “Someone killed your father.”
Decker explained, “When the shotgun went off, the twine that was used to pull the triggers was on top of the desk and pulled taut. It prevented blood and other detritus from colliding with the desk along that line. It’s a thin trail, to be sure, but it’s clearly there.” He passed her the phone with the photo on it.
“I don’t understand,” said Dawson, staring down at the picture.
“Someone took the twine, wrapped it around the shotgun’s triggers and gunstock after securing it to the desk, ran the line around your father’s wrist, through the desk drawer handle, and then over the top of the desk where the person probably squatted on the floor, well below the top of the desk and out of harm’s way. Then he pulled the twine and fired the shotgun from that position, killing your father. That would account for all of the forensic evidence that we found.”
“But my father was a big, strong man. He wouldn’t have—”
Decker interrupted. “He was undoubtedly unconscious. If he was drugged, the autopsy will show that. If he was struck across the face, the shotgun blast would have removed any evidence of such a blow.”
“So you’re really saying he was murdered?” she said in disbelief.
“I believe so.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“That’s right, you couldn’t know that,” said Decker.
Jamison said, “It said that he had killed Stuart McClellan and was committing suicide because he felt guilt about that.”
“Do you have the note?”
Jamison brought a screen up on her phone. “Here’s a photo of it.”
Dawson looked at it closely. “That looks like my dad’s handwriting and signature. I’ve seen it often enough. If someone did forge that, they were really good.”
Decker said, “We had several people who were familiar with your dad’s handwriting say the same thing, but that’s not really a confirmation. We’re having the handwriting analyzed by an expert. I think they will find that it’s a clever forgery.”
“But why would someone go to all that trouble?”
“It may tie into Stuart McClellan’s murder. And even though I think the suicide note claiming responsibility for McClellan’s death is fake, there is some evidence of your father being involved in Stuart’s death. And he could have been, only I don’t think he killed himself over it. Those are two separate issues.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“I can’t say right now.”
Dawson handed the phone back. “But why would my father want to kill Stuart?”
“Can you think of any reason?” asked Decker.
Dawson composed herself and sat back on the bed. “No. I mean they were business rivals, but not really. They needed each other. And Stuart just paid a lot of cash to my dad.”
Decker looked disappointed but then Southern stirred. “Look, I have no proof of any of this, but...” she began.
“Anything you tell us will be more than what we have now,” said Decker.
She looked nervously at Dawson. “Your mother’s death?”
“What about it?” said Dawson.
Southern glanced at Decker before turning back to Dawson. “Everybody said it was an accident. But your mother was born and raised here. She’d been out in blizzards before. Why didn’t she get out of the car to check around it when it went off the road? She would have seen the tailpipe was full of snow. I told Walt the same thing when it happened. He agreed with me, though he could find nothing suspicious in the postmortem.”
“There was an indication she might have been knocked unconscious by the impact,” noted Jamison.
Southern shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t believe that, I really don’t. And I don’t think you do either, Caroline. Everyone who grew up around here is used to driving in bad conditions.” She gazed directly at Caroline. “And the Jeep she was in was tried and true, wasn’t it?”
Dawson nodded. “She’d had it for years.”