“Should we glove up?” Colbert says, trying I imagine, to make up for the lack of protocol earlier. I nod, set down my evidence case, open it, and remove two pairs of gloves: one pair for me and one pair for Colbert. I also take out two pairs of booties, which we stretch on over our shoes.
I take my camera out and turn it on as Colbert leads the way. After taking a few shots of the living room, I follow Colbert toward the kitchen. There we find a plate of partially eaten food on the table bearing the remnants of Minniver’s last meaclass="underline" baked macaroni and cheese, broccoli, ham, and a glass of what looks like iced tea. His fork, still holding a few bits of macaroni in its tines, is on the floor beneath the table. I snap pictures of all of it as well as a few shots of the room.
From there Colbert heads to the garage, which is just off the kitchen. Parked inside is Harold Minniver’s car, a Toyota Rav4. I head around to the driver’s side door, which is still open, snapping pictures as I step over several ripped-open, empty packages: debris left from the EMT’s efforts. Harold’s keys are still in the ignition but it is not turned on. After taking a picture of it, I reach in and flip the ignition over. The car starts up without hesitation.
“The gas tank is full,” I tell Colbert, watching as the needle rises to the top and then taking a picture of the gauge. I’m not sure if I’m overdoing it with the picture thing, but since this is the first scene I’ve been to without Izzy, I want to err on the side of caution. “It looks like he never started the car, that he died right after getting in. The food on the table and the fork on the floor make me think that whatever happened to him, happened while he was eating. He dropped his fork, headed for the garage, and died before he could get his car started.” I turn and look at Colbert. “His daughter told me she found him slumped behind the wheel and that the car wasn’t running. It wasn’t running when you guys got here, was it?”
Colbert shakes his head. “No. That much I’m sure of.”
“So much for my suicide theory then,” I mutter. I turn the engine off, bag & tag the keys, and hand them to Colbert. Then I take some pictures of the garage interior.
“So we have another incident of foul play?” Colbert says, his eyes huge with eager excitement as he watches me. You got to love that about new cops; murder and mayhem to them is like a freezer full of Ben & Jerry’s to me.
“Not necessarily,” I say, dashing his hopes. “There are plenty of other natural causes that might have killed him.”
“Like what?”
“Like a blood clot in his lung, or a ruptured brain aneurysm.”
“So you’ll be able to tell what it was when you do the autopsy?”
“Hopefully, though sometimes we don’t find an immediate cause of death.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
“Run toxicology tests, look at the blood work, reexamine the scene . . . but in this case I’m betting that we’ll find something physical. There really isn’t anything to suggest foul play.”
“What about that key you said was missing?”
I frown at that. The missing key does bother me, but even so, I doubt it’s very significant. I say so to Colbert but then caveat my statement by adding, “But just to be thorough, we should get someone to come out and dust the light for prints.”
Colbert gets on his phone and calls into the office to arrange for an evidence tech to come out. While we’re waiting, we look through the rest of the house but nothing else looks out of place. When the evidence tech arrives, we watch as he dusts the light cap, but the surface of the cap is pebbled and he tells us he’s not likely to pull anything off it because of the texture. His prediction proves true and he’s gone a few minutes later. Colbert and I prepare to follow suit but a niggling thought makes me head back to the kitchen. After rummaging through some of Minniver’s drawers, I find some plastic baggies and collect what is left of his last meal. I pour a sample of his drink into an evidence vial from my scene kit, and then I put his fork and empty plate into a paper bag, sealing it all with evidence tape.
After locking the house, I head back to the morgue with Colbert following me. He watches as I log in the evidence, looking thoughtful, and I wonder if he’s mulling over the possible ramifications of screwing up a crime scene.
As soon as Colbert leaves I head for the library, which serves double duty as my makeshift office, to finish my paperwork.
Just as I’m about to shut down the computer for the night, I take one last look at my notes and see where I jotted down Minniver’s daughter’s comment about her father being involved in a lawsuit of some sort with a neighbor. At the time she said it, I hadn’t yet made the connection between Minniver’s address and Hurley’s. A strange tingle runs down my spine as I consider the possibilities, but even as I do, I dismiss the idea as ludicrous. It has to be a coincidence. There is no way Hurley could be involved in this death, too. Is there?
My hand hovers over the mouse, ready to click on SHUT DOWN, but I hesitate. Thirty seconds later my curiosity gets the better of me. I launch the Internet browser and click on the Wisconsin Circuit Court site. I type in Minniver’s name and only one case pops up. When I click on the link and see the name of the defendant, my heart sinks. It’s Steven Hurley.
Chapter 9
I spend the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep as I ponder the significance of Harold Minniver’s death and the lawsuit he had against Hurley. Is it merely coincidence that two people who were close to Hurley are now dead? I debate how much information to share with Hurley and what to tell Izzy and Bob Richmond. I want to give Hurley a chance, but what if I’m protecting a dirty cop, a clever killer disguised as a gorgeous, tightassed hunk of man-meat?
The next morning I take Hoover outside to do his thing before taking my shower. As I watch him make yellow snow I’m reminded of Bob Richmond and wonder how diligent the man is going to be in his investigation. I’ve gotten kind of used to Hurley’s way of doing things and despite the fact that I sometimes overstep my bounds when it comes to investigating things, Hurley has been not only tolerant but supportive. I suspect Richmond isn’t going to be quite as accommodating, which will make doing my own investigation for Hurley much more difficult.
Hoover and I head back inside, and after stripping off my flannel jammies, I’m standing naked waiting for the shower water to heat up when my cell phone rings. Thinking it’s Izzy with a death call, I groan. But when I look at the caller ID I see it’s Hurley. The idea of talking to Hurley while I’m stark raving naked makes me start to sweat despite the frigid temps outside.
I grab the phone, flip it open, and utter a cheery “Good morning!”
“Hardly,” Hurley snaps. “Did you know about Minniver?”
This isn’t the greeting I was expecting and I’m struck dumb for a moment. That’s enough for Hurley to figure things out.
“You did, didn’t you?”
“He was the case I was called out on last night when I was at your house,” I admit. “I didn’t know he was your neighbor until after I got to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him? Why is there crime scene tape at his house? And why am I finding all this out from my neighbors instead of you?”