Decker parked in front of the address and got out of the car. He checked the mailbox. It was getting pretty stuffed at this point.
Lots of the houses had been planted with shrubs and flowers. Elsie’s hadn’t gotten the memo. The abode was a plain Jane with a walkway that bisected the lawn and led to a step-up front porch. The outside furniture included a broken swing and a beaten-up sofa. A solid front door flaked red paint, and the screen door was hanging off of its hinges. No car in the driveway, and the shade over the window in the one-car garage prevented him from seeing inside. The garage blocked off the backyard on the left side, but there was a metal gate on the right that allowed access to the rear.
Retrieving his phone from his coat pocket, Decker was internally debating whether to have a look around when a Baniff Police black-and-white pulled up to the curb. The middle-aged man stepping out of the driver’s side wore a short-sleeved tan uniform and tan brimmed hat. There was a police belt strapped around his waist. He was tall and thin with a big Adam’s apple. His eyes were brown, his face deeply tanned and weathered. When he saw Decker, he touched the brim of his hat. “Detective.”
“Pete’s fine by me. Thanks for doing this.” Decker held up his phone. “For photographs in case there’s something in the house.”
“Let’s hope not.” Quay paused. “You know, even if you didn’t ask me, I probably would have checked it out in a couple of days.” He knocked loudly at the door, announcing himself. Did it several times. “Let’s go around the back and knock there.”
Quay went up to the side yard metal gate and lifted the latch. The two men walked into the backyard. There was a small patch of brown lawn, an old Weber barbecue, and pieces of white plastic furniture: a dinette set on a patio, and two lounge chairs, sans cushions, on the lawn. The area was fenced off by brown two-by-fours, and two trash bins were shoved into a back corner. After putting on gloves, Decker went over to the containers, shooed away flies, and pulled off the lids. The bins were empty. “If she took a vacation, she emptied the garbage before she left.”
“People usually do that.” Quay rocked on his feet. “My time’s limited. Let’s go inside.” He banged several times on the back door but got no response.
Decker said, “I’ve got a set of lock picks in my pocket. Neater than breaking a window.”
Quay said, “Go for it.”
The lock was substantial. Decker took out the tension wrench and turned it to the left. The time-consuming part was moving each pin into alignment. By the time he was done, beads of sweat had formed on his nose and forehead.
“Nice,” Quay said.
“Thanks.” Decker pocketed the lock picks. “You take the lead?”
“Sure. Doesn’t seem to be anyone home, but we should probably clear the place before we look around.”
Decker took off his gloves and unsnapped his shoulder holster. “I’m a good shot. I’ll cover you.”
Quay nodded and slowly pushed open the back door, which led into the living room. Within five minutes, it was clear that the house was empty. Both men returned their firearms to their holsters. Decker had a quick look around.
An old house with an old interior decorated with old furnishings. But the place was relatively neat, considering all the junk outside. The floor was not only free of debris, it had been cleaned with bleach and lots of it judging from the strong chemical smell. The living room was small with minimal furniture. The bookshelf had been recently dusted. It contained knickknacks and around a dozen old paperbacks. Schulung favored romances.
Quay said, “I’ll check out the bedrooms. You can do the kitchen.”
“Perfect,” Decker said.
The kitchen counter was clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, and the floor’s white tiles appeared recently scrubbed. Here, the odor of bleach was even stronger, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that someone had been intent on scouring something. He looked inside the refrigerator. There were some condiments and some cans of soda and beer but nothing perishable. The freezer was a bottom-drawer pull-out. Nothing in there to warrant alarm.
His eyes went to his shoes and he knelt down. He swept a gloved finger under the appliance, and it came back rust-colored and sticky. A quick sniff revealed what he thought it was. Since the freezer was on the bottom, it was possible that he was looking at animal blood from meat, but that combined with the bleach smell was adding up to a more nefarious conclusion.
“Quay! I need your help.” The sergeant appeared within moments. “Could you help me move the fridge?”
“What did you find?” Quay sniffed the air. “Wow, that’s strong.”
“Yes, it is.” The two of them positioned themselves and carefully slid the refrigerator off to one side, revealing a sizable pool of the same sticky stuff that was on Decker’s gloved finger. “Do you have a presumptive blood test in your cruiser?”
“No,” Quay answered. “But with the smell and this . . . I’ll call the techs from Scientific Investigation Division.” His breathing became shallow and his complexion tinted yellow. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“And I’m betting we’ll find more blood evidence with luminol. Bad accident—we are in a kitchen—or something way worse.” Decker waited as Quay made his phone calls and stowed the mobile in his police belt.
“While we’re waiting for a forensic team, I have something to show you.” Quay took in a breath and let it out. “I’ll be right back.” He returned thirty seconds later. “These photographs were in her nightstand drawer. Take a look.”
“Photographs? That’s old school.” Decker regarded the first one, then the next one and the next one. The snapshots of Bertram that he’d be given at the beginning of the case had been pretty blurry as far as features went. He was now looking at a clear picture. The man had deep-set eyes, a round face, and sandy-colored hair. He had a wide smile that bespoke of some hidden secret. His arm was around a short woman—she looked short compared to the man—with blond hair and dark eyes. She was smiling as well. She looked to have Down syndrome if Decker had to guess. Both of them were photographed from the waist up.
Decker said, “This might be Bertram.”
“You don’t know what he looks like?”
“I was given poor-quality snapshots,” Decker explained. “I’m betting the woman he’s with is his girlfriend, Kathrine.”
“Why would Elsie have pictures of them?”
“Don’t know.” Decker scanned through the other photographs. There were several of a woman in her mid-to-late thirties—long face, long, straight hair, and round eyes. Her mouth was halfway between a sneer and a smile. He showed the picture to Quay. “Any idea who she is?”
“Not a clue.”
“I’d like to show this to Lionel Lewis from Loving Care Home. Could I keep them for a day or so?”
“I don’t know how my captain will feel about that”
“How about if I keep the one of Bertram and his girlfriend, and the one with this thirties-plus unidentified woman.” He handed back the rest of the photographs.
Quay said, “I suppose it’s fine.”