“The results won’t do much to change my mind either.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I’d love to sweep this whole thing under the suicide rug, but we have to jump through the hoops the same way your department does. Someone really needs to inform that new sixteen-year-old at the ME’s office that there are certain things we overlook when it comes to certain people.”
Crossing my arms, I gave him a look of mock sternness. “I still don’t understand how you and my dad were such good friends for years.”
“Me either, kid.” He sighed, shaking his head. “How is the old man, by the way?”
“The same. Stubborn. Stuck in his ways.” I gestured at the cloudy sky. “A ray of sunshine.”
“Tell him hey for me.”
“You probably talk to him as often as I do,” I said, examining the crowd assembling on the sidewalks around the building.
Ed tapped the crease drawn between my eyebrows. “You know, most parents and kids get along again after the teen years.”
“Ah, yes, except I’m the constant reminder of the golden son he never had. The only child it took them a decade and a half of trying for and instead of being elated they finally had a kid, they expected a perfect one who pleased them in every way.” I made a face when I heard myself, the epitome of bitter and jilted. Ed had heard enough of this rejected child routine to know each word, anticipate every turn.
“You always felt you had big shoes to fill,” he said.
My head cocked. “I wonder why?”
“And here I was thinking the point of life was to work to fit inside whatever shoes we decide to create for ourselves.”
I gave a dramatic sigh. “If only.” When another cruiser pulled up to the curb, lining up beside the handful of others, my mind took a turn. “Really, though? What kind of evidence are your guys going to find in there?”
Ed checked behind him, guiding me farther away from the crime scene.
“I’m not asking in a professional capacity. I’m having a conversation with a friend.”
“Of course. Because detectives talk with their friends about ongoing investigations every day.” He ran his hand through his silver hair. “But I can discuss the investigation with an attorney at the prosecutor’s office who may be assisting with the case when and if we dig up an actual suspect.”
“Just call me Eager Little Assistant,” I sang.
Ed angled beside me, inspecting the building as I was. “If Skovil was murdered, the killer is good. Smart. Meticulous. He’s either a master of murder or hit the dumb luck award of the century.”
The skin on my arms prickled. “So you’re convinced we’re dealing with a homicide and not a suicide?”
“Hard to argue with the defensive marks on the body.” He retrieved a lighter and pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, ignoring the look of disapproval I aimed at him—as he had the past thirty years. “According to the ME, they occurred right before death, so either Skovil got his ass handed to him in a bar fight nearby, stumbled home and immediately hung himself, or we’re dealing with someone who did us all a favor.”
My shoulder nudged his arm. “You’re retiring when? Because you get any more jaded from this job and you’re going to be the one popping off criminals.”
Ed harrumphed as he lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. “If I was still young and dumb enough, I’d be all over that career change.” He took a long drag before plucking the cigarette from his lips. “I’d be taking the oath of protecting and serving more sincerely anyways.”
“Aww,” I cooed, patting him, “someone have a hard day on the job?”
“I’ve had thirty-five years of hard days on the job.” He scanned the crowded sidewalks, a handful of youth waving middle fingers in the police’s general direction. “In the public eye, cops are about as revered as Nazis. If we do our job and clean up the streets, we’re overfunded and overstaffed. Crime rates go up and we’re ineffective misogynists with guns and anger issues.” He took another drag. “You cannot win in this line of work, even when you catch the bad guy.”
“All the risk and none of the reward?”
He opened his arms. “Dream job.” Ed finished his cigarette in near record time and started for the apartment building. “You want to take a quick peek inside?”
I fell in beside him as it began to sprinkle. “I didn’t come all this way for the stimulating conversation.”
I’d visited plenty of crime scenes, but the unsettled feeling in my stomach reminded me of my very first crime scene visit. We moved silently inside the building, and I followed Ed up the stairway. There were ten individual units in the building, but unlike the majority of the crime scenes I visited, no one was camped outside their apartment, watching the show. I guessed that had something to do with the fact that most of the occupants had records, all felonies. I’d checked. I’d also checked to see if anyone had filed any grievances against Darryl Skovil or vice versa.
The stairs creaked, the air smelled of cheap cigarettes and sour garbage, while the dents, marks, and splatters disfiguring the hall walls told the story of housing generations of sordid occupants. These walls did talk; one just had to pay attention.
The door to apartment number six was wide open, revealing a swarm of activity inside. Ed came to a stop outside the door, watching the scene unfold with me for a minute. None of the investigators milling around noticed us, every one of them busy with dusting for fingerprints, collecting fiber samples, or taking photographs.
My breath caught when my eyes trailed to the piece of rope dangling from an exposed beam in the ceiling—the instrument responsible for the extermination of Darryl Skovil’s life. Whether he cinched the noose around his neck or someone else did, that thick cut of rope had succeeded where I had failed—punishing him for his crimes.
The rest of the apartment was in general disarray, more landfill than living space. The windows were sealed shut in a way that suggested Skovil was allergic to light or would burst into flames if exposed to it. The carpet was covered with every variety of stain I’d witnessed in all my crime scenes combined. I couldn’t imagine the type of parasites this kind of filth attracted, though I supposed the foulest kind of all was Skovil himself.
“Nothing about this reads like a homicide to me,” I said, focused on the rope again. It was the sole clean article in the apartment.
Ed shifted. “A piece of shit like Skovil doesn’t commit suicide. He was narcissistic, selfish, entitled, and had been given a get-out-of-jail-free card. This was a homicide.”
As much as I wanted to argue Ed’s point, he was right. That gut radar I’d been born with and honed over the years was rarely wrong.
“You think you’re going to catch the person?” I asked him.
As he leaned into the doorframe, his face drew together. “I’ve been investigating crime scenes since you were in preschool, kiddo, and this one’s different. We’re not going to find a shred of physical evidence. No prints, hairs, nothing.” He gestured at the half dozen crime scene specialists as if their efforts were all for nothing.
“What makes you so sure?”
“You do this long enough, you can feel it in your bones,” he replied.