Page 96
Story: The Elf Beside Himself
“You don’t have to come in,” Smith told me, looking up at me with too-sharp blue eyes.
“It’s not like I haven’t been in here a bunch already,” I replied. “I just have to… take a second first.”
He nodded, but said nothing else, which, again, I appreciated.
I let him survey the room in silence, waiting to see when he’d have questions or want my help. “What have you moved or touched?” he asked me.
“Pretty much everything, honestly,” I answered. “I photographed everything first—” which he knew, because I’d texted him a link to a giant folder full of photographs “—but I went through it to check for possible clues as to a motive.” I shrugged. “I didn’t really find too much.”
“Too much?”
“Gregory was an activist. He protested against people trying to stop fishing rights or casino rights. He owns—owned—quite a bit of acreage here that could be converted into something more hypothetically lucrative for the county or some investor. And he was openly pro-Arcanid and out as a shifter, volunteered at the local shifter food pantry. Nothingbig, like sitting on a million bucks or doing shady back-room deals.”
Smith was nodding. “He’s been arrested a few times at protests, although never charged.” This wasn’t news to me. Elliot and I had been twelve and playing games at my house when Gregory had called my dad to come pick him up so he didn’t have to tell Naomi he’d been arrested. That hadn’t been the first time, and it also wouldn’t surprise me if it hadn’t been the last time.
I talked Smith through everything I’d done in the room, how I’d gone through the books, the drawers, looked under things. I showed him where I’d found the mud—there was still fine dirt on the rug—and the button, then showed him the scuff mark on the shelf and the smear that I suspected was snot on the window.
Smith re-took photos of all four spots with his tablet and took copious notes.
The man was nothing if not thorough.
I hoped it paid off.
* * *
Smith draggedme back to the precinct and shut us both in a conference room, where he spread out the full Crane file, including the ME’s report, evidence log, everything—except crime scene photos. Even if you thought it was a genuine suicide, you’d have taken pictures.
I looked up at him. “They didn’t take pictures?”
He held up a brown file envelope. “You sure you want to see them?”
“Fuck, no.” I’d given up not swearing around him. He didn’t seem to mind. “IknowI don’t want to see them. But in case it helps, I’m going to look anyway.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Well, then I’ve given myself nightmares for a goddamn week for no good fucking reason, but that’s on me to deal with,” I retorted, holding out a hand.
I have a lot of regrets in my life, but Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, opening that envelope is one of the absolute biggest. I knew it the fucking second I saw him hanging, the leather of the belt cutting into his neck, red and raw, face swollen, lips blue.
Fuckingfuckme.
I must have turned green, because Smith moved the trash can next to me.
I swallowed a couple times, mostly because of my stupid pride not wanting me to have to use it. I wasnotgoing to throw up in that trash can.
I didn’t, but it was an act of sheer willpower.
I took a deep breath, then let it out, hating how much it shook. “You got a pen and paper I can use?” I asked him.
“You want to use this?” He offered his tablet.
“No, thanks. I’d like to take them with me, if that’s okay.” I get polite when I’m trying to keep my shit under control.
Smith studied me for about five full seconds, then nodded and left.
I carefully put the stack of photos down, set my elbows on the table, and put my hands over my face. I didn’t cry—not now. I would later, like a fucking baby. Right now, I just needed to not see things for a minute or two. However long it took before I could stop the screaming in my head and my soul so that I could do my fucking job.
I lowered my hands a few seconds before Smith walked back in the door and set a legal pad and a black ball-point pen on the table next to my elbow.
“It’s not like I haven’t been in here a bunch already,” I replied. “I just have to… take a second first.”
He nodded, but said nothing else, which, again, I appreciated.
I let him survey the room in silence, waiting to see when he’d have questions or want my help. “What have you moved or touched?” he asked me.
“Pretty much everything, honestly,” I answered. “I photographed everything first—” which he knew, because I’d texted him a link to a giant folder full of photographs “—but I went through it to check for possible clues as to a motive.” I shrugged. “I didn’t really find too much.”
“Too much?”
“Gregory was an activist. He protested against people trying to stop fishing rights or casino rights. He owns—owned—quite a bit of acreage here that could be converted into something more hypothetically lucrative for the county or some investor. And he was openly pro-Arcanid and out as a shifter, volunteered at the local shifter food pantry. Nothingbig, like sitting on a million bucks or doing shady back-room deals.”
Smith was nodding. “He’s been arrested a few times at protests, although never charged.” This wasn’t news to me. Elliot and I had been twelve and playing games at my house when Gregory had called my dad to come pick him up so he didn’t have to tell Naomi he’d been arrested. That hadn’t been the first time, and it also wouldn’t surprise me if it hadn’t been the last time.
I talked Smith through everything I’d done in the room, how I’d gone through the books, the drawers, looked under things. I showed him where I’d found the mud—there was still fine dirt on the rug—and the button, then showed him the scuff mark on the shelf and the smear that I suspected was snot on the window.
Smith re-took photos of all four spots with his tablet and took copious notes.
The man was nothing if not thorough.
I hoped it paid off.
* * *
Smith draggedme back to the precinct and shut us both in a conference room, where he spread out the full Crane file, including the ME’s report, evidence log, everything—except crime scene photos. Even if you thought it was a genuine suicide, you’d have taken pictures.
I looked up at him. “They didn’t take pictures?”
He held up a brown file envelope. “You sure you want to see them?”
“Fuck, no.” I’d given up not swearing around him. He didn’t seem to mind. “IknowI don’t want to see them. But in case it helps, I’m going to look anyway.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Well, then I’ve given myself nightmares for a goddamn week for no good fucking reason, but that’s on me to deal with,” I retorted, holding out a hand.
I have a lot of regrets in my life, but Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, opening that envelope is one of the absolute biggest. I knew it the fucking second I saw him hanging, the leather of the belt cutting into his neck, red and raw, face swollen, lips blue.
Fuckingfuckme.
I must have turned green, because Smith moved the trash can next to me.
I swallowed a couple times, mostly because of my stupid pride not wanting me to have to use it. I wasnotgoing to throw up in that trash can.
I didn’t, but it was an act of sheer willpower.
I took a deep breath, then let it out, hating how much it shook. “You got a pen and paper I can use?” I asked him.
“You want to use this?” He offered his tablet.
“No, thanks. I’d like to take them with me, if that’s okay.” I get polite when I’m trying to keep my shit under control.
Smith studied me for about five full seconds, then nodded and left.
I carefully put the stack of photos down, set my elbows on the table, and put my hands over my face. I didn’t cry—not now. I would later, like a fucking baby. Right now, I just needed to not see things for a minute or two. However long it took before I could stop the screaming in my head and my soul so that I could do my fucking job.
I lowered my hands a few seconds before Smith walked back in the door and set a legal pad and a black ball-point pen on the table next to my elbow.
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