do
think about it.”
“Any disturbing calls or behavior
in reaction to her death?” Sydowski said.
“Just the press, wanting to know
more about her. We’ve said we’re not commenting. I’ve instructed all employees
to refer press calls to me. I’m making a statement at a news conference this
afternoon.”
“We’d like to know in advance
what you intend to say,” Sydowski said.
“Of course.” Fairfield extended
his hand to a blue-carpeted ocean with scores of low-walled blue cubicles,
people wearing telephone headsets, working at computers that hummed with their
typing. “This is one of our major claims-processing areas. She worked on a far
corner of this floor.”
Fairfield led them to an empty
work station. It was no different than others. It was isolated by several
planters and a table with a printer, fax machine and trays layered with
documents. At the nearest cubicle Sydowski noticed a familiar-looking woman in
her thirties. She was wearing a red sweater and doing a poor job of trying not
to watch the detectives looking at Iris Wood’s desk.
“Excuse me. Mr. Fairfield?” She
approached them. “I’m Melanie Tate.” She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m Iris’s supervisor. Jan’s on her way in.”
Fairfield introduced Sydowski and
Turgeon, who were ready to interview her. They went across the claims-processing
area into an empty conference room with dark-paneled walls, a large polished
table, with nearly twenty cushioned high-backed chairs around it. Sydowski was
relieved to see a tray of fresh coffee waiting for them. Fairfield left them
alone with Tate. She sat, her eyes glistening in the quiet. After removing his
jacket and helping himself to a cup of coffee, Sydowski switched on a portable
tape recorder, tested it, opened his notebook, and began the interview.
“This is a nightmare,” Tate said,
“One day she is here working near me, then, my God. The papers, the news -- a
wedding gown -- who would do this?”
Sydowski and Turgeon took it slow
with Tate.
“We didn’t know her at all,
really. She was shy, mousy. She never went out for lunch or after work with us.
Much of the time you didn’t even know she was there. Do you know what
happened?”
Sydowski said they were working
on every possibility.
“It’s just so horrible and
frightening.” Tate studied her crumpled tissue. “Guess her new boyfriend is
taking it hard, huh?”
“Boyfriend?” Sydowski
said.
“Yes, not long ago she told me
she had this new guy living with her. Jack.”
“She told you that.”
“Yes.”
“What’s Jack’s full name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ever see her with him, or
meet him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure though?”
“Yes. She told me once, something
like, ‘I have to get home to be with Jack.’ Did you talk to him?”
“What else did she tell you about
him?”
“Nothing. I was surprised and
happy for her because it sounded like she finally had somebody, was coming out
of her shell, you know?”
Tate was concerned that Iris was
not getting the most out of her life.
“She just worked on her files,
researching the latest information, preparing new agents on death claims, how
to comfort our clients during times of tragedy, loss, and illness, and now
this. My God, how horribly ironic, how sad.”
After half an hour, Sydowski and
Turgeon passed Tate their cards.
Ten minutes later, Jan Jenkins
arrived, accompanied by her husband. The detectives requested he wait outside
as they interviewed. Jan was eight months pregnant and apologetic as she
positioned herself into a chair.
“I am so sorry, I can’t stop
crying. I just don’t know why this happened to such a gentle soul.” Jenkins was
in her twenties, upturned button nose, big eyes. Her chestnut hair was pulled
into a pony tail and had a satin-like sheen. She had worked with Iris for about
a year, after coming from Claims. And, as was often the case with many people
immediately after a homicide, Jenkins
think about it.”
“Any disturbing calls or behavior
in reaction to her death?” Sydowski said.
“Just the press, wanting to know
more about her. We’ve said we’re not commenting. I’ve instructed all employees
to refer press calls to me. I’m making a statement at a news conference this
afternoon.”
“We’d like to know in advance
what you intend to say,” Sydowski said.
“Of course.” Fairfield extended
his hand to a blue-carpeted ocean with scores of low-walled blue cubicles,
people wearing telephone headsets, working at computers that hummed with their
typing. “This is one of our major claims-processing areas. She worked on a far
corner of this floor.”
Fairfield led them to an empty
work station. It was no different than others. It was isolated by several
planters and a table with a printer, fax machine and trays layered with
documents. At the nearest cubicle Sydowski noticed a familiar-looking woman in
her thirties. She was wearing a red sweater and doing a poor job of trying not
to watch the detectives looking at Iris Wood’s desk.
“Excuse me. Mr. Fairfield?” She
approached them. “I’m Melanie Tate.” She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m Iris’s supervisor. Jan’s on her way in.”
Fairfield introduced Sydowski and
Turgeon, who were ready to interview her. They went across the claims-processing
area into an empty conference room with dark-paneled walls, a large polished
table, with nearly twenty cushioned high-backed chairs around it. Sydowski was
relieved to see a tray of fresh coffee waiting for them. Fairfield left them
alone with Tate. She sat, her eyes glistening in the quiet. After removing his
jacket and helping himself to a cup of coffee, Sydowski switched on a portable
tape recorder, tested it, opened his notebook, and began the interview.
“This is a nightmare,” Tate said,
“One day she is here working near me, then, my God. The papers, the news -- a
wedding gown -- who would do this?”
Sydowski and Turgeon took it slow
with Tate.
“We didn’t know her at all,
really. She was shy, mousy. She never went out for lunch or after work with us.
Much of the time you didn’t even know she was there. Do you know what
happened?”
Sydowski said they were working
on every possibility.
“It’s just so horrible and
frightening.” Tate studied her crumpled tissue. “Guess her new boyfriend is
taking it hard, huh?”
“Boyfriend?” Sydowski
said.
“Yes, not long ago she told me
she had this new guy living with her. Jack.”
“She told you that.”
“Yes.”
“What’s Jack’s full name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ever see her with him, or
meet him?”
“No.”
“You’re sure though?”
“Yes. She told me once, something
like, ‘I have to get home to be with Jack.’ Did you talk to him?”
“What else did she tell you about
him?”
“Nothing. I was surprised and
happy for her because it sounded like she finally had somebody, was coming out
of her shell, you know?”
Tate was concerned that Iris was
not getting the most out of her life.
“She just worked on her files,
researching the latest information, preparing new agents on death claims, how
to comfort our clients during times of tragedy, loss, and illness, and now
this. My God, how horribly ironic, how sad.”
After half an hour, Sydowski and
Turgeon passed Tate their cards.
Ten minutes later, Jan Jenkins
arrived, accompanied by her husband. The detectives requested he wait outside
as they interviewed. Jan was eight months pregnant and apologetic as she
positioned herself into a chair.
“I am so sorry, I can’t stop
crying. I just don’t know why this happened to such a gentle soul.” Jenkins was
in her twenties, upturned button nose, big eyes. Her chestnut hair was pulled
into a pony tail and had a satin-like sheen. She had worked with Iris for about
a year, after coming from Claims. And, as was often the case with many people
immediately after a homicide, Jenkins
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