occupant. “Maybe you can. We found something unusual at the crime scene.”
He shut up. Waiting for him to fill the silence. The guy was good. But it would seem suspicious not to bite. “Unusual?”
Cronin reached into the large manila envelope he’d brought with him. Extracted a clear, zip-lock plastic bag and slid it across the desk toward him. He leaned over to look at it. Inside was a newspaper clipping with brownish spatters on it.
He looked up at his visitor. “You found this at the crime scene?”
Cronin nodded, watching him.
Hunter sat back, frowned, and spread his hands. “I don’t understand.”
Cronin stared at him for a moment. Then relaxed and sighed. “Neither do we, frankly. We can only speculate. Most likely thing is, somebody read your article, got royally pissed off, and decided to whack the guy. Then leave the clipping at the crime scene. As his justification.”
“You think my article motivated somebody to kill this guy?”
The detective shrugged. “Sure looks like it. From the way the crime scene was staged.”
“Staged?”
“Look, I tell you this, it’s not for public consumption, okay? I don’t want to read about it in the paper tomorrow.”
Hunter didn’t like it, but he raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, Bracey was shot lying in his bed. But that’s not where we found him. The perp , or perps , dragged him off the bed and perched him in a stuffed chair facing his front door. Then they positioned his hands on his lap. And they put your article in his hands. Like he was reading it.”
He blinked, his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”
“Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”
He stared at the cop. Then began to laugh.
Cronin smiled. “We thought it was funny, too.”
Hunter clapped several times. “Bravo! Somebody out there has a sense of—I don’t know, what would you call it?”
“Humor, for sure.”
“I was going to say ‘poetic justice,’ but that’s not quite right. And I don’t pretend my writing is poetic.”
“Whatever it is—between us, the guys in the department like it. We’re glad somebody’s saying this stuff, because we can’t. You know how it is.”
“I know exactly how it is.”
Cronin reached for the plastic evidence bag, returned it to the envelope. “No matter what I think about this privately, though, I have a job to do.”
“Of course. We can’t have killers walking the streets, now, can we?”
The cop caught the irony and chuckled. “No, of course not. Anyway, we’re doing the usual. Looking at Bracey’s associates, enemies. Checking out the families of his vics , to see if anybody might have gone over the edge. They’d probably have the most motive. We also talked to your editor, asked him for all the mail that came in about your article. Has anybody really upset contacted you privately about it? Mail, email, calls?”
Hunter looked off into space. “Not really. Certainly no one who sticks out as being unhinged.”
The detective got up, pulled out a business card, and left it on the desk. “Well, you let me know if anybody communicates with you that we should check out.”
Hunter walked with the detective back to the reception area. Danika looked up and smiled at them both.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Cronin turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Hunter, what you do, that’s already a big help. To everybody. Please keep it up.”
He held the man’s eyes. “Count on it.”
WASHINGTON , D.C. Monday, September 8, 7:30 p.m.
She turned off 16th onto a side street that curved back into an upscale residential neighborhood of northwest Washington . In a couple of blocks, she pulled into the driveway of a large, stately home. After turning off the ignition, she remained at the wheel a moment, steadying herself for the conversation to come. They’d had a few such conversations before. They never lasted long. They never got easier. And they never got anywhere.
Maybe this
He shut up. Waiting for him to fill the silence. The guy was good. But it would seem suspicious not to bite. “Unusual?”
Cronin reached into the large manila envelope he’d brought with him. Extracted a clear, zip-lock plastic bag and slid it across the desk toward him. He leaned over to look at it. Inside was a newspaper clipping with brownish spatters on it.
He looked up at his visitor. “You found this at the crime scene?”
Cronin nodded, watching him.
Hunter sat back, frowned, and spread his hands. “I don’t understand.”
Cronin stared at him for a moment. Then relaxed and sighed. “Neither do we, frankly. We can only speculate. Most likely thing is, somebody read your article, got royally pissed off, and decided to whack the guy. Then leave the clipping at the crime scene. As his justification.”
“You think my article motivated somebody to kill this guy?”
The detective shrugged. “Sure looks like it. From the way the crime scene was staged.”
“Staged?”
“Look, I tell you this, it’s not for public consumption, okay? I don’t want to read about it in the paper tomorrow.”
Hunter didn’t like it, but he raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, Bracey was shot lying in his bed. But that’s not where we found him. The perp , or perps , dragged him off the bed and perched him in a stuffed chair facing his front door. Then they positioned his hands on his lap. And they put your article in his hands. Like he was reading it.”
He blinked, his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”
“Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”
He stared at the cop. Then began to laugh.
Cronin smiled. “We thought it was funny, too.”
Hunter clapped several times. “Bravo! Somebody out there has a sense of—I don’t know, what would you call it?”
“Humor, for sure.”
“I was going to say ‘poetic justice,’ but that’s not quite right. And I don’t pretend my writing is poetic.”
“Whatever it is—between us, the guys in the department like it. We’re glad somebody’s saying this stuff, because we can’t. You know how it is.”
“I know exactly how it is.”
Cronin reached for the plastic evidence bag, returned it to the envelope. “No matter what I think about this privately, though, I have a job to do.”
“Of course. We can’t have killers walking the streets, now, can we?”
The cop caught the irony and chuckled. “No, of course not. Anyway, we’re doing the usual. Looking at Bracey’s associates, enemies. Checking out the families of his vics , to see if anybody might have gone over the edge. They’d probably have the most motive. We also talked to your editor, asked him for all the mail that came in about your article. Has anybody really upset contacted you privately about it? Mail, email, calls?”
Hunter looked off into space. “Not really. Certainly no one who sticks out as being unhinged.”
The detective got up, pulled out a business card, and left it on the desk. “Well, you let me know if anybody communicates with you that we should check out.”
Hunter walked with the detective back to the reception area. Danika looked up and smiled at them both.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Cronin turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Hunter, what you do, that’s already a big help. To everybody. Please keep it up.”
He held the man’s eyes. “Count on it.”
WASHINGTON , D.C. Monday, September 8, 7:30 p.m.
She turned off 16th onto a side street that curved back into an upscale residential neighborhood of northwest Washington . In a couple of blocks, she pulled into the driveway of a large, stately home. After turning off the ignition, she remained at the wheel a moment, steadying herself for the conversation to come. They’d had a few such conversations before. They never lasted long. They never got easier. And they never got anywhere.
Maybe this
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