Shallow River

Eleven

Mako

“YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN to me how your hair ended up wrapped around Greg Barber’s finger?” I ask, my fingers threaded together tightly as I lean towards the woman sitting before m

e. ‘Woman’ is a generous word considering she looks like a half-dead wraith.

“Who?” she snarls, shooting me a dirty look.

“Froggy,” I supply. Recognition lights up in her dull brown eyes. It’s sad to say that there’s only a thin layer of life that separates her eyes from Greg’s.

“My hair wrapped arou… is he dead?” it takes her all of three seconds to conclude why I’m asking. I pull out the crime scene photos and lay them out in front of her as an answer. Her eyes widen and horror washes over her face. Slowly, her shaking hand picks up the picture showcasing Greg’s chest with the word ‘Ghost’ carved into it. The picture rattles in her pale fingers, while her other hand covers her open mouth. Red paint colors her nails, nearly chipped completely away.

“Do you know who would do this, Ms. Franklin?”

It seemingly takes considerable effort for her to drag her eyes away from the picture and back to mine. The picture drops to the table.

“No.”

Just one word. Two letters. And a big fucking lie.

It’s normal for people to be shocked, horrified, even disgusted by some of the crime scene photos.

Linda Franklin is all of those. But she’s also scared.

It’s not normal to be scared of the boogeyman if you don’t think they’ll ever come after you. Looks to me like the sex worker sitting across the table in our cozy little interrogation room has a reason to be scared.

Amar is standing behind me, his hands in his pockets as he observes Linda.

“Can you explain your hair, Ms. Franklin?” Amar prompts. Linda’s watery eyes glance up at Amar before settling back on the photos.

“Am I goin’ to get arrested if I tell you I slept with him?” she asks, a bitter edge to her voice.

“No,” I promise. We already know this woman is a sex worker, but we’re not here to arrest her for selling sex for money.

She sighs. “I slept with him about a month ago. He paid me. I left.”

“Do you remember the date and what location?”

“I don’t know,” she snaps. “I don’t write down in my calendar what day I fucked who.”

“A guess then?” I push.

She huffs. “Maybe the last weekend of last month. Around the 25th or somethin’. At Harper’s Motel.”

That’d put her at a few days, give or take, before he died. We’ll have to make a stop at the seedy motel they had sex in and see if we can catch them on any cameras. Pinning down all of Greg’s locations leading up to his murder is important. Anything in that timeframe could give us a clue as to who murdered him and why.

“That’s the last time you saw Froggy? Was he acting out of sorts? Seem nervous to you? Did he say anything?”

Linda starts shaking her head profusely halfway through my questioning.

“No, no, and no,” she gripes with irritation. “I don’t know nothin’ about him or what he does. He didn’t say nothin’ to me except what he wanted me to do to him. That’s all.”

“Ms. Franklin, your hair was wrapped around Froggy’s finger the day he was found dead. Based off what you just told me, you had sex with Froggy not too long before he died. Last time I checked, people don’t hold onto other people’s DNA. At least not without a reason.”

“You sayin’ I killed him?” she asks incredulously, looking at me like I’m a complete idiot. It takes everything in me not to snap back at her. I take a deep breath through my nose, reigning in my frustration.

“What I’m saying, Ms. Franklin, is you were either in contact with Froggy right before he died, or you were in contact with his murderer, who somehow got ahold of your DNA,” I explain slowly. “Both scenarios don’t look very good for you.”