I am cold and barely feel Kristen’s or Mother’s hands squeezing mine.
Mother leans in and whispers in my ear, “God, let there be justice.”
Amanda clenched her jaw, returning to the present, her gaze on Palmer’s dead body. Maybe things had a way of working out and justice had finally been served. It certainly hadn’t been with the measly sentence he’d received.
She walked over to the table and looked out the window that gave a view of the parking lot. The curtains were open, as the manager claimed to have found them. And further inside the room and across from the double bed, the television was flickering on the dresser. Its volume was so low it was hard to hear sober. Intoxicated, there would be no way Palmer could have discerned a word.
She made a note of that in her phone’s app, then proceeded to inch closer to the bed. With each step, her heart pounded harder. As if he could somehow reach out from beyond the grave and hurt her more than he already had. Utterly impossible. In fact, his death, in a way, had lessened her pain.
She inventoried his wardrobe. White socks, one shoe on his right foot, blue jeans with a black belt, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. The resting state of his face and mouth seemed to testify to some horror he had felt before his death, and her sense of justice warred against a dark part of her that found satisfaction in the hope that he’d suffered.
There was a gash on his forehead, which could be consistent with a fall. She looked to the carpet and followed along the floor, stopping her scan at the end of the bed. She put on the gloves that Becky had given her. What no one knew wouldn’t hurt them. She lifted the comforter marginally and ducked down. Metal bedframe. But with the cushioning of the bedding it was unlikely to have cut flesh and there was no blood.
She resumed her full height and studied the room from where she was standing. Nothing within sight would explain the cut on his forehead. It could have happened elsewhere in the room or at another location altogether. For now, she’d look at the lost shoe and the gash as separate and unrelated incidents. She made a note of her observations.
Amanda carried on through the room, ignoring the form on the bed and went into the small bathroom. Green sink and tub. Ring on the floor around the base of the toilet. Rust marks in the sink and tub. There was a toothbrush, a tube of paste, a razor and shaving gel, but that was it as far as personal hygiene products. A motel-provided and now-lathered bar of soap sat on the corners of the tub and small counter.
On her return through the room, she stopped in front of a closet with bifold doors. She’d already broken Malone’s direction not to touch anything so she slowly opened one side and peeked in. Empty. She eased the door back the way she’d found it.
Palmer could have items in the dresser, but maybe she should draw a line with her snooping, just in case Malone returned.
The only personal effects she could see in the main room were a jacket and wallet on the table. But what more could she expect when Palmer had only been released from prison a few days ago? He’d only have the clothes on his back and whatever had been taken from him at the time of his arrest.
She made a note to find out what that was.
She reached for the wallet. Had Palmer left it there or had Becky or her sergeant pulled it out to look for identification? Another possibility was a robbery gone wrong, but she dismissed the theory quickly. Palmer probably didn’t have anything worth stealing. Also, if it was a robbery, she’d likely be looking at a stabbing, shooting, or beating. Not to mention she’d expect to see evidence of an altercation, but there was nothing to indicate that aside from the shoe and the gash on his forehead.
Amanda thumbed through the wallet. A ten-dollar bill and two credit cards. She extracted each, one at a time—both long expired—and slipped them back where she’d found them just as shadows darkened the room. She returned the wallet to the table and turned to see two female investigators from Forensics and a blond man she recognized as Trent Stenson.
The CSIs made their way into the room, booties on their shoes and evidence collection cases in hand. The older of the two, a slender woman in her fifties, acknowledged her with a bob of her head. The other woman flashed her a beautiful smile.
“Hi, Detective Steele,” Trent said. He looked older and more mature than she remembered, but there was something else different about him. His hair. He used to have long bangs that fell over his eyes, but now his blond hair was groomed short. She didn’t reply to his greeting but went to leave the room, pausing only to take off the booties.
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous to assume you remember me.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Trent. Stenson. Malone briefed me on the phone, but I was at Becky’s barbecue that time and we—”
“I know who you are.” She wondered just how much Malone had told him, and if Trent had been told to keep an eye on her.
“Oh, good.” Her refusal to shake didn’t seem to have any effect on his enthusiasm, but he lowered his hand. “How’s it looking in there?”
“You should look for yourself. As the primary,” she added, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I’ll need—” Trent looked around and his gaze landed on the booties in her hand.
“Here.” She handed them to him. “You should come prepared.” She felt a twinge of guilt at her hypocrisy.
“Sorry, yes, I know. Thanks.” He went into the motel room without touching her dig about him being the primary. Spunky or spineless? Too soon to tell.
She bundled into her coat. It had stopped snowing, but it was cold. Guess she’d just wait outside while Junior looked at the crime scene. Becky was coming toward her, holding a steaming takeout cup.
“I come with coffee,” she said, giving it to Amanda.
“How—”
“I had a fellow officer bring it to me.”
Amanda looked at the cup. “It’s not from Hannah’s, but…” Hannah’s Diner had the best coffee in Dumfries—in the county if you asked Amanda—but they closed at nine.
“Hey, if you don’t want it…” Becky smiled and reached to take the coffee back.