I is for Innocent (Kinsey Millhone 9)

The drive to Colgate was pleasant enough. The day was clear and chilly and I flipped on the VW's heater so that it would blow hot breath on my feet. I was beginning to give serious thought to the possibility that David Barney might be innocent. Up to this point, we'd all been operating on the assumption that he was the one who shot Isabelle. He was the obvious suspect, with the means, the motive, and the opportunity to have killed her, but murder is an aberrant deed, often born of passions distorted by obsessiveness and torment. Emotion doesn't travel in a straight line. Like water, our feelings trickle down through cracks and crevices, seeking out the little pockets of neediness and neglect, the hairline fractures in our character usually hidden from public view. Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb. With this investigation, I was once again uncomfortably aware that in probing into murky waters I was exposing myself to the predators lurking therein.

Morley Shine's driveway was empty, the red Ford rental car nowhere in evidence. The Mercury still sat on the grass in the side yard. I stood on the porch and studied the pattern of rust spots on the fender while I waited for someone to answer my knock. Two minutes passed. I knocked again, this time louder, fervently hoping that I wasn't rousing Dorothy Shine from her sickbed. After five minutes, it seemed safe to assume that no one was home. Maybe Louise had taken Dorothy to the doctor or the two had been required to put in an appearance at the funeral home to pick out a casket. Louise had told me they left the back door unlocked so I made my way around the side of the house, passing through the breezeway between the garage and house. The door to the utility room was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. I rapped again at the glass and then waited the requisite few minutes in case someone was home. Idly, I surveyed the premises, feeling vaguely depressed. The property looked as though it was ready for the auction block. The backyard was neglected, the winter grass dry and frost-cropped. In the weedy flower beds that bordered the yard, last autumn's annuals were still planted in dispirited clumps. Once-sunny marigolds had turned brown, a garden of deadheads with leaves limp and withered. Morley probably hadn't sat out here with his wife for a year. I could see a built-in brick barbecue, the cook surface so rusty the rods on the grill nearly touched each other.

I pushed the door all the way open and let myself in. I wasn't sure why I was being so meticulous. Ordinarily, I'd have popped right in and had a look around, just because I'm nosy and the opportunity was presented. This time I really didn't have the heart to snoop. Morley was dead and what remained of his life should be safe from trespass. I left the grocery bag of files on the washing machine as instructed. The very air smelled medicinal, and from the depths of the house I could hear the ticking of a clock. I pulled the door shut behind me and returned to the street.

As I took out my car keys, I realized with a flash of irritation that I'd meant to leave Morley's keys in the bag with the files. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps at a half trot. As I passed the Mercury, I could feel my steps slow. Wonder what he has in the trunk, my bad angel said. Even my good angel didn't think it would hurt to look. I'd been given ready access to both his offices. I had his very keys in hand and in the interest of thoroughness it seemed only natural to check his vehicle. It was hardly trespassing when I had implied permission. By the time I reached that phase of my rationalization, I had popped open the trunk and was staring down in disappointment at the spare tire, the jack, and an empty Coors beer can that looked as if it had been rolling around in there for months.

I closed the trunk and moved around to the driver's side, where I unlocked the car and searched the interior, starting with the rear. The seats were covered in a dark green suede cloth that smelled of cigarette smoke and ancient hair oil. The scent conjured up a quick flash of Morley and a sharp jolt of regret. "God, Morley, help me out here," I said.

The floor in the back netted me a gas receipt and a bobby pin. I wasn't really sure what I was looking for… an invoice, a pack of matches, or a mileage log, anything to indicate where Morley had gone and what he'd done in the course of his investigation. I slid into the driver's seat and placed my hands on the steering wheel, feeling like a kid. Morley's legs were longer than mine and I could barely reach the brakes. Nothing in the map pockets. Nothing on the dashboard. I leaned over to my right to check the glove compartment, which I found crammed with junk. This was more my speed. Cleaning rags, a lady's hairbrush, more gas receipts (all local and none recent), a crescent wrench, a pack of Kleenex, a used windshield wiper blade, proof of insurance and registrations for the last seven years. I removed item after item, but nothing seemed pertinent to the case itself.