The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I decide to make it a good time by continuing onward. “I’m calling about the Summer case. I’m taking over for Roberts.”

“It’s been a long week,” he grumbles, but then, he always grumbles. He’s forty-something, divorced, and forever mad at the world. Though I feel for him in some ways. Examining dead bodies all day and night can’t help one’s outlook on life, nor, and I can speak to this topic, one’s love life. “I’m not staying tonight,” he continues, “and I’m not here past noon tomorrow. I’m also too busy to see you before I leave.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m done with this one, anyway. The sister is just waiting for you folks to approve the release of the body to her home state.”

“I’d like the chance to talk about the results with you and see the body before that happens. I can meet you at your office early.”

“No.” He offers no further explanation but states the obvious. “Summer is dead. He was poisoned. We’re waiting on toxicology reports, but I can say conclusively that the toxin cyanide was the murder weapon. How I came about that conclusion with such speed, and before the toxicology reports, will be in my reports, which you will have tomorrow.”

“Can I get them tonight?”

“No.” His voice is snip and snipe. “Anything else?”

“The ropes—”

“Handed over to the crime lab, but they weren’t ropes. They were ties from the victim’s curtains.”

Of course, I think. The Poet—that’s what I decide right now to name him—wouldn’t use anything that could be traced back to a purchase. The paper that the poem was typed on was most likely standard copy paper, found in every office in the country.

I make fast work of ending the call. “That went as expected,” I announce, sliding my phone back into my jacket pocket before giving Lang the general rundown of the call.

“At least we confirmed the cyanide,” he says. “What’s the plan now? Back to the station? Or you want to ride along to hunt down Roberts?”

“We need to divide and conquer. I need to work this case.”

With that plan in play, I decide to check out the crime scene and have Lang drop me off at my car in the station garage. On my own now, I climb inside my practical, five-year-old, silver Ford Focus. It’s not sentimental to me like Lang’s Mustang is to him, because it reminds him of a car his father used to own, but it gets me where I need to go. Lang was close to his father who, just like mine, died in the line of duty. I was not close to mine. I’m not sure why I thought working with him would change that, or, considering how he acted most of my life, why I even wanted to change it at all. But either way, it didn’t work and it’s over. He’s gone.

Irritated that I’m even headed down that rabbit hole, I settle my things in my seat, lock up, and crank the engine and air. With a quick scan of the file, I confirm Summer’s bookstore to be nearby, here in downtown.

A short drive later, I arrive at my destination to the sun flattening along the horizon. I pull my car into the sparsely lit parking lot of the property, which appears to square off the building in all directions. I park on the side where the front door sits, in the center of the empty lot, a location that allows me a bird’s eye view of the location.

Thankfully, a rapidly rising bright full moon illuminates what turns out to be an adorable little bookstore painted teal with images of books floating along the stucco walls. And then I just sit here. That’s what I do. I like to sit at a crime scene and just experience it, while I process the file and my thoughts. As crazy as some might call that, I’ve proven that just being at the scene of the crime delivers me to new and important revelations.

Killing my engine, I survey the darkness suffocating the sides of the building, shelter to anyone lurking about, a perfect veil to hide beneath and inside. There is no question that The Poet used that darkness to his benefit, a friend that helped him commit murder. No one would have seen him. Anyone could be there now, too, and I wouldn’t know.

Chapter 7

My cell phone rings and I tear my gaze from the darkness to eye Chuck’s number on caller ID. “What do you have for me?”

“I emailed you an encrypted file that has a lot of random data you should find helpful. As a point of interest though, I cross-referenced a connection between Roberts and the victim and found nothing.”

Nothing means nothing with Chuck. He’s that thorough.

“I went further than requested,” he continues, driving home that thought. “I cross-referenced his family, his ex-wife, his cases, looking for anything that matched up to the Summer case. There’s nothing there.”