Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [118]
She hadn’t seen Mike since early this morning, but he had sent Jack to tell her that they had found Shelley Gilbert’s body.
“Mike and I don’t think that the Midnight Killer is the one who murdered Shelley,” Jack had explained. “This isn’t his MO, not even close. Even though he did kill Shontee Thomas’s bodyguard, he shot the guy and then killed Shontee. Whoever killed Shelley used a knife.” He had paused for a moment, and Lorie had suspected he was considering just how much to tell her. “He slit her throat.”
For a second or two, Lorie had thought she’d throw up, but the nausea subsided and she’d managed to say, “And he didn’t kill me and we both know he could have.”
The day had been endless, each minute seeming like an hour. Investigators of every form and fashion had traipsed through her house, doing God only knew what to gather evidence. Deputies. Police officers. ABI agents. FBI agents. And when they had finished up inside, they had moved to the back porch, a taped-off crime scene being guarded by one of Mike’s deputies. She and Cathy had lost count of how many pots of coffee they had made and how many cups they had filled. They had both been thankful to have something to do. And when Cathy had suggested making sandwiches and having them available for the slew of investigators, Lorie had immediately agreed.
She had watched from the kitchen window when Andy Gamble’s team brought Shelley’s body, cocooned inside a black body bag, out of the woods. Shelley, who only last night had been alive and well. Shelley, the person who had been responsible for keeping her safe. Shelley, whose bodyguard training and possession of a big gun had not protected her.
Mike and Cathy sat together on the sofa in Lorie’s living room watching the ten o’clock newscast on Huntsville’s CBS Channel 19. One of the countless reporters who had been kept at bay by the roadblocks set up and manned by Alabama state troopers had taped interviews with Lorie’s neighbors. Supposedly, no one knew for sure what had happened, other than a woman’s body had been found in the woods not far from Lorie’s house.
“We heard it was that bodyguard who’s been staying with Lorie Hammonds,” Irene Shelby told the reporter.
Lorie, who had just taken a shower and put on a pair of lightweight pink sweats and a lacy white T-shirt, came into the living room in time to hear Irene’s comment.
Jack picked up the remote.
“No, don’t turn it off,” Lorie said. “Leave it on.”
“Are you sure?” Cathy asked.
“I’m sure.”
Jack laid down the remote.
The nighttime anchor appeared appropriately somber when he stared into the camera and said, “Sheriff Mike Birkett held a press conference late this afternoon.” The taped interview appeared on the TV screen.
Lorie noticed how haggard Mike looked. His hair was windblown and disheveled and he sported a dark, heavy five o’clock shadow. He spoke calmly and with absolute authority, giving the basic facts and nothing more. The victim was Shelley Gilbert, who was employed by the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency headquartered in Knoxville, Tennessee. Ms. Gilbert was on assignment in the Dunmore area, working as a private bodyguard. The case was considered a homicide and both the ABI and the FBI were involved in the investigation.
Mike walked off, refusing to answer even one of the dozens of questions bombarding him from every direction.
“I hope he’s home in bed and getting some rest,” Lorie said. “He looked so tired.”
The doorbell rang. Everyone froze. Before Jack got to his feet, a familiar voice called to them through the closed front door.
“It’s me, Mike.”
Lorie didn’t move, could barely breathe. What is he doing here?
Jack walked across the room, unlocked the door, and opened it. “Everything’s okay here. We were just watching the ten o’clock news before going to bed. You could have saved yourself a trip and just called, but I guess you needed to see for yourself that Lorie’s all right.”
“Yeah, something like that,