Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [74]
He stood and returned to the living room. Why were all the lights on? If Felker had died during daylight hours, the lights in all probability would have been off.
He went to the window and drew the drapes closed. He knew that he should immediately call the police and not disturb the scene, but he wanted a few minutes alone in the house.
Felker’s study was in a long, narrow room at the back of the house. Its lights, too, were on. Brixton had noticed that the living room was extremely neat and tidy and had made the same observation while glancing into the kitchen. Yet, the study was a mess, with file and desk drawers open and papers tossed onto the floor and desk. Someone else obviously had the same intentions as Brixton did, to see what he could find among Felker’s possessions. And that meant that Felker’s death had probably not resulted from natural causes. It also meant that whatever Brixton might hope to find had already been taken.
Still …
He went to the desk and flipped through the papers on it. Nothing of interest caught his eye and he turned to one of the open four-drawer file cabinets, pulling out folders at random. A battered, dog-eared, empty folder caught his attention. Written on the tab was “Watkins.” Judging from the file’s condition, it was old, possibly as old as twenty years. He folded it so that it would fit into the pocket of his sport jacket and was about to look at other items when the sound of a patrol car’s siren was heard from front of the house. Then, a second one sounded.
Brixton left the study and had just reached the living room when the front door was flung open and four uniformed Savannah officers burst into the room, followed by two plainclothes detectives, including Wayne St. Pierre. One of the officers drew his weapon.
“Hey, put that damn thing down,” Brixton said.
“You’re here?” St. Pierre said.
“Looks like it,” Brixton said.
St. Pierre’s colleague went to the body in the hallway. “He’s dead,” he called out.
“Did you call it in?” St. Pierre asked Brixton.
“No. When was it called in?”
“Fifteen minutes ago,” St. Pierre replied. “Anonymous call, suspicious death at this address.”
“It’s Felker, right?” Brixton said.
St. Pierre looked at Brixton quizzically. “How did you get in?” he asked.
Brixton recounted having rung a few times, looking through the window, and trying the door, which was unlocked.
St. Pierre looked at the drapes pulled tight over the window. “How did you see in with the drapes closed?”
Brixton sighed and sat on the couch. “I closed them,” he said.
“Why?”
Brixton shrugged.
“What else did you touch, Bobby?”
“Nothing.” Brixton got up and headed for the door.
“Whoa,” St. Pierre said.
“I want a cigarette,” Brixton said, opening the door and stepping out onto the small landing. St. Pierre followed. Brixton lit up.
“You have to admit, Bobby, that these are strange circumstances.”
“How so?” Brixton asked, taking a long, satisfying drag. “Aside from the body in there, there’s nothing strange about it. You gave me Felker’s contact info. I called him and made a date to meet here at his house. I arrived and found him dead on the floor.” Brixton waved off St. Pierre’s next comment. “No, wait, there is something strange,” he said. “You say somebody called in a suspicious death at this address fifteen minutes ago. It wasn’t me. So, who was it, somebody who’d followed me here, or somebody who knew I’d be at the house at a certain time?”
“Were you followed?” St. Pierre asked.
“Not that I noticed, although I really wasn’t paying attention. Getting sloppy in my old age.”
“Who knew when you’d be here?”
Brixton ground out the butt with his shoe. “Nobody, Wayne. You were the only one I told that I wanted to speak with him, and that’s it.”
A van from the medical examiner’s office pulled up, followed immediately by a Metro forensics vehicle. St.