Protector - Laurel Dewey [50]
Weyler unlatched the side wooden gate and waved Jane into the backyard. A deep green carpet of manicured grass filled the space, along with a large Sycamore that grew against the back of the house and tickled the rain gutter with its strong branches.
“There’s a back door here,” Weyler said, pointing to an entrance to the right rear of the house. “But we don’t believe the suspect or suspects entered that way because it was locked from the inside. All the action took place in the living room, as far as we can determine. Over there,” Weyler said, directing Jane’s attention to the rear, “is the back gate that leads into the alley. The alley was clean. No fresh tire tracks or prints. We feel the perps entered through the front door.”
Jane looked up at the second floor. “That’s a small second story.”
“It’s just got one room and a separate bathroom that belong to Emily.”
Jane stood back and noticed what looked like scuff marks and footprints on the sloping roof that jetted away from the window. “Are those footprints up there?”
“Yes. They belong to Emily.”
“She ran out on the roof that night?”
“No, neighbors say she liked crawling outside her window and watching the stars at night. The child has quite a fixation on planets and such.”
“Her parents let her walk out on that roof? She’s nine years old! That’s dangerous. There’s nothing to catch her fall except that damn Sycamore.”
“Apparently, it wasn’t an issue for them.”
“Well, that’s just stupid.” Jane mumbled to herself as she focused on the top story. Whenever she visited a crime scene where a homicide took place, she could always feel the vibration of the death. The Lawrence house was no exception. It was as though a thick cloud descended upon the dwelling that only Jane could sense. She had an uncanny ability to dissect a crime scene. Jane used hard-and-fast procedures like everyone else, but then she took it a step further, letting her psyche connect with the murderous energy still swirling at the scene. Somehow, she was able to tune into a hidden energy field that permeated the walls, ceiling, floors and every last piece of minutia of that space. Years ago, when she first experienced the sensation, she chalked it up to just another bad booze reaction. But the feeling continued and what was both amazing and disturbing was that her heightened perception always proved to lead her to the answer. Weyler—the only soul Jane shared this odd phenomenon with—called it a gift. But to Jane, it was just another curse.
Jane and Weyler walked up the three steps that lead to the rear door and entered the small kitchen. The narrow room was lined with floor to ceiling cabinets. A wooden farm table sat in the center of the room with four heavy chairs encircling it. There was the stainless steel refrigerator with the obligatory notepad attached to it with a magnet. The words “Pick up Brie” were scrawled across the pad. An assortment of family photographs filled the right side of the unit. As Jane stood back and observed the room, she felt she was looking at a page from the Pottery Barn catalog.
“They were out of Brie,” Jane said, pointing to the note.
“Is that a clue, Detective?”
“No. They were people who ate Brie, not Velveeta. Just an observation.” Jane glanced over to the photos on the refrigerator. Most of them were of Emily. There was Emily in her ballerina Halloween costume, Emily with Santa, Emily in the park and Emily holding a doll. There was only one photo of Emily with her parents. It looked like it was snapped at the park across the street from the house. Jane took the photo off the refrigerator and turned it over. The imprinted development date was May 2, three and a half weeks old. Emily was sandwiched between her parents wearing a half-smile. Jane couldn