The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [12]
“Pajamas?”
“Per the husband, wife wore a long purple T-shirt, sporting the graphic of a crowned baby chick on the front. Currently unaccounted for.”
“Other clothing? Suitcase?”
“Husband’s initial inventory revealed nothing missing.”
“Jewelry?”
“Biggest items are her watch and wedding ring, both gone. Also her favorite pair of gold hoops, which according to the husband she wore habitually. All we found in the jewelry box were some necklaces, and a couple of homemade bracelets apparently gifted by the child. Husband thought that looked about right.”
D.D. turned to Miller. “No activity on her credit card, I assume?”
Miller went back to his I’m-not-an-idiot stare. She figured that was answer enough.
“So,” she mused out loud, “by all accounts, Sandra Jones came home from work yesterday afternoon, fixed dinner for her child, put her child to bed, then proceeded with her nightly chore of grading papers. At some point, she brushed her teeth, put on her nightshirt, and at least made it to the bedroom, where …”
“Some kind of struggle broke a lamp?” Marge offered up with a shrug. “Maybe someone was already here, ambushed her. That would explain the lack of blood spatter.”
“The subject manually subdued her,” Miller supplied. “Asphyxiation.”
“Test the pillow cases,” D.D. said. “Could have suffocated her in her sleep.”
“Suffocated, strangled. Something quiet and not too messy,” Nick agreed.
“Then wrapped the body in the comforter and dragged it out of the house,” Miller concluded.
D.D. shook her head. “No, no dragging. This is where things get complicated.”
“What do you mean, no dragging?” Miller asked in confusion.
“Look at the dusty hallway. I can see our footprints, which is a problem, because if someone dragged a corpse wrapped in a giant quilt, what I should be seeing is a long, clean smear from this bedroom to the top of the stairs. No clean streak. Meaning, the body wasn’t dragged.”
Miller frowned. “Okay, so the subject carried her out.”
“One man carried the burritoed body of an adult female through that narrow hallway?” D.D. arched a brow skeptically. “First off, that would have to be one strong man. Secondly, no way he could’ve made the corner of that staircase. We’d see evidence everywhere.”
“Two men?” Margie ventured.
“Twice as much noise, twice as much chance of being caught.”
“Then what the hell happened with the comforter?” Miller demanded.
“I don’t know,” D.D. said. “Unless … Unless she wasn’t killed in this room. Maybe she made it back downstairs. Maybe she was sitting on the sofa watching TV, then the doorbell rang. Or maybe the husband came home….” She thought about it, trying out various scenarios in her mind. “He killed her elsewhere, then came up here for the comforter, knocking over the lamp as he tugged it off the bed. Quieter that way. Less chance of waking the kid.”
“Meaning we still haven’t found the primary crime scene,” Miller muttered, but he was frowning as he said it. Because according to him, they’d done the basics, and the basics should’ve turned up signs of blood.
They all looked at one another.
“I vote for the basement,” D.D. said. “When bad things happen, it always seems to be in the basement. Shall we?”
The four of them traipsed downstairs, passing by the front room, where a uniformed officer stood in the doorway, still keeping tabs on Jason Jones and his sleeping child. Jones looked up as they crossed the foyer. D.D. had a brief glimpse of shuttered brown eyes, then Miller opened the door, revealing a flight of treacherous wooden stairs leading down to a musty cellar dimly lit by four bare bulbs. They took it slow and careful. Honest to God, officers fell down stairs and hurt their backs more often than the public ever knew. It was embarrassing for everyone concerned. You gonna get hurt on the job, you should at least have a good story to tell.
At the bottom, D.D. made out a basement that looked an awful lot like a basement. Stone foundation.