Conflict of Interest

Chapter Two

"Where are you from?"

"Tennessee," she stated. "I got transferred to Green Falls three years ago."

"Have you always done homicides?"

"Not before I got here. I worked narcotics in Nashville."

"I don't picture narcotics in Nashville," Clapp pondered, semi-absently. "I just picture banjos and sweet tea."

"Well, you'd be disappointed," Jennifer admitted. "It's not like it's made out to be."

We arrived at the door not a moment too soon, as I was scarcely interested in Jenn Carver's personal life as it was.

"Looks like a forced entry," I noted with a nod to the busted hinges, determined to have the first word to prove that I knew what I was doing. I didn't know when exactly it was that I started feeling the need to prove myself as a detective, but it was salient during this investigation.

"This place is a mess," Clapp commented, gesturing to a rather lengthy ant trail of thrown household objects - books, plates, picture frames, plants, and the like.

"So there was a struggle," I translated, dodging CSRU personnel to make my way to the body. I took in a sharp breath of air to see the bullet wound straight through the victim's forehead. "Wow, that's ugly."

As I'd figured, Jennifer didn't clam up long before she started spewing ideas out, obviously empowered by being the only homicide detective among us. She took it upon herself to comment on the ramifications of the injuries the victim had sustained.

"Given the depth of the laceration, I'd call it a close range shot. And since the victim's blood didn't get far radially--"

"The victim was likely shot from above rather than at an angle," I interrupted.

Jennifer shut her mouth and looked from the victim back up at me. "Yeah," she said slowly. "That's right."

"And judging by the angle at which the shot was inflicted on the skull, I'd expect a bullet to be lodged somewhere in the frontal lobe, as there's no exit wound on the back of the head."

"But the ME said it didn't look likely that there's one in there," she reminded me.

"It's a common tactic amongst expert killers looking to cover their trails. Find your own bullet so CSRU doesn't find it first."

She nodded, slowly again. "You sound like a homicide."

"Five years," I prided myself before setting off to examine the places where the victim's limbs had been tied to the four post bed.

"Must be nice to be getting back," she attempted at small talk, before challenging, "Let's see if you've gotten rusty."

"I do not rust," I argued indignantly.

"Okay, then I'll let you form the story," she invited, trying to be civil, probably because she knew she was on our case and didn't want to take all the power over. "What happened to Jane Doe number two?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I questioned haughtily, taking another once over of the apartment. "Forced entry," I noted at the door. "Killer has a struggle with the victim as is suggested by the path of overturned objects that lead to the bedroom. Victim attempts to fight back, which is how this potted plant gets shattered on the ground, but killer wins the struggle. I mean. Obviously. Gets her tied to the bed somehow, maybe with drugs, we'll find out after the autopsy, rapes the victim, as suggested by the physical trauma, then shoots her from above," I demonstrated, hands above poor Jane Doe's head. "So she doesn't tell."