See No Evil. Gayle Roper
The sergeant nodded. “Schumann, get their personal information.” He didn’t say, “Keep an eye on them,” but I thought he might as well have, given his demeanor. He started for the house, then turned back. “Please don’t leave. I’ll need to talk with you more later.”
I looked at Gray as Officer Schumann pulled out her notebook. “Do you think we’re suspects?” I whispered.
“Of course you’re not suspects,” Officer Schumann said with the sly lift of an eyebrow. “You don’t have to worry about that until you’re Mirandized.”
“What?” I stared at her. Was Schumann going to whip out a little card and start reading, “You have the right to remain silent….”
Officer Schumann put up a hand. “Just a little police humor. You are not suspects.”
I clearly heard yet hanging in the air.
With professional efficiency, Officer Schumann took our names and addresses, work information and reasons for being at the murder site. “Now let’s move over here and stay out of the way,” she said, not impolitely. “And don’t talk about the crime.”
“Where’s Sipowitz?” I muttered to Gray as we watched another female officer in uniform begin to string yellow crime scene tape by winding a strip around the large oak that sat near the edge of the Ryders’ corner property. Unrolling tape as she went, she had just disappeared around back when a truck arrived with high-intensity lights that were lifted by ropes and pulled through window openings to illuminate the second-floor interior. Frequent flashes of light indicated pictures being taken of the victim and the crime scene. “I want Sipowitz.”
“Two problems,” Gray said, deciding to sit while he waited. He dropped down, resting his arms on his raised knees. “This isn’t NYPD Blue, and this is real life.”
The real life part was underscored as the coroner arrived in his black van.
I sat beside Gray, legs bent, knees tucked under my chin, arms wrapped around my shins, watching the procession of people going in and out of the house. The female officer with the crime scene tape appeared on the far side of the yard, looking vainly for something to attach her tape to. Finally she set the tape down, walked to a pile of building refuse two houses away and rooted, her flashlight beam leading the way. She returned with two boards, one of which she began trying to force into the dry, pebbly dirt, using the second as a hammer.
Sergeant Poole jumped out of the house and walked over to us. He stood with his back to the house and pulled out a notebook. Automatically Gray and I stood, facing him. Officer Schumann left to help the yellow tape officer with her hammering.
How clever, I thought as I told myself I wasn’t nervous. Our faces are lit by the spill from the house. He can see our expressions, watch for any lies that way. Not that we have anything to lie about. At least I don’t. And I wouldn’t lie anyway, being a Christian and all.
“Let’s begin with you telling me why you’re here tonight,” Poole said, his voice mildly curious. He looked at Gray.
“I’m the contractor on Freedom’s Chase,” Gray said. “Grayson Edwards.”
“The downtown guy?”
“The downtown guy. I was getting ready to go home around seven-thirty, eight, when I realized that Anna was still here, working in the model house. Since we’ve had some thefts recently—”
Poole went on alert. “What kind of thefts? Have you reported them?”
“Just lumber, nails, stuff like that. And no, I haven’t reported them. They weren’t significant enough to involve you, just bothersome, not even enough for an insurance claim. Anyway, I wanted to be certain everyone was gone before I left. I went to the model house to see how much longer she’d be.”
“And what were you doing there so late?” Poole looked at me.
“I was hanging window treatments,” I said. “The model opens on Saturday, and I’ve got to get everything finished before then.”
The sergeant nodded. “Did either of you see the victim arrive?”
I shook my head, as did Gray.
“What happened to bring you from the model to this house?” The sergeant’s pen was poised to take down our answer. “By the way, I’ll want you to come in tomorrow to give a more complete statement.”
“Okay,” I said, and told Sergeant Poole about standing on the ladder and watching the man with the gun.
“You saw him clearly?” Poole asked, his craggy face intent.
I nodded. “And he saw me. He shot at me. That’s when I hit Gray in the nose and made him bleed.”
Poole stared. “He shot at you.”
“But that was after he took off the stocking mask and the gloves.”
“We called it in,” Gray said. “911.”
“So even though a man with a gun shot at you, a man who had been wearing a mask and gloves, you came over here where you’d seen him and just happened to find the victim.”
It was hard to see Sergeant Poole’s face because of the way he stood, but I was pretty sure that if I could, I’d see disbelief. And put the way he put it, our actions did sound the height of folly. Well, we weren’t cops. We were just regular people who didn’t have much experience with gunmen. At least I didn’t, and I doubted Gray did. So we’d taken what probably looked like a foolish risk, like someone who came home to find his house robbed and went from room to room before the police arrived, just to be certain the burglar was gone.
“We heard him drive away,” Gray explained. “We figured it was safe.”
“And it took us a few minutes to mop Gray up,” I added.
Gray slid his hands into his jeans pockets. “There was no way I could leave Freedom’s Chase until I was certain everything was all right over here.”
“I came along because I wasn’t going to stay in the house alone, not with that bullet hole in the window.” I shivered at the memory.
Sergeant Poole grunted. “Point out the window.”
I looked toward the model house. “You can’t see it from here. You have to be out back.”
The sergeant started for the backyard, and we followed. When we rounded the corner of the house, I pointed.
“See? Right up there.”
Poole studied the window, the top third of it visible. “So you were standing on a ladder, hanging curtains—”
“Window treatments,” I corrected.
“—when you saw this man twice. Then you decided to come over here to be certain he hadn’t done anything to damage the property.”
Gray nodded. “That’s when we found Dorothy.”
“So you recognized the victim?”
Gray rubbed a hand over his face, wincing when he hit his nose. I winced with him. “Dorothy Ryder,” he said softly.
“And you knew her because?” Poole asked.
“Two reasons. Dorothy was a partner in Windle, Boyes, Kepiro and Ryder, the accounting firm. She handled my business. Also, she and her husband Ken bought this house.” He nodded toward it. “In fact, it was the first sale in the development. Dorothy liked this lot because it’s on the corner and has three big trees that we left when we cleared the land.” He indicated the trees that had enabled the woman officer to put her tape up at least partway around the house. “Dorothy would stop by almost every day to see how much more work had been done.”
Sergeant Poole was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at me. I gave him a nervous smile. “Can you describe this gunman?”