The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty
interviewed by him. His narrow blue eyes were so steely and penetrating it hurt to look at them. It was as if he could see through her to her soul.
‘I saw the crime scene,’ she confessed.
Smith rubbed his forehead tiredly.
‘Oh, wonderful. And how, exactly, did you manage that?’
‘Through the window,’ she said. ‘I happened to get a quick glance. That’s it.’
‘Happened to get a quick glance?’ Smith cocked his head, eyeing her with open suspicion. ‘Which window?’
‘One of the back ones.’ She tilted one shoulder. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Hell, yes, it matters. Because the only way to see through those windows …’
With a silent apology to Miles, Harper said, ‘… is with a long-range camera lens from the backyard of a helpful neighbor. Yes. And that is not illegal, Lieutenant. As you well know.’
His mouth snapped shut.
There was a pause as they both sat staring each other down across the vast desk.
Finally, he blinked.
‘Harper, why did you do that? This isn’t like you.’ The anger had left his voice, replaced by weariness. ‘You know you’ve got no business spying on an active homicide investigation.’
This time Harper didn’t have to think up a good lie.
‘I saw Camille,’ she said. ‘I saw her standing next to you, and it was like looking at myself. I had to know if the crimes were the same. And they were.’
The lieutenant sagged in his seat.
‘It’s not the same,’ he insisted. ‘That girl isn’t you.’
‘Lieutenant, please.’ Harper leaned forward. ‘I have to know why this crime scene looked so much like my mother’s. I don’t want to fight with you. I need to understand what’s happening. This is for me, not the newspaper. For me.’ She pressed a hand hard against her chest. ‘Do you think the same person committed both murders? Is my mother’s killer back?’
Deep lines scored the skin above Smith’s eyes as he studied her with grave understanding.
‘I’m so sorry, Harper,’ he said gently. ‘The same person did not commit both murders.’
Some tiny strand of hope or fear that had wrapped itself around Harper’s heart from the moment she first saw Camille standing on the street hours earlier, let go. And she hated to see it leave.
She felt numb. She’d been so sure.
‘You’re certain?’ Her voice was airless.
‘I’m certain.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, look. I’m not denying there are striking similarities with your mother’s case. But there are differences, too, Harper. Significant differences.’
‘What differences?’
‘The type of weapon used, the angle of the wounds, the force used in the attack – it all indicates a different person committed this crime,’ he said. ‘This person is taller than your mother’s murderer. He’s heavier. The wounds were less efficient, more tentative – Whitney had more defensive wounds, so she had more of a chance to fight. This all points to a different killer.’
He spoke with confidence. Evidence was where he was comfortable. It’s where all detectives are most at home. Building a case from a hundred microscopic individual strands, like an architect designing a building one pencil-stroke at a time.
Harper couldn’t argue with evidence.
‘There are enough differences in this scene to reassure me that those superficial similarities are no more than coincidences,’ he continued. ‘Listen, if you stick around in this business long enough, you get to see the same kind of murder happen again. There are only so many ways to kill.’
Harper tried to think of something to say, but all the fight left her. She kept seeing Marie Whitney – her hand flung out, fingers curled. And her own mother, still and cold.
‘Oh,’ she said softly.
‘Harper,’ the lieutenant looked concerned. ‘Are you OK? You need something? Some water?’
‘No …’ she told him. ‘I mean … I’m fine.’
It wasn’t true. She wanted to ask him about what Blazer had said, about the killer being a professional, and what did that mean but, suddenly, she felt suffocated in this windowless room. She had to get out.
She stood abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it skidded harshly on the floor. Smith looked startled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, backing to the door. ‘I have to get to the newsroom. Deadlines.’
Smith nodded. ‘Of course.’
But he stood up behind his desk, as if deciding whether or not to follow her as she fumbled with the door.
In the open doorway she stopped and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were worried.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’ Remembering their agreed lunch plans, she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll see you Sunday, OK?’
Before he could reply, she yanked the door open and ran out into the hallway, rushing to the security doors and out into the warm summer night.
Five hours later, just after midnight, Harper stood in front of a converted warehouse on a cobblestoned lane at the edge of the river squinting at the numbered buttons in the dark.
The light above the door had gone out two weeks ago and no one had fixed it yet. One of these days she was going to come down here with a screwdriver and replace that damn bulb herself.
Finding number twelve, she hit it hard and waited, staring at the camera above the door. Her right leg jittered with ill-concealed impatience.
Now that she was here, she wanted to get this over with.
‘Jackson.’ Through the tinny speaker, Miles’ voice sounded crisp and cautious.
‘It’s me,’ she told the camera. ‘Obviously.’
With a deep, mechanical clunk, the heavy steel door unlocked and swung silently inward.
Inside, she crossed a spacious, empty lobby, past over-sized pots holding glossy palms and ficus trees that seemed small in the cavernous space. The owners had kept the original pitted and worn stone floor, polishing it up to make it look a bit more like a home and less like what it had been for more than a hundred years – a giant holding area for crates of cotton and tobacco, sweet potatoes and sugarcane.
Even now, despite all the developer’s efforts cleaning and glossing and polishing, she thought she could detect the faintest scent of ancient field dust in the artificially cooled air.
The elevator opened as soon as she pressed the call button. They’d gone for a post-industrial look here, with walls made of sheets of metal that looked like someone had punched it repeatedly until it behaved.
As the lift rose, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. Her stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard above the elevator’s pulleys. She hadn’t eaten anything since her interrupted lunch at Eric’s. There’d been no time.
Once she’d returned from the police station, she’d spent hours putting together a complete news package about Marie Whitney for the final edition. DJ had stayed late to help.
The headline – Murder Shocks Peaceful Neighborhood – was mediocre, in Harper’s opinion. But it