Margot felt a slow ache build at the base of her neck. She rolled her shoulders to loosen up, which only made it worse.
“Can you write down the name of the contact person for your department?” Burns said, sliding paper and pen in front of him.
As Sam scribbled down the name of the contact, he asked, “You figured if you found the DNA, you’d find your killer?”
“That secret phone didn’t do you any favors,” Burns said. “Why’d you get it?”
“Have you ever sent a text to the wrong person?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s an utterly benign exchange, it’s unsettling. You feel naked, exposed. I don’t like to make mistakes. It was a simple way to be sure I wouldn’t.”
“But you didn’t send any texts,” Burns said.
“Yeah. It was too annoying on that phone.”
Burns leaned back in her chair. She felt a nagging sensation of something unfinished. A question at the tip of her tongue. She traveled back through their conversation, trying to pinpoint the snag.
“Anything else, Detective?” Sam said.
“Did you kill Irene Boucher?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Motive is not always ruled by logic. And logic isn’t always immediately evident.”
“You’re wasting your time looking at me,” Sam said.
“Then who should I look at?”
“Isn’t it always the husband?”
March 2004
Before Scarlet died, before Owen was called into a police station for questioning, before he settled for Markham U, and before he met Luna, Owen had a shine to him. Everyone saw it. If you’d asked anyone who knew him when he was young, they’d tell you he was going to be somebody. It was assumed that he’d be a working artist, maybe a famous one. There was no denying his talent. And he was handsome and charismatic. However isolated Owen felt, no one ever saw it. People liked him, wanted to be around him. He had nineteen years to get used to that feeling.
Right after talking to the red-haired detective, Owen returned to his dorm and slept. It was early evening when he finally got out of bed. He didn’t notice the shift in his universe as he walked down the hallway to the showers, but it had already happened.
Just as the news of Scarlet’s death had been disseminated and transformed, so had Owen’s police interview. As far as anyone knew, it was not an interview but an arrest, in handcuffs, no less. If, during the first few weeks after Scarlet’s death, you’d asked a student of Markham U what had happened to her, they would have told you that she was murdered by her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, Owen Mann.
After his shower, Owen headed over to the dining hall. He’d made it halfway across the quad when he noticed the way some students would stop and stare. Once or twice, he’d wave or say hello. The moment he acknowledged their presence, they’d look away. Sleep-deprived, his mental reserves used up from the interview, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He kept walking until he ran into Amber and Bobbi. He started to walk around them, but Amber stepped to the side, blocking his path. Then he saw the look in their red-rimmed eyes. Amber wore a sneer; Bobbi’s hands were balled into fists. Amber got right up in front of him. She was so close he thought she was going to hug him, but she was just eye-fucking him. Still, Owen did not understand.
“What are you doing here, Owen?” Amber said.
“I was going to get some dinner,” Owen said.
“Did you hear that?” Amber said.
“Yeah,” said Bobbi. “He’s getting dinner.”
“I guess murderers have to eat too,” Amber said.
“Do they?” Bobbi replied.
Owen wised up around that point. Okay, I see what’s happening. They think I killed her. What’s the best way to deal? Walk away.
Owen cut to his left, but Amber blocked his path. They reminded Owen of thugs he’d seen in black-and-white movies. It was utterly ridiculous.
“Where are you going?” Amber said.
“I just told you,” Owen said.
Owen scanned the quad, looking for someone he knew, someone who might help him. There was a scattering of students around, but no friendly faces. Everyone watched like it was a show.
Owen turned around. Food wasn’t worth this. He’d just go back to his dorm. This time, Bobbi blocked his path.
“I thought you were going to the dining hall?” she said.
“What do you want from me?” Owen said.
“What do we want?” Bobbi said, turning to Amber.
“A confession, for starters,” Amber said.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Owen said, as he walked back to the dorm.
“Or what?” said Amber, chasing after him. “Are you going to kill me too?”
* * *
—
After talking to Luna Grey, Oslo took a quick drive across town to the morgue to see the medical examiner.
“I have to wait for the drug panel,” Dr. Frank Logan said. “But blood alcohol was point-one-five.”
“On a Friday night, that’s half the school. How about semen? Evidence of sexual assault?” Oslo asked.
Frank shook his head. “We’ll have to wait for lab work, but I don’t think so. There was some urine.”
“What?”
“Probably hers.”
“Takes some time to get DNA, right?” said Detective Oslo.
“If there is DNA,” said Logan.
“You think he used a condom?” Oslo asked.
“I’m not sure there was any sexual engagement,” Logan said.
A woman in her mid-twenties with the pallor of someone who spent far too much time indoors entered the room. She smiled at the cop and waited for Logan to introduce her. He did not.
“Her tights were pulled down and you’re not sure there was any sexual component?” Oslo asked the ME.
Dr. Logan shrugged. He said he wasn’t comfortable offering any hypothesis until he had all the evidence. Oslo noticed the pale woman’s eyes darting back and forth between him and Logan. She had something on her mind. He wanted to hear it but was fairly certain that she wouldn’t undermine Logan with an answer, if he asked directly. Detective Oslo turned to the woman and introduced himself.
“Hi. I’m Detective Miles Oslo.”
“Janet Hahn, intern.”
“Nice to meet you, Janet,” Oslo said.
“Detective, I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something,” Logan put in.