A Beeline to Murder

Chief Allen rose.

Abby understood how the chief would see that for him to remain seated while she stood put him in an inferior position.

Chief Bob Allen addressed Abby directly. “Like I said, it was a limited investigation. When the coroner ruled the death a suicide, we closed the case.” The chief seemed to take particular satisfaction in emphasizing the word suicide. He walked around the desk and shot a steely-eyed stare at Abby. “You know how this works, Mackenzie. Find something my people can take to the DA, and I’ll take another look at it. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

He slid a hand into his pants pocket and extended the other to Philippe. “There’s no delicate way to put this. Up behind your brother’s left ear was the mark made by the knot in the ligature he used to hang himself. His brain got no oxygen because of his strangulation. That was how the coroner’s investigator put it.” The chief’s words hung in the air.

Philippe rose, grasped Chief Bob Allen’s extended hand, and shook it. “And do you have this knot?”

“We have a large section of the twine he used. We found it on the doorknob of his pantry.”

“You are paid by the people of this community, n’est-ce pas? You protect them, oui?”

Chief Bob Allen raised his eyebrows and nodded, undoubtedly wondering what his visitor was getting at. “That’s my job. I think I speak for our community when I say your brother’s untimely death was also a loss for us. But there comes a time when we must get past it and move on.”

“If my words offend, forgive me, but you did not protect my brother.” Philippe’s gaze darted to Abby, who remained poker-faced but pivoted slightly to face the two of them. Intensely staring at Chief Bob Allen, Philippe added, “You seem to want only to make the news of his death go away as quickly as possible. Do you not care that a murderer could be hiding in your town? Tell me, Chief Allen, how well do you sleep at night?”

“I sleep just fine, Mr. Bonheur. Just fine.”

The chief strode to the door, jerked it open, and summoned Nettie with a “Come here now” hand gesture. Abby cringed. She knew Nettie would stand up to him when others wouldn’t. But she could just hear him saying something like, “Good God, woman! When are you getting off those damn crutches?” Any knee-jerk reactions to his comments only made the chief come down even harder. Abby shifted her attention to the massive collection of black-and-white photographs lining the walls on either side of the door. The chief was in every photo. No surprise there. A collection to match his ego!

She walked over to one of the walls and studied the photos. She knew the chief had hung them there so people would gaze at them. He liked that. Because, after all, it is all about him. One image showed the chief with the mayor and the town council members. In the next image the chief was in his class A uniform, his badge fitted with a black sash to show respect for a fallen officer. The occasion would have been a funeral.

In another picture, Abby spotted herself standing in a group with the chief at a promotion ceremony. Abby had worked as hard as any of them, putting in overtime, working weekends, taking on extra responsibilities, and studying for the sergeant’s exam. Although her turn at a promotion had been coming—or so the chief had promised year after year, all seven of them—it had never materialized, not even when she passed the exam. But she had never given him the satisfaction of letting her disappointment show.

Nettie hobbled in.