“True,” I said. “But how did he know that she’d leave a suicide note?”
Cole shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “The only thing I can figure is that she might’ve known she’d end up murdered. Maybe she and Ben were both in on whatever it was that got him killed, so she knew she was in danger?”
I shook my head. “That night, though? I mean, isn’t the timing a little too perfect?”
Cole nodded. “It is, but it’s not the only weird thing that doesn’t seem to have an explanation. I read in the file that the night Amber died, her neighbors said they heard Amber’s dog, Bailey, barking like crazy, and they told the detective that they only heard Bailey bark like that when somebody was at the door, but when they looked out the window of their living room, they didn’t see anybody on the Greeleys’ porch.”
“What about the back door?” I asked.
“Nope,” Cole said. “Paparella asked them that same question, and Greeley’s neighbor—I forget the guy’s name—said he thought of that and went to check his back window, which had a view into the Greeleys’ backyard. He didn’t see anybody there, either, so he assumed that maybe Bailey had heard an animal outside or something.”
“That could’ve been the explanation, Cole,” I said.
“True,” he admitted, “except for one thing. There’s a photo of Bailey from the crime scene. She’s got some of Amber’s blood on her paws, probably from when she went to check on her. But there’s also a spot of blood on Bailey’s right side that I swear looks like a handprint.”
“A handprint?”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “Paparella even had the photographer take a close-up of it.”
I felt my temper flare. “You mean like someone hit Amber’s dog?”
“No,” Cole said. “I think it might’ve been the opposite. I think somebody was trying to comfort Bailey. It looked like they were patting her.”
“Whoa,” I said.
Cole continued. “Paparella concluded at the end of the report that the bloody handprint probably came from Amber. He said it was the last thing she did before she died.”
I looked at Cole. “But you think otherwise.”
“I read the autopsy report. Amber had blood on her hands—one was covered in it; the other had some blood splatter. Know what the medical examiner didn’t find on either hand?”
I blinked, trying to think where he was going with that, and then it hit me. “He didn’t find dog hair,” I said.
Cole pointed at me. “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner. At FAIT we learned that blood is super-sticky. If Amber had given Bailey a pat before she died, she should’ve had dog hair all over her palm.”
“Golden retrievers do shed like crazy,” I said, seeing his logic.
“Yep, and I know from experience.”
“So the killer got into Amber’s house, murdered her, and when Bailey went crazy, he calmed the dog down?”
“That’s a possibility,” Cole said.
“Without being seen, though?”
“Once the dog calmed down, the neighbors stopped looking out at the Greeleys’ house. The killer could’ve sneaked through the back door without anybody noticing.”
“Do you think that Bailey’s reaction means that she felt comfortable around the murderer?” I asked.
“Like, did Bailey know the killer and that’s why she allowed him to pet her even though Amber was dying on the bed?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Cole took a deep breath while he seemed to consider that. “It’s really hard to say, Lily. My Bailey is friendly with everybody. Mom jokes a lot that if we were ever robbed, Bailey would show them where the valuables are. She loves everyone.”
“It’s the breed,” I agreed. “Goldens are true teddy bears. Still, that handprint is pretty significant, right?”
“It is. And it’s always bugged me,” Cole said with a shudder.
I knew how he felt. How could someone be so sick as to kill Amber, and then pet her dog?
By that time we’d arrived back at Cole’s house. He retrieved the murder file from his room, and laid it out on the kitchen table, where he went through each page, looking for any reference to Mr. Bishop.
Meanwhile, I used his iPad to search for the mysterious suspect, starting with a list of teachers at the school. It was too much to hope that he was still employed at Chamberlain High, but I did find an Internet reference for a David Bishop who’d once worked at the high school and was now living in Bumpass, Virginia. Pulling up a map, I saw that it was a little over thirty-five miles away.
“It’s not here,” Cole said.
“What?” I asked, looking up from the iPad.
“There’s no reference to Bishop and no mention of my gram talking to Paparella about it. The bastard covered up the lead.”
I turned the tablet toward Cole. “I found a David Bishop who used to work at Chamberlain. He lives in Bumpass now.”
“We could be there in less than an hour,” Cole said, getting to his feet and pulling out his keys.
I blinked. “Wait, Cole, you want to go over there and what? Talk to him?”
Cole looked a little worked up. I could tell the thing with Paparella was upsetting him. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”