As Crawford sped toward the address, which, surprisingly, Nugent had texted him, he left his SUV’s emergency lights off, not wanting to announce his approach. Pat Connor had to be on edge, fearing that he would be found out. A nervous perp, seeing a cop and realizing the jig was up, could get trigger-happy. This was one time Crawford would wait for backup.
But his caution was unnecessary, because when he turned the corner onto Connor’s street, it was alive with activity and ablaze with the flashing lights of half a dozen vehicles.
Neighbors, most dressed in nightclothes, were standing in their yards, talking among themselves, watching with curiosity as uniformed officers strung crime scene tape around the unkempt yard.
“Oh shit.”
Chapter 25
Crawford’s purposeful stride quickly covered the distance to the open front door of a modest house where a patrolman had been posted to keep out anyone who didn’t belong. He eyed Crawford warily and addressed him by name.
Crawford said, “Connor?”
“Found dead on his kitchen floor.”
Crawford expelled a long breath and spat out an obscenity, but as he made to enter the house, the policeman took a sidestep and blocked him. “Lester ordered me to keep everybody out.”
“I’m working with Lester.”
“Crawford, the word going around is that you’re implicated.”
“The word going around has changed.”
“Since when?”
“Since the courtroom shooter turned up dead on his kitchen floor.”
“Pat Connor was the courtroom shooter?”
In answer, Crawford merely raised his eyebrows.
The patrolman looked around to see who might be watching, then said under his breath, “I never saw you.”
“Thanks.”
Crawford stepped across the threshold directly into a forlorn-looking living room. He noticed the gun belt lying on the coffee table, the service weapon still holstered. He registered the sagging curtains, the vintage easy chair positioned directly in front of the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, a side table cluttered with the detritus of a lonely life.
Noticeably missing were family photographs, books, plants, or signs of a pet. Connor was dead, but, by all appearances, he hadn’t been living much of a life.
Without Georgia in his, this might be a crystal ball view of his future.
Made uneasy by that thought, he walked from the living room into the kitchen, where Neal was bent over the corpse and talking with Dr. Anderson who, despite his obesity, had managed to squat. Nugent was standing in the doorframe of an open pantry, looking distinctly ill at ease. When Crawford walked in, he gave a twitch and said, “Uh, Neal.”
Upon seeing Crawford, Neal stood up slowly. “How’d you get in here?”
“Walked.”
Neal let the smart-aleck remark pass. “I got your messages. As it turns out, the warrants for Connor that you requested won’t be necessary.”
“You discovered him?”
“As you see him.” He stood aside.
Connor’s body had crumpled, folding in on itself, his face to the floor. He’d been shot in the back of the head.
Neal said, “Two bullets. Close range. Somebody wanted him not just dead, but very dead.”
Crawford took in the rest of the scene. An open can of Coke stood on the counter with a partially filled drinking glass beside it. A bottle of whiskey was on the floor near the body, tipped over onto its side. Particularly gruesome was the confluence of spilled liquor and blood on the grimy vinyl floor.
“Looks like he was pouring himself a drink and was unaware of his visitor,” Neal said. “Either that, or he had enough trust to turn his back on him.”
Crawford addressed the ME. “How long’s he been dead?”
“Best guess, couple of hours.” He reached for Crawford’s hand. Crawford helped haul him up. He puffed a thanks. “I’ll notify you as soon as I can be more precise on the timing.”
“That his phone?” Crawford indicated the cell phone Neal was holding in his gloved hand.
“One of them.”
“He had more than one?”
“The one with his official number was on the end table in the living room. It’s already been bagged. I found this one in his pants pocket.” He activated the phone, accessed a page, and held it up for Crawford to see the screen.
“The video of Georgia.”
“Sent by text to your cell phone at—”
“I know what time I got it, Neal,” Crawford said tightly. “I was there.”
Sensing the tension between the two, the ME said, “Excuse me. I’ll go check on the ambulance. Let me know when I can have him.”
Following his departure, the other three were left in an awkward, almost hostile silence. Crawford was the first to speak. “Have you searched the house?”
“I have uniforms doing that,” Neal replied. “Nugent made a walk-through as soon as we got here.”