“Camera?”
“Front surveillance camera is the only one, as you know. Footage shows Harriet Fogarty leaving DSS just before eight, but nothing – no one else.”
“Okay.” Overton had her own file she opened and read off the top page. “So my officers spoke to several people on River Street…”
Mike leaned forward, hoping for good news.
“Neither the residents of 113 River Street, nor the residents at 4 McIntyre or 7 McIntyre report seeing anyone parked between 113 River Street and 117 River Street at any time from seven to eight on Thursday night,” Overton said. “Or for that matter, five to nine – I asked them to keep going and widen out on it.”
He slumped back in his chair.
“But,” she said, flipping to a new page, “we spoke to Darlene Bilger with Adirondack Real Estate. She’s the agent for 117 River Street.”
“That’s the pea-green one looking like it’s about to fall over? I went by there.”
“That’s the one. And it just so happens that Bilger drove by the house the night of to give it a look.”
“What time?”
“Well, she’s sketchy on that. You ask me, I think she gets done regular business hours, has a couple at the Bark Eater.”
“She’s kind of a drinker?”
Overton shrugged. “I know Darlene. Ever heard the saying, ‘It doesn’t take much to get a damp sponge wet?’ That’s her. She says it was around eight when she went past the house, but she’s not sure.”
“Why’s she looking at the house, anyway?”
“She likes to do this every now and again with her listings. And along River Street there’s a few kids who like to throw a football around, and sometimes that football goes through a window. She said there’s been some vandalism too, of the green house, but she didn’t report it. Just minor stuff – someone etched a penis onto an exposed floorboard on the porch.”
Mike was getting impatient. “What did she see? She saw someone parked there?”
“No. But she said she saw a car coming toward her – a white sedan, a four-door.”
“She get the make?”
Overton shook her head. “She said the car swerved a bit. Like the driver didn’t see her right away, jerked back onto his side of the road. It’s narrow in through there. And, you know, like I said, she might’ve been under the influence.”
It was disappointing. A potentially inebriated real estate agent seeing a car in the vicinity wasn’t much to go on. Overton raised her eyes to him. “We ought to at least check that vehicle type against what the DSS staff drive.”
“Let’s do that.”
“And what does Pritchard drive?”
“Nothing. No vehicle registered in his name.”
“He could have borrowed a friend’s car.” She re-crossed her legs the opposite way and set the file on his desk. Mike noticed a couple of the guys giving Overton a look, too. It was hard not to.
“Let’s say Pritchard comes into town,” Overton said, “borrows a friend’s car, parks on River Street, goes into the woods. Waits for Harriet to come out from work, makes his move. I mean, the assailant is sitting in the back of her car. He kills her right there. Like you said, no sign of forced entry. Could indicate she knows him. Maybe she was even expecting him.”
“Or maybe it was a cloned key fob. The vehicle is a 2012, so uses both a standard key for the ignition and the fob as an option for the power door locks. Anyway, we’ve found no communication between Pritchard and Harriet on his phone. Just texts between Harriet and Bobbi Noelle on Noelle’s phone.”
“She could have talked to Pritchard from her phone at the office.”
“Maybe,” Mike said. “Maybe earlier in the day. But the other supervisor, Jessica Rankin, claims no one picks up the phone after 5 p.m.; it goes to their answering machine. Anyway, until we get the court order from the judge on Monday, we can’t listen to Harriet’s voicemails or go through her calls. We can’t look into her case files.”
“Well, we may not need to,” Overton said. “We’ve got Pritchard, so let’s see if he’s got any alibi. Right now he’s been arrested for drunk and disorderly. During the arrest, he assaulted Officer Daniels. The DA has the report; she’s ready to charge. But we can hold him without arraignment for another thirty-six hours, so if we get something solid, she can add it. Or we serve an arrest warrant when we do.” She scowled at Mike. “What is it?”
Mike was listening to Overton’s summary, but his gaze had wandered back to his computer screen. “Come here.”
Overton gave him a curious look, got up, and came round the desk, leaned down beside him. For a moment she didn’t say anything, just stared along with Mike at the pleasant face of a middle-aged African-American woman. Then Overton said, “Why are you looking at missing persons?”
He made a move with the mouse and scrolled the screen. Overton scanned the digital case file, picked up on the information right away. “Oh boy – there we go. She was a caseworker?”
“Yes. And she disappeared ten months ago.”
“I think I remember that – they never found a trace of her.” Overton slowly walked back to her chair and sat down. She stared off, now thinking the same thoughts he was. “This could be an issue,” she said quietly.
“Right now,” Mike said, keeping his own voice low, “this is just you and me.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh, Cobleskill will know – she’ll pick up on it, she’s the sharpest DA we’ve had in years. Even if it’s a different MO, she’ll wonder.”
“I’m not suggesting we don’t make this connection,” Mike said. “Or hope that she doesn’t. I’m hoping that Pritchard owns up. I’m hoping that it’s this beef over his family’s estate, he came to loggerheads with his sister on it, and in a fit of drunken, jealous rage, attacked her in her car – and this bit with this other caseworker, Corina Lavoie, is an unrelated coincidence. But what I’m saying is we don’t want this going public. Not now.”
“Yeah okay, we’re agreed. But – two caseworkers, one missing for ten months, the other killed outside DSS… The press is going to draw their own conclusions. So the statement I’m seeing goes: ‘We’re pursuing all leads, but in order to protect the integrity of this investigation, we have nothing to release at this time.’”
“I like it. But I’m also hoping to talk to Pritchard and get a confession before press time. He was already halfway there last night.”
“A confession would be wonderful,” Overton said, “because we have no physical evidence, yes.”
“Right. But if I can find something first – if there’s anything to find – the heavier I can be in the interview. So I just want to check something out. Let Pritchard sweat, wonder what’s going on, sober up.”
“Okay but not too long,” Overton said. “He hasn’t lawyered-up yet but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to.”
* * *
Bobbi blocked the punch, pivoted forward, and kicked. The sensei caught her ankle and dropped an elbow on her knee, pulling back at the last second so she felt only his slight touch. It was the pantomime of a brutal hit; a real one would have left her debilitated with a blown kneecap.
She kept her balance on her back foot as the sensei addressed the class. “You see how I did that? How did I do it? Senpai Bobbi has a fast kick, but I was able to catch it. What happened?”
A twelve-year-old boy with buck teeth raised his hand from where he knelt with two dozen others beside the mat. “Because she… she moved her body like this.” He demonstrated with a movement. “You knew she was going to kick.”