He was found in shorts, no shirt, in the bathtub. There was no sign of forced entry. Barbiturates and hard alcohol were found nearby. They interviewed neighbors and friends and learned Kevin had a history of drug use, though he also held down a part-time job at a local coffee shop, and worked part time in construction when there was work. Which wasn’t much lately.
The third page, which Jodi hadn’t had earlier in the week, was the preliminary coroner’s report. Kevin had drowned with a contributing cause of overdose. Essentially, he took enough pills to kill himself, passed out, and drowned in the bathtub before the pills finished the job.
Lindy drowned.
Why had Kevin written that on the death certificate? Did it have anything to do with his suicide? Had he planned to drown himself, a difficult way to commit suicide unless there was a contributing cause like unconsciousness from an overdose of drugs. It could have been an accident. He could have been in the bathtub, high, and passed out.
Why get into the bath with his shorts on?
If it was suicide, he wouldn’t want to be found naked. It made sense. Or he was so stoned that he didn’t know he was wearing clothes.
Max rubbed her forehead. She wished she could be surprised, but Kevin had been going down this path ever since his trial. She could only imagine the stress and humiliation of having a murder charge hanging over his head. She’d told him twelve years ago when the DA declined to retry Kevin until additional evidence surfaced that he should leave the Bay Area, go far away where no one knew who he was. Only then would he find peace.
He opted to stay. He was desperate to clear his name. But thirteen years after Lindy was killed, he had a drug addiction, no college degree, a menial job, and few friends.
The officers hadn’t made note of the missing laptop, and Max wondered if they’d interviewed Jodi before or after she’d gone into the apartment. Jodi’s grief had interfered with her logic, which was common in these types of interviews. Jodi wanted to believe Kevin hadn’t done it, so she looked for every possible proof that someone had killed him. There could be a logical explanation for the missing laptop. Someone could have stolen it before he died. He could have loaned it to a friend. Left it at work. Sold it. Drug addicts would sell anything of value to get their next fix.
But that didn’t explain why Kevin sent Jodi Lindy’s death certificate. Why he thought she’d drowned. Or why he’d sent Jodi a text message to call Max.
Call Max. I love you, J.
It was his good-bye note. His suicide note to his sister. Of that, Max was certain. But would Jodi believe it?
Maybe Kevin had reached a dead end in his own private investigation and in frustration and despair, killed himself.
Then why tell Jodi to call Max? In an attempt to make Max feel guilty because she wouldn’t help him in his pursuit of Lindy’s killer?
It was too late to go to the DA’s office and find out what, if anything, was going on with Kevin’s trial. If he thought he’d be facing another trial—that new evidence had been uncovered—that might have tipped him over the edge. Instead, she drove to his apartment. She needed answers—namely, Kevin’s state of mind when he OD’d.
The apartment complex on Roble was tired but clean with trimmed hedges and blossoming rosebushes along the front walk. There were twelve units in Kevin’s white, L-shaped building, six on the top and six on the bottom, an open staircase leading to the long second-story balcony. The building next door mirrored Kevin’s, connected by a small courtyard with benches framing an old oak tree.
Jodi had given her a key, but Max decided to first talk to the apartment manager, Anita Gonzales.
Ms. Gonzales opened the door quickly, her smile warm and genuine. The older woman was short and plump with naturally gray hair in unnaturally tight curls. Her home smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. The muted television in the background showed a game show. Her dark eyes assessed Max quickly. “I saw you walking up. You must be Jodi’s friend.”
“Maxine Revere,” she said. “I didn’t want to go up to Kevin’s apartment without talking to you first.”
“Please, come in,” she said and opened the door. She straightened her apron and brushed a loose curl away from her face. “I’m sorry for the mess.”
The apartment was cluttered and hot, but immaculate. Gonzales had hundreds of small glass animals in a cabinet along one wall, a light above illuminating the menagerie.
“I love your figurines,” Max said, eyeing in particular the section of birds.
She beamed. “My husband used to travel for business and would bring me back one every time. After he died, my son started buying them for me for my birthday and Christmas. Sit, please—I just made snickerdoodle cookies. Fresh out of the oven.”
Max wasn’t hungry, but she accepted the offer. “Thank you.”
“Coffee? Milk? Kevin always liked milk with my cookies.”
“Water, if that’s not a problem.”
Max understood people pleasers like Anita Gonzales. By the pictures on the wall, she had only the one son. She’d stayed home and raised her son, took care of the house, enjoyed doing for others. She’d have been the first person to bake a casserole for someone who lost a loved one, and would be the person organizing the prayer group when someone was sick. Max wasn’t surprised that after her husband died and her son moved out she found the apartment management job. It gave her the opportunity to take care of others. Max would bet she knew the personal business of everyone who lived here.
Anita brought the water and plate of cookies to the table. Max took a bite. They were delicious. “I’ll bet Kevin ate a lot of your cookies.”
“When I could get him to eat,” she said, shaking her head. “Poor boy. So lost.” Tears welled in her eyes. “It wasn’t like him.”
“Taking his own life?”