Page 50 of The Fragile Ones
Officer McKinney arrived and parked behind the other police car just as Katie was about to enter the house. She turned and said, “No one else is allowed in here until the search is complete. Except for Wendell—let me know when he gets here.” McKinney nodded. He stepped aside and scanned the area. His expression wasn’t somber, but rather, angry.
She and McGaven progressed inside, careful not to touch anything unnecessarily.
The interior of the Mayfield house looked just as it had when they were there the day before. The house was neatly organized and the large vintage couch had the same bright throw pillows carefully placed. The small table with four simple wooden chairs sat in the corner of the room.
Nothing seemed out of place, and there was no evidence to suggest a struggle. In the kitchen, there were dishes in the sink from breakfast—a plate, fork, glass, small skillet, and spatula. Crumbs were scattered around the counter and in the sink. Everything suggested that Mrs. Mayfield had been alone when she woke this morning.
There was a little desk in the corner of the living room, painted turquoise with a lacy scarf over the top, and a small backless white stool. A closed laptop sat on top on the left-hand side next to a yellow steno pad and a black pen. Lying next to the stool, face down on the floor, was Mrs. Robin Mayfield wearing a simple cotton dress with an apron tied around her waist. She was barefoot, her shoes neatly paired under the desk. Her head was turned to the left, hair neatly combed, eyes staring aimlessly, mouth parted, torso flat against the carpet. Her arms were bent at right angles, one up, and one down. A halo of blood circled her head—dark in color against the light carpet. On the right side of the body lay a 9mm Smith & Wesson handgun. Leaning forward, breathing deeply, Katie could tell that it had been fired recently. The familiar smell was a bit sulfurous and a bit metallic…but mostly sulfur. The odor can linger up to a day.
Katie knelt down and carefully inspected the body. It bothered her how neat everything seemed, more like a stage play than real life. She was half expecting Mrs. Mayfield to get up from the floor and take a bow for her performance. Whether a suicide or homicide, or even a bizarre accident, it was usually very messy when a gun was involved; clothes stained, bodies in awkward positions, and blood spatter everywhere.
Mrs. Mayfield’s skin was a sick gray, with purplish undertones of rigor mortis, meaning that she had been dead for no more than two or three hours.
Katie stood up and thought for a moment.
“Suicide?” said McGaven.
“It appears.”
“But?” he said.
“Everything is too neat.”
Moving closer, McGaven said, “The gun is where it should be…”
“Could be.” She turned to McGaven. “You’ve seen suicide victims before, right?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“How many women have you seen use a gun?” she said.
“I can’t think of any, in my experience, but there have been female firearm victims.”
“Of course.” She gestured around the living room and desk. “And where’s the blood spatter? Nothing on the floor, furniture, walls, or carpet.”
“Hello?” said a quiet male voice.
“Yes?” replied Katie, turning toward the entrance.
A short stocky man in his fifties, with a digital camera lassoed around his neck, stood at the door waiting.
“Are you Detective Scott? I’m Wendell.”
“Hi, Wendell. Don’t come any further, please. I need you to go back outside and get some gloves and booties from the chief or officer.”
He hesitated a moment and then left.
Katie rolled her eyes.
“Be nice,” said McGaven, with a smile on his face.
“We need him to take this seriously,” she said. Everything about this scene seemed suspicious.
“Hello?” said Wendell again, now wearing his gloves and booties.
“Wendell, come in,” she said. “Thanks for coming at such short notice. I need for you to take shots of the interior first. You’ve seen a dead body before, right?”
He nodded.
