Page 41 of Memory of Murder
Just stop.
Jack parked in the driveway behind an SUV. Next to the SUV was a fishing boat. Nothing large or elaborate, just a flat-bottom boat with a small motor sitting atop a trailer. A man who matched the online images of Detective Jones placed a cooler in the boat and then a pair of fishing rods. His weekend plans appeared to include fishing. Hopefully that meant he was in a good mood. This was another cold call. The detective might or might not talk to them. Particularly if he figured out they were looking into one of his old cases.
Anne mentally crossed her fingers and turned to the man behind the wheel. “Looks like he’s home.”
“And perhaps in a good mood.” Jack smiled, and her pulse reacted.
She was so overreacting to last night. “I was thinking the same thing.”
They got out of the car at the same time. He glanced across the top of the rental at her and gave her a nod as if he understood she was a little nervous. She was. This interview would be a bit touchier than the others, and she needed to be on her toes. This man was a cop—the one who investigated the murder thirty years ago. He was retired now, but that didn’t mean he would want to admit mistakes. Though thirty years older than the images from the newspaper clippings in Mary’s box of saved things, the man had stayed fit. His dark hair was sprinkled with gray now, and the beard was new. He wore jeans and a tee and sneakers. He was ready for his weekend…and they were stepping into his path.
Harlan Jones stared at them as they approached. He braced one hand on the boat and with the other reached up and adjusted his glasses. Those were new too. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” Jack responded. “I’m Jack Brenner, and this is Anne Griffin.” She forced her lips into a smile.
The man with fishing on his mind narrowed his gaze, looked them each over. “If you’re here to preach to me, don’t waste yourbreath,” he warned. “Or if you’re here selling something, I’m a retired police detective, which means I live on a budget, so don’t waste your time.”
“Fair enough.” Jack nodded. “Actually, I’m from the Colby Agency—a private investigations firm in Chicago.”
The detective’s head went up in acknowledgment. “I’ve heard of the Colby Agency. What brings you to my home?”
Anne was surprised he hadn’t already gotten wind of their endeavor. Maybe retirement meant he’d lost touch with the local grapevine.
“We’re looking into the Neil Reed murder.”
Surprise flared in his eyes. “Talk about an old one. I’m surprised anyone even remembers the case.”
“Mary Morton was my mother,” Anne explained, finally finding her footing. “She passed away recently.”
The former detective’s surprise was overtaken by the guard that went up. His expression closed. All signs of what he was thinking or feeling vanished.
“She left a journal,” Jack said, “and we’re looking into some of the allegations she made about others involved in the events leading up to and including the murder of Reed.”
The former detective’s jaw tightened, but to his credit, Mr. Jones didn’t make a run for the house. “I haven’t heard about the case being reopened.”
“That’s coming, I suspect.” Jack surveyed the man’s boat. “Looks as if you have your day planned out.”
Jones nodded. “I fish every chance I get. It’s my favorite thing to do. Thirty-five-plus years as a cop… I figure I earned all the fishing I can get in before old age takes over.”
“Law enforcement takes a toll,” Jack agreed. “Would you have a few minutes for a couple of questions?”
He looked from Jack to Anne, then shrugged. “I suppose so. Shoot.”
Anne was still stuck on the wordsThat’s coming. Did Jack really believe their—his—investigation could make that happen? The official reopening of the case? Once more she felt as if her head was spinning. Not that she didn’t want the case reopened. She did. She just had been skeptical and… Wow, this might really be happening.Pay attention to the now, Anne!
“There was never any determination about where the weapon came from.” Jack went straight for one of the bigger missing elements of the investigation.
“The ballistics didn’t match anything we had on file,” Jones admitted. “There was no 4473—firearms transaction record—submitted for Morton or Reed, so we can only assume the weapon was purchased illegally. No one we interviewed was aware the couple owned a firearm. However they came into possession of that gun, her prints were the only ones on it.”
Anne spoke up, “But she said in her statement that she picked up the gun from where it lay on the floor when she found Neil. She had no idea where it came from or who fired it. Most anyone would have done the same thing. It’s instinct to pick up and inspect something unexpected found in your home.”
He nodded. “That’s what she said, but I wasn’t buying it.” He turned his hands up. “I get that she was your mother, but she had blood on her clothes, and she was the only person seen coming in or out of the house around the time of the murder.”
“There was no gun powder residue on her hands,” Jack pointed out. “As for the blood, it was smeared on her clothes from trying to render emergency care to the man she loved. There was no blood splatter pattern from standing close when the weapon fired and the bullet hit him in the chest.”
“We’re confident she washed her hands and forearms,” Jones countered. “Morton was smart. She knew what to do and what to say. Her story about picking up the gun before we even asked felt too accommodating and detailed for someone overcomewith emotion. As for the blood, a splatter pattern couldn’t be found after she smeared blood over it. She made sure of it. Besides, no one else had motive—not like her anyway. And she was the one to find him. It was all just a little too convenient.”
“What about her friend, Eve Langston—Redford at the time?” Fury simmered inside Anne. So this was what her mother had been up against. “She was seen in the neighborhood that day, according to one of the neighbors you interviewed.”
