All the Dark Places(17)

“Uh huh. And he was wearing the clothes he had on at the party, so somebody came along afterward and killed him a couple hours later.”

“And broke into the filing cabinet, went through his desk,” I add.

“Yeah.”

“What else?”

Chase scrolls through his phone. “He did have some defensive wounds after all, just some small cuts on his right hand. Dr. Gaines said he might’ve made a grab for the knife, but she said the neck wound was pretty much instantly fatal. The guy didn’t have a chance.”

“So the perp came at him from behind?”

“That’s what the doc said.”

“Whoever did this walked up behind Dr. Bradley, slit his throat, then went through his stuff, looking for something.” I lean back, drum my fingers on the desk. “Any chance it could’ve been the wife, you think?”

Chase shakes his head. “Dr. Gaines thinks the perp was a man, or maybe a tall, strong woman. Mrs. Bradley’s not very big. And she said the angle of the cut makes it likely the perp was as tall as, if not taller than Dr. Bradley.”

I’m five four, and Mrs. Bradley and I were about eye to eye. “How tall was Dr. Bradley?”

Chase thumbs through his phone. “Six two, one hundred seventy-six pounds.”

“Okay. Pretty safe to say she’s low on the list, unless she hired someone.”

“And she seemed genuinely distraught.” Chase’s eyes are soft, as though he’s on Mrs. Bradley’s side, defending her honor.

“Yeah.” I sigh. There’s still tons to slog through. Talking to Bradley’s patients alone will eat up hours of police work. I glance at my phone. “Let’s run over and talk to the neighbor before the Pearsons get here.”

*

According to Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Murray is an elderly widow who has lived in the house next door for more than fifty years. And the house looks it. Long neglected, the porch sags, and the windows are dirty, not a total mess, but you don’t have to look too close to see the decay. The house is an aberration in the otherwise pristine neighborhood. After we ring the bell two or three times, she answers the door, a huge German shepherd at her side.

I introduce Chase and myself, show her my badge. She peers at us through thick glasses, nods a gray head, and welcomes us inside. We sit in a dim living room that smells faintly of moth balls, mold, and dogs. The furniture is dark and worn, and the room is cluttered from years of living. She’s a tiny woman, probably doesn’t weigh as much as the huge dog sitting at attention next to her armchair.

“Can I get you two any coffee?” she asks.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Murray,” I say. “Nice dog.”

“Percy? Yes, he’s a good boy.”

I wonder how someone so small manages such a big animal, but the answer lies in the bric-a-brac scattered through the room. Yellowed and curling ribbons from dog shows decades in the past hang from every picture frame. Photos of, I assume, a young Mrs. Murray wearing poofy fifties skirts, holding the leads of majestic dogs, sit on every end table.

“My husband and I raised show dogs for years.” She sighs. “Those were good times.”

I tap my pencil against my notebook, and I can’t help myself from sketching Percy’s great ears. “You know about Dr. Bradley’s death, Mrs. Murray?”

“Oh, yes. What an awful shame. I was at church yesterday morning, then I went to see my daughter, so I was out when the hubbub next door was going on.” She shakes her head and dabs a handkerchief under her nose. “I can’t believe it.”

“Did you know the Bradleys well?”

“No. Not too. They haven’t been here long. I waved when I saw them coming or going. He was real nice. Took my garbage to the curb a time or two. Told me to let them know if I ever needed anything. A handsome man.”

“What about Mrs. Bradley?”

“I didn’t see her as much. She’d wave, but she always acted like she was in a hurry. No time to chat. I thought she was a little snooty, but my daughter says she just might be shy.” Mrs. Murray shrugs. “I feel bad for her. My husband and I were married fifty-two years. I was lucky.”

“We need to know if you saw or heard anything Saturday night. You were home?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t go out too much anymore. Just to my daughter’s. I was home. I saw the cars next door after dinner. I figured they had company again.”

“They entertain a lot?”

“Fairly often. There are cars over there quite often.”

“What time did you go to bed Saturday night?”

“Ten-thirty. After the first half of the news.”

“Did you get up at all in the night?”

“I don’t usually get up until morning, five-thirty or so. I sleep pretty good for an old lady.” She smiles, proud of this accomplishment, as she should be, I think with chagrin. A good night’s sleep isn’t as easy for me as it once was. I don’t want to attribute it to age, but...

“Did you get up Saturday night?”

“I did actually.” She scratches her chin with a thin, blue-veined hand. “Percy sleeps on the floor right by my bed, and he usually doesn’t make a peep all night, but Saturday night I woke up because he was downstairs in the kitchen, barking his head off.”