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“His vision is clouded by now. He’s seen those files a thousand times. It’s been a few years since I’ve looked at them until last night.”
“How does a guy who loves computers and studies IT end up going to the police academy by the way?” I inquire, images of disassembled computers scattered around Jay’s bedroom filling my memory. He was always tinkering with something. Taking it apart and putting it back together. Making it faster, better than it was before.
“The rug was pulled out from beneath him when he graduated. His temper flared when he’s questioned for the murder of his girlfriend. But the final straw was when no one would give him any answers. I stayed, you know. For months. I was here, waiting for them to find whoever killed Sam. When they couldn’t, and Spencer decided to join the academy, I followed.”
I can hear the frustration and anger in his voice. Even if I couldn’t, the way he’s clenching his fists would have been a clear indication of how infuriating of a time it was for him. I can’t imagine what he went through.
Everyone stayed but me. I ran from this place as if my life depended on it. The farther I ran, the less my heart ached. The intense pressure in my chest lifted, but it was only temporary. Not even a week after I returned home, I fell apart completely. I was alone and empty. The one person I wanted to call, the one person who would be able to talk me through the tough time, was the one person I couldn’t.
“And now?” I ask. I need to stay focused on the conversation or the past will overwhelm me. I’ll be right back to the person I was when I left here last time. Lost and alone.
“Now I work for the government.”
“Care to elaborate?” My body begins to move toward him as if it’s being pulled by an invisible rope. Scratch that. A magnet. I’ve always thought Jay was magnetic. The pull he has on me feels charged.
“Not at the moment. Look, I want to try and help you. If nothing else, I’ll be your sounding board,” he offers, handing me a cup of coffee.
“That’s not exactly how I work things out but I’m guessing you have no intention of going anywhere.” Raising my eyebrow at him in question as I take a sip of my coffee, I don’t miss the slight shake of his head.
“Not until it’s time for the memorial brunch.”
Agreeing with a nod, I gather up all the files and we spread out on the bed, working in silence for a little while. It’s almost time for us to leave when Jay starts frantically searching through everything.
“What are you doing?”
“The crime scene pictures. Where did you put them?”
Looking at the piles of pictures and papers around me, I finally spot the photos he’s talking about and hand them to him.
“This,” he says, tapping the photo with his finger. “This is what we’re missing.”
Leaning in and looking over his shoulder, I search the photo for any clue as to what Jay is referring to.
“I don’t see anything.”
“That’s exactly the point. No footprints. It was rainy the night she was murdered. That’s part of the reason there wasn’t any DNA. We’re also positive he wore gloves. But footprints don’t wash away. Sam was in the grass. There should have been some breaks in the grass. A fresh indent.”
“It’s not like you can erase footprints,” I point out.
Raising my eyebrow at Jay, he explains his theory. We already know Sam was attacked on the sidewalk. There was blood spatter found on the concrete. Her attacker then carried her into a secluded area of the park surrounded by shrubs where he tied her up and left her to die. He would have had to walk through a small, grassy area off the path to dump Sam’s body where he had, just out of sight.
Jay thinks he walked all around the area to flatten the grass so his footprints wouldn’t have been visible to the naked eye. And with Sam in his arms, the extra weigh would have made it easy for him to walk across the grass light enough on his way out.
“It’s a good theory,” I compliment Jay. “So, it’s someone who’s strong enough to carry Sam a decent distance, and also carry a bag with the rope and tape in it.”
“Did you notice the rope wasn’t cut?” he asks, pointing at a different photo.
Taking the picture off the top of the pile, I study the rope for a few minutes, focusing on the ends, before setting it back down. The ends appear sealed with glue. There are no fraying marks.
“So, he bought the length he needed.” It comes out sounding like a statement instead of a question. I have no idea where he’s going with this theory, but I want him to get there faster. We’re running out of time.
“Which is hard to do. Apollo Hardware only sold one length of this kind of rope back then. Nylon rope is used for anchoring boats. The rope we sold was matched to the depth of the deepest lake in the area. This one is not nearly that long, which means—”
“He bought the rope somewhere else,” I interrupt, grabbing the list of people interviewed.
“Exactly.”
“So, are we looking for someone from town who was aware of this or a visitor?” My fingers quickly scan down the list of individuals who were initially interviewed.
