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“I think I agree,” Ripley said. “But that’s real risky business, or…”
“Or part of the plan,” Ella said, catching Ripley’s train of thought. “There’s no chance he’d leave the victim alive, so he’d have to wait with them until they died.”
“Could mean he wanted to spend some time with them, but he had to subdue them first.”
“So he’s weak. He doesn’t have the physical prowess to subdue them with strength. Or the confidence to point a gun at them.” Ella turned and inspected the rest of the unit, trying to gain a semblance of character based on the man’s possessions.She saw old newspapersandmagazines strewn aboutthefloor, along withafew discarded clothing itemsandseveral empty beer bottles. There was a mattress and a couple of pillows, although they seemed to be an extension of the floor space.
“The question is – why here?” asked Ripley.
Ella was already forearm-deep in some of the boxes lining the far wall. The items within told a sad story. She held up a framed, high-definition photo of a couple standing on a balcony at some holiday resort. It would have been a beautiful photo if not for the cracked glass blurring the woman’s face.
“This guy was living here,” Ella said.
“The mattress says that but the thing is filthy.”
“Look at these items. Photos of what I assume is his wife. Gym clothes. He’s even got a cooler with rice in it. You don’t store these things. They’re the trappings of a person’s life.” She dug in deeper, finding a business card for a therapist with a name she couldn’t pronounce. Kowalczyk. It was crumpled down the middle, as though a quivering thumb had gripped it while they dialed the phone number. A sign of a troubled mind.
“Agents,” the sheriff called. He was standing beside a short gentleman in a black fleece zipped up to his chin. The new arrival stood sideways, unable to look at the product of murder laying inside the unit. “This is Mr. Bennett. The owner.”
Ella and Ripley left the unit and took the owner and sheriff aside, out of sight of the dead body and dried blood. The owner opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.
“Mr. Bennett, is it?” Ella asked.
The man found his voice after a few inhales. “Uh… Mike is fine,” he uttered. “It was me who found David. Last night.”
The man must have suffered a severe shock, and returning to the scene had clearly revived his trauma. “Can you talk us through it?” asked Ripley. “Take as long as you need.”
Mike glanced towards a distant stairwell and then back at the corridor, probably replaying the details in his head. Ella noticed his eye movements, relaxed shoulders, and feet pointed in her direction, three signs of a truth-teller.
“I saw something on the security monitor at about eleven o’ clock. I came down to inspect and found…that.”
Ella asked, “What did you see exactly?”
“Nothing. I just got alerted that there was movement down here. Could have been anything.”
Sheriff Hale jumped in, “My guys have checked the cameras. Our victim, David Harper, arrived here around ten p.m. But his murderer? A phantom.”
Ella applied some critical thought. “The cameras don’t catch every inch of this place?”
Mike shook his head. “No, just the main walkways. There are some unmonitored areas, and some of the bigger units have two entrances. Some from outside.”
“Meaning he could have snuck in via another unit, then kept himself in the shadows.”
“He knew this place,” Ripley said.
“We’ll need a list of names. Everyone who has a unit here.”
Mike seemed unsure. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him. “That’s a lot of names. We have four-hundred units here.”
Ella asked, “All in use?”
“Most of them.”
“So be it. Same goes for employees, old and new. And any contractors that have worked here in the past year.”
Mike shuffled, then said, “Understood. I’m not a suspect, am I?”
“Not according to these cameras,” said the sheriff.
