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“Try the door,” Jack said.
I reached for the doorknob and rattled it, but it was locked. The door and lock were flimsy at back, so Jack signaled for me to move to the side and then kicked right where the locking mechanism was. The doorframe splintered and the door slammed open.
The smell was even stronger now and I waited for Jack to go in before slipping behind him. We stepped inside a dim one-room apartment. There was a small kitchenette to the side and a single window with a sheet nailed over it. But there was enough light filtering in so we could see the body sitting in the chair.
“I’m going to guess that’s Steven Machilenski,” I said.
Jack walked the perimeter of the room and checked the bathroom and closet, but there was no one else there.
“You were right,” I said. “Nothing personal here. The kitchen cabinets are clean. There’s no dirty dishes.” I opened the refrigerator. “No food at all. No family pictures. Just a TV, a recliner, and a mattress on the floor. Actually, it seems remarkably clean compared to the rest of the building.”
I could smell the underlying scent of Pine-Sol beneath the decomposition.
Jack put his weapon away and took out his phone to call it in, and I moved closer to the body. I’d seen his picture and read his profile the night before. There was a single GSW to the right temple.
“Small caliber,” I said. “Enough to get the job done and not make a complete mess. There’s no exit wound.”
“Team is on the way,” Jack said, and studied the body. “He pulls the trigger, it kicks his hand back, and then the gun drops to the floor.”
I stared at the angle of the arm and the weapon on the carpet just beneath it. “Yeah, and gunshot residue around the wound.” I picked up the victim’s wrist and looked closer. “Also visible residue on the thumb and index finger. All consistent with suicide.”
I looked at Jack and knew what that meant. Usually when a suicide like this occurred it was because there was guilt involved.
“He doesn’t smell of alcohol,” I said. “No evidence of drugs or alcohol in the apartment.”
“What’s that?” Jack asked, leaning across Steven and pointing to a piece of paper wedged between him and the seat.
I handed Jack a pair of gloves and he put them on before gingerly pulling a piece of paper from beneath the victim’s other arm.
“Suicide note,” he said.
I raised my brows in surprise. “Well, that makes things more interesting. What does it say?”
Despite movies and television portraying the contrary, the majority of suicides didn’t actually leave a note.
Jack read aloud.
I’m sorry. I thought I was helping. I thought I was doing the right thing. I killed Bobby. We thought he could handle it like soldiers do. But he couldn’t. I don’t belong here. It’s better this way.
“He’s confessing to killing Bobby,” I said, looking at Jack.
Jack nodded, already knowing where I was going. “But not to Sowers. Two shooters. Two different kinds of bullets used. But all of them involved in whatever is going down. What’s your estimation on time of death?”
“He’s in full rigor,” I said. “So that gives us a window of at least twelve hours to sixteen hours. Bobby Pickering was shot around noon yesterday. So we’re probably looking at anywhere between one to six or seven o’clock.”
I heard the sirens approaching. I reached for an evidence bag and held it open for Jack to put the letter inside.
“You know what else is missing?” Jack asked.
I looked at him blankly.
“There’s no weapon.”
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
“We’re goingto be late meeting with Kirby,” I said, looking at my watch.
“Did you know that thirty-seven percent of all meetings start late?” Sheldon asked.
