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“Wait—I don’t know if I want to go down that route just yet. I’m more concerned about what the letters mean.”
“I understand, but we follow protocol, Miss Stone. For now, this will be filed under harassment.” He shifts back to the letters. “Now. Tell me whatyouthink the letters mean.”
I shift in my seat. “Well, considering the letter that reads ‘you are next’was delivered with my deceased mother’s necklace, it appears to be a threat. Like, I am the next to die. Or it’s a horrible, horrible joke.”
“Right; harassment,” he schools me. “But what about the other letters? With the numbers?”
“Well, I’m not sure how much you remember of my mother’s case, or how familiar you are with the details, but, I think…” I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. My nerves are getting to me. “Well, each letter appears to highlight a specific time of day, right? Three-oh-two, three-oh-four, three-eleven, right?”
Marino nods.
“The coroner’s report indicated that my mother died—was murdered—sometime between two and four in the morning.”
When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “My mom’s clocks in her kitchen—where she was killed—were always off. And it always bugged me. I told her to fix them so many times and she wouldn’t. Anyway, I remember two of the three clocks were always exactly two minutes apart, and the other was way off…” I pause, wanting him to finish my thoughts and confirm that I am not totally crazy.
He doesn’t, so, I press on. “Well, I’m—I’m thinking these letters might signify the exact times that were on the clocks in the kitchen when she was killed.”
The officer’s eyes narrow as he processes the information. Marino is very comfortable in silence, I note.
“Do you have the crime scene photos?” I ask, beginning to feel anxious under his stare.
“We do.”
It isn’t lost on me how quickly Marino answers the question. Considering he wasn’t around during my mother’s murder, I figured he’d “have to check.” Had he been looking at my mother’s case file recently? If so, why?
“I was thinking…,” I say, “we could look at the crime scene photos and see if the clocks match up, and also check for the necklace. You see, my mother wore the necklace that was in that envelope every day. If it’s not on her body in the crime scene photos, then it’s safe to say her killer took it… andher killeris now sending it back to me—along with the threat,you are next.”
Marino stands. “I’ll be right back.”
6
Sylvia
What feels like an eternity later, though I’m sure it was only a few minutes, Marino returns with a thick brown folder in his hand.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“Yes, Marjorie Stone’s case file, yes.”
My chests constricts.
“Are you sure you want me to do this in front of you, Miss Stone?”
“Yes.”
The officer removes the thick rubber band holding the file together and pulls out a stack of reports. Interview transcripts, evidence logs, photographs. What remains of my mother’s memory, right there in his hands.
He flickers me a glance before filtering out the crime scene photos. Like a magician at a card table, Marino fans out the horrific images that changed my life forever.
I swallow back the emotions, force strength, poise.
Chin up, shoulders back.
No words are spoken as we study the images, both zeroing in on the grotesque image of my mother’s stabbed dead body.
There is no necklace around her neck.
Marino then pulls the evidence log and coroner’s report from the stack. There is no stone necklace noted anywhere in the logs, meaning the necklace was not at the scene—or on my mother’s body—at the time of the responding officer’s arrival. Meaning, whoever killed her, took the necklace.
