Det. John Becker looked up from the computer screen. He and Det. Wanat was the only ones in the office of the homicide division on the second floor in the Black Water Police Department that Saturday evening. “Yeah, I keep thinking there’s something I’m missing.”
“I think you’re overly attached to that case,” Detective Wanat said, sitting at her desk across from his. “You should go home and get some sleep.”
Det. Becker stood and went to the coffee machine. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and walked back to his desk. “The preliminary testing showed Ms. McGee’s DNA on the knife, along with Carl Zimmerman’s, but there were also a few other sets of DNA.”
“Are you thinking that the suspect’s DNA was incidental from the dirty clothes in the laundry basket where it was found?” she asked, watching Det. Becker sip the coffee, make a face, and then sit down.
“It’s a possibility,” he said. “But the other DNA was degraded; it appeared to be old DNA. It’s going to take forensics longer to profile it.”
“Have you determined where the weapon was purchased?” she asked.
“Purchased?” The detective snickered. “This karambit dates back to the twelfth century, probably Indonesia. It appears to be more a museum piece rather than something purchased from a munitions store. I find it hard to believe the suspect has an interest in this type of weaponry when nothing in her apartment, house, or history shows that. Also, I have found no place that sells karambits of that age. Even Mr. Zimmerman has no history of purchasing weapons of that type.”
“Was it stolen?” she asked, flipping open a folder.
“There are no reports of stolen or missing weapons of that type,” he said, and then sipped the hot, burnt coffee and sat it on his desk, away from the computer and paperwork.
“So it was passed down in a family?” she asked.
“Possibly,” he said, looking at the computer screen. “But none of the suspect’s family or friends ever reports seeing a weapon of that type.”
“What about that fortune teller?” she asked, tapping her pen on the desktop.
“Ethel Dory,” he said, letting out a sigh. “She’s quite the character. I am going to speak with her again. She adamantly defends the suspect, even to the point that she states evil spirits framed Ms. McGee.”
“You can’t take a ghost to trial.” She laughed.
“No shit.” He rubbed the back of his aching neck and watched Det. Wanat give him an amused look.
“The best you can do is clear Ms. McGee of the crime, and leave the case open,” she said. “If she is innocent. Or she could just be crazy; she was sent to the psych hospital, after all.”
He nodded and reached for the white Styrofoam cup. He was about to take another sip but decided the brown liquid inside was deadly, just like the killer who slashed the superintendent.