Cause of Death Laura Dembowski (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

even when I make his favorite meal, and he hasn’t gone to work. I’m afraid he’ll never be the same.”

“We just need to speak with him, alone, for a few minutes,” I say, putting emphasis on alone. It’s not going to help us one bit to talk to Dave Moore with his wife lurking over his shoulder, finishing sentences for him.

We follow Margaret over to a closed door. She knocks gently and then opens it the tiniest bit, peeks her head in. We can hear her talking to him.

“Dave . . . Dave,” she says gently. “Honey, the police are here. They want to talk to you about Lana’s death.”

I can’t hear his response, but he must agree, because Margaret pulls her head out and opens the door for us to walk in. She leaves and shuts it behind her. I hope she walks away, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed right outside the door to listen. I can’t do anything about it. I’m not taking these people down to the station to be formally interrogated. Sure, this Margaret character is a little off, but all we have is an anonymous tip about a suicide. We know that grief does strange things to people; they react in many different ways.

Mr. Moore is in a sorry state. As much as Margaret looks like she’s already over Lana’s death, her husband looks like he’ll never recover. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes, his hands shake, and his veins are bulging. What I don’t notice is the smell of alcohol. His skin is pallid, not red. As far as I can see, this isn’t a guy who’s on a path toward the grave because he can’t put down the bottle.

I look down and notice there’s blood seeping through his sleeves, at both wrists, coming through some clumsy bandages. Grief too much for him? Another possible suicide attempt in this family?

“I’m Detective Hutchinson, and this is my partner, Detective Kirkpatrick,” Kate says.

“You have some questions for me?” he asks. Although his voice is hoarse, he’s not slurring his words.

“Are you up to answering them?” I inquire, genuinely not sure if this guy can answer questions. Not sure if he should.

“Sure, but is this the best place? Shouldn’t we go down to the station?”

He can barely get the words out, like each one cuts a wound in him, and he’ll die if he has to say the words again.

I move on from his demeanor and focus on the answer. Never once in my career has someone asked to go down to the station. Here we are in the comfort of his own home, ready to perhaps complete our questioning, and this guy wants to go to the station?

“Anyway,” he adds hastily, “my daughter killed herself, so you can’t have many questions.”

“We’re investigating to see if it was something other than a suicide,” I say.

“What?” he asks. His tone is accusatory. “But how is that possible? Who would want to kill Lana?” He’s angry about the suggestion, not in shock from it.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Kate says.

“She was a nice girl with a big heart,” he continues. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly, so I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt her.”

“Your wife said the funeral was crowded,” I say.

“I wish it would have been crowded. Lana was always a very social girl, popular, but she isolated herself when she moved back home with us. She shouldn’t have come home for Margaret, but there was no talking her out of it.”

I look at Kate. Neither of us knows what to say.

“She came home for Margaret?” I repeat, hoping for more information. I rest my hand on my gun.

“Margaret has some . . .”—he lowers his voice—“. . . issues.” His eyes dart around the room as though he is waiting for her to pop out of some corner. He must believe she is at the door, listening, like I do, and I’m sure Kate does, as well.

“Sir,” Kate begins, seemingly sensing how flustered I am, “are you sure you’re remembering things correctly? You’re clearly not feeling well.”

“I think I know why my daughter left a successful career and moved back home, Detective. I also know that she and Margaret had a sometimes-hostile relationship.”

“Will your wife remember it differently?” Kate asks.

“I don’t know what Margaret remembers. I think Lana’s death has been hard on her, as well, but in a different way,” he is saying. “She’s been weird since Lana died. I don’t know how to help her. I guess she doesn’t know how to help me, either.” He looks down and pulls his sleeves over his wrists.

I look away. To do that to yourself . . . He must be going through some serious shit.

Margaret bangs on the door. “Everything okay in there? Dave, do you need me?” she asks. The knob twists.

It stops when Dave yells back, “Margaret, we’re fine. Go away!”

“We’re gonna need you both to come down to the station with us,” I blurt out.

I don’t know where it comes from. My instinct takes over, and I’ve suddenly changed my mind. I know I can’t let these people talk to each other before we have the chance to formally interrogate them. And I know when someone asks to talk at the station, we should talk at the station.

Kate looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I have to go with my gut feeling about the strange tip, even if it’s just that.

Sarge is pissed the moment he sees us walk in with Margaret and Dave Moore in tow. I see him glare at us from his office. We take them to separate interrogation rooms and leave them there. When we walk out, Sarge is waiting for us.

“What were you two thinking?” he shouts, then lowers his voice, not wanting the attention of the entire station. “I told you to check things out, not bring them down to the station. This is not good. You