Everyone Dies by Michael McGarrity

affidavit only because Larsen had bolted to elude questioning and had been killed in a shootout by officers attempting to locate and detain him. Likewise, the judge who signed the order had been equally unimpressed with Ramona’s scanty facts, but went along with it because the suspect was dead.
    Knowing she’d been cut a break, Ramona left the courthouse with an order in hand that made Larsen a bona fide murder suspect. Whether it would stand up under close scrutiny was another matter.
    She made radio contact with Detective Matthew Chacon and asked him to meet her at Larsen’s apartment. It was an ironclad rule to have at least two officers serve a search warrant, one to gather the evidence and the other to inventory seized items and control anyone on the premises, which in Mary Beth Patterson’s case could well turn out to be a handful.
    Ramona arrived at the apartment building before Chacon and spoke to Joyce Barbero in the office. She told Barbero about the search warrant, but made no mention of the Larsen shooting.
    “Haven’t you upset Mary Beth enough?” Barbero asked disapprovingly as she came to the front of her desk.
    Through the open office door, Ramona saw Matt Chacon pull up to the curb in his unit. “I’ll let you know when we’re finished with the search,” she said as she stepped outside.
    Barbero watched from the doorway as Ramona warned Matt Chacon about Mary Beth’s mental condition and went over the specifics of the warrant.
    Thin with bushy brown hair, Chacon chewed on a toothpick as he listened and pulled the forms he needed out of his briefcase. He tapped his shirt pocket for his pen, found it, and uncapped the top.
    “Are you gonna tell Patterson about Larsen?” he asked.
    “I’m going to have to,” Ramona said. “She’s next of kin.”
    “Let’s do it,” Chacon said.
    At the apartment, Mary Beth opened up the door and winced at Ramona. “Why are you back here?” she asked in a thin voice as her questioning gaze traveled to Matt Chacon.
    “We need to look around your apartment,” Ramona replied.
    “I know my rights,” Mary Beth said, her trembling hand toying with the doorknob. “You can’t do that.”
    “I have a court order from a judge, Mary Beth,” Ramona said.
    “You’re lying. Where’s my Kurt?”
    “I need to talk to you about him,” Ramona said.
    Her eyes dilated. “Why?”
    “Because something bad has happened. Kurt is dead.”
    Mary Beth sagged against the door, dropped to her knees, her hand clutching the doorknob, and began rocking slowly back and forth.
    Ramona stepped behind her, put both hands under her arms, and pulled her upright. She could feel the hardness of Mary Beth’s breast implants against the palms of her hands. She walked her to the couch and sat her down.
    “You have to listen to me, Mary Beth,” Ramona said as she sat beside the woman.
    Mute, Mary Beth clasped her arms around her waist and continued rocking, bending her torso back and forth, the movement building into a catatonic rhythm.
    Nothing Ramona said broke through Mary Beth’s stupor. Uneasy with the situation, she asked Matt to fetch Joyce Barbero, who came hurrying in, breathless and exasperated. She glanced at Mary Beth and shot Ramona an annoyed look.
    “What happened?” Barbero demanded.
    Ramona explained that Larsen was dead and Barbero’s expression changed to angry condemnation. She asked Ramona to move aside, knelt down, and spent ten fruitless minutes trying to talk Mary Beth back to reality.
    “She has to go to the hospital,” Barbero said, shaking her head as she got to her feet.
    Ramona called for an ambulance and then dialed Barry Foyt to ask for guidance on the situation.
    “You’re sure the woman isn’t faking it?” Foyt asked.
    “Positive.”
    “Did you tell her you had a search warrant?” Foyt asked.
    “I did.”
    “And she’s not a target of the investigation, right?”
    “Correct.”
    “Do the search and leave copies of the paperwork