headed back to the scene. It had been about forty-five minutes, and he needed to debrief with Delaney. The CSI unit would probably be close to finishing up the first round. One or two of them would take all the evidence collected so far to the lab. The others would stay behind. It might take the entire day to process the scene. Brendan wouldn’t have to wait for it all to be collected – he would want to get going right away on some priority items like the cell phone. He also wanted to talk to the owners, who he’d found out from Kevin were the victim’s parents, right away.
He and Olivia had agreed to meet at her in-home office that afternoon at four. She had very quickly volunteered to bring Kevin Heilshorn back to the house, back to his motorcycle.
Brendan didn’t pretend to know her methods, but he felt intuitively that besides being polite and helpful, the therapist may have seen value in returning to the scene of the tragedy with the young man whom it affected so deeply. Perhaps more effective “work” could be done if they were in the presence of what had caused such tremendous grief, rather than away somewhere else, where it could be dulled or sanitized. Either way, Brendan was grateful for her offer. He had consulted with her at the door, on his way out the diner, and had stressed to her that he needed to keep Kevin Heilshorn close at hand. She understood.
The next few minutes unfolded like a kind of dream. Several news vans had arrived on the scene. Eager reporters were held back by the barrier the deputies had placed in front of the driveway. Bollards had been placed along the front edge of the property where it abutted Route 12 by State Troopers.
Two trooper vehicles sat in the road, their lights flashing. The sun crawled even higher, and baked the already scorched grass and corn. Small bugs zipped about in the air. Bees droned past. The voices of reporters drifted over from where they talked with deputies and State Troopers.
Brendan walked from his car, which he’d parked along the shoulder of Route 12, and over towards the house. Delaney stood in the center of the giant front yard, holding a cell phone to his ear. Two men in white Hazmat suits were coming out of the shed with large bags. He also saw a new face, over by the victim’s Audi, talking to one of the CSIs. He knew by reputation it was Howard Skene, the Senior Prosecutor for Oneida County.
Delaney snapped his phone shut. He too looked across the dry grass at Skene, and said to Brendan, “You’re just in time. Let’s go tell him how much we don’t have to go on.”
Skene walked over. He had a peculiar gait, as through his pleated pants didn’t fit quite right around his crotch. Delaney would say he had a stick up his ass. Skene didn’t shake hands either, but parked both of his palms on his hips. Brendan could see the heat of the day getting to the prosecutor, too. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration, and his dark hair was damp around his ears and forehead.
“Morning,” said Brendan.
Brendan and Skene had never met in person, and Delaney made introductions. Skene nodded. He wore black sunglasses, but Brendan could sense the prosecutor’s eyes examining him. After a moment, Skene said, “So?”
Delaney took a barely perceptible step to the side and looked at Brendan, indicating that he had the floor.
“Well, sir,” Brendan began doubtfully. He tried to sort the information in his head in order to proceed articulately. “The victim is 28 year-old Rebecca Heilshorn. What we know right now is that the house and the property are owned by her parents, also named Heilshorn.”
“Is she married? Kept her name?”
“There was no wedding ring on her finger, but I have yet to get with CSI and establish a real inventory of the contents of the home. Right now the house doesn’t seem very lived-in. The kitchen and the bedroom and upstairs bath are the only places that show real signs of habitation. There’s thick dust over
He and Olivia had agreed to meet at her in-home office that afternoon at four. She had very quickly volunteered to bring Kevin Heilshorn back to the house, back to his motorcycle.
Brendan didn’t pretend to know her methods, but he felt intuitively that besides being polite and helpful, the therapist may have seen value in returning to the scene of the tragedy with the young man whom it affected so deeply. Perhaps more effective “work” could be done if they were in the presence of what had caused such tremendous grief, rather than away somewhere else, where it could be dulled or sanitized. Either way, Brendan was grateful for her offer. He had consulted with her at the door, on his way out the diner, and had stressed to her that he needed to keep Kevin Heilshorn close at hand. She understood.
The next few minutes unfolded like a kind of dream. Several news vans had arrived on the scene. Eager reporters were held back by the barrier the deputies had placed in front of the driveway. Bollards had been placed along the front edge of the property where it abutted Route 12 by State Troopers.
Two trooper vehicles sat in the road, their lights flashing. The sun crawled even higher, and baked the already scorched grass and corn. Small bugs zipped about in the air. Bees droned past. The voices of reporters drifted over from where they talked with deputies and State Troopers.
Brendan walked from his car, which he’d parked along the shoulder of Route 12, and over towards the house. Delaney stood in the center of the giant front yard, holding a cell phone to his ear. Two men in white Hazmat suits were coming out of the shed with large bags. He also saw a new face, over by the victim’s Audi, talking to one of the CSIs. He knew by reputation it was Howard Skene, the Senior Prosecutor for Oneida County.
Delaney snapped his phone shut. He too looked across the dry grass at Skene, and said to Brendan, “You’re just in time. Let’s go tell him how much we don’t have to go on.”
Skene walked over. He had a peculiar gait, as through his pleated pants didn’t fit quite right around his crotch. Delaney would say he had a stick up his ass. Skene didn’t shake hands either, but parked both of his palms on his hips. Brendan could see the heat of the day getting to the prosecutor, too. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration, and his dark hair was damp around his ears and forehead.
“Morning,” said Brendan.
Brendan and Skene had never met in person, and Delaney made introductions. Skene nodded. He wore black sunglasses, but Brendan could sense the prosecutor’s eyes examining him. After a moment, Skene said, “So?”
Delaney took a barely perceptible step to the side and looked at Brendan, indicating that he had the floor.
“Well, sir,” Brendan began doubtfully. He tried to sort the information in his head in order to proceed articulately. “The victim is 28 year-old Rebecca Heilshorn. What we know right now is that the house and the property are owned by her parents, also named Heilshorn.”
“Is she married? Kept her name?”
“There was no wedding ring on her finger, but I have yet to get with CSI and establish a real inventory of the contents of the home. Right now the house doesn’t seem very lived-in. The kitchen and the bedroom and upstairs bath are the only places that show real signs of habitation. There’s thick dust over
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