thinning, yellow-white hair had been matted down on his head.
“Mr. Burnett,” he said. “I’m Detective Farrow. My partner, Detective Mayweather, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
CHAPTER 10
Burnett, flanked by the two detectives, strode along a winding gravel path behind the campus. The evening felt warm and comfortable, while the setting sun illuminated broken clouds with shades of crimson and violet Burnett had never before seen. He could not appreciate it. The beautiful view offered the perfect foil to his inner turmoil.
Neither detective had spoken since they’d exited the building. This alone amplified his anxiety. They paused by a row of benches along the walkway. Farrow raised his left leg and smacked his shoe on a bench. Not another person was in sight.
“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Farrow said, “so let me get right to it. I’m a homicide detective.”
“You really believe I killed him?” Burnett asked. “You think I concocted this absurd story to cover it up?” He searched their faces for a reaction, but neither man obliged.
“I treat every suspicious death as a possible homicide, Mr. Burnett,” Farrow said. He paused to re-flatten a crop of hair. “And they don’t come more suspicious than Mr. Laroche’s. You see, I’ve been in this business twenty-six years, and frankly, I never heard a story like yours. I’ve had people tell me they were possessed by the devil. I’ve had people tell me they heard voices in their head telling them to murder someone. I even had a guy tell me he enjoyed the taste of human flesh and that was why he barbequed his landlord. But I never had anyone say a teenage girl popped in from the future, drove their friend to suicide, then disappeared.”
“I never claimed she just popped in, then disappeared,” Burnett said. “And I don’t expect you to believe her story any more than I do. But there was a girl in his apartment.”
“Four people went over the surveillance videos from that building,” Farrow said. “Four. No sign of her entering. No sign of her leaving. Can you explain that to me?”
Burnett shook his head.
“We also have three witnesses,” Mayweather said in a quiet, relaxed tone, “who saw you and Mr. Laroche struggling on the balcony.”
The younger detective stared at him. In his stare Burnett sensed not a presumption of guilt, but genuine curiosity. Mayweather reminded him of Eddie, a young man who worked in the next cubicle at the insurance agency. The two men shared not only a physical resemblance, with their dark hair, narrow faces, and keen brown eyes, but an understated inquisitiveness. Burnett didn’t know his former co-worker well, not even his last name, but they often discussed baseball and movies. Eddie was one of the few people he’d genuinely miss.
“I was trying to stop him from jumping,” Burnett said.
“All three said punches were thrown,” Farrow said. “Doesn’t sound to me like someone trying to prevent a suicide.”
“Talk to Emma,” Burnett said. “She’ll tell you the same thing.”
“I think we’re talking to you,” Farrow said.
“He punched me,” Burnett said, startled by the anger in his voice. “He was trying to get me off him. He wanted to jump. He was off his medications. Her story upset him.” He reasserted control over his ire. “I tried everything to stop him. Almost everything.”
Farrow’s reaction indicated he, too, had been caught off guard by Burnett’s tone. He removed his shoe from the bench and sat on the edge.
“There’s one thing in your favor,” Mayweather said. “A witness in the building across the street claimed he saw someone inside Mr. Laroche’s apartment. While the two of you were struggling on the balcony.”
“It was her,” Burnett said.
“He couldn’t identify the person as male or female,” Farrow said. He shot an incensed glance at his partner and vaulted to his feet. “This alleged person was behind the sliding door,
“Mr. Burnett,” he said. “I’m Detective Farrow. My partner, Detective Mayweather, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
CHAPTER 10
Burnett, flanked by the two detectives, strode along a winding gravel path behind the campus. The evening felt warm and comfortable, while the setting sun illuminated broken clouds with shades of crimson and violet Burnett had never before seen. He could not appreciate it. The beautiful view offered the perfect foil to his inner turmoil.
Neither detective had spoken since they’d exited the building. This alone amplified his anxiety. They paused by a row of benches along the walkway. Farrow raised his left leg and smacked his shoe on a bench. Not another person was in sight.
“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Farrow said, “so let me get right to it. I’m a homicide detective.”
“You really believe I killed him?” Burnett asked. “You think I concocted this absurd story to cover it up?” He searched their faces for a reaction, but neither man obliged.
“I treat every suspicious death as a possible homicide, Mr. Burnett,” Farrow said. He paused to re-flatten a crop of hair. “And they don’t come more suspicious than Mr. Laroche’s. You see, I’ve been in this business twenty-six years, and frankly, I never heard a story like yours. I’ve had people tell me they were possessed by the devil. I’ve had people tell me they heard voices in their head telling them to murder someone. I even had a guy tell me he enjoyed the taste of human flesh and that was why he barbequed his landlord. But I never had anyone say a teenage girl popped in from the future, drove their friend to suicide, then disappeared.”
“I never claimed she just popped in, then disappeared,” Burnett said. “And I don’t expect you to believe her story any more than I do. But there was a girl in his apartment.”
“Four people went over the surveillance videos from that building,” Farrow said. “Four. No sign of her entering. No sign of her leaving. Can you explain that to me?”
Burnett shook his head.
“We also have three witnesses,” Mayweather said in a quiet, relaxed tone, “who saw you and Mr. Laroche struggling on the balcony.”
The younger detective stared at him. In his stare Burnett sensed not a presumption of guilt, but genuine curiosity. Mayweather reminded him of Eddie, a young man who worked in the next cubicle at the insurance agency. The two men shared not only a physical resemblance, with their dark hair, narrow faces, and keen brown eyes, but an understated inquisitiveness. Burnett didn’t know his former co-worker well, not even his last name, but they often discussed baseball and movies. Eddie was one of the few people he’d genuinely miss.
“I was trying to stop him from jumping,” Burnett said.
“All three said punches were thrown,” Farrow said. “Doesn’t sound to me like someone trying to prevent a suicide.”
“Talk to Emma,” Burnett said. “She’ll tell you the same thing.”
“I think we’re talking to you,” Farrow said.
“He punched me,” Burnett said, startled by the anger in his voice. “He was trying to get me off him. He wanted to jump. He was off his medications. Her story upset him.” He reasserted control over his ire. “I tried everything to stop him. Almost everything.”
Farrow’s reaction indicated he, too, had been caught off guard by Burnett’s tone. He removed his shoe from the bench and sat on the edge.
“There’s one thing in your favor,” Mayweather said. “A witness in the building across the street claimed he saw someone inside Mr. Laroche’s apartment. While the two of you were struggling on the balcony.”
“It was her,” Burnett said.
“He couldn’t identify the person as male or female,” Farrow said. He shot an incensed glance at his partner and vaulted to his feet. “This alleged person was behind the sliding door,
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