oath to protect and serve the citizens of New Orleans.
“Where's Detective Bond?” the sergeant asked. Larry Bond was Manseur's partner.
“Larry's in Baton Rouge. His father-in-law died. Be back Monday afternoon. Can we get back to this?”
“Sure thing.” The sergeant nodded. “Janitor saw Porter come in around six with her daughter. Lee came in fifteen to twenty minutes later.”
“Where's the kid?”
The cop shrugged. “Janitor didn't see her leave, but she wasn't here when this happened.”
“And you know that, how?”
“She didn't call 911 or run to find help. He says she sometimes catches the bus to school from the corner. Her name is Faith Ann. There's a picture of her on the mother's desk.”
Manseur finished making his notes and underlined the child's name. Beside it, he wrote two question marks. One represented discovering where the girl was when this happened, the second was to remind him to find out all he could about her. He would assume for the present that the schoolgirl wasn't here when this took place.
Then he went to the first door down the hallway and looked into the office. He could see both bodies from the doorway. Porter was to his right, the body lying limp behind the desk. Amber Lee's corpse lay to his left, facedown in front of the desk. Another ten feet behind Ms. Lee's corpse, a second door stood open. Before he entered the office, Manseur took a pair of shoe covers and a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on.
When a seasoned homicide detective looked over a crime scene, it would start to come alive. As he gleaned more information, the film that was the crime came into increasingly sharper focus, edited so that all of the collected elements defined the drama.
Was Lee in this office to get help with the embezzlement charge?
He noted how she'd fallen and studied the pattern made by bits of blood and tissue on the floor and desk. He formed an image of Ms. Lee sitting in the chair and the lawyer sitting behind the desk. Since he couldn't yet make a determination of the perp's size or sex, he visualized a featureless silhouette standing beside and behind Amber Lee, aiming a gun at her head. He noted the position of the purse, that the flap was closed and latched.
He squatted beside Ms. Lee and, using the bare end of his Cross ballpoint, parted her teased hair to examine the entrance wound located above and behind her left ear. The stippling and burned hair around the small round wound told him that the muzzle had been very close to her head. The exiting bullet had made a silver-dollar-size hole.
Could be a .38, a .32 revolver. If someone picked up their cases it might be a .380 or even a nine millimeter.
That was something the medical examiner could tell him.
For whatever reason, you weren't looking at the killer when he fired.
He leaned down and noted the tracks on her left cheek made from tear-melted eyeliner.
Were you aware of the perp standing there? Were you crying because you were afraid? Or were you upset and didn't see him—or her?
Carefully, Manseur looked at both of her hands and under the nails. Nothing. Done with Amber for the time being, he stood and went around the desk and looked down at Kimberly Porter. The dead lawyer's name, but not her face, seemed familiar to him, he wasn't sure why. He was fairly sure that he had never faced her in a courtroom.
There were two holes in Porter's blouse, located so close together they almost formed a figure eight. There was a third hole in her forehead—a safety shot. It made him wonder if maybe she was the main target, had been shot first. No, he was reasonably certain based on the splatter pattern that Amber hadn't been cowering in the chair but sitting upright, her face pointed at the desk. He saw the phone beside the lawyer, and in his film he imagined her holding it—perhaps trying to make a call, before or maybe even after Amber was shot.
He saw blood on the wall behind the desk and judged that
“Where's Detective Bond?” the sergeant asked. Larry Bond was Manseur's partner.
“Larry's in Baton Rouge. His father-in-law died. Be back Monday afternoon. Can we get back to this?”
“Sure thing.” The sergeant nodded. “Janitor saw Porter come in around six with her daughter. Lee came in fifteen to twenty minutes later.”
“Where's the kid?”
The cop shrugged. “Janitor didn't see her leave, but she wasn't here when this happened.”
“And you know that, how?”
“She didn't call 911 or run to find help. He says she sometimes catches the bus to school from the corner. Her name is Faith Ann. There's a picture of her on the mother's desk.”
Manseur finished making his notes and underlined the child's name. Beside it, he wrote two question marks. One represented discovering where the girl was when this happened, the second was to remind him to find out all he could about her. He would assume for the present that the schoolgirl wasn't here when this took place.
Then he went to the first door down the hallway and looked into the office. He could see both bodies from the doorway. Porter was to his right, the body lying limp behind the desk. Amber Lee's corpse lay to his left, facedown in front of the desk. Another ten feet behind Ms. Lee's corpse, a second door stood open. Before he entered the office, Manseur took a pair of shoe covers and a pair of surgical gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on.
When a seasoned homicide detective looked over a crime scene, it would start to come alive. As he gleaned more information, the film that was the crime came into increasingly sharper focus, edited so that all of the collected elements defined the drama.
Was Lee in this office to get help with the embezzlement charge?
He noted how she'd fallen and studied the pattern made by bits of blood and tissue on the floor and desk. He formed an image of Ms. Lee sitting in the chair and the lawyer sitting behind the desk. Since he couldn't yet make a determination of the perp's size or sex, he visualized a featureless silhouette standing beside and behind Amber Lee, aiming a gun at her head. He noted the position of the purse, that the flap was closed and latched.
He squatted beside Ms. Lee and, using the bare end of his Cross ballpoint, parted her teased hair to examine the entrance wound located above and behind her left ear. The stippling and burned hair around the small round wound told him that the muzzle had been very close to her head. The exiting bullet had made a silver-dollar-size hole.
Could be a .38, a .32 revolver. If someone picked up their cases it might be a .380 or even a nine millimeter.
That was something the medical examiner could tell him.
For whatever reason, you weren't looking at the killer when he fired.
He leaned down and noted the tracks on her left cheek made from tear-melted eyeliner.
Were you aware of the perp standing there? Were you crying because you were afraid? Or were you upset and didn't see him—or her?
Carefully, Manseur looked at both of her hands and under the nails. Nothing. Done with Amber for the time being, he stood and went around the desk and looked down at Kimberly Porter. The dead lawyer's name, but not her face, seemed familiar to him, he wasn't sure why. He was fairly sure that he had never faced her in a courtroom.
There were two holes in Porter's blouse, located so close together they almost formed a figure eight. There was a third hole in her forehead—a safety shot. It made him wonder if maybe she was the main target, had been shot first. No, he was reasonably certain based on the splatter pattern that Amber hadn't been cowering in the chair but sitting upright, her face pointed at the desk. He saw the phone beside the lawyer, and in his film he imagined her holding it—perhaps trying to make a call, before or maybe even after Amber was shot.
He saw blood on the wall behind the desk and judged that
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