Lorelle

by Claire Engan

I was glad the door had been left open, because it looked like it would have been a pain to budge. The house, by the looks of it was made in the 40’s, but the door could have easily been a grand wooden entrance to some castle. Even from outside I spotted the crime scene, and as I continued to approach it wasn’t long before I smelled it too. It smelled like way-too-burnt bacon, which was really not appealing. It made me a little glad I hadn’t had my coffee and usual breakfast this morning. Maybe I’ll skip it tomorrow too-- bacon just wouldn’t be the same.

I stood in the middle of the living room, staring down at ashes that had been piled onto the shiny wooden floor. It was midday, the room was hot from the sun coming in through the curtain less front window, and the clouds kept the air warm and humid.

“Well it took you long enough,” said Dr. Lorelle Elke, her stature striding past me towards the small dining room to my left.

“Didn’t have my coffee this morning,” I grumbled back at her, staring at the ashes at my feet. Photographers were constantly flashing their cameras, probably capturing my feet in the process.

Lorelle frowned, and doubled back, marching swiftly towards me. She had a pretty face, angular at the chin, with tan skin. Her dark shoulder length waves of hair bounced with each frustrated step.

“You’re in the way, Mr. Tate,” her arm reached for mine to guide me away from the scene.

“Please,” I said calmly, slowly walking with her, “Call me Raynard. We’ve seen quite enough of each other, no need to stick to formalities, Dr. Elke.”

She huffed a sigh, and ignored me.

“You look like a mess,” her brown eyes searched me up and down with distaste. “Haven't shaved, unwashed hair, I can see you’re trying to hide it with that hat.” I shrugged. “Hardly the way to dress for work Raynard. And look at you, your long coat, so old it could match this house. Aren’t you warm?”

I gave her another shrug. “What can I say, I’m old fashioned,” I flashed her a rugged smile.

She didn’t like that. She never seemed to like anything I did. Her shoulders hunched in a serious manner, which I knew meant it was time to get down to business.

“So, what happened here?” she asked me. It wasn’t like she didn’t know already; she was expecting me to figure it out.

“Well, the ashes are the remains of a body, right?” I concluded. Lucky for me, I had read the file on this case the police had jotted down the night before, before I decided to come in this morning. Well, I guess it was afternoon now...

Lorelle’s gaze flicked at me, “That’s right,” she said cooly. “We’ve already arrested our suspects, so that wont be an issue.” She paused, expecting me to look surprised. I was, but was also good at hiding it. “Anyway, your job is to figure out who died. The murderer was smart enough to hide the bones, but wasn’t smart enough to avoid the neighbors seeing him leave the house. They report that no one’s lived in this house for a few months as far as they can tell; the family who owns it only uses it for the summer.”

I glanced at the sky through the large window. It was March. It was either raining and cool up in the hills in this part of town, or grey and muggy, with unavoidable fog until it cleared around 3 in the afternoon.

I took in the rest of the room behind me. The couch was sprawled across the floor diagonally, and a few of the chairs had been tipped over. Mail was scattered on the floor; it had probably been lying on the coffee table that had been smashed in half. There had been a struggle. In front of me, there was a large fireplace.

Lorelle shuffled awkwardly in the corner of the room behind me. “Do you have everything you need?” she asked.

There really wasn’t much left to do. I’d seen the case.

“Give me a few minutes,” I said. I walked over to the hallway left of the kitchen, leaving the photographers to pack up their things.

I inspected a few rooms. There was absolutely nothing here.

I decided to walk back into the main living space. Cops were taking final notes outside, before ducking into their little Fords and driving away. Lorelle walked past me again, trailing after a couple photographers. She stopped at the doorway to look at me.

“The door locks when you go out. I’ll see you later,” she assured me, then shut the door.

Not if I could help it. She was one of the leads in the forensics department, but that didn’t mean I had to see her. I hated her. Well, I hated her in that Argentine tango sense where I’m not supposed to like her. I couldn’t deny that she was good looking.

I was alone. I was alone with a pile of ashes. I was forced to take off my hat; the room was filling with sunlight and warmth. There was nothing on the floor except for the remains.

And…a fire poker?

It had some kind of liquid on it.

I stumbled over to it, crouching to peek at it without touching it. I couldn’t tell what the liquid was; the tool was too dark to identify any color. I crawled on my hands and knees to bend down and take a whiff.

Iron, sweetness. It could have been the metal of the poker, but it sure smelled like blood to me. A second thought passed through my head. How the hell had they missed this? It wasn’t under anything, it was lying in plain sight, and all you had to do was walk over to the corner.

Oh.

I suddenly understood. I stood up in some frustration. Lorelle had been standing there. She knew it was there. Why would she hide it? All evidence had to be given to the proper persons from the crime scene. All evidence had to be investigated.

In some annoyance, I reached out my foot to kick something. There was an empty box to my right, conveniently. It toppled over, revealing latex gloves underneath.

“The door locks when you go out. I’ll see you later.”

This was a set up. For me. To meet her. She had intended this, and she knew I would have to go to her for answers.

“Damn it,” I hissed, picking up the gloves and slapping them on. I really hated the way they felt. I picked up the poker and scrounged the kitchen for a plastic bag. Well, I could say for sure that there was a struggle before the poor man got burnt.

The first thing I did when I got back to my car was dial Lorelle’s number. It took an uncomfortably short amount of time before I got through.

“Mmm, yes?” was her answer. She had been expecting me.

“Ms. Elke,” I said, a little on the sharp side.

“What is it, Raynard?”

“When would you like me to meet you?”

“Oh, so you got my message then?” she almost laughed. “I’ll be working in my lab all evening.” I could tell she was grinning through the phone.

“Fine,” I said, then hung up. She was probably laughing at me. Our relationship was a strange one.

I arrived at her lab around 5:30. It had given me a few hours to go back to my apartment, change from my detective style clothes to my Dockers pants and t-shirt. I wore the shirt I had gotten from the local police, so I didn’t feel as though I was killing the mood. Also, I shaved, just because Lorelle seemed to have such a big issue with my stubble look.

Her lab was in a giant office building, in the basement, of course. Everyone in the place had pretty much left for the day. The building was white and sterile looking, with glass doors out front and marble walls inside. Professional. I sauntered over to the elevator, and made my way down to the basement.

The door that led to the lab was normal sized—grey and boring. You wouldn’t think it belonged to a lab, more like the door on a janitor’s closet. It happened to be locked, and I had no way in except to call inside with the little speaker box on the wall to my right. I bent down a little, (it was shorter than I was) and pressed the button.

“Umm…hi?” I stammered.

A loud buzzing noise erupted from the door. I guess that was my cue to go in. I yanked on the handle, pulled and walked through. I was aware of the door clicking closed behind me. There was a small, lobby-type area to my right that allowed for guests to sit on leather chairs surrounding a low glass table. But the rest of the floor beyond was the lab. There were glass doors covering rooms full of white, sterile things. It was a like a zoo, you could walk by and watch various people in lab coats working with microscopes, centrifuges, and other doohickeys I probably couldn’t name. Like the first floor, most of the workers were gone, with the exception of a few scientists cleaning up their stations before they returned tomorrow morning.

I walked down the rows of various labs before I found Lorelle. It was obvious which was hers, because I found her leaning against the doorframe, waiting, with a welcoming smirk on her face.

“Welcome, Mr. Tate,” she said, turning around and indicating that I follow. She stopped in front of me, pausing to reach around and close the doors behind us. They didn’t make any noise.

“This is my lab,” she announced, striding through some tables that held bits of machinery hidden under cloth. I followed her, until we stopped at what looked to be her work area. Microscopes, blood tubes, bags with hairs, forensic evidence was scattered across the large table area. Above were cabinets, and shelves holding glossaries.

I remembered the plastic bag I was carrying. I felt like it was filled with dread, death, mischief and deceit: everything a good crime is full of.

“Have you already tested this?” I asked her sternly, lifting up the bag to plop it on a free spot on the table. She should have, or else she wasn’t following the rules.

“Of course, silly.”

Relief.

“But it got you to come here didn’t it?”

I frowned. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Oh, nothing, I just wanted to tell you some important findings that might assist you in your case. Alone.”

I didn’t like the emphasis she had put on the word alone. We’d been working together for years, having the little quarrels we did. Maybe she was fed up?

She smiled, her expression different from the malicious conniving smirk she’d had on her face before. Her hand delicately reached over to touch my cheek. I wanted to sigh, but couldn’t do much but hold my breath. She closed the distance between us, putting her face softly on my other side, lightly kissing my cheek with her lips.

She drew back casually, dropping her hand. “Mm, you shaved.” The smirk was back again, and she turned back towards her work.

“So, um,” I coughed. “Important findings…”

“Sure,” she said. It was like nothing fazed her. My twilight zone experience had been nothing but play. Ah well, my play seemed to displease her. I guess it goes both ways.

“I tested this earlier,” she continued, “And used my available resources to determine who the blood belonged to.”

“Okay,” I waited. It seemed simple.

“We already caught the murderer, so it can’t belong to him.”

I kept waiting. And?

“It belongs to a woman in fact, by the name of Stephanie Howard.”

“So, the victim was a woman?”

“No,” she explained. I waited some more. “I did some further research, it turns out Stephanie Howard lives about twenty minutes from here. She’s a live, healthy, person.”

“What?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe someone framed her? Or used her in this murder? How could someone’s blood get on something when they weren’t reportedly there?”

“Well, maybe she was,” she said calmly, turning around from her notes and staring me straight in the eyes. My mind flashed back to her lips, and for a second I strayed from the case. This is why we should never work together. Ever. “I figured you might want to go and check on her?” she didn’t let up her gaze.

“Uh yeah, I’ll do that.”

“I have her address.” She reached out with a white piece of paper between her fingers, still staring at me. I dropped my eyes to look at the paper, taking it from her hand. Her other one came on top of mine, which forced my eyes back to her brown ones.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

I was in a hurry to get out of the lab. I’d head out to meet Ms. Howard tomorrow. But first, I was going to head to the police station, and see if I could chat with the killer.

I got cleared access into the jail area of the station without too much of a fuss. They gave me the name and prison cell number after I told them who I was. His name was Jonas Wystan, in cell number 8.

I made my way to the back after thanking them, slowly scanning the bars to my right, watching the labels count up a number each passing cell door. 5, 6, 7, and then 8. Jonas was sitting on his bed, cardboard and some mattress type thing. He looked like he could have been nice looking if cleaned up. His hair was thin and blond, matted to his head from a few days without a shower. His stubble was a little darker. His blue eyes shone with sincerity, though the shadows under them indicated he probably wasn’t feeling that great.

“Mr. Wystan?” I asked, peering through the bars at him.

He stared back at me, not really showing any signs of interest.

“Hi, I’m detective Tate, here on the case of the murder at 438 Stanford street,” I continued calmly, not really sure what kind of a guy he was.

“So I see,” was his response. His voice was thin, a little nasally, but not weak.

“We’ve found a little bit of evidence that I’d like to ask you some questions about,” I went on.

“All right.” He didn’t seem reluctant at all.

“Well, there was evidence of a scuffle around the house. One thing that was left behind was a fire poker with the evidence of blood on it.”

He said nothing.

“We analyzed the blood, finding that it belonged to a woman who is alive and well.”

“Interesting,” he drawled, but his voice had hardened.

“Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“Not really. That blood is poison,” he spat, obvious dislike showing in his scrunched up face.

“Poison, how?”

“It shouldn’t exist. It should have stayed with that woman,” he glanced back up at me. I wasn’t making heads or tails of this so far.

“What do you mean it should have stayed with her?”

He shrugged stiffly, his expressions calm but his body language annoyed. “It wasn’t just in her anymore. It isn’t right.”

“Well, yeah, it happened to be all over that fire poker.”

He nodded, watching me. I was sensing he was getting impatient. I tried to think of more questions that would fish out more information.

“I’ve already told you what you need to know,” he said. Yeah right. I wasn’t going to lose that easily.

“What is your profession, Mr. Wystan?”

“I’m a journalist for the t newspaper,” he explained simply.

I nodded. It was so innocent. But why?

“Where were you in the last few days?”

“Hmm, well, besides committing a murder, I was at Bernard’s Hospital in the middle of town earlier in the week.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Getting some information about blood donations for an article,” he smiled weakly.

I sat up, letting out a sigh. “Is there anything you do outside of your job, Mr. Wystan?”

“I’m a proud member of the local church,” he stated, seeming very proud of himself. “I organize many things. You should come. Tell God how much you love him.”

I frowned. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll come again.”

“Anytime,” I heard him chuckle as I turned and left. I shifted my hands into my pockets, fumbling around with Ms. Howard’s address. Time to go visit her.

It took me a while to find 237 Maurice road. It was one of those damned streets with the “do not enter” signs, and the one-way road, and absolutely no way to get to easily. But finally, I found myself pulling my old Toyota in front of Stephanie’s house. I sat in my car for a few minutes, staring up at it. It was a one story, cottage-looking place, with light yellow paint and white window frames. I easily spotted Stephanie sipping a hot beverage and reading a book next to the front window. She was an older woman, looking to be in her late 40’s, with long silvering hair that would probably look better cut shorter. She wore glasses.

Well, no use just watching her.

I got out of my car, locked it, and proceeded to walk up her steps to the white door. She didn’t seem to notice me through the front window. Straightening myself, I curved my hand into a fist, and rapped on the door lightly with my knuckles.

I heard the cup settle down on a table, a chair scoot back, and soft steps come towards me. The door opened, revealing the lady in full. She was wearing a baggy white shirt, with the Racing Forum logo printed on the front, and a pair of boring grey sweats to match.

“Can I help you?” she asked, as if insulted.

Well she certainly had looked like a nice lady. “Hello Ms. Howard, I’m detective Raynard Tate. I’m working on a case with the Annandale police, and I believe you might be of some help.”

She stepped back from the door; now looking confused, but nodded and let me in.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Tate?” she glanced at me, closing the door and motioning for me to have a seat opposite where she was sitting at a tall circular table. She poured me a glass of water and set it down in front of me, then took her seat.

“Well ma’am, we believe you to be involved with a murder case that happened at a house on Stanford Street. Did you know anyone who lived up there?”

First she was uneasy since I had used the term involved, and then she seemed to become pretty clueless as her face blanked and she shook her head. “Not that I can recall, no.”

“Not 438 Stanford Street?”

“No, I don’t think so. How exactly am I…involved Mr. Tate?” By the sound of her voice, she was either determined to get me to leave or scared.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, “ I said, deciding she was scared, “But there is evidence that you were at the crime scene.”

“What? How could I have been?” I could see her frantically cycle back the days in her head. What had she been doing?

“We found your blood on an object involved in the crime, Ms. Howard,” I explained to her.

Her eyes widened. “I haven’t been anywhere except for a hospital in the last couple days,” she explained nervously.

“A hospital?” Hmmm. “Why were you there?”

“I was…I was…” a look of horror flashed over her face. She turned to me, “I was donating blood.”

Getting some information about blood donations for an article.

“No…I…” A look of horror began to seep into her face. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” I offered the water she had so nicely put in front of me.

She shook her head, eyebrows crinkling in denial. “This can’t be happening, she shuddered, “it’s too unreal!” Her grey eyes found mine, panicking, and questioning me to give her the answer. Or to tell her the truth.

I really wasn’t sure what the truth was right now.

She took the cup and cradled it between both hands. “My brother,” she began, now hiding her eyes down, staring at the water.

I waited. I was good at that.

“My brother was a cancer patient for a certain kind of cancer that affected his blood,” she said. “There was a very slim chance of him surviving, but we were allowed to search for a blood donor to donate blood, and marrow for him. We would have to replace his entire stream, and give him marrow that produced good blood.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the donor had to be the same blood type, and most likely genetically related, and a lot of other pre-requisites.” She began to sniffle. “It was almost a miracle that I had the perfect match to donate marrow.” She looked up at me, and took off her glasses, setting them beside her.

“So, that’s what we did,” she continued, leaving little gasps throughout her sentences. She was breaking down. “Last week I donated marrow, I was fine in a day or so. He stayed in the hospital. He got out over the weekend, but he had to stay local for the frequent hospital trips,” she gasped a little, taking a large noisy sip from the water glass. “He couldn’t stay here. I have two kids.”

I glanced around. The house did seem pretty cramped.

“He said he had a friend who owned a summer home he could stay in for a while. I’m assuming that’s what you mean…” She trailed off, staring at me, waiting for an answer.

I put things together. That would make sense. If the fire poker hit the victim before he got burnt, and he had just gone through a blood transfusion, of course her blood would show up as evidence.

“I gave him part of me to live. He’s gone,” she began to sob. “He’s gone, and a part of me is gone! I loved him!” she put her head down on her arms, her shoulders shaking.

They were obviously close siblings.

“Ah…” I wasn’t really sure what to say anymore. “Oh. Yes. His name, Ms. Harold?”

She sat up, trying to hold back her tears. She chugged the last of the water and sighed out a heavy sob. “He was Sylvester Howard. Oh, I did care for him very much…we all did. My family. I…” she glanced around for a paper towel, snagged it, and blew into it fiercely.

“I thank you for your time, Ms. Howard,” I said solemnly. “I am sorry for your loss.” It was rare that I had to inform families of the deaths they didn’t know about.

She didn’t say anything as I left the house. I walked to my car, and nothing seemed to make me feel better. I called up Lorelle, then the station, reporting that I had the man they were looking for.

The next day I decided to talk with Jonas Wystan again, and confirm his motive on the killing. I found him in his usual space, though he had changed clothes, now in a perfectly fine orange prison jumpsuit. He was paying attention as I walked over.

“Why, it’s you again!” he smiled at me through the bars. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to confirm a few things,” I said, sitting down outside the jail cell.

The smile wouldn’t wipe off his face. It was that same, smug look he’d given me when he’d told me he was a journalist.

“You were at Bernard’s hospital a few days before, correct?”

He nodded.

“Doing an article on blood donation?”

He nodded again.

“And you’re angry because…the blood didn’t stay with the woman?”

“That’s what I said,” he agreed, his smile dropping.

“And you’re religious?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Well, what do you think of God?”

He paused at that, sitting up straight to refine his posture, as if God would be looking at him right there and then.

“God made all,” he said, putting his hands calmly together. “He has given birth to us, and this world. He watches over each and every one of us.”

“Haven’t you sinned?”

Jonas paused again, glaring at me. “No,” he decided firmly. “I have killed a sinner, one who defies God, and I have asked God for forgiveness, and he loves me for it.” He smiled again, seeming a little too happy, staring up at the dingy ceiling.

“How?” I pressed, “How did Sylvester defy God?”

Jonas looked back over to me, his facial expression making me feel dumb, indicating the answer was obvious. “He is not pure,” he stated. My spine tingled uncomfortably a little bit. Killing Sylvester had had negative affects on Mr. Wystan. “His blood was tainted with the essence of science.”

“Oh really?” I wanted more.

“Science is a foul thing. Its an excuse for all the people to ignore God, what really happened, the true story.” He grinned. “I am okay. I believe in God. He loves me. Everything is fine.”

Right. This guy was a nut job. He was fine, until someone who wasn’t supposed to live, survived with the help of science. He got to witness it first hand. If he’s strongly religious, a creationist, anything interfered with by science is a no-no. Something like, the natural course of death.

“He deserved to die. God wanted him to die, so I killed him,” Jonas nodded assuredly.

I took my leave, confirming with the police the story I got from him. It was brief, I wrote down a summary, and went outside to get some fresh air.

Lorelle would take me out to dinner tonight. She was excited to celebrate. I found the case peculiar, and I wasn’t quite sure I’d liked the outcome. Maybe dinner would get it off my mind. Or another dose of Lorelle’s lips.