The Forensics Of The Origami Murders

Chapter 7

Wondering if Susan Bowles' grief-struck face and bloody bandages would linger in my mind for the rest of my life, I sunk into the passenger seat and squeezed my eyes shut. Entering the drivers' seat, Norman glanced at me with a troubled look. Before he could say anything, like suggest taking me back to the precinct, I spoke.

"Do you think something happened to the husband?"

I didn't really think so, but it was the only thing I could think of that didn't directly involve Susan or her condition, Emily, or poor Jeremy. Indeed, it was a strange coincidence, but that was probably all that it was. A coincidence.

"It's possible," Norman mumbled while tapping the touchscreen, picking the next address from the ARI-generated list, 1964 Woodland Avenue. "At this point, we can't rule anything out. We have to leave all possibilities open."

"Yeah..." not much of an answer, really. I suspected the FBI agent didn't share with me all that was going on inside that reticent mind of his. Not that I had any right to a full disclosure, anyways. In a gust of self-conscious doubt and worry that he regretted dragging me along, I tried to keep up a half-sensible observation.

"A private investigator, what do you make of that?"

"In unsolved crimes, especially in cases involving children, it's not unusual for the next-of-kin to hire a private investigator."

"I guess not."

Oh, it was that sort of place.

"We're here looking for Lauren Winter." Wasting no time, Norman went straight to the point.

"Never heard of her," the receptionist growled. "Now beat it!"

responded by flashing his badge, repeating the question. The man behind the counter looked like he wanted to tell us to get lost again, but ended up sinking down into his chair, reluctantly pointing us up a flight of stairs.

"Second floor, last door on the left."

Walking through the corridor, I tried my best to block out the muffled, but oh-so-suggestive sounds emerging from behind closed doors. I didn't dare look at or speak to Norman. Last door on the left, and thankfully no sounds could be heard as Norman knocked on the door. A woman in her mid-thirties appeared in the doorway, wearing a dress that some would refer to as soft red, others as rose. She too had that worn, older than she really is - look you get after years of struggle and misery. Lifeless, dark eyes scanned us from top to bottom.

"I've already told the police everything I know, and I have nothing more to add," she sneered. "Leave me alone."

She was about to close the door. Norman had to forcefully hold it open with his hand.

"Please, Mrs. Winter. I just need a few minutes of your time."

Chocolate-brown and pale green eyes faced off in a staring contest that lasted for the longest twenty seconds I've ever endured. Figuring she didn't have much of a choice, Mrs. Winter reluctantly closed the door to unhook the chain lock, allowing us to enter. Stepping over that threshold left me yet again with that dreadful feeling of imposing. Mrs. Winter lowered her face, letting her dark hair cover her features. The ivory skin was a stark contrast to the ebony-colored hair and bloodshot, cracked lips. Like an older and washed-out Snow White. Lighting a cigarette, she spoke in a monotone voice.

"You have ten minutes. I have an appointment at eleven and I need to get ready."

It was exactly 10.42 am. Again, Norman wasted no time beating around the bush. He introduced us and stated his reason for the unexpected visit.