Hunter stood up again and started looking around the room.

‘What?’ The officer’s gaze moved from the doctor to Hunter, and then back to the ME. ‘But you just said that she died from severe loss of blood and heart failure. Are now you telling me she was strangled?’

‘Not to death,’ the doctor clarified. ‘She did die from blood loss from her wrist wounds, which led to heart failure, but this indicates that she suffered some sort of severe blockage of the respiratory system prior to death.’

Travis chewed on his bottom lip and looked at Hunter once again, who was now having a look inside a shoebox on the floor by the dresser unit.

‘So what are you saying?’ Travis asked with a slight headshake. ‘That she first tried strangling herself or something, gave up halfway through, and then went for “plan B” – slicing her wrists?’

‘No,’ Hunter replied, checking some drawers. ‘Someone else knocked her unconscious by suffocating or strangling her, before slicing her wrists and staging the suicide scene. This . . .’ He indicated the body on the bed. ‘Was a homicide.’

The officer’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A homicide? But the only way in or out of this apartment is through the front door.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder again. ‘It was locked from the inside, remember? The safety chain was securely in place. We had to kick the door in. The windows in here don’t open due to safety regulations. This is the twenty-eighth floor, way too windy. If somebody killed her, how did he or she get out?’

‘That’s the part I still need to figure out,’ Hunter said.

Travis rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you do.’

Hunter could easily tell what Officer Travis was thinking: why did they have to send a rookie?

But Travis wasn’t finished yet. ‘And you are basing this homicide theory of yours simply on that pâté-whatever thing? Little blood dots on her eyes and eyelids due to oxygen restriction? Maybe it’s a sexual thing- erotic asphyxiation. Have you heard of it? Some people are into that. It’s supposed to heighten the ecstasy. Look, I’m sure that you would love to impress your captain, but I don’t think this is the case . . . sir.’ Travis put a lot of emphasis on that last word.

Hunter knew he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone in that room. He was the lead detective in the investigation, and that gave him the right to call the shots as he saw fit, but since this was his first ever investigation as a RHD Detective he decided, just for the sake of clarity, to better explain his reasons.

‘You said that there was no suicide note, right?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Travis confirmed.

‘Well, that’s problem number one – in ninety-nine percent of suicide cases, there’s a note. It follows an overwhelming feeling of guilt that comes with every suicide act. Victims will, inevitably, feel the need to explain their decision to go down such a drastic road. That note is their last ever statement in this world and, believe me, they all want to make it, even if it’s only an ‘I love you mom, and I’m sorry’ line. You said that the victim visited her wheelchair-bound mother every Monday. Had done so for the past two years. Trust me, she would’ve at least wanted her mother to know the reason why she decided to end her life.’

Travis stayed silent, considering Hunter’s words.

‘Problem number two is her fingernails and toenails,’ Hunter said.

Both the officer and the Medical Examiner’s gaze moved to the victim’s hands and feet.

‘What about them?’ Travis asked after a couple of seconds.

‘They’ve been recently manicured . . . professionally,’ Hunter said, still looking around the room. ‘Probably no more than three or four days ago. If she was depressed enough to consider suicide, I don’t think she would bother grooming herself for it . . . or buying a new pair of shoes, do you?’ He pointed to the shoebox by the dresser.

The officer and the doctor’s gaze shifted again.

‘There’s a receipt in the box. She bought them three days ago.’

Silence.

‘Now,’ Hunter turned and faced Officer Travis. ‘I need you and your partner to do a door-to-door on this floor. Get statements from everyone. Check if any of the neighbors were friendly with the victim, if anybody saw or heard anything . . . you know how it goes. Also, get the building’s superintendent up here again.’

Travis scratched his chin, nodded, and left the apartment.

‘You will still have to explain how the perp managed to escape through a locked and safety-chained door,’ the Medical Examiner said, looking intrigued now.

‘I know,’ Hunter replied, reaching for his cellphone and requesting a forensics team to come to the scene. Maybe they could help.

Because of the skin discoloration, the blisters, and the initial rotting state of the body, Hunter knew that there was no way the Medical Examiner could tell if the victim had been sexually assaulted without the proper examination and a lab swab test. For now, that would have to wait.

Hunter returned to the living room to re-examine the door and the safety-chain lock. There was no gimmick. The chain and the wall mounting were made of strong metal, and the chain was still securely locked in place. The door’s regular key lock hadn’t been tampered with, neither had the door hinges, which were tarnished with age. Somebody had really locked that door from the inside.

Time to look around.

Chapter 3

Hunter started searching through drawers and cupboards in the living room. The first thing he found were bank statements. They revealed that Helen Webster made a decent living from her Interior Designer business, and paid all her bills on time. She had been renting the apartment she lived in for two and a half years. Nothing indicated that she had ever fallen behind with any payments, but Hunter would check it with her landlord later. The finance on her five-year-old VW Golf had been paid off just a few months ago. Hunter later confirmed that the car was parked downstairs, and that it hadn’t been broken into. Helen only had one credit card. The latest statement showed a balance of $15.48 for a Chinese take-out five days ago. In short, Helen Webster didn’t seem to be burden by financial problems.

In a different drawer Hunter found a Valentine’s card with a simple message – To my beautiful girlfriend. With lots of love. Can’t wait to be in bed with you tonight.

Charming, Hunter thought.

The card was signed by someone called Jake. Valentine’s Day had been three and a half weeks ago.

The answering machine on the TV module had fifteen messages. Nine were from her mother. Her messages escalated from a little concerned to panicking. Three were from possible clients requesting a callback, and perhaps a meeting. One was from a friend named Mary, asking Helen if she was in the mood for a drink that night. One was from a different and clearly unhappy client wondering what had happened, as it sounded like Helen Webster had missed their meeting two days ago and hadn’t bothered calling to cancel or reschedule. The last message came from a holiday telesales team.

Hm . . . Hunter thought. Nothing from the boyfriend.

Hunter found Helen’s handbag on the corner, by her leatherette sofa. Inside it he found her car keys, her wallet, her driving license, a makeup bag, and her cellphone. The battery was on its last legs, but it still had some juice. There were several missed calls, mostly her mother’s, but again, not a single call from the boyfriend. Hunter checked the phone’s address book, where he found an entry for Jake Goubeaux. There was no address.

Next, Hunter opened the phone’s call log. Jake Goubeaux had called forty-nine times in the past two weeks, but funnily enough, he hadn’t called her once in the past three days. This was getting interesting. Hunter called the Operations office back at the RHD, requesting a file on Mr. Goubeaux.