26. Ozzie
CHAPTER 26
Ozzie
M etal scraped metal as I inserted the key into the Hammonds’ front door. Dropping it back into its evidence bag, I pocketed the plastic bag, then removed the crime scene tape from the door and pushed it open. From my other pocket, I produced a pair of paper booties and stepped onto the disposable pad just inside the door and slipped them over my shoes.
Reaching for the light switch, I flipped it up and light flooded the room.
I squinted against the glare and resisted the urge to rub my gritty eyes. I needed several hours of uninterrupted sleep, but I needed answers more. I knew if I tried to go home or even back to Claire’s to sleep, I would just lie awake and wonder what, if anything, was missing from the house. So, here I was at almost one a.m., a phone full of photographs in hand. Riggs might have pulled me off the murder case, but checking photos wasn’t a conflict of interest. I could have easily gone to the station and compared Claire’s listing pictures with the ones the crime scene team took, but I figured I’d see more if I went to the house and compared things. The house hadn’t been touched since the pictures were taken, so I could confirm anything I found with the photos in the case file.
Relocking the door behind me—I didn’t want any surprises—I took out my phone and pulled up the folder I downloaded earlier.
When Claire sent me them earlier in the week, she kept them in the order she took them, which started with the outside of the house. I bypassed those—it was too dark to see anything amiss outside—and found the first few of the interior. I would just follow her path through the house.
Zooming in and out, I went through the living room, kitchen, and the couple other rooms downstairs, as well as the garage. Nothing looked different. Not that I expected it to. Whatever it was, I figured it was in Warren’s home office or the bedroom. Someplace out of sight of anyone who just happened by.
Systematically, I went through the spare bedrooms. They were bare. In both the photographs and now. Just to be sure, I checked the edges of the carpet all the way around the perimeter of the rooms, but it was tight to the walls.
Warren’s office and the master suite were last at the end of the upstairs hallway.
Finding the series of pictures of the office, I stepped inside. The space was neat and tidy. Everything had a home, and it all looked the same as the pictures. I checked out the books on the shelves and picked up all the little statuettes and other small décor pieces Warren had, but there were no hidden items anywhere.
That just left the master.
There had to be something there. This theory made sense. It fit with everything that had happened in the last week and a half.
With determined strides, I left the office and walked the few feet to the master bedroom. Flipping on the light, I took a quick initial stock of the room. A sharp metallic smell filled the air, courtesy of the blood stain on the wooden subfloor. Forensics had removed the carpet and padding beneath Marie’s body, both to check for the presence of someone else’s blood and for trace evidence.
With a picture of what the room currently looked like fresh in my mind, I took a look at the images Claire captured.
Nothing struck me as different.
I zoomed in on the dresser, looking at the handful of items on top, then both nightstands.
Absolutely nothing.
Clenching my teeth and trying not to swear a blue streak, I entered the walk-in closet. Piece by piece, I went through the clothes and paid particular attention to the safe.
Everything matched Claire’s pictures.
Now, only the master bath remained. I held on to the sliver of hope I still had left, but it was dangling by a frayed rope.
Walking in, I ran a quick glance over the room. The counters were clean. Only the soap dispensers beside each sink and a small vase with a single-stem fake flower between them decorated the space. A set of pristine gray towels hung from the towel bar by the shower. They matched the gray bathmat. In the corner, stood a wicker hamper with the lid closed.
The last thread of the rope snapped, letting my hope flutter away.
This should be easy to compare.
I scrolled to the images of the bathroom, noting the same barren counters, the same gray towels and bathmat, and the same hamper, the lid?—
Wait…
My heart leapt into my throat. The lid in the picture was closed, but there was something on top.
Gaze darting to the hamper, then back to the image on my phone, I zoomed in.
It looked like a sweatshirt.
Gray in color, it sat in a heap atop the hamper lid.
I zoomed in further. There was something on it; a logo of some sort. It looked a bit like the state flag, but I couldn’t tell for sure. There wasn’t enough of it visible.
Something niggled in the back of my mind.
It looked familiar. Not just because it looked like the state flag. I’d seen it before, but I couldn’t remember where.
Lowering the phone, I looked at the hamper again.
It definitely wasn’t there.
Maybe it was inside? Claire could have moved it. Or the forensics team, though I doubted that. They’d have made a note of it and I didn’t recall seeing anything about them moving clothing.
But I still walked over to the hamper and lifted the lid to look inside.
It was empty.
I let the lid fall back into place.
So, where was the sweatshirt? Whose was it? And what was the logo on the front?
Excitement built in my veins. Did the shirt belong to Marie Hammond’s killer? Or maybe he or she used it to wipe their hands or hide the murder weapon and took it with them.
Another possibility struck me. It could belong to one of the Hammonds and Marie or Warren moved it before the murder.
I spun on my heel and retraced my steps to the bedroom and went straight into the closet. Meticulously, I went through every item of clothing again. When the closet yielded nothing, I checked the dresser.
Nothing.
That hope I lost floated back into the room.
Lashing onto it with a stronger rope, I left the master suite and rechecked all the rooms upstairs.
Not finding the shirt, I descended the steps, heading for the laundry room.
Both the washer and dryer were empty.
That hope got a little stronger.
I went through the rest of the downstairs, even checking the garage again, but there was no sign of the shirt.
Was it Warren’s? Did he take it with him when he fled the house?
Had he even been here after Marie’s murder? I didn’t have any evidence he was at the house after he said he left for Boston.
But if it wasn’t his, whose was it?