Free Murder on the Mind by L.L. Bartlett Page B

was eager to move on.
    And then my mind went completely blank. I couldn’t think of a single question that didn’t involve finding the body and the entire grotesque situation. She picked up on my hesitation.
    “I’m curious about the insurance policy, Mr. Resnick. Can you tell me how much it’s worth, and who the beneficiary is?”
    Every muscle in my body tensed. “I’m just the investigator, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters.”
    “But surely you have an idea? Can you give me the policy number, or the date it was issued—anything to help me trace it?”
    “I’d be glad to get back to you on that.”
    Her gaze was steely. “I’d appreciate it.”
    It was time for me to get to the real reason for my visit. I pretended to consult my notes, posing the question as though it had no real relevance. “May I have a look in the garage?”
    Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “I suppose. Although there’s really not much to see. I had a cleaning service come through this morning.”
    I followed her through the house to a utility area. She pointed to the door. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t follow you.”
    “I quite understand.”
    Besides, I didn’t need a companion for this phase of my investigation.
    The double garage was cold, the only light coming through the frosted glass on the door to the back yard. I flipped the light switch to my left, and a lone bulb illuminated a room I was already familiar with. I’d heard crime scenes, especially where a homicide had been committed, are filled with an aura of anger, desperation, and pain. This place was no different, but Sumner’s murder had not been committed here.
    With no cars parked inside, the garage seemed cavernous and unnaturally tidy. The police had probably gone over every inch of it in search of evidence. Still, Claudia Sumner had been correct; there was little out of the ordinary to see.
    Matching bicycles hung from laminated hooks near built-in storage cupboards. No gardening equipment cluttered walls or shelves, yet I suspected that under the remaining snow the yard was perfectly landscaped and attended to by experts. A garage door opener stood silent vigil over the room. The newspaper stressed there’d been no forced entry. The killer could’ve used the remote to get in. No mention was made of it being found.
    Except for rope marks on the joist where the body had hung, and a brown stain on the concrete, now scrubbed almost clean, there was nothing of interest to see. But the lack of visible evidence didn’t mean there was nothing for me to experience.
    Closing my eyes, I tried to relax, to open myself to whatever psychic pipeline was feeding me information. In seconds that sick wave of anger and triumph filled me. Fear and a strong sense of revulsion swirled in the mix, but the queasy feelings I received were not from Matt Sumner. From the start, I’d gotten next to nothing from the victim.
    Clearing my mind of distracting thoughts, I concentrated, trying to conjure up the image of the deer running across a barren field.
     
    Instead, the vision that appeared before my mind’s eye wasn’t the tawny buck, but a naked, middle-aged man in bare feet, stumbling across the snow, racing for his life. The pronounced thwack of the arrow leaving the bow jarred me. Sumner’s anguished grunt of shock as the arrow connected with its target left my stomach reeling.
     
    The vision winked out. I let go of the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It wasn’t so bad now. I was already learning to distance myself from the other’s fear—to experience it, but not make it my own.
    But maybe that wasn’t the way to go. Maybe I needed to delve deeper, immerse myself in that sense of terror to truly understand what the witness had seen, felt. Yet my own sense of fear—survival instinct—kicked in. Someone had literally butchered Sumner, while another terrified someone had watched. I wasn’t willing to experience that