Free Judged by E. H. Reinhard Page B

had one woman that was similar, I assumed Alice Schipper. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with short blond hair. From the couple pictures of her rock climbing, I figured that was her hobby of choice. The only photo that included a man was one of her being presented a plaque by Scobee. On the floor to the right of her desk were a couple of filled boxes with the tops open. I craned my neck to get a better view of the contents. Miscellaneous awards, certifications, and some photos filled the boxes. I leaned forward and moved a plaque to one side with my fingertip to get a better look at a photo—it was of Glen Scobee. I leaned back in my chair.
    A minute or two later, the office door opened at my back. I turned, saw the woman from the photos, and stood to greet her.
    “Ms. Schipper?” I asked.
    “Yes. Kevin said that you were with the FBI and had some questions regarding Glen.”
    “Correct,” I said.
    She rounded her desk, and I retook my seat.
    “What can I help you with?” she asked.
    I took the woman in. While she was dressed for business, something about her struck me as disheveled, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.
    “What was your relationship with Mr. Scobee?” I asked.
    “Professional,” she said quickly.
    The answer immediately struck me as off.
    “Um, okay,” I said. “Mr. Prassey had said that you were a family friend earlier?”
    “Oh, I was close with Rachael. His wife.”
    “And how long have you known her?”
    “Six or seven years.”
    “Sure, and you knew Glen Scobee for the same amount of time?”
    “Roughly,” she said.
    “Okay. I guess what I’m looking for is someone who was close enough to know his routines. What he did and where he went. The night of Mr. Scobee’s murder, he didn’t return home until the early morning hours. Have any idea where he went?”
    She didn’t immediately respond. A moment later, she shook her head.
    I scratched my cheek and looked at the woman, who looked away. Something was up. She wasn’t behaving normally.
    “Did you know any of the Scobees’ other friends or family?” I asked.
    “A couple of friends that would show for a dinner party here or there. I never met any of their family, though. Both he and Rachael were only children.”
    “Right,” I said. “So who were you going to give Scobee’s personal items to?”
    “What?” she asked.
    I pointed to the open boxes. “The boxes of his personal items.”
    “Oh, they were going to throw them away, so I, um, brought them up here.”
    “To give them to someone?” I asked.
    She rubbed her nose. “Yeah, I’ll have to get in touch with his family somehow to collect the stuff.”
    “Okay. So you don’t know what he was out doing the night he was killed? Can you think of anyone who would?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Do you know any places that he might frequent late at night?”
    “I wouldn’t know that,” she said.
    “You guys never talked about anything non-work-related when you went to lunch? It seems to me that a pair of friends who went to lunch together a few times weekly would know something about the others interests, places they go, things like that.”
    She didn’t respond.
    “You were close with his wife? Did she ever mention anything?”
    Ms. Schipper looked away and didn’t answer my question. When she looked back, tears were welling in her eyes.
    “He was at my house the night he was killed, okay?” She wiped her eyes with her fingers and sniffed. “Glen and I had been having a relationship for a few years. He was planning on leaving Rachael.”
    I nodded. That revelation was the conclusion I’d been building toward. I pulled out my notepad to take notes. I had a feeling the woman would give me a decent amount of information. “What time did he leave your house?”
    “Two thirty in the morning or so.”
    I wrote that down. “Okay. Did he ever mention that maybe someone had been following him?”
    “Following him? No.”
    “Nothing