Read Online Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense by Mike Doogan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Doogan
Tags: Mystery
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preliminary report, and a preliminary medical report.
The janitor’s statement was straightforward enough: He’d been cleaning, saw a light, found Hope standing over the body, fled. He didn’t remember seeing Senator Hope or anyone else in the hallways, but he’d been in and out of many rooms, cleaning.
The security guard heard the janitor’s screams, intercepted him, and, when he’d managed to get a coherent statement, dialed 911. The guard had found Hope sitting on a coffee table with his head in his hands and kept him there until the police arrived. While they waited, Hope told the security guard he hadn’t done it. The guard, who was stationed on the ground floor, had no idea who might have been on the fifth floor that night.
The arresting officer reported that, by the time the first officers responded, Hope would only say that he wanted a lawyer. Hope was taken to the police station. A lawyer named Simmons, who was also in the legislature and one of Hope’s allies, arrived and said his client wouldn’t be answering questions. Hope was booked on suspicion of murder.
The arresting officer’s report included several photos of the crime scene. They showed the body lying very close to the desk belonging to the office’s inhabitant, Senate Finance Committee Chairman O. B. Potter. There were no signs of a struggle. A white blouse and black skirt belonging to the victim were neatly folded on an armchair. A white lace bra lay at one end of the big, leather couch, a pair of white lace thong panties at the other end. The body wore white stockings and a white lace garter belt, embroidered with the now-famous white rose, that held them up.
The body had been identified by a coworker, a Letitia Potter. Ms. Potter had answered the phone when investigators called the home of Senator O. B. Potter, and volunteered to come to the crime scene.
Some relation of Senator O. B. Potter, Kane thought. Ah, nepotism.
The medical examiner said the victim had been freshly dead when the janitor discovered Hope standing over her body. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma. The killer managed to do the job with a single blow, which, the ME noted, suggested both strength and luck. The wound was consistent with the crystal paperweight Hope had been holding when discovered. The only other thing he noted was indications that the victim had recently engaged in vigorous sexual intercourse. Maybe rape, maybe not.
Kane bundled the files back together, got up from the table, and looked out the window. Juneau was spread out below him, going about its early-morning business on icy streets and sidewalks. A steady stream of automobile and foot traffic was headed toward the three big government buildings on the hillside to his right. To his left, the land and buildings sloped away to the water. Clouds obscured the tops of the mountains across the channel on Douglas Island, and a fog bank hugged the water. He could just make out the mast of a fishing boat groping its way down the channel toward open water.
The lack of information in the files didn’t surprise Kane. He’d done hundreds of investigations in his years on the force, dozens involving death. He knew that the paperwork would pile up as the investigation went on: statements from people who had been in the building that night, statements from people who knew the victim and the suspect, reports on all the forensics that were popular on TV these days, the grand jury report. All of the information would make its way, as the law required, to the suspect’s attorney and then to Kane. In two weeks, the files would be an inch thick. In a month, three inches.
Eventually, the files would contain Matthew Hope’s life, at least as much as investigators could discover.
This attempt to capture a human being on paper always struck Kane as a bizarre form of literary endeavor. Kane had often joked about it with other cops. “The Case File as Novel,” he’d say. Cops were among the most prosaic
The janitor’s statement was straightforward enough: He’d been cleaning, saw a light, found Hope standing over the body, fled. He didn’t remember seeing Senator Hope or anyone else in the hallways, but he’d been in and out of many rooms, cleaning.
The security guard heard the janitor’s screams, intercepted him, and, when he’d managed to get a coherent statement, dialed 911. The guard had found Hope sitting on a coffee table with his head in his hands and kept him there until the police arrived. While they waited, Hope told the security guard he hadn’t done it. The guard, who was stationed on the ground floor, had no idea who might have been on the fifth floor that night.
The arresting officer reported that, by the time the first officers responded, Hope would only say that he wanted a lawyer. Hope was taken to the police station. A lawyer named Simmons, who was also in the legislature and one of Hope’s allies, arrived and said his client wouldn’t be answering questions. Hope was booked on suspicion of murder.
The arresting officer’s report included several photos of the crime scene. They showed the body lying very close to the desk belonging to the office’s inhabitant, Senate Finance Committee Chairman O. B. Potter. There were no signs of a struggle. A white blouse and black skirt belonging to the victim were neatly folded on an armchair. A white lace bra lay at one end of the big, leather couch, a pair of white lace thong panties at the other end. The body wore white stockings and a white lace garter belt, embroidered with the now-famous white rose, that held them up.
The body had been identified by a coworker, a Letitia Potter. Ms. Potter had answered the phone when investigators called the home of Senator O. B. Potter, and volunteered to come to the crime scene.
Some relation of Senator O. B. Potter, Kane thought. Ah, nepotism.
The medical examiner said the victim had been freshly dead when the janitor discovered Hope standing over her body. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma. The killer managed to do the job with a single blow, which, the ME noted, suggested both strength and luck. The wound was consistent with the crystal paperweight Hope had been holding when discovered. The only other thing he noted was indications that the victim had recently engaged in vigorous sexual intercourse. Maybe rape, maybe not.
Kane bundled the files back together, got up from the table, and looked out the window. Juneau was spread out below him, going about its early-morning business on icy streets and sidewalks. A steady stream of automobile and foot traffic was headed toward the three big government buildings on the hillside to his right. To his left, the land and buildings sloped away to the water. Clouds obscured the tops of the mountains across the channel on Douglas Island, and a fog bank hugged the water. He could just make out the mast of a fishing boat groping its way down the channel toward open water.
The lack of information in the files didn’t surprise Kane. He’d done hundreds of investigations in his years on the force, dozens involving death. He knew that the paperwork would pile up as the investigation went on: statements from people who had been in the building that night, statements from people who knew the victim and the suspect, reports on all the forensics that were popular on TV these days, the grand jury report. All of the information would make its way, as the law required, to the suspect’s attorney and then to Kane. In two weeks, the files would be an inch thick. In a month, three inches.
Eventually, the files would contain Matthew Hope’s life, at least as much as investigators could discover.
This attempt to capture a human being on paper always struck Kane as a bizarre form of literary endeavor. Kane had often joked about it with other cops. “The Case File as Novel,” he’d say. Cops were among the most prosaic
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