Read Online Unrevealed by Laurel Dewey - Free Book Online

I opened the drawer and pulled out the items, one after the other. I examined the tags and then replaced each one exactly the way I found it. I wasn’t sure how this whole thing was going to play out, but I sure as hell hoped for a favorable outcome.
    Four days passed. I got a call from the doc who had completed the autopsy on Abbey Gambrel. The cause of death was 100 percent certain. I got off the phone and took a deep breath and then rushed downstairs into the evidence room and signed off on the lacy panties I’d sealed in the plastic Kapak baggie. I was just getting off the elevator to walk back into Homicide when I saw Winston Gambrel standing in the hallway. I quickly secured the Kapak baggie behind my back. Gambrel looked disheveled, as though he hadn’t slept in days. Under his arm, he carried a section of the Denver newspaper. He turned to me. Agony mapped his weary face.
    â€œDetective,” he said, his voice shaking. “I need to talk to you.” The broad British a was pronounced when he said the word talk .
    â€œI was actually just about to give you a call,” I told him, watching him closely.
    He didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he studied the carpet in a lost gaze. “My world is crashing down around me.” Emotion overtook him and he began to weep. “Have you read today’s paper?”
    I shook my head, and he reluctantly withdrew the section he had tucked under his arm. The article, on the front page of the local section, featured a sensationalized story about the Gambrel case. From the little I scanned, the journalist who penned it intimated that “sources” suggested a sexual slant to the death of Winston’s wife. While any mention of
the bloodied lace panties was kept out of the story, the writer got around that by citing, “some investigators on the scene are considering whether a sexual motive led to the death of Abbey Gambrel.” Fuck , I thought. I was the only investigator on the scene, so this “journalist” obviously got the story from some rookie cop who hadn’t learned to keep his goddamn trap shut.
    â€œI’m assuming that police searched my house that night?” Gambrel asked me, his eyes pooled with fear.
    â€œI was the only one collecting evidence that evening, sir.”
    He looked at me, nearly paralyzed, for a hard minute. “I see.”
    â€œI was up on the landing. And in your bedroom.”
    The color drained out of Gambrel’s face. He turned away, wiping his tears. “This could go to trial — ”
    â€œSir,” I tried to interrupt him.
    â€œI can’t go through a trial, Detective. This is killing me already. God, it’s all so random.”
    So random. Yes. It is, I thought. “Mr. Gambrel, please — ”
    â€œI have something to confess, Detective,” he said, looking me in the eye. “I killed…my wife.…” He reached out and rested his arm on my shoulder as he dropped his head and sobbed.
    I looked at Mr. Gambrel and watched the unrelenting pain course through his muscles. Waves of anguish rose and fell across his chest as he gritted his teeth and gripped my shoulder tightly.
    I led him to one of our interrogation rooms and directed him to sit in one of DH’s metal chairs, which leave a lot to be desired in the comfort department. I excused myself briefly, returning to my nearby office to retrieve several key
pieces of evidence and information I would need for the conversation. I secured them, along with the Kapak, in a large manila folder. I also grabbed a tape recorder and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. When I returned to the tiny interrogation room, I found Mr. Gambrel with his head buried in his arms on the metal table. His brawny six-foot, four-inch frame barely fit beneath the table. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the water.
    He seemed dismayed by my gesture. “Do you always give cold bottled water to