Nervous Water by William G. Tapply Page A

one of those foot-long cop flashlights in her hand.
    I nodded. “I’ve done this before.”
    She looked at me out of the sides of her eyes. “What kind of lawyer did you say you were?”
    â€œFamily law, mostly. Some litigation. I’ve been getting into divorce mediation lately. I sort of specialize in helping people.”
    â€œBut you’ve been at crime scenes.”
    I smiled. “Oh, sure. Plenty of times.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I won’t ask.” She paused at the door and handed me a plastic envelope containing a pair of latex gloves. “You know what these are for, then.”
    I blew into them and slipped them on, and she wiggled her fingers into a pair, too.
    Moze’s front door was unlocked. Charlene turned the knob and pushed it open. We stepped directly into the living room. She put her hand on my arm, and I stopped. “Just look around,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”
    The thin cotton curtains were pulled shut over all the windows, and the room was shadowy and musty. It felt unlived in, even though Moze had been found there only that morning. “It looks about the way it looked when I was here the other day,” I said. “Kind of messy.”
    â€œAnything missing, out of place?”
    I shook my head. “I’m not noticing anything.”
    â€œAccording to the EMTs, he was lying there.” She flicked on her flashlight and shone it on the floor in the middle of the room, where the carpet was bunched up.
    â€œIn his pajamas,” I said. “Could they give you any estimate of what time it happened?”
    She turned off the flashlight. “They thought it would’ve been about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before they treated him. They figured he would’ve died if they’d gotten here much later than that.”
    â€œAnd that was…?”
    â€œA little before seven this morning.”
    â€œSo this must’ve happened around five thirty or six,” I said. “Moze is sleeping in his bedroom. He hears something, gets up, it’s just starting to get light outside so he doesn’t bother turning on any lights. He comes here, into the living room, still half asleep, and somebody punches him. He falls backward. Has a heart attack. Maybe it was the punch. Maybe it was the surprise, the shock, the fright.”
    She nodded. “That’s about how I figure it.”
    â€œIt was probably still too dark for him to see anything more than shadows,” I said.
    â€œShe might’ve said something. They might’ve had a conversation.”
    â€œShe,” I said. “Meaning Cassie.”
    Charlene shrugged. “She, he. If it was Cassie, and if she did speak, Mr. Crandall would’ve recognized her voice, whether or not he got a good look at her.”
    â€œIt could’ve just been some random burglar.”
    â€œSure,” she said. “We’ve been known to have random burglars here in Moulton. Kids, more often than not. Mr. Crandall says it was Cassie, but okay, sure. Unreliable witness. It could’ve been anybody. Maybe a female burgler that he mistook for Cassie. That’s why I want you to look carefully, see if you notice anything missing. We’ll start with this room. Then we’ll move on to the others. Take your time.”
    I looked around slowly, consulting my mental picture of the place, trying to be methodical, taking each section of the room separately. When I finished, my eyes went back to the big console television in the corner.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I got it.”
    â€œGot what?”
    â€œSomething missing.” I pointed. “There were about a dozen framed photos on top of that TV. They were mostly of Cassie.”
    Now the top of the television was bare.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Good. That’s good. Anything else?”
    â€œNo. Nothing.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWere