Scared Stiff by Annelise Ryan

created an odd sort of bond between us.
    “So tell me your thoughts,” I say again. “Why would anyone kill Shannon?”
    Erik shakes his head and stares miserably at his feet. “I wish I knew. The only person I can think of is this shrink she was dating. He strikes me as a shady character but I realize I’m biased.”
    I nod thoughtfully, acknowledging his prejudice. “What is it about him that you don’t like, other than the obvious?”
    Erik shrugs. “He’s got veiled eyes. You know what I mean, the kind of eyes that always look like they’re hiding something. And he never answers a question directly. Instead he always asks another question.”
    This doesn’t surprise me and I’m not sure I agree with Erik’s assessment. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and counselors in general are trained to answer questions with questions. It’s a standard tool taught in Psych 101. What Erik is interpreting as veiled eyes may simply be Nelson’s attempt to look objective and impassive when others are talking to him.
    “How long had Shannon been dating him?”
    “A couple months, I think, but I can’t be sure.”
    “Did she share any thoughts about him with you?”
    He looks sheepish. “We didn’t discuss him much. I admit I had a tendency to get rather, um, emotional whenever the topic arose.”
    “Understandable,” I say. Then I quickly shift gears on him. “Shannon was shot with a .38 and Detective Hurley says you own one.”
    Erik nods. “They came early yesterday morning and tore my place apart looking for it and any other evidence.”
    “Did they find any?”
    “How could they? I didn’t do this, Mattie.”
    “So where is the gun?”
    “I left it with Shannon.” He pauses and lets forth a pained, ironic laugh. “I figured she could use it for protection since she was living alone. She said she was afraid of the stupid thing and would never touch it, but I left it with her just the same and suggested that she get some lessons on how to use it.”
    “Do you know where she kept it?”
    “Last time I saw it, it was in the spare bedroom closet.”
    “When did you last see it there?”
    His brow furrows as he thinks. “I’m not sure. Several weeks ago, I think. I came by to pick up some of my clothes and I saw the box in its usual spot up on the shelf.” He pauses a moment and then asks, “Do you know the time of death yet?”
    “It looks like she was killed around eight P.M., give or take a couple of hours.”
    Erik’s shoulders sag and I know he comprehends the significance of this finding. “It doesn’t look good for me, does it?” he says, looking utterly miserable.
    “There’s no hard evidence pointing to you. Everything is circumstantial and it’s still pretty early in the investigation.”
    His expression brightens for a second, but it’s short-lived because the door to our room opens and I turn to see Hurley standing there with a couple of uniform cops.
    “Erik Tolliver,” Hurley says, “you are under arrest for the murder of Shannon Tolliver. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . .”
    As Hurley recites his Miranda warning, the two cops approach Erik, who willingly succumbs to being handcuffed. He mutters an acknowledgment of his rights when asked, then allows the officers to steer him from the room. I watch as he’s paraded through the ER, looking ashamed, humiliated, and completely without hope. The ER staff and patients watch in silence, but I can tell they are all mentally rehearsing their respective recital of the events for later.
    My heart goes out to Erik and, as the cops lead him out the doors toward a waiting patrol car, I give Hurley a dirty look. “That was tacky. Couldn’t you have done this somewhere other than his place of work? And aren’t you being a bit premature?”
    “Not at all,” he answers. I expect him to look smug but seeing the effect Erik’s arrest has had on me, he looks sympathetic instead. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I