With a Twist by Jack Kilborn Page A

Their spines were splashed with blood, but I could make out some authors: Carr, Chandler, Chesterton. Perez pointed to a pristine sheet of white typing paper, tacked to the shelf between Sladek and Stout. The handwriting on it was done in black marker. I snugged on a pair of latex gloves I keep in my blazer pocket, and picked up the note.
    God doesn’t understand. Eternal peace I desire. The only way out is death. Answers come to those who seek. Can’t get through another day. Let me rest. Until we meet in heaven. Edward.
    I pondered the message for a moment, then returned to Benedict and Blasky.
    “What about a steamroller?” Herb was asking. “That would crush a body, right?”
    “It wouldn’t explain the spatters. Also, unless there’s a steamroller in the closet, I don’t see how…”
    I interrupted. “I’m looking around, Herb. When the techies get here, I want video of everything.”
    “That a suicide note?” Herb pointed his chin at the paper I held.
    “Yeah. Strange, though. Take a peek and let me know if you spot the anomaly.”
    “Anomaly? You’ve been watching too many of those cop shows on TV.”
    I winked at him. “I’ll let you know if I find the steamroller.”
    Notebook in hand, I went to explore the house. It was a modest two bedroom split-level, in a good neighborhood on the upper north side. Nine-one-one had gotten an anonymous call from a nearby payphone, someone stating that he’d walked past the house and smelled a horrible stench. The officers who caught the call claimed to hear gunshots, and entered through a window. They discovered the body, but found no evidence of any gun or shooter.
    I checked the back door again. Still locked, the deadbolt in place. The door was old, its white paint fading, contrast to the new decorative trim around the frame.
    I checked the linoleum floor and found it clean, polished, pristine.
    Running my finger along the door frame, I picked up dust, dirt, and some white powder. I sniffed. Plaster. The hinges were solid, tarnished with age. The knob was heavy brass, and the deadbolt shiny steel. Both in perfect working order.
    I turned the deadbolt and opened the door. It must have been warped with age, because it only opened 3/4 of the way and then rubbed against the kitchen floor. I walked outside.
    The backyard consisted of a well-kept vegetable garden and twelve tall bushes that lined the perimeter fence, offering privacy from the neighbors. I examined the outside of the door and found nothing unusual. The door frame had trim that matched the interior. The porch was clean. I knelt on the welcome mat and examined the strike panel and the lock mechanisms. Both were solid, normal.
    I stood, brushed some sawdust from my knee, and went back into the house.
    The windows seemed normal, untampered with. There was broken glass on the floor by the window where the uniforms had entered. Other than being shattered, it also appeared normal.
    The front door was unlocked; after breaching the residence through the window, the uniforms had opened the door to let the rest of the crew inside. I examined the door, and didn’t find anything unusual.
    The kitchen was small, tidy. A Dell puzzle magazine rested on the table, next to the salt and pepper. Another sat by the sink. The dishwasher contained eight clean mason jars, with lids, and a turkey baster. Nothing else. No garbage in the garbage can. The refrigerator was empty except for a box of baking soda. The freezer contained three full trays of ice cubes.
    I checked cabinets, found a few glasses and dishes, but no food. The drawers held silverware, some dishtowels, and a full box of Swedish Fish cherry gummy candy.
    I left the kitchen for the den, sat at the late Edward Wyatt’s desk, and inched my way through it. There was a bankbook for a savings account. It held $188,679.42—up until last month when the account had been emptied out.
    I kept digging and found a file full of receipts dating back ten years. Last month,