Page 127 of Don't Say a Word
“I figured,” I said.
Rachel King was talking to the ME when we approached, but her partner, Jerry Chavez, saw us and immediately came over. “Margo, thanks so much for reaching out. Officer Morales, can you make sure the line is secure? We just caught two kids trying to sneak through.”
He said it with a smile, clearly trying to play nice.
“No problem,” Josie said. She glanced at me, made sure I knew that she would be close. What did she think, that King was going to arrest me?
When Josie stepped back to the crime scene tape, Chavez said, “Seriously, thanks. What can you tell me?”
He was edging me slowly away from King and I wondered if he hadn’t told her I was here. But she saw me, said something to the ME as he and his team went into the building, and made a beeline for us.
“Why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of this?” King said with a deep scowl.
“Goodbye,” I said and started to leave.
“Hold up,” Chavez said. He reached out and held my arm. I looked down at his hand and he immediately removed it. “That came out wrong,” he said.
“Don’t apologize for your partner.”
King said, “You avoided me all day when I wanted to talk to you about Lena Clark, and then an hour after a body is found you’re willing to help? What are you in the middle of?”
“I told you. Elijah Martinez’s mother hired me to find out where her son was during the time when he left work until he died in the park.”
“And have you?” she snapped.
I didn’t answer her question. Instead, I said, “Parsons didn’t kill himself.”
“We have a note, gunshot appears to be self-inflicted, and a half dozen people said he was depressed. Guilt has a way of doing that.”
“Wraps up your homicide with a pretty bow,” I said.
“You have one minute to explain why you don’t think he killed himself, make it good.”
I pressed Play on my voicemail. The detectives listened to his message. At the end King said, “That’s not evidence of anything.”
“After he left the message, I called him back and left my own message, then he texted me and we scheduled a meeting for this morning at my office.”
“Not evidence that he didn’t kill his girlfriend and then himself out of guilt. A delayed murder-suicide.”
“Did he sound like he was in a suicidal mindset?” I said, holding up my phone.
“Send me the message,” King said. “I’ll consider it once I get the ME’s report.”
“As long as you keep an open mind,” I said.
Though her jaw was clenched, King dipped her head with a nod.
I sent her a copy of the voicemail. “Can I see the note?”
“No.”
Chavez bumped King lightly. “Maybe just a look.”
She glared at him, then breathed out a long sigh. She pulled up an image on her phone. “Look, don’t copy. I mean it.”
The photo consisted of a bloody note written on blank white paper, like what might be found in a copier. His hand was partly visible. Parsons—or the killer—had written in block letters witha black Sharpie, the thick ink making handwriting analysis much more difficult.
I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I killed Lena. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but she broke it off and I love her so much. I don’t even remember picking up her letter opener, but I did. And I killed her and I can’t live with myself. I’m so sorry.
