Page 42 of Sinful Justice

“Cruel way to go,” Fletch growls low on his breath. “Is there anything else you can tell us about her?”

“She scratched her attacker.” Minka takes Louisa’s hand, the tips of her fingers also showing signs of frostbite, and photographs what appears to be dirt and blood under her nails. “I think we’ll pull good samples off this once we get her inside.”

“Alright.” Bringing a hand up to rub across my face, I turn away from the girl and search my crime scene.

Minka and Aubree’s job is to study the girl, to determine how she died and find proof for me to hand to a judge when it’s time to sentence our perpetrator. My job is to find the rest. To have a body to attach to the DNA pulled from the little girl’s nails.

“Okay. You two take care of her. Fletch and I will get the rest. Come on.” I tap his elbow and break his attention away from the tear tracks frozen on the side of Louisa’s face. “Let’s start with the mother, then the neighbor. Then we’ll cast the net wider.”

* * *

“Mrs. Thoma. I’m Detective Malone, and this is my partner, Detective Charlie Fletcher.” I show her my badge and slowly inch closer to the woman whose eyes are wild with grief.

She sits in the back of an ambulance, bundled from the cold, and shaking while she holds a wasted oxygen mask. EMTs said she was hyperventilating and close to losing consciousness. Now, she’s stepped firmly into shock and silence.

“We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Thoma. But I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“She was supposed to be getting ready for bed.” Mrs. Thoma’s voice is robotic. Unfeeling. “I sent her up to brush her teeth.”

“Can we discuss Louisa’s steps through the evening, Mrs. Thoma? It would be helpful for us to know what led us to where we are now.”

“She was brushing her teeth.” Devastated gray eyes come up and search mine. “She went upstairs with her sisters to brush their teeth. Because we’d just finished dessert.” Her gaze slowly swings to Fletcher. Her mind, no doubt, running slower than honey through a sieve. “We had apple pie and ice cream for dessert.”

“What time did you have dinner, Mrs. Thoma?”

“Around… around…” Fresh tears slide over her cheeks. “Um… I think I served up at six.” She looks to me, like she thinks she has to defend that statement. “We eat early.”

“I like to eat early too,” Fletch inserts with a comforting smile. “Can you tell us what was happening when you told her to go upstairs to brush her teeth?”

“I was washing the dishes.”

Her eyes cut across the yard at the sound of an opening and closing door. Light from the house spills out onto the porch, then a man who can’t be less than two hundred and fifty pounds of apple pie and ice cream steps to the edge of the porch and stops.

Mrs. Thoma’s widening eyes, her jerky body language, sends my adrenaline kicking into the next gear.

“Mrs. Thoma?” I try to bring her attention back to me. “Ma’am?”

“Who is that, Mrs. Thoma?” Fletch tries next. “Who is that man?”

“That’s my… that’s… Mr. Thoma.” Tears spill over her lashes and torrent down to her quivering jaw. “Please find who hurt my baby, Detective Malone.” Her voice quivers as the formidable Mr. Thoma moves down the steps of his porch and makes his way closer. “Please find who did that to my baby.”

“I’m gonna figure it out.” Reaching across, I place my hand over hers for a moment—a test, I suppose. And when the woman’s breath catches, and the man’s face grows hotter with rage, I play my action off when I cup the mask she holds and push it up to cover her mouth and nose. “Keep that up, Mrs. Thoma. It’ll help you.”

Straightening my spine, I look to the guy and tilt my head to the side when a spot of tissue on his neck, stark white in the darkness, catches my attention.

“Mr. Thoma?” I step forward and offer my hand.

The moment he wraps his palm around mine and squeezes, I plaster on a smile that gives him nothing of what circles in my mind. “I’m Detective Malone. And my partner, Detective Fletcher. First, we’d like to offer our deepest sympathies for your loss.”

I let him release my hand, and when he steps back, my eyes are drawn to another spot of blood. This one soaks through the sleeve of his light coat. “Can you tell me your version of events from tonight?”

“My version?” His voice is stronger than his wife’s. Heavier and more domineering. He’s a man used to commanding a room, I think. A man used to having his orders followed. “What do you meanmyversion? You saying we’d have different versions?”

“You’re different people, Mr. Thoma.” Fletch steps in and fakes a smile. “Mrs. Thoma said she was doing the dishes. So unless you were standing right beside her rinsing them off, you were somewhere else in the house. Your perspective will be different, so we’d like to hear it. The more we know, the closer we’ll come to solving this tragedy.”

“I was in the shed out back. Changing the oil in the lawnmower.”

“The lawnmower?” I make a show of taking out a pad of paper and a pen, though I long ago started recording. Permission asked and received by the shaky Mrs. Thoma. “Did you have dinner inside with everyone else before going to the shed?”

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