Coding Isis (8 page)

‘Don’t forget your phone Chris.’

Naylor watched the smile fall from Chris’s face like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
You poor bastard
, he thought.
If you’re going to lie, you really need to get better at it.

Chris walked alongside Naylor until they reached an old car. It was tan, in good condition, but dirty. It looked like a real gas guzzler. Some people would call it vintage, or a classic, but to him it was a relic of a bygone age and should be scrapped like a piece of junk. The inside of the car didn’t fare much better. Empty sandwich cartons, soda cans, and coffee cups littered the foot wells.

‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ said Naylor. He smiled. Chris figured he wasn’t really all that sorry. Chris climbed in among the garbage and fastened his seat belt. The engine started and ran with the deep throb of a V-8.

Chris said, ‘So how did it go with the students? Did you get anything useful?’

‘No. Not really. I think you’re right about the girl. She had friends, and she was liked, but no one was close to her. Some of them said she seemed to spend a lot of time with you. I guess that was working on your project, right?’

‘That’s right. I told you about that,’ said Chris, but as soon as he said it, he realized how defensive his tone was. He needed to relax. He wasn’t in any trouble.

Naylor said, ‘Did you ever meet outside of work?’

Chris wondered whether to come clean about the phone message. He knew that everything would come out eventually, but deep down he hoped it would all somehow go away. There was no point in volunteering information, but he didn’t want to appear as though he had something to hide either. ‘Yes we met outside of work sometimes,’ he said. ‘She liked to run. So do I. We’d run in the park together but not regularly. Talk about work, brainstorm, you know?’

There was no response from Naylor. He just drove. Chris tried to ignore the urge to say more. He listened to the sound of the car.

They arrived at the station and Naylor pulled the heavy car into the yard. There were rows of police cruisers parked up. Change of shift he figured. They walked in to the station and Naylor went up to the desk, he turned to Chris and told him he’d try to get them a room, like they were just going to have a meeting.
He’s being very low-key about this
, thought Chris.
Maybe he just wants to get my statement, maybe he really did need to give the office back
. Naylor led them to a room. A uniformed cop stood by the door and opened it for them.

Naylor said, ‘Just make yourself comfortable, while I get a pad and recorder. Can I get you a coffee?’

Chris nodded to the coffee question and walked in to the room. There was a table and two chairs, the walls were painted a pale blue and the ceiling was white. Three strips of fluorescent lighting gave a stark brilliance to the room, a cold and clinical light, like an operating theater. There was a mirror that ran the length of the right hand wall. Chris walked around the table and sat at the furthest chair so he could see the door. The mirror was now on his left. He wondered if he was being watched. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and switched it off. He really should call Michelle. Let her know where he was. He put the phone back in his pocket and slouched back in the chair and waited.

After about twenty minutes, Naylor came into the room. He was carrying a stack of papers, or folders, with a tape recorder perched on top. Another cop followed him into the room, with two coffees. He placed them on the table and then left, closing the door behind him. There was no handle on the inside of the door. Naylor spread out his papers and folder on the table and put a cassette in the recorder.

He said, ‘You don’t mind if I record your statement do you?’

Chris recognized the question as rhetorical. He nodded and then took a sip of coffee. It tasted burnt, like it had sat in the percolator all day.

Naylor said, ‘So, Chris, tell me about Jasmine. How well did you know her?’

‘I already told you.’

Naylor said, ‘For the record.’ He tapped the table near the recorder. Non-threatening. Just routine.

Chris recounted his relationship with Jasmine and Naylor made notes, occasionally glancing up and making eye contact, smiling. Friendly, reassuring. He said, ‘Can you tell me where you were on the day Jasmine was killed, between 6:00AM and 7:00AM.’

‘I was at work. Alone. I was asleep on the sofa in my office. I’d had a long night, working, finishing some code for my presentation, remember?’

Naylor said, ‘Can anyone confirm that’s where you were at that time?’

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Chris. ‘I was asleep. I don’t know if anyone saw me, but I doubt it. It’s a bit early for staff and students. Michelle came in around 7:30AM, she brought me breakfast.’

‘So I understand Mr. Sanders. When was the last time you saw Jasmine alive?’

‘I already told you this,’ said Chris. He was starting to feel frustrated.

‘Indulge me,’ said Naylor.

Chris went through the details of when they had last met once more. Naylor waited for Chris to finish and then continued writing for a minute or so. It seemed longer. Then he put the pen down and looked up. He said, ‘Do you know how we identified Jasmine, Mr. Sanders?’

Chris thought about it and said, ‘Dental records?’

Naylor’s expression changed. Half interest, half puzzlement. He said, ‘It’s funny, most people think of driving license, or other personal effects before they think of dental records.’

‘She was running,’ said Chris. ‘She wouldn’t be carrying her ID.’

Naylor said, ‘Actually we got her ID by unlocking her phone and tracing her records through her network provider.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of the folder and slid it to the front of the table. ‘We also got details of her most recent activities, calls made, missed calls, that sort of thing. Do you know what we found Mr. Sanders?’

Chris didn’t like the way he was suddenly
Mr. Sanders
and no longer
Chris
. This conversation didn’t seem to be the friendly chat, he thought it would be and he began to wonder whether he should be finding a lawyer. But he had nothing to hide, so there was no reason to get a lawyer. Yet. ‘Judging from my phone,’ he said, ‘I’d say she made at least twenty-three calls, with that number to my mobile phone.’

‘Interesting,’ said Naylor. ‘You’re a smart man Mr. Sanders. You obviously know that in this modern age, people leave a trail. The web sites you visit, your emails, your social-networking activity, phone calls. Everything is recorded. If there’s anything you think you should be telling us about your relationship with Jasmine, now would be a good time to come clean. It’s better that we find out from you than from examining your computer.’ He looked up from his paper and his eyes darted from side to side, as though trying to read his mind. More likely he was trying to read his expression. Was he sweating? Was his gaze casting up to the right? Was he about to lie?

Chris looked at him straight, no glancing away, no touching his face, no nervous gestures. He said, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. You can check my phone records, my computer, if you want. It’s true Jasmine had been trying to reach me. I didn’t see the missed calls until this morning. She left me a voicemail too, I’ve only just heard that. My relationship with Jasmine was purely platonic. I love my wife. I wasn’t having an affair with her and I certainly didn’t kill her.’ Chris pushed back from the table and folded his arms.

Naylor’s expression softened and he seemed genuinely concerned that he may have somehow upset Chris. ‘I’m only taking a statement, Mr. Sanders, really there’s no need to get upset. I’m trying to get an understanding of who was close to Jasmine, who was the last to see her and who, if anyone, may have had a motive to kill her. So far, you have a lot of circumstantial evidence that points to you being quite involved with her, and certainly having had a lot of contact with her just prior to her death. No one can account for your whereabouts at the time she was killed. If you didn’t kill her Mr. Sanders, you must be the unluckiest son-of-a-bitch on this planet.’

Chris said nothing. He was beginning to suspect that he may actually be the unluckiest S.O.B. on the planet. He’d had fun working with Jasmine, but nothing more. Now everyone thought he was screwing her, and this asshole cop thought he’d killed her. The situation was getting beyond his control.

Naylor opened a bag on his desk and pulled out a plastic envelope. He put a pair of silicone gloves on, the kind a dentist would use, then he started to open the bag. He said, ‘I’m pleased you have nothing to hide Mr. Sanders, and that you want to cooperate. I’m wondering, would you allow me to take a swab of your hands? We’d like to perform a test for traces of gun powder that may indicate whether you have recently fired a gun. Just to eliminate you, you understand.’

Chris looked at the swab in Naylor’s right hand. He said, ‘I think I’d like to speak to my lawyer now.’

The man in Chris’s office, logged on to his computer. He’d been given the username and password he needed by a technician when he’d shown the warrant allowing him to search and seize all computer records or equipment that may have been used by Chris Sanders. He wasn’t going to take anything away at this stage, but he did take a dump of all emails from Chris’s inbox, and his deleted items too. He noticed there was an email from Jasmine, Ben would like this, and maybe he was right about this guy after all. He finished copying the emails to his thumb-drive and then printed the one from Jasmine. He then logged out of Chris’s account and signed in as Jasmine. He took a copy of all of the emails, which he backed up to the small storage device. The flash drive was no bigger than a dime, yet could store over four thousand copies of
War and Peace
. He looked for the latest sent items. He found the message that had been sent to Chris and printed it, the others would be examined back at the station.

When Chris had heard the news that Jasmine had been killed, he hadn’t imagined for one instant that the police would have him pegged as their prime suspect. The evidence had been laid before him by Naylor and he knew he was starting to look guilty and when they swabbed his hands, they would probably find residue from his shooting session on Sunday afternoon. It was time to get some professional help. He needed a good lawyer and was pleased that his father-in-law was one of the best. Michelle’s father, Bob Whittaker, was a senior partner at Whittaker and Brown, one of D.C.’s premier law firms. Chris called Bob and asked him to come over to the station and to call Michelle, tell her he was OK and not to worry. Bob was with a client, but said he would be over in less than half an hour. He got the impression that he had decided to drop what he was doing and get over. Family comes first.

Chris sat on a bunk in a holding cell. The room was twelve feet by six with a toilet, sink, and a single bunk bed with springs that creaked and groaned as he sat. The room smelt sterile, like a hospital, with a slight hint of coffee and cigarettes. He hadn’t been arrested, but he figured it was just a matter of time. He should probably just get up and demand to be let out, but he didn’t want to push things. That may be all Naylor was waiting for to place him under arrest, and Chris really didn’t want that additional complication in his life. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. He went through the events of the last few days and could see why Naylor was pushing him hard. He probably had the closest relationship with Jasmine out of everyone in D.C., but he knew that that didn’t mean much. She was a loner, and she was desperate to learn from him. He was the last person, as far as he knew, that had seen her alive. All fairly innocent so far, but then there were other things. The email, the phone message: they made it look like there was more going on than there actually was. Why the hell did she have to start sending emails like that? Why now? It’s not like they were having any kind of relationship. Chris thought about his gun and the session at the gun club. They would soon figure out he had been shooting a handgun within the last forty-eight hours. He had a legitimate reason, and the records at the gun club would show that he was there, shooting targets. Unfortunately they would also show that he had been there the following day for a brief visit, to collect his phone, but he knew how it looked. The cops would think that he had gone to the club and collected his weapon, then after killing Jasmine had returned it to the club the following day. The only thing in Chris’s favor was that he was an intelligent man and only a stupid person or a madman would kill their own student with their own handgun and then put it back in their locker. He really hoped Naylor was smart enough to figure that out.

The cell door opened and in walked Bob. He looked sharp in his expensive, tailor-made suit and Italian leather shoes. He wore a Rolex wristwatch that cost more than Chris’s car. He held out his arms wide. Chris stood and gave the man a hug.