Three Suspects and A Murder

A man named Owen Larrs was shot at his desk on the night after a publication party was held within the office premise. The next morning, Kate, a fellow employee, found his body when she came into his office to ask for a file. The police were called and they stupidly viewed Kate as a prime suspect. But they have no evidence against her which managed to make them suspect another three of the office staff. Before they come up with some half-logical out-of-the-place planted evidence, I have made it my responsibility to investigate and free Kate of any suspicion. The only way to do that is finding the true murderer.

I do not believe Kate killed him. I am going to start with the three suspects, all working at Spheldon&Fam Publishers, who might have killed him. It could be none of them in the end and it would be fine. I have nothing to gain from this investigation. But I believe Kate did not do it. 

Suspect one, John, the last person Owen was seen chatting with before he left, or so we thought before. We know that he was in his office. Owen had gotten a promotion recently that John had eyes on. Moreover, they did not get along right from the start. So, what were they chatting about?

Suspect two, Sheryl, Owen's ex girlfriend. They briefly dated two years ago. Six months after they separated Owen married his wife. On that night, she left early.

Suspect three, Stan, a long time friend of Owen who works three ranks below him. He is an unpopular chap and for serious reasons. He has been known to threaten people, work inefficiently and roam around with a crooked sense of humour. I introduced him as a friend but, that was not exactly where they stood on that night but witnesses saw them having a drink together.

I had not thought about making this murder my responsibility but something that I saw this morning made me gear up to the task. Today is Sunday. I go for my morning walk a little late on Sundays than other days. I had not noticed the car when I went out (maybe it wasn't there then) but when I returned I saw it parked in the guest parking lot. A black Toyota that somehow looked familiar. But for the love of God I could not recall where I had seen it before. I bet there are plenty of black Toyotas around but that sight scratched some memory that I could not get hold of. I went inside my apartment, took a bath, had breakfast, did a bit of cleaning and went to stand outside on my balcony. That's when I saw her. Sheryl. She got into the black Toyota, pulled over and waved to a man standing in the building next to mine. The memory of where I had seen the car flashed back. It was here, in the same spot on the night Owen Larrs was shot. But she had said that she went home early. Why did she lie? The man she was waving to was my next door neighbour. We were neighbourly. If it comes to it, I can drag him into this too but I will start with only her. 

It's Monday evening. Sheryl just drove out of her office. I start my car and drive with enough speed to keep myself just behind her. She goes onto the highway, and down, a left turn and into Dukehen Street. She is going to the marketplace. She goes forward to park her car while I park mine back here in the public parking space and go on foot into the market. It takes me four minutes to reach but I still need to find her. Finally, I see her in the fruits section. I observe her as she picks up some oranges then goes to another section. She gets a carton of soy milk from there, and then moves along the canned items in the racks. I approach her. She does not notice me as I stand beside her picking a packet of dried blueberries. She picks up a can of corn and puts it back down. 

"Nice wristwatch", I say. 

She looks up to take a look at me. 

"Thanks", she says, forcing a smile and turning away. 

"How much did it cost?"

She looks at me, appalled. 

"Maybe your boyfriend got it for you?"

She takes a step back with an alarmed expression. She opens her mouth to speak but I cut her off. 

"No. I know you did not go home on Wednesday night and if you scream I am going to say this to the police and provide them with pictures of where your car was."

Stopping dead, she decides not to do whatever she was thinking. 

"I don't want to harm you. I just need to talk. Can you do that?", I ask. 

She nods. "Okay", she says, hesitantly. 

Fifteen minutes later, we were outside the marketplace. Sheryl was holding her groceries that she bought (I let her complete her shopping), standing in front of me. 

"Where did you go after leaving the office party that night?"

"I thought you said you knew."

"I know where your car was. I need to know where you were."

"I was at the Blue Heights, where my car was, in Ryan's apartment."

"Then why did you lie? You said you went home."

"Because I wanted to save my neck. Speaking the truth wouldn't have saved me from suspicion and being the ex girlfriend doesn't really help. I was afraid, so I said I went home", she blurted out. 

"It's not saving you anymore. Why did you leave early? I don't think that's very common."

"I went to meet my boyfriend. I had told him I would, so I left early", she lied.

"Sheryl, your lying is only worsening it. The police won't be this nice to you. Why did you leave early?"

She hesitated. I can tell she is conflicted, which is why I need to hear what she has to say. "Why?", I ask again. 

"Owen came up to me and said— well, he accused me of trying to harm him. He told me that he knows what I am up to. I had no idea what he was talking about. I really don't. But he just went on, telling me to stop lying and trying to downplay his image. I said I had tried doing none of that and that I don't know what he is talking about but he went on", she blurted out. 

"I felt humiliated. Why would I need to lie about him? Or say anything? It was too much. I left and called Ryan. He said I could come over."

I believe she is still hiding something but I appreciate how much I got out of her. So, she agrees that she did not go home. I am looking at her as she expects me to say something but I keep my silence. I am thinking if I should ask anymore. 

"I went to the Blue Heights and then to my house. I swear upon that. I have nothing to do with Owen's murder. I got to know about it the next morning when I showed up at work. Please, believe me. I had nothing to do with it."

I don't believe her. Not completely. So, I ask a question. "At what time did you leave?"

"Eight forty, forty five. Around that time."

"Before he came accusing you, where did you last see him?"

"I only saw him once with Stan. I didn't see him again until I was in the building when he started arguing. I was returning from the washroom."

"Do you think anyone heard you two argue?"

"No. I don't think anyone was there." But she is hesitant, she does not know if anyone was listening. Before she comes up with something, I question again. 

"Do you know what Owen and Stan were talking about?"

"No", she says defiantly. "I saw them standing together. I never went near them, save listen to what they were saying to each other. He was talking to John when I came out of the building and past them into the parking basement."

"Who else was standing with them?"

"No one when I saw. But Phoebe was saying something about it last Friday. She might know."

Phoebe is a fellow employee at Spheldon&Fam Publishers. I find out where she stays and show up at her place the following evening. She is going to be hard to persuade. I cannot threaten her into talking to me, so I need a friendly motive. I ring the bell at her flat. Thirty seconds later, she opens the door to face me. 

"Hello", I greet. I introduce myself. 

I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to persuade her to try to help me. Of course, I do not tell her about Sheryl because, first rule of interviewing, do not make them feel interviewed. Finally, she started cooperating, although reluctantly.

"Owen was talking to John that night, right? I didn't know they went along", I say. 

"They don't, actually. I hardly think it was a friendly talk", said Phoebe. 

"Why do you say that?"

"That's what it occurred to me as. I wasn't there but before that, three to four of us, including John, were talking about how people sell anything in the name of novels for a cash grab. We were there and then Owen comes in, a weird thing because I have never seen him do that, and stands in front of John, looking straight at him and says "Funny, what money can do." He continued with it. Shortly after, I left them. Next I saw only both of them were there."

She paused, taking a look at me. "I don't know but, I think, John felt uneasy when Owen was speaking."

She stares at me after finishing. I don't say anything until I realise she is going to tell me to leave if I do nothing. Breaking the interrogative silence, I ask, "That was the last time you saw them?"

"Yeah", she answers promptly. "Wait, no. I saw John when I was leaving, in the parking."

He was in the parking lot. 

"Did you see Sheryl anywhere when you were leaving?"

"No. She had already left. I only saw her inside the building." She pauses. 

She was in the building. She knows what they were arguing about. 

"She was inside the building? Doing what?"

"I don't know." Her reply is too spontaneous. 

"Was she alone?"

She starts to worry. "I don't remember."

"Did she see you, too?"

"No. I don't know what she was doing there", she concludes, forcefully. 

"Okay", I say. Pressing her will not help this situation. I ask one last question. 

"And when did you see John in the parking lot?"

"Nine thirty. That's when I left."

"He saw you, too?"

"Yeah."

I thank her and leave. She knows more than she is telling. But, I am no police, I cannot force a confession out of her. I need to know what Owen said to Sheryl. I pull over at the Blue Heights but do not get out of my car. It was not until midnight that John did leave the compound, yet, he was in the parking lot at nine thirty. Why? 

There were too many questions that kept me thinking over them for the next twenty four hours. I am in front of the office. John or Stan, anyone who comes out first will be the one I follow. A woman leaves. Then, another. A man rides off in his motorcycle. Another two people leave the office. Then, Stan comes out in his car. I start the engine and follow him. He does not stop for the next fifteen minutes until he is at Battale Street. He leaves his car in the public parking space nearby and walks to one of the houses on the street. Taking out his key, he opens the door and walks in. It is a two storey flat, surrounded by similar boring-looking flats. The adjective I used isn't ideal, but that's what comes to my mind when I look at it. 

I stay in my car, observing the surroundings. This place is not very well guarded. Beyond the street is an uninhabited lane one could easily walk on unnoticed. A courier truck stops beside me. A man, mid twenties, comes out with a package in his hands. To my surprise, he delivers it to Stan. After Stan has signed, they do not part but continue to talk. He cannot be complaining because when the courier man turns, he smiles. 

I get out of my car and approach him when is about to drive off.

"Excuse me, is there a package for 17/A?"

He looks a little confused. "Yeah. I delivered it", he says. 

"Oh, I was just going there. By the way, are you around here often? I think I've seen you before." I smile my best smile. He is flattered. 

"Yeah. I'm the regular courier man for 17/A you can say."

"Say, there won't be a ring in it, right? No, I'm just kidding. Did you deliver the right package this time? His last package was messed up."

"No, it wasn't", he said, defensively. "I delivered it myself last Wednesday. No. Thursday, I think. Yeah. He wasn't here, so I called him. He arrived in two minutes, took the package and left. I'd have heard if it was messed up."

Okay, he lives alone. "Then it must be a different package. Anyways, good to know you. I'll make a call now."

I walk away a few steps, calling a non-existent number. He watches me for a second before driving off. 

I am in my living room with a glass of water that I have not touched. I visualise the water drowning me with all the questions inside me. Absurd. But I really can't stop thinking about it. 

The doorbell rings, bringing me back to my living room and I go to open the door. On my doorstep is Phoebe. I must be looking dreadfully shocked because she quickly explains. 

"After talking to you yesterday, I just came to think of it. Now I can't stop. Why was John in the parking lot when I left?"

She has the same question that I do. I tell her to come inside and sit. She has come because she has something to say. I let her take her time. 

"John was drinking that night and people saw him agitated. When I saw him in the parking lot, I think he was drunk. He looked up and sort of pretended that he did not see me. But he did not leave then. I just can't stop thinking why he was there."

I stop her. "Why does he say he stayed there till late?"

"He said that he had a manuscript that was to go into final talk the next day. He hadn't yet completed it and stayed until it was over."

"What does the police say to it?"

"They believe him, I think. It isn't very uncommon, you know, staying late to match deadlines. Plus, he's rich. His father was in the parliament."

Something felt uncanny about what she just said. I don't know what it is. 

"Phoebe, are you afraid that John might have killed Owen?"

I expect her to be shocked, or stunned by the question. But she is not. She is calm, looking at me with eyes that convey something I cannot grasp. 

"There's one more thing I wanted to say", she conveys. I am wary.

"It is about Sheryl. I saw her. I didn't mean to, but it was too loud. She was talking to Owen. He was speaking. I was returning from the washroom when he shouted. He said something like "leave me alone" or "—us alone." I went no further and stood there. It was muffled but audible. He said that Sheryl was telling people that he married his wife because of money. Sheryl kept denying it and said she has no idea what he was taking about. But he called her sick and that she is crazy. He also said something like she had made people believe he married because he knew his wife would die. To be honest, this does not sound like Sheryl at all. But he kept repeating it."

So, this is what he accused Sheryl of. Phoebe has been the most helpful today. If it was all a false accusation, which is more probable than not, that would make anyone want to leave a place as quickly as possible. Or even kill. 

She must have noticed how my eyes lit up because she stops worrying. The hesitation that I have always seen on her is no longer there. "At what time was this?", I ask her.

"Eight thirty roughly."

"This was before or after he interrupted your chat?"

"Before."

I cannot possibly thank her enough for how helpful she had been. I know what Owen said to Sheryl. I know John was drunk. By no means was he there reading a manuscript. And yes, something else she said. He is rich. That's what Owen said in front of him. "Funny, what money can do." 

I have made a decision that is not particularly wise. But I believe it is necessary. I have arrived at Owen's house. I am going to talk to his wife, who will not be interested in talking. I don't plan on persuading her, I will tell her the truth.

"Mrs. Larrs, I believe he was worried in the days leading to his death", I say when we are ten minutes into talking.

She looks austerely pathetic. It is painful to see her. No life is stirring behind those hooded eyes of hers. I deeply sympathise with her in this moment. 

"Some of his colleagues said he seemed to be worried about you. Do you know anything about it?", I added. 

"I'm not surprised that he was worried. I have leukaemia. I was diagnosed early and it was under control for years. I have been under treatment since before our marriage but recently, the doctors said it has grown. It has been three months now without improvement."

Of course! You tell a man whose wife is dying that he married her for money and he would be furious. But then Owen would have been the one tempted to kill Sheryl, not the other way around. 

"I didn't know that. I am so sorry, I really hope you get better", I said and meant every word. This is a murder investigation. I am not going to ask her about her health despite my conscience telling me to do exactly that. 

"Did he ever tell you about something else that worried him? Something related to work?"

She thought over it. "Not recently. He did tell me once that a graphic designer was committing fraud. He said he was going to report it. I don't know if he did. This was almost a month ago. It made him restless for quite a period, actually."

"Did he say who it was?", I said, trying to wrap my head around this new piece of information. 

"No."

I must say that I am a bit disappointed. "Do you have any idea why he was at the office till after eleven?"

"He called me around eight and said that he will be a little late. He had some, what did he call it, something to 'resolve'. That's what he called it."

She added, "He didn't sound drugged then."

"Drugged?"

"Oh, you don't know? Yes, he was drugged. It was confirmed on Monday. He was drugged and then shot."

I had no idea of this. He was shot when he was out of his senses. This changes everything. This murder was no act of impulse, it was pre-planned. I have been an idiot. Thinking too much about—- Well, never mind. Now, I know. 

"I was unaware of it. I'm sorry that I kept you for so long. Thank you for agreeing to talk. And", I really mean this, "I hope you feel better."

So, Owen had some arrangement for which he stayed at the office but it was not planned prior to eight that evening. "Something to resolve", he had said. He was waiting for someone at the office with whom he was going to resolve something. That someone knew where to find him, and kill him so, they drug him beforehand to make things easier. 

Could that someone be John? Or Stan? They were seen having drinks. 

I don't know. I am sitting on my bed with notes all around. It is a mess. I cannot figure out anything like this. I need a restart. Let me start at the beginning. 

Eight o' clock: Owen calls his wife to tell her he will be late. 

Eight thirty: He meets Sheryl and an argument follows based on what he has heard. Whom did he hear it from?

After Eight thirty: He makes a discreet comment, probably directed to John because he becomes agitated afterwards. 

In the meantime, Sheryl leaves. 

Nine thirty: John is seen at the parking lot. 

We are back at John. He agrees to the fact that he was present at the office when Owen's time of death is calculated. Owen died between ten to eleven thirty. John says that he left for home at eleven. He also says that he did not hear anything while he was in his chamber reading the manuscript. But that isn't true. He didn't hear anything because he was plastered drunk. 

His father is a member of the parliament. I just remembered that. I take my phone and google it. There he is! But there is a headline underneath. 

"Son of former Parliament member arrested."

I open the article and start reading. It is not about John. He is the elder son. It's his brother. He ran over an old man while driving drunk. I scroll down and continue reading. I read until I see John's name. He bailed out his brother last week. This article is a week old. 

That's what money can do. This is what Owen directed his comment to which led to them arguing and then John becoming drunk and agitated. John wanted to leave, just like Sheryl, but he was too drunk to drive. He had enough sense to hold back when the news of his brother was still fresh. He returned to his cabin and stayed there until it was time to meet Owen and—

No. When did he drug Owen's drink? Before he was intoxicated himself? 

And if he really did ask Owen to wait for him, that cannot be before nine thirty. The only explanation I have is that Owen was waiting for someone else. But John, drunk, saw him in his cabin and shot him. 

Where did he get the gun? And why drug him if it was an act of impulse? No, John does not fit. The drugging part does not fit. Who really had the opportunity to drug him? I am back at Sheryl and Stan. Let us assume that Owen's accusation of Sheryl is not the reason for murder, maybe, it was pre-planned. But would he agree to meet her? 

Now, Stan. He could have definitely drugged Owen's drink. He is not a trustworthy character. He was a graphic designer, right? He can commit fraud. What if this is the thing Owen wanted to resolve?

It is the following morning. I am standing at Battale Street with a nicely wrapped empty cardboard box and a sheet of printed paper. Stan is not in his house. He lives on the ground floor, I ring the bell to the first floor. A middle aged man comes down, looking scornful at the disturbance. 

"Is Mr. Olson here?", I ask in my best northern accent.

"He's downstairs. Though now he's out, I take."

"Ah, I should've thought that. I didn't see another car." I shake my head rather too energetically at my words. 

"Well, you wouldn't see another car anytime here. He parks his car in the public lot."

"Always? Isn't that weird?"

He looks at me sceptically, confused and says, "Right." Then immediately adds, "The bloke's not here anyway. Why do you people always have to come when he's not in? It's becoming a pain."

"Is it? Sorry, I'm new here. What happened the last time?"

"The other bloke who used to come, he came at ten in the night and found the house empty. He kept on ringing the bell. I went outside and told him he's not in but he stood there like a rock until Stan came and collected the parcel. That was last Wednesday. And I can go on. Another time..."

"I'm sorry about that. I think I'll come later."

I toss the box onto the backseat and drive away, unseen by the man who already is inside the house. 

I did my thinking. I had it all backwards. No one wanted to meet Owen in his cabin, he wanted to meet him. Stan. That is what Owen told him earlier in the evening. He knew that Owen had been trying to set his hands on the fraud, in that moment he realised that evening that he had got to the end of it. He was quick. He approached him as an old friend and offered him a drink. He agreed to meet Owen over the drink which he had drugged. At ten o 'clock, he left the party in his car, seen by everyone. Later, he came back without his car, with a gun. He knew where to find Owen. He found him, unconscious, and shot him in the head. Obviously, he used a silencer. 

The courier guy was confused if the day was Wednesday or Thursday when he had delivered the package. So he said Thursday, but it happened on Wednesday. After taking the package, he said that Stan had to leave again. He did leave again but not in his car, which was parked outside the house. But the man living above his flat said that he never parked his car there. The car parking was intended. I wrote a letter earlier today that I posted on my way home.

It is my belief that it was Stan who fed lies about Sheryl into Owen's head. He was the one Owen was seen talking to and the next thing he does is finds Sheryl and tells her to leave him alone. I am not sure about this one but I am sure that Stan killed Owen. Because Kate did not. I know my sister is not capable of murder. I know that she was not in Owen's cabin the night he died.