Wesley glanced again at me, and his unflappability was hitting me hard. “Certainly, one could view his survivalist tendencies as an indicator of instability,” he said.
“Or fear of being murdered,” I said.
Then we went into that room. Submachine guns were on a rack on the wall, and pistols, revolvers and ammunition were inside the Browning safe that police had opened this morning. Ted Eddings had equipped a small bedroom with an arbor press, digital scale, case trimmer, reloading dies and everything else needed to keep him in cartridges. Copper tubing and primers were stored in a drawer. Gunpowder was in an old military case, and it seemed he had been fond of laser sights and spotting scopes.
“I think this shows a tilted mind-set.” It was Lucy who spoke as she squatted before the safe, opening hard plastic gun cases. “I’d call all of this more than a little paranoid.
It’s like he thought an army was coming.”
“Paranoia is healthy if there really is someone after you,” I said.
“Me, I’m beginning to think the guy was wacky,” Marino replied.
I did not care about their theories. “I smelled cyanide in the morgue,” I reminded them as my patience wore thinner.
“He didn’t gas himself before going into the river, or he would have been dead when he hit the water.”
“You smelled cyanide,” Wesley said, pointedly. “No one else did, and we don’t have tox results yet.”
“What are you implying, that he drowned himself?” I stared at him.
“I don’t know.”
“I saw nothing to indicate drowning,” I said.
“Do you always see indications in drownings?” he reasonably asked. “I thought drownings were notoriously difficult, explaining why expert witnesses from South Florida are often flown in to help with such cases.”
“I began my career in South Florida and am considered an expert witness in drownings,” I sharply said.
We continued arguing outside on the sidewalk by his car because I wanted him to take me home so we could finish our fight. The moon was vague, the nearest streetlight a block away, and we could not see each other well.
“For God’s sake, Kay, I was not implying that you don’t know what you’re doing,” he was saying.
“You most certainly were.” I was standing by the driver’s door as if the car were mine and I was about to leave in it. “You’re picking on me. You’re acting like an ass.”
“We’re investigating a death,” he said in that steady tone of his. “This is not the time or place for anything to be taken personally.”
“Well, let me tell you something, Benton, people aren’t machines. They do take things personally.”
“And that’s really what this is all about.” He moved beside me and unlocked the door. “You’re reacting personally because of me. I’m not sure this was a good idea.”
Locks rushed up. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here today.” He slid into the driver’s seat. “But I felt it was important. I was trying to do the right thing and thought you would do the same.”
I walked around to the other side and got in, and wondered why he had not opened my door when he usually did. Suddenly, I was very weary and afraid I might cry.
“It is important, and you did do the right thing,” I said.
“A man is dead. I not only believe he was murdered but think he might have been caught up in something bigger that I fear may be very ugly. I don’t think he deleted his own computer files and disposed of all backups because that would imply he knew he was going to die.”
“Yes. It would imply suicide.”
“Which this case is not.”
We looked at each other in the dark.
“I think someone entered his house late the night of his death.”
“Someone he knew.”
“Or someone who knew someone else who had access.
Like a colleague or close friend, or a significant other. As for keys to get in, his are missing.”
“You think this has to do with the New Zionists.” He was beginning to mellow.
“I’m afraid of that. And someone is warning me to back off.”