Alex Harris 00 - Armed

factory door.
    “Ms. Harris, did you touch anything? Touch the body?”
    “What? Oh, no, I just bent to look at her a little closer to see if… maybe....” I swallowed hard. “No, I didn’t touch her. Well, just my foot. I stepped on her.”
    “You stepped on her?”
    I straightened up, hoping for an imposing demeanor but failing miserably when you considered the state of my face. “It’s dark out there. I kind of tripped on her leg.”
    Detective Van der Burg closed his eyes for a second and shook his head slowly. I’d seen this look before on my father’s face many times growing up.
    “I assume you work here?”
    “Yes. No. Just for today. I’m the temp.”
    “Temp?”
    “Yes, the temporary. Is this going to take long? I’d really like to get home.”
    “Not too much longer,” the detective said, and I feared he probably said that to everyone.
    Detective Van der Burg took a quick glance around. “You all alone here?”
    “Yes. No.”
    “Which is it, Ms. Harris?” he asked, his voice impatient.
    “Alone when I found her. But then Mr. Poupée, the owner, arrived.”
    “Mr. Pou….
    “Poupée. It’s French. You pronounce it Poo-pay.”
    “Where might he be?”
    I jerked my head toward the end of the hall. Detective Van der Burg headed in that direction and I followed.
    “He’s in there.” I pointed to the large office behind the smaller one Mrs. Scott had occupied. The detective walked into the back office. Despite his casual appearance, probably from being pulled away from dinner with the wife and kiddies, there was no doubt he was in charge. The man crackled with electrical current as he turned his head from side to side taking everything in.
    “Mr. Poupée, I’m Detective Van der Burg. I understand you’re the owner. I’d like to ask you a few questions, but first I need to take a look in the factory. Why don’t you and Ms. Harris have a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”
    He donned a pair of gloves, covered his shoes with booties, and then went into the factory. One of the officers who had arrived earlier came in. I figured he came to keep an eye on me and Mr. Poupée. I felt like a suspect but at this point I really didn’t care. Maybe the jail would have a comfortable bed and a hot cup of tea. Just like the Holiday Inn. I shoved my hand deep into the pocket of my coat searching for the small bag of M&M’s, but pulled out an empty packet. Not even one left. I had tucked the remains of my large bag into the trunk of my car. I didn’t think the police officer would let me run out to get a handful.
    I smiled at the officer and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible on a tiny sofa. I looked at my surroundings—a room I had been in this very morning talking with a woman now dead. Murdered.
    An hour later I awoke from a fitful slumber.
    Two hours after that Detective Van der Burg finally finished his questioning.
    “Let me walk you to your cars.” The interrogation took its toll and neither Mr. Poupée nor I said anything as we gingerly made our way through several inches of snow. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look in your trunks.” I gave Detective Van der Burg a glance and wondered why, but at his point I didn’t care if he found another body in my car as long as it ensured a ride to the police station and a warm cell.
    “Well, you can go now,” he said after poking around in the three boxes I had stowed in my trunk. Finding nothing at all in Mr. Poupée’s trunk, he added, “I’ll be contacting you both again tomorrow. Please make sure you’re available.”
    He helped me clear the snow from around my car and waited to make sure it started, and then he walked toward the building.
    I quickly wound up the heater knob and then rolled down my window hoping the smack of cold air on my face would keep me awake until I got home.
    As I pulled out one of the officers called to the detective from the front door. “Sir. You may want to come and take a look at this.”

CHAPTER FOUR

    Looming out of the dark recesses of the factory, the mannequin came toward me, blood trickling from its shoulder. It seemed to float to where I stood looking down at the body. The coal black eyes of the mannequin darted everywhere, finally settling on the bloody arm resting by Mrs. Scott’s head. “Give me my arm!” the voice boomed, causing me to tumble over, landing hard on the cement floor. Without another word the mannequin raised its other arm high above, gave a