Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder Read Free Page A

that about him? He’s like a ghoul.”
    Their conversation was ended by the arrival of the Forensics unit. As the newcomers set about scouring the apartment, the two detectives who’d secured the place went to their car and called in. Ten minutes later, they sat with their superior at headquarters on Indiana Avenue.
    Their boss listened to the results of their findings at the accident scene. When they’d finished, he said, “We ran a background check on the deceased. He had a top secret security clearance.”
    â€œI thought he was in private practice,” a detective said.
    â€œThat’s right. And he also had a top secret security clearance. Langley ran his clearance twelve years ago. It was updated last year.”
    One of the detectives laughed. “A shrink and a spook,” he said.
    His boss didn’t laugh. “He was a consultant to the CIA’s”—he looked at a note—“the CIA’s Medical and Psychological Analysis Center. I want you to canvass people in his apartment and office buildings. Maybe someone picked up on a relationship with a blond woman, heard them argue, things like that. It’s a long shot, but so is finding a white sedan with D.C. plates. I have people working on that now, checking MV records and repair shops. We’re treating this as a homicide based upon what your eyewitnesses said. They seem to know what they were talking about?”
    They nodded in unison.
    â€œWhat about the ex-wife?” one asked as they prepared to leave. “She been notified yet?”
    â€œAs we speak.”
    â€œMaybe she’s a blonde.”
    â€œOr a brunette wearing a blond wig,” said their boss. “Get going. I have a feeling that this is going to heat up.”
    *   *   *
    Jasmine Smith-Sedgwick wasn’t a blonde, at least not that day. She wasn’t a beautiful woman; handsome would be a more apt description. Her figure was nice, though, and she was tall, with reddish hair worn long. Her jeans and sweatshirt fitted her the way they should.
    Two detectives pulled up behind a black Mercedes in the driveway of her Chevy Chase home and rang the bell.
    â€œYes?” she said.
    A badge was shown. “Your former husband was killed this morning by a hit-and-run driver,” a detective said.
    â€œOh, my God,” she said. “Hit by a car? Where?”
    â€œVirginia Avenue, in front of his apartment building.”
    She looked back inside, concern etched on her face. “The children aren’t here,” she said. “They’ll be devastated.”
    â€œSorry to bring you bad news,” one detective said. “Maybe it’d be better if we sat down inside. We have some questions to ask you.”
    â€œQuestions? What kind of questions?”
    â€œAbout your former husband. You see, it was a hit-and-run, and people who witnessed it said it appeared that the driver intended to hit him, deliberately aimed at him.”
    She gasped.
    â€œIf you don’t mind, ma’am.”
    â€œYes, of course, please come in.” She looked past them and was relieved that they’d arrived in an unmarked car.
    They went to a family room. It had a big flat-screen TV, a pool and game table on which a jigsaw puzzle was half completed, and plenty of comfortable furniture. She offered them a soft drink or coffee, which they declined. One detective remained standing while questioning her; the other sat on a couch next to her and took notes.
    â€œCan you think of any enemies your husband had?”
    She wrinkled her face in thought. “No. Of course I haven’t been in his life for the past three years since the divorce. We see each other only occasionally, but he’s inconsistent about spending time with the kids. Of course he’s always traveled a great deal, which often gets in the way of visitation.”
    â€œWhy does he travel that much?” Jasmine was asked.
    She