I let the police deal with gathering evidence from her apartment, and find her car. I let them do their job, and try to figure out who’d last seen her alive, where she’d been, what she was doing, who she was with.
That information wouldn’t lead anywhere. It seldom did. I had to do something different. Something only an Armor could do. Something only I could do.
I started by visiting the people she worked with. The man who sat in the cube next to hers. What do you do when your computer stops what it’s doing, and asks, “When was the last day Darla came to work?” He turned the screen off, then back on. The question remained. He turned the computer off, then on. Still, the question remained, even on the login screen. He unplugged the computer, and the question showed up on a sheet of paper that landed on his keyboard. He got up, went to the restroom, and the question was written on the mirror he looked into. He gave up. He typed “Last Thursday”.
The question changed, “Did she have a date that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who might know?”
The questions stopped.
They started again on Debbie’s computer. “Did Darla have a date last Thursday?”
Debbie stared at her screen.
“Debbie, did Darla have a date?”
She looked around.
“This is not a prank.” I paused a moment, then continued, “You know Darla’s been murdered, don’t you?” Her expression showed she didn’t. “Oh. Sorry.”
Debbie stared at her screen, and spoke, “She hasn’t been at work for days.”
“She doesn’t answer her phone, or text messages, or email.”
“She’s dead, Debbie. The police are looking for who did it.”
“Are you the police?”
“No.” I paused. “Debbie. Did she have a date last Thursday night?”
“Her boyfriend.” Debbie whispered, “Tyler. I don’t know his last name.”
“Thank you, Debbie.”
“Is she really dead?”
“Yes.” I added Mrs. Whitson’s phone number. “Her mother’s phone number. Call.”
I left Debbie’s cube, but I wasn’t done yet. I found Darla’s desk, opened a storage door on my armor, pulled out the pink rose I’d stored there, and set it on the desk, with a card that read, “You are missed,” and had the date, time, and location of the memorial service Mrs. Whitson was planning.
I watched as Debbie and the man found their way to Darla’s cube. I watched as word spread like it always does. Phone calls were made. People cried. Chaos ensued. And with all that racket, no one noticed the door of the building open and close by itself.
This is Part 3 of a story I’m writing using the prompts for the #FlashMobWrites challenge. #FlashMobWrites is hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels. Please, go read all the stories for #FlashMobWrites Week 1×44. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?