could fool around with his gadgets. He liked to tinker with electronics and things like that. He had dozens of plastic containers filled with microchips, transistors, wires, tiny screws—all those hobbyist things. I knew I was going to have to clean it out eventually. Otherwise they would have been a constant reminder of him. And that wouldn’t be healthy. But at the time, it was just comforting for me to wander around the space. Feeling his presence everywhere. That’s when I saw the folders sticking out of an old cardboard box. At first, I just assumed they were warranties or other papers that should have been filed away in his upstairs office, where he kept the important documents. Or maybe some old issues of Popular Mechanics . . .”
Chloe finally took a sip of wine.
“When I opened the folders, my heart sank. I’m embarrassed to tell you what my first thought was.”
There was no need to tell him. Czarcik was well acquainted with what kinds of unspeakable things were usually recovered from criminals’ private lairs.
“But then I chastised myself,” Chloe continued. “I knew Daniel as well as you can know a person. He wasn’t some pervert. Some sadist. Then I read the articles. They were all stories of horrific abuse or suffering, printed out rather recently. I couldn’t imagine why someone as sensitive as him would want to read them, much less collect them.”
The reason was all too obvious to Czarcik.
“Naturally, my curiosity got the best of me. So I googled all the stories, wanting to see if there were any updates, because some of them were years old. Out of the six cases, the perpetrators in two of them had been violently murdered.” She took another sip of wine, struggling with giving voice to the truth. “Even though one of the cases had a suspect—the Fernandez murders, which is how I knew to contact you—I understood immediately what Daniel had done.”
On the surface, it all made sense. No gaping holes, no flaws in her logic. And if there was one truism more true than even the spouse did it, it was Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is usually the right one.
Yet something about this story, this confession, bothered him.
He wasn’t sure whether it was the story or Chloe herself. Each was eminently believable. But there was also something about being too perfect. And in many ways, that’s what this was. The story was the perfect tragedy, Chloe the perfect martyr. But real life didn’t usually work like that. It was messy. Messy and confusing.
“Let me play devil’s advocate, Chloe. These were all bad people. Some of them outright criminals with long rap sheets. Surely it isn’t inconceivable that a few of them would meet a violent end?”
“Then why would he have printed the articles? And saved them?”
He nodded. She had a point.
She picked up her purse and placed it on the table. She reached inside, pulled out a receipt, and handed it to Czarcik. “It’s for Thiopental. Do you know what that is?”
“I don’t, but I have no doubt you’re going to tell me.”
“It’s a very fast-acting animal barbiturate. Sometimes given to pets before they’re put down. Well, we didn’t have any pets.”
She waited for Czarcik to fill in the blanks.
“But none of the victims had Thib—whatever it’s called, or anything like that in their systems. I’ve seen the autopsy reports myself.”
“Did you see the one on the chicken?” she asked. “The one that I read was tied around that woman’s neck?”
“We’re not in the habit of doing autopsies on animals,” Czarcik said a little defensively. This wasn’t actually true, and he was slightly embarrassed he hadn’t authorized it.
“Well, if you had, I’m certain you would have found it in the animal’s system. Daniel was so gentle. He wouldn’t have wanted to hurt an animal. But if he had to, he would have made sure to cause it the least amount of discomfort.”
While not exactly a smoking gun, the Thiopental did bolster Chloe’s case. But what she didn’t realize was that Czarcik was already convinced. After all, what was more likely? That this ordinary man just happened to print out articles of random crimes, then grew obsessed with the cases and gathered personal information on the perpetrators, only to have these perpetrators suddenly die in especially grisly ways? Or Occam’s razor?
“You wouldn’t happen to have any pictures of your husband on you, would you?” Czarcik asked.
Chloe looked at him like he had lost his mind. “Of course I do.