Chapter 9 The Detective's Suspicion

# Chapter 9: The Detective's Suspicion

Detective James Mercer stared at the stack of files on his desk, each representing a death connected to Ernest Blackwood. Three cases that had been closed as accidents or natural causes now reopened under his careful scrutiny. What had begun as an investigation into a bizarre hospital incident involving escaped dogs had evolved into something much darker.

The first file contained photographs of Caroline Blackwood, Ernest's first wife, who had supposedly slipped in the bathtub after consuming too much wine. The autopsy report noted bruising that could have been consistent with a fall—or with being held underwater. The case had been closed quickly, with the influential Blackwood family expressing their desire for privacy in their time of grief.

The second file documented the sailing "accident" that had claimed the lives of Ernest's parents, Richard and Eleanor Blackwood. The official report cited unexpected severe weather and a mechanical failure with the yacht's navigation system. What it didn't explain was why the emergency locator beacon had been manually disabled or why Richard Blackwood had changed his will just three days before the fatal voyage.

The third file was thinner—Diana Wells, mother of Nina Blackwood (née Wells), who had disappeared five years ago while investigating financial irregularities at several companies. Her body had never been found, and the case had eventually been classified as a probable suicide due to a history of depression—a history that Mercer now suspected had been fabricated after her disappearance.

And now Ernest Blackwood himself was dead, killed by his own hunting dogs in a hospital room after suffering a mysterious cardiac event. The coincidence strained credibility.

Mercer rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache that had become his constant companion since beginning this investigation. Something about his interview with Nina Blackwood continued to trouble him. She had been composed, articulate, her grief seemingly appropriate—and yet there had been moments when something else had flickered beneath the surface. A hardness in her eyes, a precision in her words that suggested careful calculation rather than emotional response.

And then there was the strange episode he had experienced during their meeting. The sudden disorientation, the difficulty focusing, symptoms that had largely faded by the time he returned to the station but had left him questioning his own perceptions. The department doctor had found nothing wrong, suggesting it might have been a migraine, though Mercer had never experienced migraines before.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his office door. Officer Chen stood in the doorway, an evidence bag in her hand.

"Results came back on that residue from Blackwood's hospital room," she said, placing the report on his desk. "Traces of an animal stimulant commonly used in hunting dogs. Highly concentrated. Could explain their aggressive behavior."

"Someone drugged the dogs," Mercer said, not really a question.

Chen nodded. "Looks that way. Also, I pulled the security footage from the transport company. There's a twenty-minute gap before the dogs escaped. System malfunction, they claim."

"Convenient," Mercer muttered. "Any leads on who had access?"

"That's the thing," Chen replied. "The transport was arranged by Margaret Blackwood, Ernest's sister. But she left the country yesterday on a one-way flight to Switzerland."

"Before or after we requested the footage?"

"After. The request went out at 9 AM. Her flight departed at 2 PM."

Mercer leaned back in his chair, considering this information. "She ran."

"Looks like it," Chen agreed. "Want me to contact Interpol?"

"Not yet," Mercer decided. "Let's gather more evidence first. What about the basement camera footage? Any luck tracing the livestream origin?"

Chen shook her head. "The tech team says it was professionally routed through multiple servers. They're still working on it, but don't sound hopeful."

After Chen departed, Mercer returned to the files, focusing now on Nina Blackwood. Her background was impressive—graduated summa cum laude from Princeton with a degree in computer science, worked briefly for a cybersecurity firm before marrying Ernest Blackwood three years ago. She had the knowledge to set up an anonymous livestream, certainly.

But motive was the question. If Ernest had been abusing her, as the bruises suggested, she might have wanted escape—but murder? And such an elaborate scheme? It seemed excessive.

Unless...

Mercer pulled out the file on Diana Wells again, studying the photograph of Nina's mother. There was a striking resemblance between mother and daughter—the same dark hair, the same determined set to their mouths. Diana had been investigating financial irregularities at companies connected to Blackwood Industries just before her disappearance.

What if Nina had discovered evidence linking Ernest to her mother's disappearance? That would provide a more powerful motive than simply escaping an abusive marriage.

Mercer was making notes on this new theory when his desk phone rang.

"Detective Mercer," he answered.

"There's someone here to see you," the desk sergeant informed him. "Nina Blackwood. Says she has information relevant to your investigation."

Mercer's pulse quickened. "Send her up."

He quickly organized the files on his desk, closing the folders but leaving them visible. If Nina Blackwood had come to confess or to try to mislead the investigation, he wanted her to see that he was already connecting the dots.

When she entered his office, Mercer was struck again by her composure. Dressed in a simple gray dress that managed to be both appropriate for a widow in mourning and undeniably elegant, she carried a small white bakery box tied with a black ribbon.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Mercer stood to greet her. "This is unexpected."

"Please, call me Nina," she said, her voice soft but clear. "And I apologize for not calling ahead. I was in the area and thought... well, I wanted to thank you personally for your work on Ernest's case."

Mercer gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Thank me? The investigation isn't closed yet."

Nina set the box on the edge of his desk and took the offered seat. "I know. That's precisely why I'm grateful. You're being thorough, which is more than I can say for the authorities who investigated other Blackwood... incidents."

Her direct reference to the very cases he had been reviewing caught Mercer off guard. He studied her face, looking for signs of manipulation or deception, but found only a calm steadiness that was difficult to interpret.

"You seem remarkably interested in my investigation for someone who should be grieving," Mercer observed.

A small, sad smile touched Nina's lips. "Grief takes many forms, Detective. Mine includes a desire for truth—something that has been in short supply in the Blackwood family."

Mercer's gaze moved to the bakery box. "And what's this?"

"A small token of appreciation. Homemade chocolate cake. I find baking therapeutic during difficult times." She paused, then added, "I thought you might enjoy it during your long hours working on this case."

There was something in the way she emphasized "this case" that raised Mercer's instincts. He made no move to open the box.

"Mrs. Blackwood—Nina—you mentioned having information relevant to my investigation. What exactly did you want to share?"

Nina's eyes flickered briefly to the closed files on his desk before returning to meet his gaze. "I've been doing some investigating of my own. About my mother's disappearance five years ago."

Mercer kept his expression neutral despite his surprise at her directness. "Go on."

"My mother was looking into financial irregularities at several companies before she vanished. Companies that, I later discovered, were shell corporations for Blackwood Industries' less legitimate ventures."

"And you believe your husband was involved in her disappearance?"

Nina reached into her handbag and withdrew a small velvet pouch. She opened it and carefully placed a pair of earrings on Mercer's desk—delicate silver leaves with small pearls dangling like dewdrops.

"These belonged to my mother. They were a family heirloom, passed down from her grandmother. She was wearing them the day she disappeared." Nina's voice remained steady, but Mercer detected a slight tension in her hands as she arranged the earrings on his desk. "Three weeks ago, I saw them on Margaret Blackwood—Ernest's sister. She claimed they were a gift from Ernest, purchased at an estate sale."

Mercer picked up one of the earrings, examining it carefully. "Do you have proof these belonged to your mother?"

"Family photographs, for a start. And my mother's jewelry insurance documentation, which includes detailed descriptions and photographs for valuable pieces."

"How did you get them back from Margaret?"

"I asked to borrow them. Told her they matched a dress I planned to wear to a charity event." Nina's expression hardened slightly. "I never intended to return them."

Mercer set the earring down and leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. "You believe Ernest murdered your mother and kept her earrings as some kind of... trophy?"

"Yes," Nina said simply. "And I believe he planned to do the same to me."

The directness of her statement hung in the air between them. Mercer studied her carefully, looking for signs of deception but finding only that same unsettling calm.

"You seem remarkably composed for someone discussing their mother's murder and their own narrow escape."

"As I said, Detective, grief takes many forms." Nina's gaze was unwavering. "Mine has had five years to evolve from raw pain to something more... focused."

The choice of word was interesting. Focused. Not "dulled" or "healed" but "focused," suggesting direction and purpose.

"Mrs. Blackwood, where were you when your husband experienced his cardiac event in the basement?"

If the sudden shift in questioning surprised her, Nina didn't show it. "I was upstairs in our bedroom. When I heard a crash from below, I tried to check on him, but found the basement door was locked."

"From which side?"

"The outside," she replied without hesitation. "Which was strange, since the key was in the lock. Ernest must have turned it accidentally when he closed the door."

Mercer made a note, though they both knew this contradicted the physics of how the door would close. "And the livestream? Did you have any knowledge of it before I mentioned it during our previous conversation?"

"None whatsoever," Nina said. "Though I've since done some research online. It seems portions of it were recorded by viewers before it was taken down. Disturbing content."

"Yes," Mercer agreed. "Particularly the parts where your husband appears to discuss planning your murder."

Nina's expression remained controlled, but Mercer noticed a slight change in her breathing. "I've heard about that. It confirms what I had begun to suspect in the weeks before his death."

"Which was?"

"That Ernest planned to kill me and make it look like an accident or suicide. Just as I believe he did with my mother and his first wife."

Mercer tapped his pen against his notepad, considering his next question carefully. "Did you drug me during our last meeting, Mrs. Blackwood?"

The question hung in the air. Nina didn't flinch or look away, but held his gaze steadily.

"Why would I do that, Detective?"

"To impair my judgment. To make me doubt my own perceptions or recall of our conversation."

Nina's expression softened slightly. "I served you tea, Detective. Nothing more. If you experienced some discomfort afterward, perhaps it was the stress of the case. Or perhaps..." She paused meaningfully. "Perhaps someone wanted you to believe I had drugged you."

"Someone like who?"

"Ernest had many allies. People who benefited from his... methods. People who might not want you looking too closely at the Blackwood family history."

Mercer frowned. It was a deflection, but a clever one that planted seeds of doubt. Could someone else have drugged him after his meeting with Nina? It seemed far-fetched, yet no more so than many other aspects of this case.

"Let's get back to the night of your husband's cardiac event," Mercer said, redirecting the conversation. "The animal stimulant found in the basement—do you have any explanation for its presence?"

"Ernest kept various medications and compounds for the hunting dogs at our country estate," Nina replied smoothly. "I wasn't aware he had brought any to the main house."

"And the dogs that attacked him at the hospital? You have no theory about how they escaped their transport or why they specifically targeted your husband?"

Nina's fingers absently touched the earrings on the desk—her mother's earrings, recovered from the man who had likely killed her.

"Animals can sense things about people that we cannot," she said quietly. "Perhaps they simply recognized what kind of man he truly was."

The statement sent a chill down Mercer's spine. There was something in her tone—a subtle satisfaction, perhaps—that confirmed his suspicions. Nina Blackwood knew more than she was saying. Much more.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Mercer said carefully, "I'll be direct. I believe your husband was planning to murder you, just as he likely murdered your mother and others. I also believe you discovered his plan and took... preventative measures."

Nina remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"The question is," Mercer went on, "how far did those preventative measures go? Self-defense is one thing. Elaborate revenge is quite another."

"Are you accusing me of something, Detective?" Nina asked, her voice soft but with an edge of steel beneath.

Mercer held her gaze. "Not yet. But I will follow the evidence wherever it leads."

"As you should," Nina agreed. "The truth is important to me too."

She stood gracefully, smoothing her dress. "I should go. I've taken up enough of your time. But please, enjoy the cake. It's a special recipe."

As she turned to leave, Mercer called after her, "One more thing, Mrs. Blackwood."

She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder.

"The bruises you showed me during our last meeting," he said. "They're gone now. Healed remarkably quickly."

Nina's lips curved in a small, enigmatic smile. "Appearances can be deceiving, Detective. Some wounds heal quickly on the surface while continuing to affect us deeply underneath."

With that, she departed, leaving Mercer alone with the cake box and the earrings—evidence of a murder committed years ago by a man who had himself been murdered under bizarre circumstances.

Mercer stared at the white box, debating whether to open it. Professional paranoia suggested caution, but curiosity won out. He untied the black ribbon and lifted the lid to reveal a perfect slice of dark chocolate cake, rich and moist, with a small card beside it that read simply: "Till Death Do Us Part."

The phrase sent another chill through him. Was it a threat? A confession? Or simply a widow's poignant remembrance?

Mercer closed the box without touching the cake. He would have the lab analyze it, though he doubted they would find anything harmful. Nina Blackwood was too intelligent to attempt something so obvious as poisoning a detective investigating her case.

He picked up his phone and dialed the tech department. "This is Mercer. I need everything you can find on Nina Blackwood's background. Particularly her time at the cybersecurity firm before her marriage. And check for any connections to animal training or veterinary supplies."

As he hung up, his gaze fell on the cake box again. Something about it nagged at him, a detail he couldn't quite place. He opened the lid once more and examined the slice more carefully. The texture seemed unusual—rich and dark, but with a slightly gritty quality visible in the cross-section.

On impulse, Mercer used a tissue to pick up the small card and turned it over. On the back, written in elegant script, were the words: "He always said my cake was to die for."

Mercer's coffee cup slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor and splattering dark liquid across the linoleum. The sound drew the attention of Officer Chen, who appeared in his doorway.

"Everything okay, Detective?"

Mercer stared at the cake, then at the earrings still lying on his desk—trophies taken from a murdered woman, now returned to serve as evidence against her killer, who was himself now dead.

"Chen," he said slowly, "get me everything we have on cremation procedures for murder victims."

"Sir?" Chen looked confused by the request.

"Just do it," Mercer said, his eyes still fixed on the cake. "And call the lab. I need them to analyze this... food item. Specifically, I want them to check for the presence of human cremains."

Chen's eyes widened as she connected the dots. "You think someone put Blackwood's ashes in—"

"I think Nina Blackwood is sending a message," Mercer interrupted. "I'm just not entirely sure what it is yet."

After Chen left to carry out his instructions, Mercer carefully closed the cake box and sealed it in an evidence bag. Then he picked up one of Diana Wells' earrings again, studying the delicate silver leaf.

The evidence was mounting, but it remained circumstantial. No prosecutor would take the case based on what he had so far—earrings that had changed hands under suspicious circumstances, a livestream that couldn't be definitively traced to Nina, and a cake that, even if it did contain Ernest's ashes, could be explained away as a grieving widow's bizarre but not illegal method of coping with loss.

Yet Mercer was certain now that Nina Blackwood had orchestrated her husband's downfall. The question was whether he could prove it—and, increasingly, whether he should.

If Ernest had indeed killed Nina's mother and planned to kill Nina herself, wasn't her response a form of justice that the legal system had failed to provide? The thought troubled Mercer's straightforward moral compass. As a detective, his duty was to the law. But as a human being...

He shook his head, trying to clear away such thoughts. This was how corruption began—with small compromises, with judgments about who deserved justice and who did not.

Mercer reached for his coffee before remembering he had dropped it. His hand came to rest instead on his notepad, where he had written "3rd wealthy death—pattern?" during his review of the cases. Three deaths before Ernest's—his parents, his first wife, Nina's mother. All connected to Blackwood money. All benefiting Ernest.

And now Ernest himself was dead, potentially at the hands of his intended next victim.

The symmetry was undeniable. Poetic, even.

As Mercer stared at his notes, the coffee from his shattered cup slowly spread across the floor, dark and relentless, like the truth he was uncovering—messy, difficult to contain, and leaving a stain that would be hard to remove.