Mrs. Valdez turned to look at him, and there was something sharp in her gaze. “In this neighborhood, Detective, you always learn to lock up your doors.”
She had a point. I looked out at the backyard again, studying the layout.
“I watched for a few minutes, thinking maybe he was taking out trash or something. But he didn’t come back.”
“That’s when you went over?” I asked.
“No.” The word came out almost defensive. “I’m not stupid, Detective. I called him on his cell phone first.”
Adam’s pen scratched across paper. “And?”
“It rang, but no one picked up.”
She moved back to the living room, and we followed. She sat down again, heavier this time, as if gravity had increased its claim on her. “I tried three times. Then I tried his landline. Same thing; the phone just kept ringing. I felt that something was wrong, so I went into his backyard. The door was wide open, like I said. And I could see into his living room.”
“And what did you see?”
“Blood. A lot of it. On the floor. Everywhere, really.” Her hands were shaking now, and she pressed them flat against her thighs.
“Did you go inside?” I asked.
“No. God, no. I never moved past the doorway. I immediately called the police.”
“Did you see anyone else? Either in Mr. Baker’s yard or leaving his house?”
“No. No one.”
“What about yesterday? Any cars you didn’t recognize on the street? Anyone walking by?”
She thought about it, her brow furrowing with concentration. I appreciated that. Some witnesses just wanted to get through the questions as fast as possible, but Mrs. Valdez seemed to understand that details mattered.
Finally, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
I glanced at Adam. We’d need to pull any security camera footage from the area, though, in this neighborhood, that was unlikely. Privacy meant something different around here.
“Tell me about Mr. Baker,” I said, shifting gears. “How well did you know him?”
Mrs. Valdez’s expression softened. “He moved in about five years ago. Kept to himself mostly, but he was a good neighbor. He fixed my porch railing last summer when it came loose. Wouldn’t even take a dime for it.”
“Did he seem worried about anything lately? Scared? Acting different?”
“No, he was normal,” she said. “We weren’t that close, you know? We’d chat over the fence, help each other out with little things, but we weren’t friends. Not really. I wish I’d paid more attention. Maybe if I had…” she trailed off, looking down at her hands
“Mrs. Valdez,” I said firmly, “this is not your fault. The person who killed Martin Baker is responsible. No one else.”
She nodded, but the guilt remained in her eyes.
I walked her through a couple of more questions, all standard procedure.
Did Martin have visitors? Did she know where he worked? Had she ever seen him argue with anyone? Did he have family nearby? Each answer painting a picture of the kind of man hewas.
Finally, I stood, and Adam closed his notebook with a soft snap. “That’s all for now. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Valdez.”
“Will you catch him?” she quietly asked, looking up at me. “Whoever did this?”
“We’re going to do everything we can,” I promised.
Adam handed her his card, pressing it into her palm. “If you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. Day or night. Even if it seems insignificant.”
