Chapter 7 Gulity

Elena

I crouched just outside the crime scene tape, the hard floor cold even through my slacks. Dust clung beneath the gallery benches in thin, untouched layers, as if the years had settled quietly and been left undisturbed... until now. The killer had placed each piece of furniture with such precision that the legs only compressed the dust beneath, not smeared it. Every corner spoke of deliberate care.

There were no scuff marks, no discarded packaging, not a single screw or scrap of rope. No tape, no plastic, no tool left behind. Somebody had brought each piece in, assembled or positioned it with surgical neatness, then erased all signs of the process before leaving.

"This took hours," I murmured, more to myself than anyone.

Daniel moved in beside me, mirroring my stance. "Probably more."

My mind ticked through possibilities. “He knew the building wouldn’t be checked.”

“Security patrols are routine, predictable,” Daniel said, eyes scanning the base of the benches.

“And the alarms?” I asked, thinking of every possible way in and out.

Elliot’s voice carried from the judge’s bench. “Still active at three exterior doors and two motion zones.”

“Any triggered?” I pressed.

He shook his head. “No. Not a single one.”

“Disabled?” I asked.

“Not from the central panel, at least according to the log,” Elliot replied.

Owen Vance’s footsteps echoed as he drew closer. “So he had a code.”

“Or he avoided the zones,” Elliot countered.

Owen scoffed. “While moving an entire courtroom?”

Elliot shrugged. “I said or.”

Daniel stood, stretching his knees. “Construction crews have had access.”

“County employees too,” I added, ticking names off in my head. “Retired court staff. Contractors. Security.”

Owen’s gaze landed on me, hard. “Police.”

His implication was clear as a slap.

I rose, matching his stare. “Something you want to say?”

Owen tilted his chin. “Just adding to your list.”

“Try doing it without smirking.”

“I’m not smirking.”

“You should ask your face.”

Daniel exhaled, the sound bordering on a laugh, though the tension made it flat. Pike glanced at the peeling ceiling, maybe hoping for patience or divine intervention.

I moved toward the gallery doors, mind working. The killer had known which cameras were still active. According to Elliot, the rear and parking-lot feeds died at 11:53 p.m.

I checked the nearest wall clock, its hands stuck at 8:16, frozen years ago.

"What time did security find Kline?" I asked.

“Twelve eleven,” Daniel answered.

“So, cameras down eighteen minutes before,” I calculated.

“At least,” Daniel said.

“He could’ve been inside before the cameras failed.”

“Could’ve.”

“But Kline’s car is in the rear lot.”

Daniel nodded toward the hall. “We’ll need engine temperature and traffic footage.”

“And his schedule,” I added.

“I’ll have someone pull it.”

“Not Owen,” I said, loud enough for him to hear.

Owen bristled. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted honesty.”

“I didn’t ask for insult.”

“Then stop earning it.”

Pike’s voice sliced through the tension. “Cross.”

I faced him.

“Professional,” he said flatly.

“So is competence,” I replied, unwilling to let Owen’s needling go unanswered.

Owen stepped forward, but Daniel positioned himself subtly between us again. Elliot, still under the bench, seemed blissfully absorbed in the dust, immune to our politics until he froze, all motion stopping.

“Everyone stop talking,” Elliot said abruptly.

We didn’t. Not at first.

He looked up, urgency etched across his face. “I mean it.”

His tone silenced the rest of us.

He slid flat on one shoulder, angling long tweezers beneath the center support of the judge’s bench.

“What is it?” I asked, my heart thumping.

“Small object taped underneath,” he said, voice steady.

“Explosive?” Owen blurted, stepping back.

Elliot shot him a glare. “If I thought it was, Detective, I wouldn’t be using tweezers.”

Owen’s face tightened. Daniel leaned in.

“What kind of object?” Daniel asked.

“Rectangular. Black. About three inches,” Elliot replied.

“A recorder,” I guessed.

“Possibly.” Elliot snapped a photo, then carefully peeled back the tape. He extracted a small digital audio recorder... the disposable kind, cheap and common. The kind favored by students, journalists, or anyone who preferred evidence over memory.

He placed it in a clear evidence tray. “No blood, no visible prints.”

“Can you play it?” I asked.

“After I image the device.”

“How long?”

Elliot shot me a look. “Longer every time you ask.”

Pike checked his watch. “Do it here.”

Reluctance flickered on Elliot’s face, but he set up his sterile cable and copied the contents onto a secured department laptop.

Only one recording. Forty-three minutes and nineteen seconds.

Owen folded his arms. “Probably the murder.”

Daniel’s gaze drifted to Kline’s body. “Forty-three minutes is a long time.”

“For torture?” Owen asked.

“For silence,” I replied, and my skin prickled. The killer hadn’t left chaos behind. He’d left order.

Elliot clicked play.

A faint hiss filled the courtroom... the sound of empty air, a room holding its breath.

We listened. Ten seconds. Twenty. The only sound was the low hum of space, no voices, no footsteps, no struggle. Just air moving and, somewhere in the background, the slow, steady ticking of a clock.

Owen shifted, restless. “This is nothing.”

“Quiet,” I ordered, not looking away from the laptop.

The recording continued: minute after minute, pure, oppressive silence. The tick of the clock grew hypnotic, matching the slow rise and fall of my breathing. It made Kline’s body seem even more present, the red stains on his hands more vivid, the confession beside him heavier with accusation.

At fourteen minutes, there was a faint, shuddering breath.

Daniel’s head snapped up. He’d heard it too.

At seventeen minutes, the sound of fabric moving. At twenty-one, a soft click, metal against wood.

Then silence returned.

I imagined Kline, somewhere beyond our vision, drugged or restrained. Waiting.

Had the recorder been here, in this courtroom, capturing the murder? Or had the killer recorded him somewhere else, then brought him in?

No echoes revealed the room’s secrets. No cars, no distant machinery. Just silence and the inexorable tick of that clock.

Thirty minutes passed. Owen paced near the doors, impatient. Pike’s face was carved from stone.

At forty-two minutes, I realized I’d curled my hands into fists.

Then, after forty-three minutes of nearly unbroken silence, Everett Kline spoke.

His voice emerged low and dry through the laptop speakers. “They were already guilty.”

Every person in the courtroom froze.

A pause followed. Long enough to hear him breathe.

Then Kline continued. “I simply decided which guilt mattered.”