I inhale my cigarette as I watch Valerie alternate between the two open files from my desk, placing pieces side by side and above and below each other on the rug. She’s re-tied her hair into a tight ponytail.  I lean against the open door frame, the cold creeping onto my back as the sun sets and it becomes dark, my office illuminated by the lamp on my desk.
The guys behind me smoke as well, careful to keep their presence concealed from Valerie. Looking at how concentrated she looks, I doubt she has anything else on her mind but I'm glad they’re cautious. If I'd been slower they may have tried to tackle her before I got to her when she was having her panic attack on the ground. I’m not surprised she reacted that way, considering the broken bones and heavy lacerations in the autopsy pictures and graphic nature of Brooke’s death. 

I exhale as Valerie lays more on the floor, questioning whether I should have let her actually do this. Whatever ‘this’ is.
What is going on in that girl's head? From her background information, she was only an average student, passing but not excelling in anything particular. Her level of concentration now though is suffocating, almost as if her small presence is taking up all the breathing room.
Valerie places the last paper down and stands up, putting her right hand on her hip as she wipes her forehead with the back of her left.
“Leah, I'm finished.”
I stamp out my cigarette and walk into the study, standing on her left as I take in the organised two lines on my rug.”So, what did you find out?”  I ask, looking over to her. Her blank expression is alarming, considering only half an hour ago she was sobbing on her knees.
“I put both investigations parallel to each other, by page number or whichever matches to each, though most were the same” Valerie begins to explain, her eyes focused on the puzzle before her. Does she even know I'm here or is she speaking to herself?
“I already noted how it was suspicious that both investigations were labelled as burlargies or home invasions. Both doors were open when officers arrived, but locks were determined to have not been forced open. Which means they opened the door for their attackers. Mum was very careful to not open the door for strangers, that rule was drilled into me ever since i was little. Brooke wouldn’t either because if they claimed they were friends of mine she’d know it was a lie or at least suspicious enough to not let them in. So what made them open the door?”
I remain silent for a moment before she turns to me and I realise she’s expecting an answer. “Could have been threatened” I suggest, still a little thrown back by this changed person before me. It's like they’re not even human to her anymore. It’s like she’s pushed all her emotions away.
“But they’re behind a closed door, which means they had the advantage. The assailants would have had to break down the door to get to them.”
“They could have used you as blackmail to open the door” I note, trying to get on her rapid train of thought.
“I agree. I think they used me to get them to open the door. They also could have pretended to be officers and told them I was in danger.”
“You think they pretended to be cops?”
“Maybe, but it seems the most likely. Who wouldn’t instantly trust someone in a cop uniform?” she sighs.
“Me” I replied, crossing my arms, “cops aren’t always good. The sooner you know that the better.”
“I don’t trust cops since my mother died but Brooke did and my mother did when she was alive. If i’d been there with Brooke… Nevermind, next is the attacks.” Valerie moves to her right, closer to the office doors and I follow, leaning against the desk, tapping on it lightly with my fingers, just to let some of this coiled-up tension out. “Both autopsy reports say that a gunshot wound to the heart was the cause of death. But the reports are long because they were tortured first.”
I try to ignore the slight crack in her voice.
“They had broken bones, bruises and lacerations. But what I needed to see was the photos together to prove my theory. The wounds are the same. Multiple cuts, then broken fingers, then heavy blows. And the autopsies conclude the order and method is the same. And this” Valerie picks up two pieces of paper together and places them on the desk next to me. I try not to cringe as I take in the close up photo of the chest of the victims, the hole cleaned but sickeningly dark in contrast to the alabaster skin.
“Look next to the bullet hole” she instructs and I look closer.
“Shit” I swear, jumping from the table and slamming on the desk. 

“You recognise it?” Valerie enquiries.