First Murder (2 page)

“Thanks, Ray.” Tony noticed the gloves were powdered inside, more comfortable when you would be wearing them for a while. Professional. “Won’t happen again.”

“What say I go in first? I’ve done this a time or two.” Ray’s twenty-five years on the force, most of it as an investigator, guaranteed that Tony wasn’t going to argue. “You’ve got what, five years on?”

“Six and a half. Last year I was with Narcotics. Eighteen months, actually. Undercover. I liked it, took the exam, and here we are.”

“Narco—that would explain why you look scruffy.”

“It’s four in the fucking morning, Ray. What’s with scruffy?”

“Hair. Beard. Clothes. Sock.” Ray held up one finger. “Scruffy. And I’d prefer that you save your cursing for more appropriate circumstances.”

“And what would a more appropriate circumstance be?” Tony bottled his anger when he replied but his words still dripped with sarcasm.

“Hammer versus finger comes to mind. Looking into a gun barrel comes to mind. Husband comes home early? Hit a deer in your new car? Now that definitely deserves a good cussing. You’re not on patrol anymore. Please get in the habit.” Bankston turned toward the door. “You ready?”

Tony nodded. “Lead the way, Sarge.”

“It’s all in the details, Tony. Remember that.” Ray pulled the screen door open and led the way. “And don’t ever call me ‘Sarge’ again, okay?”

“Got it…
Ray
.”

Hot damn, Tony thought. Here we go.
My first murder.

T
he only light in the kitchen came from a ceiling fixture. Ray and Tony focused on the body sprawled in the middle of the room. The woman was on her back, one leg tucked under the other. One of her shoes, a black leather slip-on with a low-heel, rested on its side a few feet away. She was wearing a skirt, collared blouse and jacket. The skirt was navy blue, calf length. An embroidered jacket was splayed open. A once white or ivory colored blouse was stained red-black from the blood. Her head was turned to the left side. One arm was outstretched on the floor. The other arm lay across her torso near the knife but not touching it.

The handle of a knife stood erect from her chest, just below her left breast. In life, she had been a pretty woman—strikingly attractive, in fact. In death, the settling of blood and degradation of tissue had already begun to betray that beauty.

Her long brown-blonde hair was fanned out on the tile floor. The blood pool had crept up from beneath and around her and had soaked one side halfway. Her eyes were open. Tony thought she looked surprised, as if she had been asking ‘why are you doing this?’ at the moment someone had pierced her heart.

She had been dead for a while. The blood was blackened and tacky. House flies whirred about. Some hovered and swarmed about the body and the blood. Some investigated and feasted. Her bowels and bladder had let go. The smell of urine and feces mingled with the coppery tang of blood.

Tony had seen death before but it had been recent death, immediate death, always accompanied by sirens and flashing lights and screaming. The blood had been red in those deaths. It had been gunshot death and slashing death and sometimes metal-rent accidental death. It had been loud rap music death, rock and roll dying and shotgun murder. It had been meth-fuelled death, whisky and beer soaked slaughter. In this quiet kitchen with a once-pretty woman lying on the floor wearing a surprised sad look on her face he found himself listening for organ music—a hymn or a Celtic chant or something.

Ray, kneeling by the body and talking softly into his recorder, said, “The victim is middle aged, Caucasian female. Death appears to have been caused by stabbing. One wound is visible. A knife is still imbedded in the victims left chest. Death was not immediate as evidenced by the size of the blood pool. I see no spatter, no blood trail.”

Tony looked around the kitchen for the first time while Ray continued to catalog his observations and impressions. He saw a knife block on the counter, a large expensive looking set. The handles matched the one in the woman’s chest. On one counter a leather purse lay on its side. Some of the contents had spilled onto the countertop—a wallet, a roll of mints, a lipstick tube. A set of car keys lay nearby. Ray, now on his feet, leaned over the woman, still talking in a low monotone.

Tony wondered how Ray could keep the emotion out of his voice. He realized he was fighting an urge to scream and curse. He looked again at the murdered woman lying in a pool of blood, his hands balled into tight white bloodless fists—Tony wanted to be mad at someone.

A black suitcase lay on its side and a crumpled hanging bag sagged over by the door. A fresh green MSP airline tag was threaded through the handle. Delta Airlines.

“I’m tempted to rule out robbery or crash-and-grab,” Ray murmured into the recorder. “A large diamond ring is on the victim’s finger. She’s wearing pearl earrings.”

“Her wallet’s on the counter too, Ray,” Tony offered.

Ray turned to Tony with an irritated look on his face then realized that his new partner was just trying to be helpful and had, in fact, been listening. His frown softened and he nodded.

Careful to avoid the blood pool Tony stepped over to the sink. There was a bowl and a glass in the left basin. Both were dry and looked clean. There was a coffee mug in the right basin. He leaned over and saw that there was dried residue in it. He found the coffeemaker and, with one knuckle, rocked the carafe. It was over half full. He moved over to inspect the knife block. There was one empty slot from the deeper section of the oak carrier. Tony looked back at the body and winced, certain there was a substantial knife under the handle—a butcher blade or a big carver.

Ray was now slowly circling the body, still droning into the recorder. Tony, making sure to stay out of his way, moved to the other side of the cabinets. He looked down and saw a dark smudge.

“Ray, there’s a mark over here.”

“I’m not there yet.” Ray sounded irritated.

“It looks like a heel scuff.”

“We’ll see.” Ray never raised his head or his voice as he continued to circle the corpse. Tony surveyed the room again. There was an alarm panel by the door.A solitary green light blinked patiently.

“She might have known the killer, Ray.” Tony felt proud, having figured out this major factor, and on his first day, actually, first hour on the case.

“Of course she did, son.” The air hissed when Tony’s balloon deflated.

“I’m just trying to help,” Tony said, and kept the
you asshole
to himself.

“I know.” Ray straightened up and looked across the room. “Why don’t you get some more lights on in here and take a look around, carefully, and see if you can find a planner or a calendar.”

Tony flipped switches and prowled around the desktop tucked into a niche by the breakfast table. He watched Ray pause, look down at the smudge on the floor and say into the recorder, “There is a scuff mark, approximately four inches long angled diagonally across the room toward the body. Make sure forensics checks it against the deceased’s shoes.”

Tony smiled triumphantly while he inspected the desk top. Magazines and newsprint shoppers were neatly stacked. There was a notepad and a spiral bound planner angled on the side.

“Got it. There’s a note pad here too.”

Done now with his death-dance around the corpse Ray joined Tony, took out a pen, and carefully flipped the planner open to the first week of October.

“Monday. Yesterday. 9:30. CH/ORIENT. Wonder what CH/Orient means.” Tony mused.

“We’ll find out.” Ray used his pen to flip the book shut. “We’ll let forensics have it first.” He stood tall and stretched, fists in the small of his back. “I’m not liking this one even a little bit, detective. Not a bit.”

“Okay, why not?” Tony rubbed one eye, still a bit out of it.

“You were right about her knowing the killer. I’m assuming you noticed the green light on the alarm. She let him or her in. The husband didn’t take the time to turn off the alarm, or he’s lying. I don’t think he is at this point. The killer also wasn’t necessarily planning on committing murder. They used a chance weapon, the knife—didn’t bring a weapon with them.”

“What’s to like about any murder, Ray?” Tony asked, genuinely curious.

“Some solve themselves. The husband is standing over the body with a smoking gun and just can’t wait to tell us why he killed her…or him. We’re going to have to get into these people’s lives, Tony. These are the worst. I hate getting into people’s lives.” Ray took a deep breath. “Go get the scientists and then we’ll snoop around the rest of the house before we go talk to Mr. Fredrickson.”

“We can do that?” Tony was no rookie, but he had always been left at the door when the detectives arrived.

“It’s a crime scene,” Ray replied. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

The first tech in the door was one of Ray’s favorites, Jonny Kumpula. They had worked many cases together over the years. Ray respected his thoroughness and skills. Kumpula appreciated what Ray did with his evidence.

“I need a time of death, Kump,” Ray said without preamble when he entered, heavy case in hand. Kumpula took one look at the body and then glanced back at Ray. They both cocked their heads when they heard the furnace kick in.

“I’ll do what I can.” Kumpula, shrugged, knowing already that it would be a tough call. The detectives retreated.

Over half of the finished basement was an entertainment room with a massive wide- screen TV dominating a collection of comfortable looking sofas and chairs. There was a bar but it wasn’t stocked. A small refrigerator held four bottles of beer and a half full bottle of white wine. The room smelled of Pledge and lemon oil. Ray lifted the corner of a magazine. No dust.

“Cleaning service?” he asked the digital recorder.

The rest of the basement was split between a well appointed laundry room, a bathroom, and a home gym. The appliances and exercise machine were new looking. There was a basement door at the back of the house, alarmed like the others—this one blinking red, with a heavy steel bar across it.

Tony frowned.
No one left this way
.

The second floor was considerably warmer. There were four doors visible down the wide carpeted hallway. Two were closed. Ray and Tony found one to be a boy’s room, evidenced by posters and trophies on the shelves. Two twin beds were made and un-mussed. The closet held a few clothes, mostly summer wear.

“A son living away from home?” Ray asked the recorder.

The other closed door hid a guest room. There was a queen sized bed, a dresser and mirror, some pictures on the wall and little else. Again the bed was made and undisturbed. The closet was empty except for some shoe boxes stacked on the shelf.

A tiled bathroom was found behind door number three. There was a tub, a commode with the lid down, and a small vanity. Tony noted an empty waste can. The medicine cabinet held few toiletries and no prescription drugs. He sighed when he saw the aspirin bottle, reminded of the dull ache he’d almost shoved aside. He closed the medicine cabinet and went looking for Ray.

The master suite was impressive. Again they found a made bed, no dust, and expensive, tasteful furnishings. There was another bath off the bedroom, this one showing signs of regular use. Tony called out to Ray from the bedroom.

“We can definitely rule out robbery, boss.” When Ray joined him he pointed out a pair of diamond earrings on the dresser. “I’m thinking half carat each. The Fredrickson’s are doing all right.”

Ray just nodded.

There were sheers on the windows flanked by heavy brocade drapes. Tony noticed it was getting lighter outside.
How long had they been in the house?

“Time to talk to the husband.”

Ray headed downstairs. At the front door he checked the deadbolts and alarm. The killer hadn’t gone this way either. It had all gone down in the kitchen.

Tony lagged behind, upstairs. Standing in the master bedroom, he noticed the pale lightening of the sheers, heard the furnace whisper on again, barely disturbing the silence. He took in the neatness of the room, the ordinary-ness of everything. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing seemed out of place. He hustled down the stairs to join his partner.

They cautiously stepped around the techs dusting for prints and looking for other minute traces of evidence. Kumpula looked up at them, brow furrowed, frowning.

“Liver temp is 74.1, Ray, and I checked out the thermostat. It’s not a set-back model. It’s been 62 in here the whole time.”

Ray needed a time of death to even think of getting started. “Get me close, Kump.”

“Wish I could. You’re looking at 11pm night-before to 9 AM yesterday. Late Sunday night to early Monday morning. Best I can do for now.”

Ray nodded.

“Maybe the Doc can get you closer from the autopsy. Liver temp sucks when it’s been this long,” Kumpula said, trying to give him some hope and maybe something more exact to work with.

“I know.”

“So who’s the new victim…I mean partner?” Kumpula jerked a thumb in Tony’s direction.

“Victim?”

“Tony de Luca, meet Jonny Kumpula.”

“I’d shake but it’s kinda’ insincere when we’re all wearing gloves,” Kumpula joked.

“Nice to meet you, Jonny. Hey, just what did you mean by ‘victim’?” Ray was already out the door and Tony was anxious to follow.

“Just kidding,” Kumpula called out behind him as the screen door closed. Tony could have sworn he heard him add ‘
sorta
’ just before it latched.

R
ay stood in the center of the paver driveway just outside the back door. He looked toward the radio car the husband was sitting in, glanced up at the lightening early morning sky, and finally towards a small gathering of people, neighbors shivering in housecoats and robes. One man pointed at the house. Two women were whispering to each other.

Tony nudged Ray with his elbow. “Think anyone saw anything?” He nodded toward the gathering.

“I’m sure someone saw something. Trouble is, right now we don’t know
when
whatever they saw has any bearing.”