Shadows May Fall
Authors: Mell; Corcoran
A SERIES OF SHADOWS
Shadows of Doubt
Shadows of Deceit
Shadows May Fall
Copyright © 2016 by Mell Corcoran
Mill City Press
322 First Avenue N, 5th floor
Minneapolis, MN 55401
612.455.2293
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
ISBN:
978-1-63505-201-5
For Kevin and Brian.
I miss you.
Why.
Such a simple word, comprised of two consonants and a fair-weathered vowel. Is there any other word in the English language that is so short yet so vast in options? By most definitions, it asks for one thing; a reason.
Why is the sky blue?
Why is the earth round?
Why must we die?
One would be hard pressed to find a single instance where
“why”
is wholly answered, in complete truth and with absolute accuracy. Answers are subjective, after all, as are the circumstances surrounding their imposition. For instance, an answer to any one of the earlier questions would be phrased far differently to a child than to an adult. Also, the latter question simply cannot be answered with any certainty. We do not know why we must die. Beyond any theological or evolutionary theory, we have nothing but supposition. Death is absolute. It is an indisputable fact that is inescapable. There is no ‘
why'
per se, only the ‘
how'
and ‘
when'
that are discernible. By legal definition we can separate the types of death as natural, accidental, suicide and homicide. Regardless of classification, the
why
can never be answered altogether or to everyone’s complete satisfaction.
“When did he die? Saturday, just after midnight.”
“How did he die? A bump to the head.”
“Why did he die? We just don’t don’t have a clue.”
As often is the case when seeking reason where no reason can be found, asking
why
only leads to countless more questions. In an unreasonable world where so much suffering and strife occurs on a daily basis, with no real justifiable explanation,
why
is left as a mere expletive. An echoing cry of heartbreak that falls on deaf ears. Regardless of the method, old age, a sudden illness, a freak accident, the consequence of a poor choice, it doesn’t matter. We all will die sooner or later. In many cases, asking
why
in the end is just pointless. Do we want the details of
why
for any reason other than a self-serving form of comfort? To have some sense of reasonable justification for our own profound loss? Can that ever truly be achieved? Where anything but natural causes are concerned, do we honestly want to know
why
? Could any answer assuage our own pain? Or would it lead to the inexplicable, more
why's
, more complete bafflement?” Sometimes, isn’t ignorance the lesser of the evils?
“When did he die? Saturday, just after midnight.”
“How did he die? His brains were smashed to oblivion.”
“Why did he die? Because I wanted him dead.”
The Sunny City of Saugus. About as All-American and apple pie as
you can get in Southern California. Row after row of cookie-cutter homes lining the streets with fresh mown lawns. Single family dwellings mirroring one another with the requisite mini-van idling in the driveway, doors agape ready to receive cargo. Soccer mom’s loading up their broods while the older kids congregate at the sidewalk in small herds before setting off to their destination. Monday had arrived and the five-day suburban ritual had begun. Like a dense population of lemmings with their mysterious biological urge, the mass migration to school and work was in full swing. With every turn onto another street the behavior was the same, save for a few aesthetic changes. One mother appearing more frazzled than the last, one child protesting a little louder than another. The ratio of boy-to-girl varying but the small packs old enough to walk to school on their own clustered together in the same fashion. It was when Homicide Detective Lou Donovan and her partner made the last turn toward their target location that things changed. Something disrupted the ritual on this street. The picturesque suburban neighborhood had been hurled into chaos like a child’s ant farm after a good shaking.
Detective Dillon Cole brought his SUV to a halt in front of two deputies, their cruiser blocking the road to prevent unauthorized access. With a flash of their badges, a fresh pressed deputy nodded then moved to let Dillon and Lou pass. As they continued, Lou noticed no ritual loading of vehicles here. A few neighbors darted from one side of the street to the other, perhaps checking to make sure their friends and neighbors were safe and not part of the scene. Small clusters of women dotted the sidewalks, clutching at their young. They whispered to each other, shrugged their shoulders, gestured to the house at the end of the street. For these families, nothing would ever be the same. For Lou and Dillon, it was just another Monday morning.
By the time Dillon brought the car to a halt, Lou had already sized up the scene. Someone didn’t get their chores done over the weekend. Weeds in place of lawn, hedges lining the front of the house looked more like half dead trees than shrubs. A missing patch of adobe tiles and a ladder was propped against the right of the roof, evidence someone tried repairing it. It was an attempt made ages ago given the ivy winding it’s way through the top rungs of the half rusted ladder. For all intents and purposes the home looked abandoned. The shiny new blue truck parked in the driveway along with a late model sedan in the garage were the only things to indicate someone lived there. Yellow crime scene tape hung from whatever was available. Crude, but effective. Several deputies from the Santa Clarita station took statements from neighbors gathered in the middle of the street. A mountain of a deputy approached Lou and Dillon from the house.
“Detectives?” The large man questioned as he offered a hand.
“Lou Donovan...” She greeted him. “... my partner, Dillon Cole.”
“Duke Gantry, call me Duke. Thanks for coming.” The barrel chested man shook Dillon’s hand next then turned to lead the way. “To me it’s clear cut. One for the books, that’s for sure. I’ll let you see for yourself.”
Dillon grabbed a pair of paper booties at the front door, handing them to Lou before donning a pair himself. “The call said suicide?”
“That seems to be the case.” Duke replied as he finished covering his own shoes. “Deceased’s name is Kathy Miller, age forty-three. Her husband is a die-hard Clippers fan. He flew up to Oakland for the play-off game Thursday. Flew back Saturday morning for the game at Staples Center and stayed with a friend down in Westwood the past two nights. From what I’ve got so far, my guess is he knew he was in deep shit with the missus so he avoided coming home like the plague. When he got home, a little before seven this morning, he found her right where she wanted to be found.”
Lou found the deputy’s words to be odd. “How she wanted to be found?”
“You’ll see.” He smirked despite the gruesome circumstances and waved them in.
Once past the entry point of the residence it was more than obvious that a super-fan of the Los Angeles Clippers lived there. Anything and everything was covered in a Clippers logo. The living room area rug, throw pillows, red and blue lamp-shades, a throw blanket draped over the blue couch, all Clippers. Even an ornate frame containing a number 32 Blake Griffin jersey hung over the fireplace, complete with spotlighting. The undeniable smell of decomposing flesh thickened the air along with the distinct smell of kerosene and a faint hint of burnt plastic. Dillon and Lou’s attention turned to the large recliner perched in front of the massive flat screen television that was projecting the words “The End” on it. Kathy Miller, or what was left of her, sat in the recliner less half her head. Brain matter and skull fragments littered the adjacent area, with the majority projected on the display cabinet located behind her. The spray and spatter pattern made things rather clear though if there was a doubt, the sawed off shotgun laying at her feet confirmed things. Mrs. Miller had blown her own brains out and it appeared she had done so rather early in the weekend. The woman had chosen a Clipper’s sweatshirt and pajama pants baring the Clipper’s logo as her farewell ensemble. By the extreme oversize of the attire, Lou knew the clothing was not hers. One of the forensic techs handed the deputy a plastic evidence bag, anticipating his request.
“This is a first for me.” Duke dangled the bag in front of them so they could see it contained a remote control. It was fixed with a sticky note that read ‘
Clippers suck now press play
’ in large handwritten block letters. “Ready?” He asked them and they both shrugged. “It seems she made this for her husband.”
When Duke pressed play as instructed the words that read “The End” on the screen vanished and a very much alive Kathy Miller appeared on the screen. It looked as though she was video taping herself as she stood in the kitchen, fixed her hair, cleared her throat before she spoke.
The next seven and a half minutes of footage contained an irate monologue dedicated to pointing out every offense Donald Miller had committed that drove Katherine Miller to taking her own life. She was clear and quite specific in her dissertation all while desecrating as much of her husband’s Clipper’s memorabilia as possible. She spared the Blake Griffin jersey but had set several others ablaze in the kitchen sink along with Mr. Miller’s coveted ticket-stub collection and several other irreplaceable items. It was not the first time that her husband had vanished to a game on her birthday. Sadly, that had happened on several occasions. The final insults was Friday morning when she discovered that her husband had drained their bank account which was dedicated to future in vitro treatments. By the end of the rant, Kathy Miller was sobbing, devastated and emotionally spent. She had ended the recording and taken the time to edit the footage to add a graphic that read “The End”. She burned it to disc so that upon discovery of her body, all anyone needed to do was press play and all would be revealed.
“Well, that sucked.” Dillon muttered after a long pause of silence. “So the husband is a total moron?”
Duke grinned. “This guy is completely clueless and self-absorbed, and that’s being kind.” He motioned to the back of the house. “Hasn’t said much but I don’t expect he’ll process this anytime soon.”
Lou looked out the sliding glass door to the back yard and saw a deputy hovering over a distraught Donny Miller. His slumped posture and tear stained face gave all indications that he was clearly upset. About what, was the real question. Lou couldn’t imagine a woman being driven to suicide over her husband’s sports addiction, although the fertility issue could cause serious depression. The situation in this instance was far more extreme. Kathy Miller had gone to great lengths to end her life as conspicuously as possible. There was no question about the manner and means by which the woman took her life. It was crystal clear that all of it was meant as a last screw-you to her husband. Why? She could have just walked away. No kids meant a summary dissolution would have been far easier and not that expensive. There were plenty of low cost ways to get a divorce these days. Lou just had a hard time grasping any woman being driven to such an extreme over a stupid man. Had Kathy murdered her husband, that was another story and one Lou might be able to wrap her head around, but suicide didn’t sit well with Lou. Not that it ever would.
“I’ll talk to the husband. You handle the logistics in here?” Lou asked Dillon.
“No problem.” He replied and turned with Duke to deal with the kitchen.
“Let me know if you figure out what she burned in there.” Lou headed out, removing her booties as she exited to the patio. It appeared Donny Miller was younger than his wife, at most early thirties which helped explain the immaturity level for Lou. As she approached she gave a somber smile to the deputy watching over the man. He backed off a distance to give them space.
“Mr. Miller, I’m Detective Lou Donovan. I am so sorry for your loss.” She sat down on the bench opposite the man and set her notepad on the table.
“What?” Donny Miller noticed Lou’s presence. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Lou repeated herself. “I’m Detective Lou Donovan. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?” He was a bit out of sorts. “You mean Kathy?”
“Yes, Mr. Miller, I am so sorry for the loss of your wife, Kathy.” Lou took a posture and tone she normally reserved for children. “I understand you were away for the weekend? With your friends?”
Donny Miller’s facial expression changed. “Yeah.” He grimaced. “We went to the game in Oakland on Thursday then hit Staples for the game Saturday night. Damn defense.” The man shook his head and muttered something under his breath, setting the hairs on the back of Lou’s neck on end.
“Sorry to hear that.” Lou was annoyed the man was able to shift so quickly from grief over his wife to his displeasure over how the Western Conference was shaping up. “Can you tell me when you purchased your tickets for the games?”
“The morning after we tied in game four.” He didn’t even hesitate with his response. “That should have been it, but they tied. We had to scramble to get tickets for Saturday but it was worth it!” The man smiled with satisfaction.
Lou stared at Donald Miller for what seemed like an eternity before she closed her notepad without writing a single word. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Miller.” Lou spoke as she got up from the bench. “The deputy here will transport you to the station where they will take your official statement. After that, someone will get you connected with victim’s services.”
“What?” Donny Miller looked at her like she was insane. “I can’t go to the station! We have a flight to catch! I only came home to get clean clothes! Ben and Joe are expecting me to pick them up in twenty minutes!” Even the deputy standing off to the side looked at the man in disbelief.
“Mr. Miller...” Lou caught herself and measured her tone with great restraint. “You are in shock. I’m sure your friends will understand given the circumstances. We would be happy to contact them for you.”
“I’m not in shock and hell no they won’t understand!” Donny Miller got up from the bench and began to pace. “Yeah, so Kathy blew her brains out, that sucks. She torched half of my collection to piss me off. I’ll be damned if that bitch is gonna ruin the rest of this season for me too!” The man was shouting and flailing his arms about, causing Dillon to step outside to see what was happening. “You do whatever you gotta do here but I am not changing my plans over this... this shit!”
“Is there a problem?” Dillon asked as he eyed Lou curiously.
“It seems Mr. Miller has plans to be at the game in Oklahoma today and he wants to leave.” Lou said while blinking a lot.
“Are you kidding me?” Dillon squeaked and Lou shook her head.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Donny Miller scolded. “You don’t understand what being married to that woman has been like! Yeah, I loved her I guess, but she’s gone now! Why should I have to be penalized for her mess? We play at home on Friday so why can’t all this wait until I get back? Not like she’s going anywhere!” The man snorted.
The utter lack of empathy and compassion for Kathy Miller was incomprehensible. Donald Miller could have cared less about his wife’s suicide but was frantic about the fallout that was about to disrupt his plans. They did have all the information necessary, and they had no legal reason to hold the man. They needed his official statement signed and on the record as soon as possible so letting him take off, out of state, before that was not an option.
“I can take him to the station, get his statement, then his buddies can pick him up from there and they would be on schedule?” The deputy chimed in from the edge of the patio. Lou and Dillon gave him a look of disapproval. “What? I’m not saying it’s right, I’m only trying to help here.”
Lou and Dillon looked at each other as they considered. It disgusted them both but there wasn’t much either of them could do but relent. “Fine. Escort him to the master bedroom and watch him carefully while he gets some clean clothes then take him to the station. You can let him call his friends on the ride over there.” Lou was highly annoyed she was allowing the pathetic excuse for a husband to go. Now she had a much clearer picture of what Kathy Miller had been putting up with and what drove her to take her own life. To live day in and out with that type of selfishness, being ignored and pushed aside time and time again. It was bound to lead to major self esteem issues and hard core depression. Lou expected they would find issues of depression in Kathy Miller’s medical history. That would wrap it up in a tidy little package before the first whistle blew in Oklahoma later that night. It made her gut churn.