Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery (5 page)

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Rumor has it you two married quickly—that it was a whirlwind romance. How did you and Margaret meet?”

“We met a year ago,” I said. “It was at a fundraiser, and I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. We dated briefly and got married last year in a very small ceremony right before Christmas.”

The interview moved to the Headless Corpse Killer and my involvement in the investigative task force. I had spoken with Lieutenant Netter earlier, and he approved details that could be released to the media. They would be the same details he would reveal in the media briefing at three o’clock later that afternoon.

I told Sally the perpetrator was now referred to as Jack Plum, and gave her a breakdown of the task force members and what some of their assignments were. “My assignment is research,” I said. I then described the crime scenes to the extent permitted by Netter, and told her the task force was investigating several leads and had narrowed their search to a handful of suspects. It was a lie promoted by the City of Cary to give the illusion of containment and prevent panic. I finished my interview by saying, “All task force members, along with volunteers, will man the tip hotline twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. My turn is Thursday evening.”

Sally wrapped up the program by asking viewers with any information about the crimes to call the tip hotline number displayed.

“Good luck with the investigation, Ben, and thank you for joining us tonight.” She turned and looked directly at camera one. “That’s our show for tonight. I’m Sally Briggum for
Carolinians In the News
. Good night, everyone.”

We sat motionless until the light on camera one went out. As Sally pulled the microphone from her lapel, she assured me that the telephone number for the tip hotline would be shown at the bottom of the screen when the segment aired during the six o’clock news hour.

It was over. I had survived death by interview, and I was sweating like a pig. As I started to get up, a chill suddenly ran down my spine and I froze, staring at Sally.

“Is something wrong, Ben?” she asked, unnerved.

“Yes. This segment will be viewed by thousands of people, and one of them may be Jack Plum. I hadn’t noticed it until just this instant, but you have a strong physical resemblance to our two victims. I’d advise you to please take caution and try not to go anywhere alone. Don’t answer your door at home unless you’re absolutely certain you know and trust who’s on the other side. This is nothing to take lightly.”

After scaring the shit out of Sally Briggum, I walked out of the building, tugging to remove my necktie. I threw it and my jacket onto the back seat. It was drizzling, and I sat behind the wheel listening to the rain dance on the windshield.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed my daughter, Amanda Jane. She would be at school with her phone turned off, but I wanted to leave a message and tell her I would be on TV that night. Her mother criticized me every chance she got, and I was always looking for opportunities to boost Amanda Jane’s perception of me.

My phone rang just as I finished my message. It was Netter. “What’s up?” I asked.

 “I’m going to be at the Clancy crime scene at one o’clock. You interested?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?” I asked.

“Probably. So, how’d the interview go?”

“Better than expected,” I said. “But get this. Sally Briggum is a dead ringer for the two victims.”

Netter grunted at the other end. “Damn,” he said uneasily and hung up.

CHAPTER 6

I arrived at 3812 Greentree Place, parked in front of Netter’s brown sedan, and smiled as I got out and took my briefcase from the back seat. The first time I’d seen it was in Marcus Bradley’s office seven months ago.

Marcus was the Chief Legal Counsel for Marshak Corporation and a good friend of Maggie’s late father. In many ways, after Henry’s death, Marcus had become the new father figure in Maggie’s life. He often questioned her decisions, and her announcement that she was marrying me was one of the times when he told her it was “a very bad idea.” He, like Roberta, felt I was only interested in her money and set out on a campaign to save her from a ruthless gold digger.

At his request, I had agreed to meet at his office in Raleigh. When I entered the conference room, he was seated at a mammoth mahogany table along with his associate, Richard Applee, and Maggie. She had a worried look on her face.

Marcus was a tall, lean, black man with striking features. Even seated, he towered above everyone else, but it was his deep voice that gave him a commanding presence.

It was obvious from the start he intended to buy me off, to get rid of me like an unwanted cockroach. He explained how he had orchestrated the departure of Maggie’s first husband and Julie’s father, David Fornell. Marcus had badgered Maggie and Fornell into signing a prenuptial agreement, which protected Maggie financially, but Fornell had become a major public embarrassment with his indiscreet womanizing and uncontrolled spending.

Marcus was also co-executor of the Marshak Family Trust, and much of the family lived off of that trust. He used the trust to buy Fornell off for five hundred thousand dollars. In return, Fornell agreed to a no-contest divorce and gave up parental rights to Julie, whom he never wanted to be around anyway. Maggie did not say a word, but I could tell she was humiliated by the events being discussed.

Marcus nodded to Applee, who picked up a briefcase and set it on the table in front of me. It was a handsome briefcase in rich brown leather with brass fittings at the corners. The matching leather handle had brass hinges.

I stared at the briefcase.

“Go ahead, Mr. Tucker,” Marcus said. “Open it.”

I slowly pushed the locks to the sides and the clasps snapped open. Marcus nodded for me to continue. Maggie looked terrified.

Inside were sixty bundles of bank-strapped hundred dollar bills. I had never seen so much money before in my life.

Marcus watched me with a contemptuous look on his face. I pointed to the cash. “May I?” I asked.

“Please do.”

I picked up one of the bundles and fanned it to confirm they were indeed hundred dollar bills. “This is a lot of money,” I said. “It’s breathtaking.”

“Six hundred thousand dollars,” Marcus said.

“A hundred grand more than Fornell?”

“Call it inflation. And according to our sources, that’s more money than you’ve earned through your entire career.”

I put the bundle back in the briefcase. “I want to be clear about this,” I said. “I can pick up this briefcase and walk out of here right now, and there’ll be no questions asked—no police?”

“That’s right, Mr. Tucker. The briefcase is yours.”

Maggie was mortified and looked down at the table like she was in a trance. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” I said, “but this is just too good to pass up.”

I dumped the six hundred thousand dollars in the middle of the table and closed the briefcase. “I don’t have any use for the money,” I said, “but this … this is a damn nice briefcase … and I really need one.” I nodded. “Thank you very much.” Holding the briefcase with my left hand, I turned and walked out of the conference room and left the office. Maggie giggled as I closed the door. Marcus and Applee were speechless.

The interaction was insulting, but it was the beginning of a relationship of mutual respect between Marcus and me.

CHAPTER 7

The Renee Clancy residence was a single story, khaki-colored ranch with white trim and black shutters dressing the windows. It had a black, asphalt-shingled gable roof and an attached one-car garage. The house and the landscape were neutral in color except for an arched wood-plank front door painted cherry red. Someone carefully planned this property’s curb appeal, and I would have thought it was enchanting if I didn’t know what waited inside.

Netter was standing in the front window and motioned for me to come in as I headed up the walk. The red front door opened behind the crime scene tape, and he handed me a pair of Tyvek booties and latex gloves. I put them on, ducked under the yellow tape, and entered the house.

As I stood in the entry getting my bearings, Netter pointed to my sport coat. “I think you’re a little overdressed,” he said. “This isn’t a date. So do you want to look around first, or do you want to go straight to where it happened?”

“I’d like to just browse around for a while to try and get a feeling for what it was like living in this house. If I see the murder scene first, I won’t be able to get it out of my mind, and I might miss something important.” I stopped and frowned.

“What’s that strange smell?” I asked.

“Decaying blood. There’s not very much, but it still gives off a putrid odor.” Netter began to close the door, but I stopped him.

I examined the entire perimeter of the door, and the deadbolt and handle, and then shook my head. “Definitely no sign of forced entry. And you say this door was unlocked when … I’m sorry, I forgot his name.”

“Jeff Walker. He said when he got home, the door was unlocked but closed. It’s like Plum finished the job and just walked out the front door.”

I took photos of the entire door, inside and out. “What about the other crime scene?” I asked.

“Yeah, Carla Knudsen in Apex. Exactly the same, like the son of a bitch just walked out without a care in the world. I tried to get you access to that scene, but it was denied. Seems the Apex PD doesn’t trust you.”

“That doesn’t really surprise me,” I said, closing the door. I continued systematically taking photos of the residence. The living room was immediately to the right of the entry. A breakfast nook was straight ahead toward the back of the house, with the kitchen to the right of that. The dining room was further to the right of the kitchen and also had access from the living room. Perpendicular, to the left of the entry, was a small hall that led to the bedrooms. The master bedroom suite was in the back of the house, and two smaller bedrooms and a full bathroom were in the front.

The house was totally quiet. No radio, no television, no clocks ticking—only the buzzing of a half dozen flies, and the sound they make when they hit a glass window, looking for an escape.

Netter indicated that all the windows were closed and locked, as were the door that led from the kitchen to the garage, and the door from the breakfast nook out onto a small concrete patio.

The kitchen appeared normal, with nothing noticeable out of place. I opened the refrigerator and peered in. “Some things in here are about ready to grow legs and walk out.”

“Yeah, I know,” Netter said. “I’ve been trying to preserve what was left of the entire crime scene as long as I could. The forensics team took most of it, but they left some things they felt lacked significance. I’ll get somebody down here to clean it out.”

I opened the back door and looked into the garage. “No car?” I asked.

“It’s down at the impound lot. Forensics went over it but struck out. No prints other than Clancy’s and Walker’s. No blood. Preliminary hair and fiber analysis of samples taken from it aren’t pointing anywhere else except to this house, her parents’ home, and the Sears Housewares Department.

In the garage, there was a large tool chest. I opened the drawers one by one and photographed the contents of each. The drawers were neatly organized, and the tools were well cared for, like whoever used them was proud of them. “Nice set of tools,” I said.

“Yeah,” Netter said, “they belong to Walker. And here’s something ironic,” he walked over and opened a large cabinet to the right of the tool chest. “This cabinet was filled with power tools, including a cordless reciprocating saw. We had it tested, but it isn’t the one we’re looking for. Forensics said it would’ve been impossible to remove all traces of blood and human tissue from it. Weird, eh?”

“Very.”

Finished with the garage, I returned to the living area. At that point, I’d seen nothing, absolutely nothing that would indicate a violent crime had occurred in that house. There was no sign of blood, and nothing was in disarray. In fact, the living room looked quite cozy with overstuffed furniture, built-in bookshelves, and framed personal photographs on the walls and end tables.

The books on the shelves were mainly novels—mysteries. “There are no gaps here,” I said. “No indication that the Bible came from this room. But then again, most people keep their Bibles in their bedrooms.”

“She wasn’t religious,” Netter said. “Hadn’t been to church in years. Walker claims he never knew her to attend a religious ceremony of any kind.” He shook his head. “Nope, Plum brought it with him, same as at the Knudsen place.”

Netter showed me the two guest bedrooms and the hall bath. Again, I took photographs of everything, but I guessed they would prove irrelevant to the crime.

I got the white task force binder from my briefcase by the front door, opened it to the crime scene photographs, and turned to Netter.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said.

The master bedroom was painted a powder-blue color with white woodwork and had beige wall-to-wall carpeting. A queen-sized bed was against the wall directly across from the bedroom door. Jeff Walker had been cruelly hit with the full impact of the staged headless corpse of the woman he loved, as soon as he walked through the door.

To the right of the bed was a double mullion window that overlooked the backyard. The blinds were drawn. There was a closet with bifold doors on the right side of the room and a master bath on the left.

Netter opened the blinds, allowing the sunlight to reveal the blood spatter stains on the carpet directly in front of me.

I closed the binder, lowered it to my side, and averted my eyes.

“Fuck,” I said softly. If there was ever a time when the f-word was warranted, this was it. I felt nauseous and lightheaded.

Netter studied my face. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

“I need a minute,” I said, and walked back into the living room.

He called to me from the bedroom. “Hey, if you’re gonna hurl your lunch, do it outside!”