The Blood

by Nancy Jackson

  Both Andrea and Senna continued to work the rest of the morning. Senna had recovered from the stress of being late and found herself laughing with Andrea while working.

  Later, noticing it was time for lunch, Senna clocked out and told Andrea that she was leaving. It really was a beautiful day, and Senna was glad she finally had time to notice it. The springtime air was warm but with a hint of coolness. The wind that was typical for Oklahoma was on good behavior and had relegated itself to a light breeze.

  Senna walked across the street to the park and sat on a cast iron and wooden bench that faced the swings and play equipment. She enjoyed this spot where she could watch the mothers out with their young ones who were not yet school age.

  She unwrapped her sandwich and sat watching them before even taking a bite. The mothers talked and enjoyed each other's company, barely watching their children playing nearby.

  Senna thought to herself, this time was about them and meeting friends rather than bringing the little ones to play. What if someone tried to take one of the kids? What if something happened to one of them when they weren’t paying attention?

  And just then something did happen. A little boy slid sideways off the slide and fell face first onto the ground below. Senna jerked and started to jump up to help when she saw the mom was up in an instant, almost before he hit the ground.

  Senna pondered, how could the mother be so engaged with the other mother and still know what was going on with her child? It intrigued her, and she felt bad for misjudging the mother.

  The mother crouched down to where the little boy was and after looking him over; she squeezed him as if she did not want to let him go. She talked to him with love in her voice and in her eyes. She wiped his tears, dusted him off, and helped him over to the swing where she began to push him.

  Senna marveled that there were no harsh words to command him to shake it off and get up and get on with it. The mother had expressed no irritation because he had interrupted her conversation with the other mother. There was no reprimand for falling off the slide, and they didn’t immediately leave to go home amidst angry words and a sour attitude.

  Senna had only experienced that kind of love when she had been able to stay with her grandparents—her mother's parents—for very brief periods of time during the summer school break.

  Senna remembered that compassion had radiated from her Gran’s and Grandpa’s home. It often made her uncomfortable though. The compassion drew her like a moth to a flame; but just like a flame, she feared it would singe her, so she tried to keep her distance emotionally.

  Senna had felt their love, it was tangible and unwavering. But the question, didn’t her parents love her with discipline, moored itself in her mind. Didn’t teaching her to be disciplined, to be good, show that they loved her? The sharp contrast of the two was irreconcilable for Senna.

  Her father’s rules were so ingrained in her that while at her grandparents’ home there was never a need for her to be reprimanded. In a strange way, the rules had grown to comfort her. Father’s constant reprimands created firm boundaries.

  In the freedom of her grandparents’ home, it felt as if there were no boundaries. It was unsettling to Senna. As long as she followed the rules, she knew she was okay, that she was right, that she was worth something.

  But altogether, it felt as though something was missing. Even though she followed the rules and did everything her father asked, she felt no lasting joy or happiness. She often believed it had all left her feeling dull and flat. Helping others at work was the closest she had ever come to joy.

  Senna tried to remember if she had ever felt the joy she saw on those little ones’ faces on the playground. She had been that young once. Had she laughed with abandon the way they did?

  She shut her eyes and leaned her head back to catch the sun full on her face. The warmth felt good. She could hear the brush of leaves as a breeze blew through the trees and she smelled the fresh floral scents of spring. This was happiness, wasn’t it?

  ~~~

  Murder in Kachina, Oklahoma had never happened in its modern day history. No one on the police force had ever experienced a murder. There had been all manner of domestic violence and accidental deaths, but not murder.

  At the police station, all was chaos. No one felt equipped to handle this murder, but no one wanted to say it. The chief of police in Kachina, Darren Webb had called the OSBI, Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, and asked for help when a body had been reported around noon.

  At one p.m., Randy Jeffries and Carrie Border, who had been with OSBI for ten and eight years, respectively, walked into the Kachina station. They had seen a lot in their few years. Oklahoma may seem like a Little House on the Prairie kind of place to many, but the truth is the crime rate is high. With the intersection of I-40 and I-35, human trafficking and all that comes with it may be as high or higher than in any other state. It is the U.S. crossroads for illegal guns, drugs, and humans.

  “Busy place,” observed Carrie as they stepped into the squad room.

  “Yep,” replied Randy. He was looking around the room to see if any one person stood out as if to be in charge. Finally he looked at the woman manning the front desk and asked for Darren Webb.

  Randy had been married to his wife for five years and they had two little ones. His wife Sandy was a kindergarten teacher and there were many nights they didn’t talk. How could he share with her the horror he experienced every day? Would she take it back to her class, knowing that, despite her best efforts, someday some of those sweet babies would grow to do or be the victim of these horrific occurrences?

  Carrie dated a lot. She could not get close to anyone; didn’t want to get close to anyone. Loving her job, she had never been willing to put anyone before the love of her life. It didn’t feel like she needed anyone. Possibly, she was in denial about being lonely, but she refused to even consider it.

  She loved working with Randy because being married made him safe. They were best friends and could talk about the things he couldn’t take home.

  Darren rushed up to the front with a hand extended as if to get the pleasantries out of the way and on to the business at hand.

  “Thank you so much for coming. Let’s get right over to the scene. If you’ll follow me in your car, I’ll show you the way.” And just like that, he was out the door and headed down the stairs.

  “Let’s go,” said Carrie, scurrying to catch up with Darren.

  The crime scene was at a warehouse on the southwest side of town just north of Crown Rock Park which sat on the top of Crown Rock, a flat, red sand rock mesa, and the tallest point around for miles.

  A railroad still ran from east to west through the south edge of town. Warehouses sat close to the railroad depot on South 22nd Street which was the last street before heading out of town. It was the perfect place for businesses to load and unload their cargo.

  The trains did not carry people anymore, and the depot was only for the railroad staff to document arrivals and departures, loading and unloading. It was only open when they knew a train was coming in or leaving. No need to pay someone to sit there and do nothing when a train was not expected.

  “There,” said Carrie pointing to a place off to the side where they could park without being in the way. As Randy put the car into park, a flurry of red sand dust swirled around the car.

  “Pretty secluded,” said Randy standing just outside the car. He stood with his hands resting on his hips. “But it is still technically in town and not the most secure location to hide a murder.”

  “Warehouses seem pretty abandoned,” replied Carrie. “Late at night in a small town, I doubt there was anyone anywhere near here.”

  There were three large warehouses in two rows for a total of six warehouses. A couple of them were unoccupied. Some were subdivided, holding offices and cargo.

  Randy and Carrie entered the area where the crime tape indicated, and saw that Justin Thatcher lay with his throat cut. He was in the dirt on a
concrete slab next to the most remote warehouse. He laid on his back with his eyes closed. His blood had pooled out onto the concrete slab which ran along the front of the empty warehouse.

  “What are you writing down?” asked Carrie. She rarely took notes, but Randy was always taking extensive ones. Her mind really was like a steel trap and once it went in, it never left. She had learned early in school to just listen carefully to what the teacher was saying and it would stay with her much better than if she was distracted by trying to write it all down.

  “Drawing a little sketch of the scene and my thoughts about the area,” replied Randy. He turned and walked toward the body.

  “Do you see what I see?” Randy asked Carrie. “Or rather what I am not seeing?”

  “Not sure. What am I supposed to not be seeing?”

  “Almost no footprints. I am guessing the few we see are from the witness or first responders. They look very fresh. I’ll wager that any tracks left in the dust earlier have been swept away by the wind,” said Randy.

  “Look at that cedar branch over there. It wasn’t broken, it was cut. Killer could have used that to sweep away their prints,” Carrie motioned to the branch laying off to the side.

  Randy and Carrie had experience in working with FBI profilers and were studying the scene from a psychological perspective as well as the physical evidence which they could see. This was one body, though, and that could mean many things; it could be a drug deal gone bad; it could be a hit; there seemed no sign of a struggle, so a fight gone wrong didn’t appear to be the reason.

  “He isn’t a large man,” Randy commented. “He looks about five feet, eight inches tall and is slight in build.”

  “Appears he was dressed to go out. His Wranglers are not faded and are creased. He has a nice shirt on too. Ranchers around here don’t dress that nice to work,” responded Carrie.

  “What do you think?” Randy asked Carrie as they squatted as close to the body as they dared without disturbing it.

  “I don’t see a struggle. So, was he brought here? Was he drugged? I don’t even see drag marks because whoever did this took the time to get rid of them.”

  “I don’t see tire tracks either. How did they get here?” asked Randy as he turned his head to look from another angle.

  “That appears to be one long solid, steady slice into his neck too. Would a first timer have been that steady? Took force, so had to be a man, right?” Carrie looked at Randy as she asked. His eyes were squinting against the sun and his dark hair was being tossed here and there by the constant wind.

  He didn’t answer right away, so she looked back at the body. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. Here is the coroner’s van now. Maybe the autopsy can tell us more.

  “None too soon,” said Carrie. She wrinkled her nose at the ripe smell of decaying flesh. The heat was working quickly on the body’s decomposition.

  The body would be sent to the Watson County Coroner for examination. They weren’t in Oklahoma County, unfortunately. Watson County was much more rural and, had little experience with this type of death.

  Randy and Carrie walked over to Darren Webb, young for a police chief. Usually when law enforcement in Kachina had gained sufficient experience, they were off to a larger city, but Darren had plans to stay.

  He was a little overweight, about five feet, seven inches tall, with sandy blond hair. Rather than working out, he spent his spare time enjoying his wife’s cooking, lounging in front of the TV, or watching his son play little league.

  Darren was thankful for the help of the OSBI, not riding high on ego as many in law enforcement did. He had a good, pure heart and just wanted to protect his town. The worry was evident on his face as Randy and Carrie approached.

  He didn’t ask, just listened.

  “I’ll be honest with you," stated Randy, “this looks like someone who knew what they were doing. It looks thought out. They considered location and evidence. With the warehouse on the south, the woods to the west and then those vacant lots and rundown shacks to the north, there would not be any likely witnesses.”

  “The forensics team is about done with their grid search,” said Darren. “They found some small bits, but feel certain it was just from years of the wind blowing debris in and the warehouse being vacant for so long. They bagged the cedar branch as well.”

  Randy thought that maybe they could get some contact DNA or other evidence from that.

  “Why in town though? There are acres and acres around here where they could have done this. They could have easily walked into those woods right there and he wouldn't have been discovered for days or weeks. Coyotes would have gotten to him and that would be an almost guarantee that no evidence would be found,” observed Darren.

  “You’re right,” agreed Carrie. “We are just going to have to lay it all out and see where it all points. Could be that they wanted us to find the body just like we did. It may mean something to them. The killer could be making a statement.”

  “Who owns the warehouse?” asked Randy

  “I’ll have to look at the records. It has been vacant for at least ten years or more. There aren’t a lot of businesses who use these warehouses out here anymore. Most go to the city for that,” replied Darren.

  “That may tell us something. If you can get us a warrant, we want to look inside,” said Carrie.

  “Will do,” replied Darren.

  ~~~

  Late that afternoon Randy and Carrie stood next to the body of Justin Thatcher at the Watson County Morgue. The medical examiner, Janice, was leaning over the body and pointing with her gloved left pinky finger.

  “Across here the cut was made from right to left.” The cut was deep, so deep it slit his neck almost in two.

  “What kind of blade do you think was used?” asked Randy.

  “Something sharp, could be a lot of things. There were clean lines with no hesitation. Not something serrated either. A very large sharp knife. But I see no tool marks. The cut is clean, start to finish.

  “I sent his blood off to your lab for tests to determine if there were any drugs in his system. I see no evidence he put up a fight. This leads me to believe he was unconscious when his throat was cut,” said Janice.

  “Did you find any needle marks?” asked Carrie.

  “No, none. I have looked in all the places one typically finds needle marks and then I went on to look in his hair, between his toes, and inside his mouth to see if someone was trying to hide the mark. I found nothing suspicious at all.”

  “What about trace?” asked Randy.

  “Very little. Dust and lint. I bagged it all and sent it to your forensics lab.”

  They stood quietly then. Randy had his face pinched and his eyes were focused like lasers right at Justin’s face. It was as if he was trying to mentally communicate with the last moment before Justin died. What had he seen? Who had he trusted that he shouldn’t have? “What is your story Justin?” thought Randy aloud.

  Carrie shifted from one foot to the other. She wanted to be patient when Randy was like this, but she knew not to disturb his thoughts. He was a deep thinker, and he was thinking now.

  Finally, Carrie could not bear it any longer. She wanted to go out and do something, wanted to find this person instead of standing there looking at a body, which to her would tell them nothing more. She cleared her throat and Randy snapped his head back to look at her.

  “What?” asked Carrie, feeling a little guilty. “Let’s go. I want to get out there and see what we can find. There is nothing else here. Janice will call us when, or if she gets anything else.”

  Randy nodded, removed his hands from his hips and popped off the plastic gloves. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. And just like that, he was out the door. Carrie scrambled to catch up, but neither one spoke until they were in the car.

  It was like a sauna inside the car and the dark interior didn’t help. It was always humid in Oklahoma so when the heat rose it always seemed much hotter than it was. Before
she could even get her seatbelt buckled, her hair was hanging in her face and a drop of sweat hit her cheek from a wet curl. She tried to blow it out of her face while battling the buckle.

  It clicked, and in an instant, she had also pushed back her hair, grabbing it with both hands and making a pretend ponytail. She held it there off of her neck hoping the AC would kick in quickly.

  “So, what did your laser focus tell you back there?” asked Carrie.

  “Nothing. Not a damn thing.” Randy shoved the car into drive and they headed to the Kachina police station, twenty miles away.

  “Is this the start of something? You know, another serial?” asked Carrie. She remembered the first case she’d had in her new job with the OSBI, it had been a serial, and it had been not only physically taxing, but emotionally as well.

  Randy looked at her and for a moment said nothing. “We can’t know at this point. But the situation seems strange. It was premeditated. They had to do some planning. There were no tracks and no trace that we know of now. No witnesses so far. This person has a cool head about them. If it was spur of the moment, then they did not panic but proceeded with deliberation.”

  “But they drugged him. They would have had to have planned that, right?”

  “We think they drugged him,” Randy emphasized the word ‘think’. “We won’t know until we get the labs back, and we can't jump to conclusions.”

  “So if he wasn't drugged, he just laid down and let someone slit his throat?” Carrie’s incredulous tone was clear.

  Randy looked at her again. He liked his partner. They had been partners for four years and they had worked well together. It was certain, though, that their working styles were different. He felt that the people and places of a crime would speak to him in time. He knew if he could realize the situation and know the people involved, he would see the motive where Carrie was decidedly more about action.

  She wanted to be doing something constantly to figure it all out. Dump a big puzzle out on the table and she would immediately start in sorting pieces and turning them all right side up. He would take a minute to look at them. He would look at the colors and patterns to see what made sense together.