by Chris Culver
“Go get ready, Romeo,” she said, nodding toward the staircase that led to his second floor. “Get dressed. You can’t punish the wicked in your pajamas.”
11
My phone rang at one in the morning. For a moment, I thought I felt Roger at the foot of my bed, but it was just a blanket I had kicked down. I didn’t know what happened to dogs after they died, but wherever he was, I hoped he was having a good time. My cell rang again as I stretched and yawned. Since I was the only detective in St. Augustine County, I got late-night phone calls reasonably often. I reached for the pillow beside me and held it over my ears, but that didn’t even muffle the ringtone. I sighed and rolled over to grab my phone.
“Yeah?” I said, my voice hoarse as I answered.
“Joe, sorry I’m calling,” said Officer Jason Zuckerburg. Zuckerburg was our night dispatcher. He had been a police officer for longer than I had been alive and could have retired whenever he wanted. That was a common theme around my station. “I’ve got a double homicide with your name on it.”
My muscles relaxed, and my head sank into my pillow.
“I’m on limited duty until my therapist clears me. You know the story.”
“Yeah, I know, but Delgado’s still on the Apostate murders, and you’re the only other person in the department who’s ever worn a detective’s badge,” he said. “I can call the Highway Patrol and ask them to take over, but until they assign somebody, we need a detective at the scene. You’re up.”
I groaned. “Damn you and your sound judgment.”
“My wife says it’s my worst trait.”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, hoping the world would look better. It didn’t, but I told him I’d be at the scene as quickly as I could, anyway. The address he gave me put the home on the outskirts of the west side of the town of St. Augustine. Developers hadn’t touched that area, so most of the homes had large plots of land with lots of trees and wildlife. The victims could have been wealthy, middle class, or dirt poor. I wouldn’t know until I got there, so I didn’t know what kind of case I’d be digging into.
Crime—even violent crime—transcended social class, but I liked knowing what kind of world I was about to walk into. Wealthy people responded better to a detective in a blazer and slacks than one in a polo shirt and jeans, while a detective in a suit might intimidate less affluent people. I planned my outfits by the response they elicited at a crime scene. Today, I compromised by putting on a white button-down shirt, a brown blazer, and dark jeans. The blazer hid my firearm and looked reasonably nice. Plus, I could take it off if necessary.
I put the homeowner’s address into my GPS and headed out. The drive took about fifteen minutes on dark roads. As I crested a hill, I saw blue and white police lights flashing in the distance. There was a mobile-home park to my right and a small, single-story home to my left. The victim’s house was about a quarter mile away at the bottom of the hill.
I pulled to a stop on the side of the road near the home and hung my badge from a lanyard around my neck. Emily Hayes, one of our uniformed officers, approached me with a flashlight in her hand as I stepped out of my car. She flashed the light over me, and I held a hand to my eyes.
“Joe?” she asked, lowering the light to the home’s long, sloping driveway. “That you?”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking so my eyes would adjust to the dark once more. I walked toward her. “What have we got?”
“Sorry about the light,” said Emily, tucking her flashlight between her arm and side. She read from a notepad she took from her utility belt. “Original call came in at twenty after midnight. The caller was a twelve-year-old female named Mackenzie Foster. She said a man had come into the house and shot both of her parents while she hid beneath her bed. The male victim is Mark Foster. The female victim is his wife, Lilly Foster.”
I let out a slow breath. “Jeez. The kid okay?”
Emily tilted her head to the side. “Physically, yeah. I called the Department of Children’s Services, and they’re sending a social worker down for her. She and Tracy Carruthers are in my car, but the poor girl is so upset I thought EMTs might have to sedate her for her own safety.”
“I can imagine,” I said, nodding. At twelve years old, Mackenzie was old enough that her memories would be vivid and reliable enough to help guide my investigation. If I could get her to talk, she’d be a good source of information and could help me put the people who murdered her parents in prison. Of course, that cut multiple ways. At twelve, she’d remember every awful detail of this night for the rest of her life. As much as I would appreciate her assistance, the tradeoff wasn’t worth it.
I walked toward the house and then looked to Emily. “Make sure Mackenzie’s available. I’d like to talk to her this evening before she goes to sleep.”
Emily hesitated and then nodded as she followed me toward the house. “I’ll do what I can.”
The home’s front door was still open. The deadbolt had ripped through the wooden sill, and a dirt footprint was clearly visible on a door panel. I stopped and snapped pictures of both with my cell phone. Our crime-scene technicians would do the same thing, but I liked having pictures for my own files.
“Where was Mackenzie when the shooter kicked in the front door?”
Emily flipped through her notes.
“In bed.”
“Did she share a room with anybody?”
“Her room has a single bed, so I don’t think so. When I arrived, I found the door broken, so I announced myself and cleared the house room by room. Mackenzie came out from hiding as I finished my search. She was crying, and she had blood on her feet, so I picked her up and carried her to the car. I took some pictures of her feet with my cell phone to document what they looked like upon my arrival.”
I glanced at Emily and then the front yard. There were three St. Augustine police cars in front of the house, but I couldn’t see any of our other officers. Hopefully, no one had touched anything after Emily cleared the house.
“Okay,” I said. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Gary Faulk and Shane Fox are knocking on doors now to see whether the neighbors saw anything. I’m the only officer who’s been inside.”
“And you’re sure the house is empty?” I asked, lowering my chin. Emily thought but then nodded.
“I checked every closet and in every cabinet big enough to hold someone. I also checked under the beds. You should be alone.”
“I appreciate it,” I said, looking toward the house. “I’ll walk through and take pictures. See whether you can get in touch with Darlene McEvoy with the county crime lab. She’s not on call, but we need somebody competent to collect forensic evidence. After that, call Dr. Sheridan. We’ll need a coroner to collect the bodies. Unless there’s a problem we can’t overcome, I plan to keep this case in-house.”
Emily wrote that down but then nodded. “You want me to start a logbook?”
“If you haven’t already. You’ll be the first entry, and I’ll be the second.”
“Got it,” she said. She paused and held my gaze before tilting her head to the side. “I’ve never been the first responder to a homicide.”
“You handled it like a vet,” I said. She smiled, so I winked. “If there’s a murderer hiding in the basement, though, I’ll change my assessment.”
The smile left her face, and her posture straightened. “I checked the basement.”
“I know,” I said, smiling just a little and hoping she’d smile. “It was a joke.”
“Oh,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips but keeping her posture straight and formal. “I don’t think I’ve heard you make a joke before.”
“Sadly, I think you have,” I said. “I’ll check out the house and refrain from telling more jokes. You did good work tonight.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said.
I smiled again, hoping that would help her relax. She kept her shoulders back and her head high, like a soldier greeting his or her commanding officer. Tough crowd. As I focused
on the house again, I took pictures of the entryway with my phone.
Aside from the broken door, little stood out. The entry led to a living room on the right and a kitchen straight ahead. A flush mounted ceiling light cast a dull yellow luminescence over the tile floor and beige walls.
After snapping a few pictures, I put my hands in my pockets and stepped forward, paying careful attention to the floor beneath me so I wouldn’t step on blood or other evidence. I found the first victim in the kitchen. It was a middle-aged, heavyset male, and he lay facedown on the ground. No bullet wounds marred his back, but a puddle of blood had pooled around his belly and chest. He wore boxers but no shirt or shoes. Very likely he had run from his bedroom when he heard the noise.
I snapped pictures of the kitchen before walking to the dining room and then the living room. There, I found three pairs of bloody footprints on the ground. One set was small and showed the outline of someone’s toes. That belonged to Mackenzie. Another set was larger than Mackenzie’s, but it had few details. If I had to guess, that set belonged to someone who wore socks. The third set was larger still, and it had the outline of a shoe. If I had to guess, it came from an adult male. He had a much longer stride than I did, which probably put him at six feet tall or more. Mark Foster hadn’t been wearing shoes, so those footprints probably came from our killer.
I took a couple more pictures and then continued down the hallway. The first bedroom on my left had pink walls and light pink carpet. There was an unmade single bed in the corner. A comforter decorated with hearts lay on the ground. I couldn’t see any blood. The next bedroom I passed—this one was on the right—also had pink walls, but the chic decorations belonged to an older girl. The desk held a picture of a tall, muscular young man and a very pretty young woman. Both wore evening attire, and both stood arm in arm in front of a brick home. It looked like a prom picture.
I took my own pictures and then walked to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. A middle-aged female with brunette hair lay on top of the covers in bed. Her killer had shot her three times in the chest. I hadn’t seen shell casings on the ground in the kitchen, but there were several here. We’d have plenty of evidence to go on, at least.
I left the house and found Emily on the front lawn. She nodded when she saw me.
“Anyone inside?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “You did well. When you talked to Mackenzie, did she mention her older sister?”
Emily took her notepad from her utility belt and flipped through pages.
“Mackenzie thought she was at her boyfriend’s house for the night. She snuck out and did that sometimes.”
“And what’s her name?”
Emily went quiet and read through her notes. “Her name is Trinity Foster. Her boyfriend is Thad Stevens.”
I held my breath, expecting her to correct herself, but she looked at me with uncomprehending eyes.
“Repeat the boyfriend’s name again,” I said. Emily looked at her notes and raised an eyebrow.
“Thad Stevens,” she said. “I’ve got his address if you want it.”
“Yeah, I want it,” I said, taking out my phone to call Jason. He answered before his phone finished ringing once. “I need you to send a car to the home of a young man named Thad Stevens.”
I held the phone to Emily as she read the address aloud. Jason typed for a few moments and then placed a call on another line. I waited and grew more impatient every moment. After about three minutes, Jason got back on the line.
“Okay,” said Jason. “I’ve got Bob Reitz on his way to the house. He’s seven minutes out. Any idea what he’s expecting?”
“No, so Reitz needs backup,” I said. “I’m at the scene of a double homicide. We’ve got a young woman named Trinity Foster who’s missing. She’s Thad Stevens’s girlfriend.”
Jason typed for a few moments. “I’ve rerouted two more cars, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“The kid’s name is Thad. I’m guessing it’s short for Thaddeus,” I said. I waited a moment, but Jason didn’t respond. “History knows Thaddeus as St. Jude Thaddeus or Jude the Apostle. The Apostate is targeting young men named after apostles and their girlfriends. We’ve got a missing girlfriend and two dead parents. If we’ve got a missing apostle, we’ve got a problem.”
“Oh,” said Jason. He paused. “That’s bad.”
“Good. Now you understand,” I said. “Call Officer Reitz and tell him what he’s walking into. And make coffee. Our station’s going to get busy.”
12
Jason returned my call ten minutes after I called him.
“Thad’s gone, but his parents are alive,” he said. “It looks like he snuck out and took his car. How do you want to proceed?”
“Even if Thad and Trinity are safe, we need to find them. Call the Highway Patrol and tell them we need every officer in the state looking for Thad’s car. After that call, have the officers at Thad’s house get his cell number from his parents. If it’s on, we can track his phone. I’ll call Agent Costa with the Bureau and bring him in.”
“You want me to call the sheriff and tell him what’s going on?”
Even before Jason finished speaking, my head throbbed. Delgado had been a competent detective, but he was a terrible boss. If I called him, I might as well go home because he wouldn’t let me do anything. Still, the County Council had named him sheriff, which meant he called the shots. I swore under my breath.
“Yeah,” I said, grimacing even as the words left my lips. “Call him but downplay the situation. Tell him there are signs the victims committed suicide.”
Jason paused. “Are there signs they committed suicide?”
“The evidence is inconclusive,” I said. Jason hesitated.
“If that’s how you want to play this, that’s how we’ll play this.”
“Good. Thank you,” I said. I called Agent Costa next because I didn’t have his boss’s personal phone number. Costa answered on the second ring and listened as I explained the situation.
“It’s thin,” he said. “Aside from Thad’s name, do you have anything else connecting your case to the Apostate?”
“No, but it’s still early,” I said. “Thad and Trinity even might be shagging in his car with no clue that Mark and Lilly are dead.”
He sighed. “I’ll get a team.”
I thanked him and pocketed my phone before snapping my eyes toward Officer Hayes. She stood in the front lawn inside the pool of light cast by the lights in the home’s entryway.
“Emily, I need to talk to Mackenzie. Is she still in your car with Tracy?”
Emily nodded and pointed to the cruiser closest to my truck. It was dark, so I couldn’t see anybody inside, but I nodded anyway before walking toward the vehicle. As I approached, Officer Tracy Carruthers opened the front passenger door and stepped out.
“Hey, Joe,” she said.
“Hey, Tracy,” I said. “Mackenzie okay?”
Tracy tilted her head to the side and shrugged. “She saw her mom and stepdad gunned down.”
“Stupid question,” I said. “You think she’ll talk?”
Tracy looked to the car. “It won’t hurt to try. Good luck.”
I thanked her and sat in the front seat. The vinyl felt warm from Tracy’s back, and the air was stuffy. Mackenzie had brunette hair like her mom, freckles, pointed ears, and thin, sunken cheeks. I smiled at her when she looked up at me. Tiny red blood vessels striated the whites of her eyes, and her bottom lip quivered. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her that things would be okay, but I couldn’t. Things weren’t okay and probably never would be. Instead, I smiled.
“Can I get you anything? Water? A soda? Something to eat?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Okay,” I said, still smiling. “I’m Detective Joe Court. You can call me Joe. I’m here to find out what happened tonight. First, though, how are you doing? Are you scared?”
Again, she shook her head,
but she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Okay,” I said, forcing my voice to be soft. “Take your time and tell me what happened tonight.”
Mackenzie’s voice was slow and uncertain at first, but it grew to a normal cadence. She wasn’t forthcoming with details, so I had to ask a lot of questions. I had expected that, though. She said she was in bed when she heard a loud crash. It scared her, so she came to her door. There, she saw her stepfather, Mark Foster, running down the hallway. He told her to go back in her room and hide, so she went back inside and slid beneath her bed.
As she did that, she heard shouting. Her mom screamed. Then there were three gunshots. She didn’t know who they belonged to, but she saw a pair of tennis shoes run by her door toward her parents’ room. She then ran into the hallway. Her stepfather was on the floor in the kitchen. She ran to see whether he was okay, but there was blood everywhere. He was dead when she got there. She then ran through the kitchen and back to her bedroom as the shooter and her mother shouted at each other. Then she heard more gunshots.
The story explained how Mark and Lilly had died and how Mackenzie had gotten blood on her feet, but it was a lie, nonetheless. I kept my voice soft as I smiled at her when she finished.
“You did nothing wrong tonight,” I said. “You didn’t shoot your parents. If you had, I’d smell the gunpowder on you. If I’m going to arrest the person who shot your mother and stepfather, though, I need the truth. Can you tell me the truth?”
Her lower lip quivered, but she swallowed hard. “I didn’t lie.”
I kept my smile on my face even as the muscles of my shoulders and back tensed.
“There were three sets of footprints in the house. One set belongs to you. The other set belongs to the man who shot your mom and stepfather. Who does the third set belong to?”
She shrugged but said nothing.
“Are they your sister’s footprints?”
Mackenzie shook her head. A pit grew in my stomach.
“Where is she now?”
She crossed her arms but said nothing.