The Elephant Bowl
A Detective August Miller Series
Charles Prandy
These short stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2018 by Charles Prandy
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Contents
The Elephant Bowl
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Endearment Diary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Between the Trees
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Message from the Author
Other Books by Charles Prandy
The Elephant Bowl
A Short Story
Part of the Detective August Miller Series
by Charles Prandy
Chapter One
January 7, 2016
The first time I met Shelton Sewell in 2004, he was handcuffed to a table in one of our interrogation rooms. When he spoke, his voice was soft and tepid, and he was polite, calling me ‘ma’am’ after every question I asked. His answers seemed relatively forthright, with none of the signs of deception that so many others had shown in his position – perfect behavior, especially considering it was the first case to which I’d been assigned as a detective. Before that, I’d worn a uniform like every other cop fresh out of the academy. But I didn’t wear it for long. Three years into my career, I applied for the detective position and was accepted. The process was rigorous and seemed to take an eternity, but in the end I became the youngest woman to earn a detective’s badge in Montgomery County, Maryland. The Shelton Sewell case was my congratulations, awarded by my supervising detective.
Twelve years ago, now, but I remember meeting him like it was yesterday. We were similar in age and demographics, and I’d even heard of him before. He’d gone to Sherwood High School, a rival to my own high school, and had been the star linebacker for their football team. His name used to float from school to school, and paper to paper, as he was touted as the next star athlete to come from our area. Despite all that, I didn’t hear his name again until he became my prime suspect. His interrogation didn’t last long; he admitted his crimes quickly. When we were done, I asked him to stand and told him that he was being charged with the murder of Payton Wells. He nodded and looked down at the floor. His arrest was over a decade ago, and I hadn’t seen him since his conviction, but here I was about to see him again.
I sat with a dozen or so people, and light chatter bubbled around the small room. That stopped abruptly when two guards opened the door to the chamber and Shelton Sewell quietly walked in. He was smaller than I remembered; almost like he’d lost a part of himself over the past twelve years. The guards stopped him in front of a gurney, and he was visibly shaking. His head hung low, and it took him nearly thirty seconds to look up through the glass wall that divided us. Over the years since we’d last met, I’d grown as a detective and learned to harden my emotions, but knowing that Shelton wasn’t going to leave the chamber alive tugged at my heart a little.
Shelton’s eyes searched the room, and when he saw Payton Wells’ husband and daughter, his hands came together in prayer, and he nodded to them and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” At that gesture, Payton’s daughter began to sob. Her father placed his arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead.
The guards motioned for Shelton to lie on the gurney. My heart began to flutter, my palms became moist and I had to take deep breaths to slow down the anxiety that was washing over me. The guards strapped Shelton’s arms and legs to the gurney, and as they did, a priest read a verse from the Bible. The doctor in the room said something to Shelton and he nodded. A few seconds later, he inserted the first needle into Shelton’s left arm. Shelton Sewell’s case was the only death-sentence case I’d been part of, but I knew that the state of Maryland administered three drugs to end an inmate’s life. This was the first; a sedative that the doctor slowly pushed in. Shelton’s eyes began to close. The second was pancuronium bromide, which induced paralysis, and the third was potassium chloride, which stopped the heart. Shelton coughed a couple of times and then his stomach stopped rising. The doctor looked at the clock and pronounced Shelton Sewell dead at 12:15 a.m.
The room remained quiet for a few seconds. I guessed that even though Shelton had been convicted of premeditated murder, there was a sense of respect for death. A minute later, murmurs started and people began to stand. I walked over to Payton Wells’ husband and shook his hand. He nodded and thanked me. I turned to her daughter, her eyes still red from the tears that stained her face.
“Thank you, Detective Miller,” she said softly.
“Please, call me August. And it was all I could do for your mother.”
We embraced for a moment and she squeezed me tighter than I’d expected.
“Thank you, August.”
“It’s finally over, now.”
“After all these years, it still hurts,” she said, her voice cracking, and I felt warm tears against my neck. I looked through the glass as the guards pulled a sheet over Shelton’s lifeless body. I had to blink a few times as my eyes started to moisten. As I slowly pulled back from our embrace, I reached into my pocket and handed her my card.
“Call me anytime, day or night. Even if you just want to cry on the phone. I’ll be there.”
She nodded and turned towards her father. I took in a deep breath and canvased the room before I left. People hugged and shook hands with each other. That was the first time I’d seen a death sentence fulfilled, and I hoped it would be the last.
Chapter Two
Nine Months Later
The handle of my service revolver was gripped tightly in my hand. My right pointer finger rested on its side, directly under the barrel. My left hand cupped the other side of the handle, steadying my aim on Rodrigo Fuentez’s chest. My heart raced as sweat dripped down my face. My breaths were beginning to calm, but my lungs still burned from having to sprint nearly half a mile through old town Gaithersburg, Maryland.
“Rodrigo, I’m only going to tell you one more time,” I said between deep breaths. “Put your hands above your head.”
We had him trapped behind the Gaithersburg Equipment Company building on East Diamondback Avenue. I was with two other detectives, and we had planned on bringing Rodrigo in for questioning in relation to a shooting two days earlier. But as soon as we turned into his driveway, we saw him dash across the street.
“I didn’t do anything,” he shouted.
“Then you have nothing to worry about. Raise your hands!”
His eyes were wide and glossy. They kept shifting back and forth between me and the other detectives. He wore baggy clothes, so I couldn’t tell if he was armed. His hands fidgeted by his side, and his knees were slightly bent, as if he was going to try and run again.
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“All we want to do is talk to you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Rodrigo, please put your hands above your head and we’ll square this off.”
He didn’t respond. I looked at the other detectives and then I lowered my weapon, placing it back into its holster. Unarmed, I raised my hands.
“Okay, look,” I said. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I don’t want anything to happen to you. But if you don’t raise your hands, these guys might think that you’re carrying. And if you’re carrying, then you’re putting our lives in danger.”
I took a step closer. His knees bent a little more.
“Rodrigo, look around,” I said. “There’s nowhere for you to run.”
He looked around and realized that, with his back to the rear of the building, we had him surrounded. Once the realization that he couldn’t escape us set in, he stood up straight and raised his hands above his head. I darted forward and wrapped his wrists with my handcuffs. When I patted him down, I found a loaded .22 caliber pistol in his front pocket. Rodrigo Fuentez was a member of MS-13, a gang who were becoming a major problem in Montgomery County. I booked him for unlicensed possession of a firearm, knowing that if the bullets matched those used in the shooting two days earlier, he’d be booked for attempted murder as well.
After interviewing Rodrigo, I started filling out paperwork, not realizing my shift was coming to an end until I noticed sunlight seeping through the windows. Saturday morning, I thought. After a twelve-hour shift, I was ready for my head to fall into my pillow, but I stopped at McDonald’s and downed a pancake platter before heading home. Chewing sleepily, I checked the time, and saw that it was just past 9:30 in the morning. Fed and a little refreshed, I got back to the drive home, but I hadn’t been at it for long before I saw a sign that piqued my interest. Anyone who knows me knows that I love yard sales; I like to think that a part of us is tied to our belongings, and that there’s no better way to give a house some character than by filling it with things that once belonged to someone else.
I followed the signs that led to the yard sale on Norman Drive in North Potomac, Maryland. The owners had only just started bringing their belongings outside. I hopped out of my car and greeted them gently.
“Morning,” I said. They were an older couple and looked as though they could have been friends with my grandparents.
“Morning,” they both replied.
“Open for business yet?”
“Soon. We’re just getting settled in.”
I extended my hand and introduced myself. “I’m August. I saw the signs driving home from work.”
“Frederick. And this is my wife, Olivia.”
“Looks like you guys have some great stuff.”
“Years of hoarding,” Olivia said with a smile.
“Me too,” I joked. “Mind if I look around?”
“Most of the stuff is still inside, but be my guest,” Frederick said.
“Thanks.”
I strolled through their front yard, admiring the pieces on display. Most of their belongings were antiques; no real surprise, given their age. I asked after a few prices and was ready to tell them that I’d come back later in the day when I saw a plastic bowl. It had a green elephant’s face on the front and a bright yellow handle. I picked it up and smiled, thinking of a similar bowl I’d had as a child.
“I love it,” I said.
“That was our granddaughter’s,” Olivia said. “She’s in college now and has outgrown all of her toys.”
“Amazing you still have it.”
“Hoarders,” Olivia smiled, nudging my arm.
“It’s beautiful. How much?”
“For you, two dollars.”
I paid and thanked them for their time, telling them that I’d probably be back again later. As I drove off, I yawned and looked at the bowl sitting on the passenger seat.
“Nostalgia.”
Chapter Three
Two days later
I pulled off my gun holster, dropping it onto the coffee table as I plopped onto the couch. It was Monday, and I’d just finished my shift with another arrest in the gang-related shooting case. My feet were tired and my brain even more so; I wanted to shut it off for a few hours, but I also wanted to soak in a bath and shave my legs before I rested. Sleep would have to wait at least another hour.
I picked up my tablet and sifted through various newsfeeds before heading to the bathtub. Most of the news was my everyday life: violence and murder. I looked at the date and was surprised that I hadn’t realized what day it was. September 6, twelve years to the day that Payton Wells had been murdered. Usually, I’d have sent her daughter a card, letting her know I was thinking of her. But business had been busier than normal, and I’d forgotten.
I set a reminder on my tablet to get her a card the next time I was out, then placed it down and closed my eyes. Images of Payton Wells’ lifeless body came flooding in. She had been shot in her upstairs hallway, her body right next to the stairs. From her position, it had looked like she’d tried to make a run for the front door, but Shelton Sewell had shot her in the back three times before she could reach it. I shook my head at the thought of a person dying for a few measly pieces of jewelry.
Then I thought of the way Shelton had looked right before they put him to death. He was frail, a shadow of the star athlete I remembered hearing about. During the investigation, I learned that his promising football career had taken a wrong turn when he was caught snorting cocaine with some other college kids. The other kids got a slap on the wrist, but Shelton was expelled from the university, and his scholarship had been revoked. He took a job with a delivery company in Rockville, Maryland that delivered furniture to Payton Wells’ neighbor a week before her murder. Three days before she was killed, witnesses saw his delivery truck in the neighborhood again, even though there were no scheduled deliveries.
Shelton admitted to the crime and said that he hadn’t thought the victim would be home; it was the middle of the day and he’d expected the house to be empty. He’d grabbed a few things, and then Payton had surprised him. He said he hadn’t known what to do, so he’d pulled out his gun and shot her. The jury didn’t believe him, agreeing with the D.A.’s assertion that the murder was premediated.
Senseless, I thought. Payton Wells died over a ring, two bracelets and a credit card. I shook my head again, then stood up to get ready for my bath. Before going to the bathroom, I stopped in the kitchen and poured a glass of white Moscato wine. I turned on the faucet and let the water run over my fingers until it reached the right temperature, then I undressed and exhaled as the warmth of the water relaxed my body. I took a sip of wine and let its sweetness play over my taste buds before allowing it to slide down my throat. I rested my head on a bathtub pillow and closed my eyes, allowing Payton Wells’ case back into the forefront of my mind. I suddenly remembered a statement her husband had made; I’d been making no effort to recall it, in fact it appeared as if it had been waiting to be unearthed.
“What else is missing?” I’d asked.
“A notebook that you can get from any Staples or Office Depot.”
“Was anything written in the notebook?”
“No, it was blank.”
“Anything else?”
“My daughter’s elephant bowl.”
“Elephant bowl?”
“Yeah, just a plastic bowl with an elephant’s face. It had a yellow handle.”
“Was there anything significant about the bowl?”
“No, nothing at all. You could get it from any toy store. Only cost a few dollars. There was even a little crack at the bottom of the bowl, so we never put anything in it.”
We never found those missing items, not even when we searched Sewell’s home, and I’d never brought it up again. I sat up in the bathtub, my hands shaking. When I’d seen th
e elephant bowl at the yard sale, it had reminded me of one I’d had when I was a child. But maybe it had resonated with me for another, subconscious reason. I leapt out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around my body. Water dripped on the floor as I swiftly made my way to the kitchen.
Resting on top of the refrigerator was the elephant bowl with the yellow handle. I froze for a second, wondering if there was any chance that it could have been Payton Wells’. What are the odds? I walked to the refrigerator cautiously, barely breathing, as if I had to sneak up on the bowl. I reached for the handle and carefully pulled it down, inspecting the bowl as I turned it over. My eyes widened and I covered my mouth with my left hand.
I rushed to find my phone and, when I did, I dialed the station.
“Hi, this is Detective August Miller. I need the files pulled from storage for the Payton Wells case from 2004, and I need it today.”
Oh well, I guess the bath will have to wait.
Chapter Four
When I got to my desk, there were two cardboard boxes waiting for me. Each had its lid taped shut and the words ‘Payton Wells’ written across the top. I sifted through the first box and found the notepad with which I had taken Payton’s husband’s statement. On page three, I found it. I underlined the word ‘crack’ without being able to explain why. It was just a missing child’s bowl, after all. Why would Shelton Sewell have taken it? After we couldn’t find it in Shelton’s house, I assumed that Payton’s husband had just misplaced it.
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