by Lauren Carr
Cameron asked for the name of her husband.
“Silas,” the lieutenant said. “Silas Starling. He claimed she was kidnapped for ransom. Said that he got a phone call asking for a half a million dollars in ransom and that the caller told him not to call the police. We got an anonymous call telling us about the kidnapping. We came in on the case. The husband got another call, and the caller said that he knew he’d called the police and that his wife was then dead. No more contact. No body.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Pieces didn’t fit right for that theory,” the lieutenant said. “If they really wanted the money, why not lead us on until they got the ransom and then kill her? Plus we found no evidence of any contact from the kidnappers. All of this was based on the husband’s statement.”
“You don’t buy his story?”
“I think he killed her, and the ransom story was for publicity and to direct suspicion away from him. He was her agent. If she’d left him, which our sources indicated that she wanted to do, then he would have had nothing. Or—”
“Or what?”
“Remember I told you that this is one of those cases where evidence points in a half a dozen different directions?” the lieutenant said. “The ransom demand could have been Vendetta’s attempt at a shakedown—her way of getting starting-over cash. Witnesses said Starling kept Vendetta on a very tight leash. She never carried money around. If she was planning to run away, she would’ve needed cash.”
“Did you uncover anything in your investigation about her brother?” Cameron asked. “If he was my John Doe, he could’ve been killed ten years before she died—maybe to the day.”
After a long silence during which Cameron assumed he was looking through his notes on the old case, Lieutenant Forrest said, “I see in my notes that when I asked Silas about whether she had any family we could talk to, he said her parents were dead, and her older brother had abandoned her ten years earlier. She was crushed when he took off and left her. Never really recovered from it…He even went on to speculate that her brother’s abandoning her had something to do with her depression and alcoholism—though friends said she’d been in rehab the month before her disappearance and had just gotten out. There’s nothing else here in my notes.”
Lieutenant Forrest ended the conversation by offering to send her a digital copy of the video tape recording of Wendy Matthews’ last performance. Cameron thanked him and went back to her tablet. She brought up the Internet to read the blog she’d found the night before. The blogger, Karrie, claimed to be a music fan and especially a fan of underground musicians with cult followings. With a click of the “contact me” button, Cameron brought up her e-mail address.
Couldn’t hurt. Maybe Karrie knows a few things about Wendy Matthews and her life after her brother abandoned her that the police detective doesn’t.
Cameron fired off an e-mail that included her e-mail address and her police phone number.
An hour later, with the Dixmont State Hospital John Doe case file on the front seat of her cruiser next to her, Cameron Gates turned down Green Valley Road on the Pennsylvania end and made her way along the rolling country road toward the West Virginia border.
Driving past Clyde Brady’s farm, the last property on the Pennsylvania side of the state line, she slowed down to gaze at the old run-down farmhouse. A wave of sympathy washed over her when she recalled that night eight months earlier when she had been called out to the elderly couple’s home.
At almost midnight, Clyde Brady had called the police to report that an intruder had broken into the house and strangled his wife. By the time Cameron had arrived at the seventy-year-old two-story farmhouse, the ambulance had already taken Monica Brady to East Liverpool Hospital in hopes of saving her. Cameron had been on her way into the house to survey the scene when the state trooper who had first arrived at the scene reported that Monica Brady had been dead on arrival at the hospital.
The break-in and assault had become a murder.
Growing up in the rural area of Western Pennsylvania, Cameron had been inside more than one old farmhouse. Built for utilitarian purposes, not for show, they were plain and drafty. She’d been able to predict what she would find upon stepping inside the front door.
She’d found a coat rack hanging on the wall. On the floor directly underneath it, an old towel had been spread out for muddy boots and shoes that had been worn in the barn. Directly in front of her, a staircase led up to the second floor, where three bedrooms and one bathroom were located. The country kitchen was to the back of the house. The room on the left was the living room, and to the right was the dining room.
Broken glass littered the floor in every room. Every picture frame, mirror, and glass cabinet had been shattered.
“Who did this?” she asked the uniformed officer.
“The victim’s husband,” the officer said. “He fought with the intruder. The EMTs are bandaging him up right now. He’s in the living room.”
Broken shards of glass crackled under Cameron’s feet as she made her way into the living room, where she found the elderly man being bandaged up by an emergency medical technician. Clyde Brady’s farm clothes were torn. His arms, legs, and hands were bloody.
He looked up from where the EMT was putting away her equipment. “Did you catch him?”
“We’re still searching the area,” the uniformed officer replied.
Holding out her hand, Cameron stepped toward him and introduced herself. Seeing the female detective, the old man regarded her with trepidation before shaking her hand. “Kind of young to be a homicide detective, aren’t you?”
Suspecting that he objected more to her being a woman than young, she said, “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I’m a detective.”
“Homicide?”
Cameron looked over at the uniformed officer, who looked away. Turning back to Clyde Brady, she softly said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brady, but your wife is gone. I’m sorry for your loss.”
His face contorted as he tried to hold back the tears filling his eyes. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the small packet of tissues that she carried with her just for such situations and handed one to him. In silence, she waited for him to dab his eyes and to find his voice before she asked, “Do you have anyone that we can call? A place you can go while our people search the farm for evidence that will help us catch this guy?”
Clyde shook his head. “Nope. Monica and I weren’t blessed with any children. It just wasn’t in the cards for us. It was only her and me. She used to say, ‘It’s you and me against the world, Clyde.’”
“Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Brady?”
He sniffed, and then in a shaking voice, he said, “I was out checking on the cows and making sure they were bedded down in the barn on account of the snow they’re calling for tonight. When I came in, I could sense that there was something different in the house. Something wasn’t right. I guess you could say I felt like someone else was here. I called to Monica, and she answered, but she didn’t sound right. I went upstairs and went into the bedroom, and there he was, standing at the foot of the bed.”
“The intruder?” Cameron said.
“Looking right at me.” Squinting, he rubbed his forehead.
Cameron noticed a healed-over scar along his hairline, at his temple.
“I guess he got the jump on me,” Clyde said. “I’m not as fast as I used to be.”
“Where was Monica when you went into the bedroom?” Cameron asked.
His eyes shot back and forth while he thought about her question. “She was in the bed…I think. She must have been. Because the next thing I remember is coming to and seeing him standing over her with his hands around her throat. She was in the bed and screaming.” As he looked down at his shaking hands, his voice shook. “I went after him with everything I had.”
Noting the broken furn
iture and the glass around them, Cameron said, “Looks like it.”
“The fear in her eyes.” He sobbed. “When I bent over her, she must have thought I was him.” He showed Cameron the scratches on his arms. “She did this right before she passed out.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“He looked familiar,” Clyde said. “I know I’ve seen him around, but I have no idea what his name is or who he is.”
After learning that Clyde Brady’s world revolved around the Russell Ridge Farm and Orchards, Cameron questioned the foremen of the orchards and the dairy farm, but no one recognized the man in the drawing that was based on the description that Clyde Brady had provided.
When forensics didn’t find any blood or DNA that belonged to anyone but Clyde Brady, Cameron’s supervisor suggested that maybe Clyde was the perpetrator. After all, his DNA had been found under Monica Brady’s fingernails. However, that was easily explained, as he’d admitted that when he’d returned to her side after chasing the perpetrator out, she had scratched him.
“Everyone I’ve spoken to says Clyde and Monica Brady were completely devoted to each other,” Cameron told her lieutenant. “He’s never cheated on her. No complaints of domestic violence. He doesn’t drink or do any drugs. The medical examiner says there are no signs on her body of previous abuse. Everyone says Clyde is as gentle as a lamb. He’s completely distraught over her death. He had no life insurance on her. His boss is paying for the funeral expenses out of the kindness of her heart. He had no motive to kill her.”
No motive. No clues. No suspects. The case was then cold.
Cameron Gates hated cold murder cases.
At least this Dixmont State Hospital case is warming up.
Pressing her foot on the accelerator, she sped up and drove across the state line and on to Suellen Russell’s home.
After clearing the last rise in the road before coming within sight of the farmhouse, Cameron hit the brake upon almost rear-ending a horse trailer that was straightening out after previously blocking the road. With a growl, she put her hand on the horn, but before she could press it, Joshua came around the rear corner of the trailer and stood in front of her cruiser.
“Driving a little fast, aren’t we, Detective?”
Cameron rolled down her side window. “What’s with the horse trailer? You’re really embracing this Farmer Jones lifestyle, aren’t you?”
The truck hauling the trailer straightened out and moved off to the side of the road.
“We had a runaway.” Waving his hand to indicate that J.J. should go on without him, Joshua went around to the passenger’s side of Cameron’s cruiser and opened the door.
“So you chased the horse down with a whole trailer?” She picked up the case file from the seat. After he had settled in, she handed it to him.
“The trailer belongs to the cowgirl who captured the horse,” Joshua said. “It was that crazy palomino mare. She’s escorting her home on foot.”
“And a cowgirl caught her?” With a chuckle, Cameron followed J.J., who was at the wheel of the horse trailer.
“She seems to have some horse-whisperer magic powers that make horses obey her every command,” Joshua said.
With a grin, Cameron turned to look at Joshua, who was smiling back at her.
“Donny says she’s a Jedi,” he said.
“Miss Suellen, I wish you would reconsider bringing in a stranger to take care of these horses,” Clyde said when he and Suellen were sitting on the porch swing. “No one knows these horses like I do. I’ve been taking care of Captain Blackbeard since the day he was born.”
“I know, Clyde,” Suellen said. “That’s exactly why I held off on making this painful decision. But—”
Hearing Joshua’s SUV pull up in front of the house, Suellen hurried over to the porch railing and saw Donny park at the bottom of the sidewalk in front of the house. J.J. drove past him and parked the dual-wheel truck with the large trailer and camper.
Seeing the camper, Suellen gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Dear God! Clyde, do you see what I see?”
Silently, Clyde nodded his head, and then he said, “A horse trailer and camper.”
“The same one Mom and Dad—” She swallowed down the tears that were fighting their way to her eyes.
“Even the color’s the same,” Clyde said. “Where’d—”
Suellen tapped his arm. “Look!” She pointed down the long driveway to where a young woman and Izzy were walking along the fence with two horses following directly behind them. One horse was wearing a green coat and halter. Casually, and without the aid of a lead or a rope, their palomino mare was following directly behind her equine companion.
Curious about the woman, Captain Blackbeard and the mares and colts inside the pasture galloped over to her and trotted along the fence. Seeing them, the woman in the Western-style hat paused to hold out her hand to Captain, who stood still and looked at her for a long minute before he sniffed her hand. She responded by touching him on the snout and then feeding him bits of carrot. She then greeted both mares and their colts. She took the time to show Izzy how to feed them carrots by holding her hand out flat. While the redhead fed Comanche and her own horse, Izzy gave a carrot to Daisy. Finally allowed to touch one of the horses, she squealed with delight, which caused the herd to gallop away.
Laughing, the redhead and Izzy resumed their trek up the driveway with the two horses behind them.
Cameron and Joshua were in Cameron’s white unmarked cruiser, and they slowly rolled past them, continued up the driveway, and parked next to Joshua’s SUV. When they slid out of the car and joined the group that had gathered in the driveway, the young woman marched up into the barnyard and tipped her hat to them in a greeting.
“Howdy, folks.” Without stopping, she went over to the gate leading into the pasture and proceeded to open it. The horse in the green coat seemed to be nibbling on her shoulder as she worked the latch on the gate.
Still curious, Captain Blackbeard, with his ears standing tall and erect, strolled up to the edge of his pasture to watch them.
Upon opening the gate, the redhead stood back, and when she gestured with her hand, both horses entered the pasture.
The horse in the green coat turned around and looked at his master, who nodded her head at him. “Stretch your legs, Gulliver. I’m just going to talk to these folks here for a minute, and then we’ll be on our way.”
With a wide smile on her face, Izzy raced up to Cameron and Joshua. “Her name’s Poppy.”
“Poppy?” Joshua asked.
“She has red hair,” Suellen said.
“That she does,” J.J. said. “She also has a way with horses.”
Poppy strolled up to them, and they stared at her as if she’d just disembarked from an alien spaceship. “Well, Comanche doesn’t seem to be any worse for the wear. Izzy told me what happened. I trust you aren’t hiring that moron?”
“No,” J.J. said. “He’s gone.”
Unnerved by Suellen, who was openly staring at her, Poppy cocked her head and stuck out her hand. “Name’s Poppy Ashburn, ma’am. You must be Suellen, Comanche’s owner. Izzy was telling me all about your farm here.”
“Suellen Russell,” she said. “I was just admiring your freckles.”
Chuckling, Poppy took off her hat. In the sun, it was obvious that her freckles were splashed liberally across her nose and both cheeks. “I call them God’s kisses.”
“I think they’re cute,” Izzy said.
“They certainly are,” Suellen said. “My mother had freckles just like yours.”
“We’re very grateful for your help with catching Comanche, Poppy,” J.J. said. “Thank you.”
“Why did you call her Comanche?” Donny asked.
“That’s her name,” Poppy said. “She was named after Comanche, the famous mustang who’s sa
id to be the only survivor of the Battle of the Little Big Horn.”
“General Custer was killed in that battle,” Joshua said.
“Comanche survived and lived for another fifteen years after that battle,” Poppy said. “When he died, he was given a memorial with full military honors.” She turned to gaze out at the palomino mare in the pasture. “Comanche is a survivor. It’s been her experience that people don’t care about what happens to her. I don’t think they’ve been mean to her—but they haven’t been nice either. She doesn’t know what to expect from people, and she doesn’t know what you want from her. Animal experts would say she hasn’t been properly socialized.”
“Did Izzy tell you all that?” J.J. asked.
“No, Comanche did,” Poppy said.
“Are you one of those damn horse whisperers?” Clyde’s tone was filled with suspicion.
“Whisperer?” Poppy laughed. “No, sir. I’m a communicator. I’m able to communicate with animals. All you have to do is understand their languages and communicate back to them in ways that they can understand. Like that rooster over there.” She pointed behind them to where Charley was perched under a tree in the garden. “Right now he’s pouting because his best friend”—she pointed to Izzy—“has failed to notice him since she came back. He’s very insecure and a bit needy, but he’d never want you to know it. That’s why you think he’s so aggressive. He tends to overcompensate. Most roosters who bully people and other animals suffer from insecurity.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’d be surprised by how many animals suffer from the same frailties that people suffer from.”
“Noah says he’s picky about who he likes,” Izzy said.
“Who’s Noah?” J.J. asked.
“Your field hand,” Joshua said.
“Field—” J.J. turned to Suellen, who shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.