Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

“Oh, and in addition, I found traces of C3H8O—isopropyl alcohol, to the layman—inside his mouth, on his ears and cheeks, and between his toes. Whoever did this was exercising an abundance of caution. No DNA except the semen. Which raises some puzzling questions …”

  “I’ll say.”

  Emma said her goodbyes and thanks and hand-carried Dr. Mittendorf’s report and a headful of questions back to headquarters. She was so jazzed that she violated protocol on the return trip: lights and siren, all the way.

  Buzz Buzzucano called down to the front desk where Stella was serving a shift as Desk Sergeant. “The Saintly One wants us both to attend the six o’clock roll call, and damn if I don’t have poker at 6:30.”

  “Hey, that’s a good one, The Saintly One. I’ll have to remember that,” Stella said. “Anyway, I doubt she’ll notice if you skip it. It’ll probably be a big nothing-burger”

  They both laughed. “I dunno about missing roll call. She said it more like an order than a request.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll be going ’cause I have to. I’m the duty sergeant.”

  Emma entered the meeting room before anyone else. She carried Mittendorf’s full report. She stood behind the podium, which was emblazoned with the department’s logo. Emma caught a faint whiff of her own B.O. There was not much she could do about it, except keep her arms down.

  As with the rest of Hampshire’s police headquarters, the meeting room was shabby. Some of the folding church basement chairs, stacked in a heap in the corner, no longer worked. There was no bulletin board, so the desk sergeants push-pinned wanted posters right into the walls. Mentally, she added Clean Up Headquarters to her to-do list.

  Cops began to wander in, Max, Pete Sinclair, Chuck Smith, and Caroline Stoner. Buzz and Stella came in last. Emma waited for everyone to settle down. “Good afternoon. Stella, why don’t you start roll call, and I’ll follow up with an announcement.”

  Sergeant Weeks went through her usual roll call punch list, which included:

  —Local outstanding wants and warrants.

  —A new BOLO from the state police: “Be on the look-out for a brown Caprice, Massachusetts tag number 375-NQ4. Suspect wanted for armed robbery. Consider armed and dangerous.”

  —A burglary: “There was a B&E at 18 Sperry Drive in Northwood, last night. The Case residence. Standard junkie M.O. TV, laptop, and some Valium from the medicine cabinet. Same-same.”

  —A seventy-two-hour-old Amber Alert: “White female, 6-years-old, last seen wearing red hoodie and blue jeans. Believed to be a stranger abduction. Blue Honda. New York tag number begins with number nine.” Stella looked up from her notes and smiled, “Wouldn’t want to take a bet on that kid.”

  She glanced at Emma. “The Chief has a few words she’d like to say. I’m sure they’ll be encouraging. Chief?”

  The brassiness of Stella’s balls continued to astound her.

  “Actually, I have some discouraging words. I have received the full autopsy report on Ethan Jackson, who, as you know, was found deceased in his residence last Sunday. Dr. Herbert Mittendorf, Chief Medical Examiner, performed the autopsy. I was present. Dr. Mittendorf’s findings point inescapably to homicide. Mr. Jackson did not take his own life.”

  The cops exhaled a collective gasp. There had not been a homicide in Hampshire in years. And that one was even before Archie’s time. An obvious wife vs. husband murder.

  “There is also evidence that Mr. Jackson had sex with a male shortly before his death.”

  A smattering of disapproving sounds ensued. Exclusively from male officers.

  Emma quickly put the kibosh on that. “Guys, enough,” she said. “I am assigning Detective Buzzucano to be the lead investigator. Sergeant Weeks will second him. We will have the resources of the Connecticut State Police at our disposal if we need them. However, for now at least, I have not called on C.S.P. to take charge of the investigation.”

  She hoped that that wouldn’t turn out to be a blunder.

  “Tomorrow morning, Buzz and I will re-interview Mrs. Mary Jackson, try to assemble a list of friends and/or enemies to question, and study the report from the forensics team. Meantime, Pete and Chuck should canvass the neighbors. See if anyone saw someone come or go on Sunday morning. Copy your report to Buzz and Stella, who can follow up if you get any hits. Caroline will check phone records.”

  She went on to summarize Dr. Mittendorf’s findings including the poisoning and the mysterious mark on Ethan’s ankle. “We may be looking for someone with medical or nursing experience. Someone who has access to syringes, although I suppose everyone does. Or possibly an ichthyologist—”

  Stella groaned loudly, and, Emma thought, justifiably. Sometimes her vocabulary got the better of her.

  “—by that I mean a person who knows a lot about fish.”

  Buzz muttered, “There’s always something fishy about gay guys.”

  “Meantime,” she interrupted the laughter, “the rest of you hit the streets and find out everything and anything you can about Mr. Ethan Jackson and his sex life. We will solve this case, but I need all of you to help us do it. One more thing: let’s keep this out of the newspapers for now, give us some breathing room. Okay, guys? That will be all for now.”

  Stella stood up. “I think the Chief may have forgotten to say, ‘Be safe out there.’ ”

  Emma returned to her office. By not asking for outside assistance, she recognized that she was placing herself and her department in a precarious position should she fail. She decided to risk it. Pride? No doubt. A big part of missing Archie and Will was wanting them to be proud of her.

  She also decided that if she responded to each one of Stella’s affronts she would run out of oxygen.

  Privately, she’d dubbed Stella with a Spoonerism: Shining Wit. Translation: Whining Shit.

  She hadn’t yet heard that Stella had nicknamed her The Saintly One.

  16

  Colonel’s Secret Recipe

  After I kiss Ethan Jackson on the lips—long, hard, and deep—I taste my own revulsion. But he responds hungrily, like he’s never been kissed before. I think about his wife, pretty, useless Mary. She has no fucking clue.

  Ethan is all decked out, from his tasseled loafers to his pink cable knit Brooks Brothers sweater. The sweater even has that stupid dead sheep logo in baby blue. I place my lips next to Ethan’s ear. I can smell that he has product in his hair. He is an over-coiffed poodle, fresh from doggie beauty parlor. I whisper, “Let’s go into the living room. I want to fuck you on the floor.”

  His voice is husky, pathetically so. “Oooh.” He actually drools as he looks at my crotch.

  Ethan is Phase One of my plan. As devilishly clever as it is, it is quite simple: I intend to right a wrong. A very big WRONG.

  “If injury must be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared,” said Machiavelli. Actually, I think I’m paraphrasing. Close enough, though.

  I know exactly how this is going to end, the pain it will inflict, and the collateral damage (vapid Mary and her spoiled kid). Ethan is a weakling. He hasn’t even had the balls to make Mary take the kid to baseball practice for a slew of wasted weeks.

  In his over-decorated living room, I suddenly drop to my knees and rub his already swollen cock. It is almost sad when he moans. I undo his pressed chinos. Pop goes the weasel.

  Every night when I go out,

  The monkey’s on the table,

  Take a stick and knock it off,

  Pop goes the weasel.

  I remove the rest of his clothes, loafers and red socks included. I dump my coat and backpack on the carpet, seemingly with abandon, but I am careful that my coat lands with the correct pocket face-up.

  “Lie down,” I say, “you will never feel anything like this again.”

  I tell Ethan that I am going to start at his toes and work my way up. I begin to suck on his toes. He squirms with desire and emits another, ghastly moan. I reach into my coat pocket and retrieve the syring
e. With my teeth, I pop off the plastic protector covering the hypodermic needle. I separate his big toe from his second toe. I jam the needle into the crotch between Ethan’s toes. I push the plunger home.

  He screams and bucks, kicking me in the face. My satisfaction obviates the pain. In a matter of seconds, he is gasping for breath. I can’t believe how fast-acting my experimental concoction is working. I watch him writhe in panicked agony on the carpet. After watching him impassively for a moment, I leave him to his agonal respirations.

  I find the door to the basement. At the base of the stairs is a step ladder, ideal for my plan, which I bring upstairs.

  Ethan is now dead.

  I check my watch. I still have oodles of time before Mary and Julian are likely to return home. I put on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully swab the inside of his mouth, his cheek, his ear, and his toes with alcohol swabs. Everywhere I may have left some DNA. Not that I think that the Hampshire Police Department’s experience with DNA is anything worth writing home about. Yielding to my obsessiveness, I fold his clothes neatly and leave them on the sofa. Everything but his boxers, which I manage to get back on him.

  I mean, who kills themselves naked?

  Now, for my pièce de résistance. I remove a small brown bottle from my coat pocket. I have harvested what is in the bottle from a prostitute in New Haven. The kid had all the earmarks of a junkie—facial abscesses, dirty hair, and a long-sleeved shirt—but I was prepared. I was double-gloved and had brought along a condom. After the kid learned what I wanted, and no doubt figuring me for a sicko, the kid had charged me a premium over the quoted price. Well worth it, I figure.

  I run the faucet until the water gets hot and then add a few drops of water to the bottle. As I return to Ethan, I shake the bottle vigorously until, presto, I have a re-liquefied mixture. Still with gloves on, I roll him prone. I dribble The Colonel’s Secret DNA Recipe around and into his asshole and roll him back supine. Even a sub-standard medical examiner will find that!

  The Colonel’s Secret Recipe® is a registered trademark of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a subsidiary of Yum! Brands, and the recipe remains locked in a vault in Louisville, Kentucky. But, by inserting DNA into it, I have not violated the Lanham Act (1946).

  The noose, I had pre-tied at home. Measuring Ethan with the rope, I adjust its length so his feet will clear the ground by six inches or so. Getting the rope tied around the beam is easy. It is a bit of a job to carry Ethan up the ladder. Now I know what dead weight means. When I haul him about five feet off the ground, I release my grip. The rope makes a loud snap. Ethan’s body jerks and sways crazily, like a spastic marionette.

  Every morn when I go out,

  Ethan’s on the ladder,

  Take a noose and knock him off,

  Pop goes the second and third cervical vertebrae.

  His body hits the ladder. Losing my balance while doing this, I am still able to jump clear of the falling ladder. Where it falls, it shatters a glass-topped coffee table.

  Perfect, I think, I couldn’t have planned that detail better myself.

  I find a vacuum cleaner in a closet near the kitchen. I vacuum Ethan’s body and the living room carpet.

  I check Ethan one last time. No pulse, no respirations. The combined forces of the noose, the rope, and the plunge appear to have broken his neck.

  The following Wednesday, I shadow Emma Thorne’s friend, Deb Barger, into the Super Stop & Shop parking lot. I am in no hurry. Ethan’s suicide is percolating in the minds of the police, but they won’t find any evidence to suggest his death is anything other than self-inflicted. As usual, my plan is perfect … and flawlessly executed. I, alone, will choose the moment to reveal that Ethan has been murdered.

  I feel relaxed. I have time on my side. Boatloads of time. Before I drop the next bomb on Emma Thorne’s head.

  17

  Crater Face

  Emma drove Buzz and Pepper back to the Jackson residence on Hickam Street. Buzz rang the doorbell. Julian “JJ” Jackson, Ethan’s son, opened the door. Understandably, he had not yet returned to school.

  He was standing straighter than when she had seen him the day of his father’s death. He also looked older. Closer to sixteen.

  He said, “I hope you’ve come to tell us that my Dad didn’t kill himself.”

  “As a matter of fact, we have.” It was not the way Emma expected the interview to begin.

  “Good,” he said with no discernible affect. “You’ll probably want to speak with my mother then. She’s in the kitchen. Follow me.” Buzz shot Emma a raised-eyebrow look, which she returned with a nod. She instructed Pepper to wait outside before entering.

  They passed the living room, which had been tidied to the point of perfect. Someone had already replaced the glass table shattered by the ladder.

  Mrs. Mary Jackson stood in the kitchen watching “Fox & Friends” on a wall-mounted flat screen TV. Emma glanced at the tube. Bill Hemmer was interviewing Chris Christie. Emma was surprised he was still newsworthy. She hadn’t heard him mentioned on NPR in ages.

  Without being asked, Mary Jackson muted the sound. “Have you come to tell me that Ethan didn’t take his own life? I damn well hope so.”

  “Mrs. Jackson, this is my colleague, Detective Larry Buzzucano. Again, very sorry for your, and your son’s, loss. May we sit down?”

  She sighed and pointed to the kitchen table. They sat, and Julian joined them.

  Buzz said, “Okay if I tape our—”

  “Do what you have to.”

  Buzz readied the digital recorder. “The medical examiner,” Emma announced, “has determined that Ethan Jackson was murdered by the injection of a poison.”

  “Of course,” she said with a thin, incongruous smile.

  Emma quickly said, “Of course he was murdered or of course he was murdered by poison?”

  She smiled again. “The former.”

  Emma took a moment to collect her thoughts. So, Buzz said, “Your husband, he have any falling out with friends, business acquaintances? Any enemies?”

  Julian said, “Is that like saying, did Dad have any murderous friends?”

  Mary Jackson turned to Emma. “Look, as I told you Sunday, Ethan was a happy guy. He didn’t have any enemies. He was successful. Just look at our house! I loved him, and he loved JJ and me. I’m not sure what else I can tell you other than … I told you so.”

  As a street cop, Emma had heard every obfuscation, evasion, and lie. There were the obvious tells: flushing, changes in pupil diameter, reduced eye-contact. But Emma no longer relied on these clues. She could smell a lie like a hound smells a hare. Mary stank. Maybe she’d figured out that Ethan had stepped out on her … with a man.

  Mary Jackson had just pole-vaulted to the top of Emma’s suspect list. The creak of Buzz’s chair and his attentive stare told Emma that he concurred.

  “Did your husband know any doctors, nurses, or paramedics?”

  “Oh, I get it. Because of the poison? Well, we don’t socialize with paramedics or nurses, of course, but we know plenty of doctors.”

  Emma thought Hampshire’s nurses and paramedics could count themselves lucky. “Do you have any Sharpies in the house?”

  Mary asked, “The hell’s a Sharpie?”

  “I have a Sharpie in my desk,” Julian said.

  “May I see it?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He came back a moment later and handed the pen to Emma. She uncapped it and tried to draw a line across a page in her notebook. The Sharpie was as dry as an AA meeting.

  Emma reached into her briefcase, removed Buzz’s photograph of the mark on Ethan’s ankle, and showed it to Mary Jackson. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “Is this a photograph of some part of Ethan’s body?” Her voice became shrill. “What are you people trying to do to us? This is unconsciousable!”

  Emma ignored the neologism and her protest. “Does this mark mean anything to you?”

  Mary Jackson handed back the color photo
graph without further comment.

  “Okay,” Emma said, “let’s move on. What about friends and work colleagues with whom we can speak? And where did Ethan work?”

  “He didn’t,” Julian said. “He started spudger.com. In case you don’t know it, it’s an internet repair company. He sold his share for nine million bucks.”

  “Wow,” Emma allowed, “that’s a lot of money.” She was beginning to hate these people. “Anybody in the company feel like they didn’t get their fair share?”

  Mary Jackson said, “Why would they? They’re all as rich as Jews.”

  Now, she really did hate these people.

  Emma took a moment. “I’d like to ask you a question alone, if that’s alright.”

  Mary reacted the same way she had during their first interview. “JJ stays with me.”

  Okay, lady, your decision, Emma thought.

  “I need to ask you when you and your husband last had sex.”

  Julian interjected, “Like, what’s up with that, lady? Where do you get off—”

  But Mary surprised them by saying, “I don’t mind. I happen to be proud of our relationship. Let’s see … last week sometime. Yes, I remember. It was Wednesday night. We went out for a romantic dinner in Great Barrington … just the two us … and then, you know …”

  Emma glanced at Julian. His face gave nothing away. Neither confirmation nor disagreement. Emma weighed the advantage of revealing what Mittendorf had found and decided to keep seminal fluid stowed in her still-pretty-empty cubby of evidence.

  She signaled to Buzz, and they both stood. “If you could prepare a list for us of Ethan’s friends, people we could talk to, I would appreciate that. Particularly male friends. I’ll send an officer over this afternoon to pick it up. We can see ourselves out. Thank you for your time.” They headed for the door. “Oh, one last thing. Do you know anyone who raises tropical fish?”

  “What possible relevance could that have to the death of my dear husband? If you don’t mind my saying so, Emma, you might be a little inexperienced for a murder investigation. Shouldn’t you call in the state police … people who have a little more practice with this kind of thing? And, no is the answer to your question. My dentist has a fish tank in her waiting room, but, really, do I look like the sort of person who has friends with tropical fish?”