Chapter 2
December 10th – 8:15 p.m.
D etective Carl Sampson, five years from the academy and first case as a detective, pulled onto the scene at 631 Sapphire Ave. The frigid bellows of cold air thrust condensation onto the aging windshield of his detective vehicle. The defroster, blowing in spurts, could not maintain the clear visibility needed, thus Sampson wiped the window once again with his initial-embroidered handkerchief. The dull red and blue flashing lights materialized into a dazzling display of two distinct EMS vehicles and two CMPD patrol cars once the window was clear. Detective Sampson sat motionless recalling the moment this case was dropped into his lap.
“Sampson!”
“Yes, boss?”
“There’s been a murder. Single victim, District 2 that has your name written all over it. Here are the keys to old Betsy.” Detective Neil tossed the keys onto the desk. Sampson caught the keys before they slid over the edge. “The HVAC system is on the fritz, but she’s the only fleet vehicle onsite. Dispatch will provide the necessary details while you’re en route.”
Betsy, a 2001 Chevy Caprice, was well past her prime. She had nearly 250,000 hard miles on her frame, though the engine had been replaced in 2012. The first two turns of the ignition were met with an audible dissatisfying click. Sampson slammed his hand on the dash, “Come on Betsy baby. Start up for me – please!”
Sampson, eyes closed and with a silent prayer, turned the key again. This time the engine coughed before rewarding him with the engine turning over. “Thank you old girl and sorry for hitting you so hard.”
Allowing the vehicle to warm in the abnormally cold winter day in Charlotte, North Carolina, Detective Sampson completed his vehicle inspection before calling dispatch.
“Dispatch, this is Vanessa.”
“Hey Vanessa, it’s Carl. I heard you have a homicide for me.”
“Hey Carl, sure do. 911 call received from a hysterical female. One DOA. Address 631 Sapphire Ave.”
“Anything else?”
“Unfortunately, no. The caller became unresponsive. We think she passed out.”
Some details, he thought. “Thanks Vanessa, I’ll take it from here.”
Detective Sampson opened the cruiser door with an audible screech and stepped into a fresh inch of snow swirling at his feet. The cool breeze from the night brought a tickle of frostbite to his earlobes prompting him to tug down on his skullcap. Even in the icy weather onlookers stood behind the yellow caution tape with anticipation. They chattered away softly as white puffs of vapor parted their lips with every breath. Sampson pushed his way through the crowd, passed through the diminishing voice vapors, and stepped under the tape searching for the lead officer on the scene.
As he surveyed the landscape, Sampson noticed a mid-40-year-old man in a grey waist length peacoat – collar straightened and tucked under his chin. The man had black, expertly creased trousers on with particles of snow attached to the outer cuff. His hands were encased in thin form fitting leather gloves. Several officers approached him, giving him a report, and exited the scene as quickly as they had arrived. Sampson approached.
“Detective Carl Sampson, Charlotte Metro PD,” he said extending his bare hand into the frigid air. The immediate exposure sent trickles of pain through his fingertips that shot up his arm.
“Officer Lee,” the man said pulling his hand from his glove before grasping the proffered hand. As they shook, Sampson couldn’t help but notice the warmth radiating from the fingers of Lee, immediately defrosting his own cold fingers. I certainly need to get me a pair of those gloves.
“We’ve been awaiting your arrival,” Officer Lee continued breaking Sampson from his trance simultaneously placing his hand back in his leather glove. “Inside the home we have the deceased, Samantha Taylor, 36 years old. She’s the sole occupant of the residency and did not have a known boyfriend. She was found by,” Officer Lee flipped a few pages searching for the name, “Tina Young at roughly 8:00 p.m.”
“What was she doing?” Interrupted Detective Sampson.
“Ms. Taylor had a camping trip tomorrow and was in need of a sleeping bag. Mrs. Young stopped by to drop off said bag. When she arrived at the apartment, Mrs. Young knocked on the door several times. When Ms. Taylor didn’t respond, she twisted the door handle, shocked to find it unlocked. Mrs. Young commented that Samantha always locked the deadbolt. ‘It’s the first thing she does when she closes the door – any door.’” Officer Lee stated, conferring with his notes.
He went on, “Mrs. Young entered the residence and flipped the light switch on to illuminate the dark room. Mrs. Young identified the form of her friend, Samantha Taylor, bound, on the floor with blood pooled on her forehead and matted to her chestnut brown hair. She immediately called 911 and during the call she passed out.”
This last nugget of information resonated with what Sampson obtained from Vanessa.
“I was the first one on the scene and found Mrs. Young laying on the ground. Her torso was completely in the building; however, her feet were still outside.”
Officer Lee, reading the questions forming on Detective Sampson’s brow answered the unasked questions.
“My house is around the block. Today is me and my wife’s 15th wedding anniversary. We were headed back from dinner when I heard the call. Yes, I know. When I’m off I’m supposed to be off. Kristen, my wife, gets on me all the time. I would have allowed someone else to handle the call; however, when dispatch said the caller dropped and was unresponsive, I immediately came over. I let Kristen drive the car home. The cold walk home will hopefully give me a bright idea of how to get myself out of the doghouse this time.”
Detective Sampson smiled inwardly, “We’ve all been there buddy. Why don’t you show me the victim and go spend the rest of your anniversary with your wife.”
Officer Lee tilted his head in agreement as the final puff of cold air from Sampson’s words evaporated. He turned on his heel and the two walked into the apartment.
December 10th – 9:00 p.m.
“Come on Sal, could you do it for me - pleeeease?” If the way the word please that teased from her tonsils wasn’t enough, Jane gave him the puppy dog eyes. It’s been said Helen of Troy had the face that would launch a thousand ships – well Jane Markowitz had the eyes that could set off a nuclear war.
Salvatore “Sal” Grandson, was a former journalist for the New York Daily prior to his migration to Charlotte, North Carolina. During his time at the Daily, Sal had an on-again, off-again relationship with his nemesis from the Times, Jane Markowitz. Their relationship took a sour turn which resulted in Jane hurling dishes at Sal. This was the last straw for Sal even though she would always have a place in his heart.
The two were reunited a few months ago when Sal reported on the kidnappings within the gated community of Driftwood Springs. A story he wrote as an independent online journalist. A story that got him noticed and provided instant credibility to his journalistic chops. Sal had done everything possible to avoid being snarled into her Venus flytrap, but in the end, she was his Siren’s Lore. The truth – he loved this woman and he couldn’t resist her.
“Going to the store for a gallon of 2% milk for some Cap’n Crunch peanut butter cereal. Who does she think I am, the Milk Man?” In typical Sal fashion he asked this question out loud to no one in particular. “Well this is the last time I change out of my pajamas to go to the store. You better believe that! She can just –”
The words hung frozen in Sal’s throat as he noticed the flashing lights off in the distance. Flashing lights typically means a story to be told, he thought. “Jane and her Cap’n Crunch cravings will just have to wait.”
Moments later, Sal arrived on the scene. He grabbed his hat from the passenger seat, pulled it down over his ears and stepped out into the brisk air. “Ahh,” he said breathing the cool air into his nostrils eyeballing the onlookers at the yellow caution tape. “Why are they so bundled up? It’s not that cold. Southerners, a small dip into th
e 30s and they lose their minds.” He kept the remainder of his comments to himself as he stood with the others who gathered behind the tape.
Sal astutely surveyed the crowd until he found, yes she will do, the person he was looking for. There is always someone in the crowd anxious to prove they know everything going on in any given situation. As a reporter, Sal always sought out this individual because they always wanted to talk – and in many cases their information, though spun slightly, had elements of truth.
Sal saddled up next to the woman and took in her features. She was average height, 5 foot 4 inches, with blonde hair pulled haphazardly into a quick ponytail. Her makeup, some blush, nude lip gloss, and purple eyeliner had recently been applied. “She made herself up just to stand out in this cold.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say hun?” The woman asked.
Sal’s habit of talking out loud coming to bite his rear again, “I’m sorry Mrs., I said, ‘They better hurry up I’m out here getting cold.’”
“I know, right! Ain’t it a shame what happened to Samantha. Pretty little thing came home from work and got blitzed by three men as she was opening her door. She was tied up, gang raped, beaten and left lying on the floor like a dog. I guess one of them didn’t want to chance her pointing them out later, so he came back and put a bullet in her head.” She said this with her eyes darting around undoubtedly looking for a news van.
Sal figured the woman had the name right, Samantha, as she likely lived close by. He didn’t know of anyone who chased the cops around waiting on a story to break. At which point they could curry favor with the reporter on scene to interview her for the story. Then again, Sal wouldn’t put it past someone to do just that. Sal also surmised the woman was dead but not from anything the witness had said – he spotted the Coroner’s van as he pulled up. Everything else he planned to discount as gossip, or simply – made up, like her face, he mused.
Sal felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. He extracted the device and eyed the frosting screen – Jane texting probably wondering what’s taking so long. She’ll have to wait. Sal did his best to overhear any information being shared between the members of law enforcement. He realized his hearing wasn’t the stellar asset he wielded in his youth, and his lip reading was even worse. For the time being, he would wait until the detective on scene emerged from the house. At that point he would be prepared with his list of questions.
December 10th – 9:00 p.m.
Detective Sampson stood stark still in the center of the living area with both eyes welded shut. Upon entering the room, he quickly surveyed all four corners, followed by the décor on the wall, and finally the room as a whole. After taking these quick mental images, he closed his eyes to construct the 3D image around him. 30 percent of the time, he would glean useful information. 65 percent of the time, he would look like a jackass to his fellow officers. The other five percent, well there was that one time he nearly fell asleep, he had his eyes closed so long.
However, he could feel this crime scene would settle snuggly into the 30 percent as something in this room fired questions in his mind. He rolled his eyes from left to right behind his closed eyelids visualizing the scene in the room. The coroner had not yet taken the body. Sampson could see her wrist bound with the flex cuffs. Her legs and mouth secured with duct tape – why no flex cuffs for the ankles if the goal was to immobilize her? The single shot to her head, left of center slightly between the eye and the bridge of her nose. Is there anything else here to see? Sampson pondered and decided to shift his attention.
As Sampson retracted his gaze from the deceased form splayed on the floor, he began to look at the walls. A circular black and white wall clock adorned one of the walls. Next to the clock was a frame. The frame consisted of a picture – two individuals smiling wanly at the camera. The woman on the left side of the photo was the deceased, Samantha Taylor. The other person, another woman, bared no resemblance to anyone else in the dwellings. Shifting his eyes from the picture frame, he noticed something white, rectangular, in the bottom left corner.
“Detective Sampson,” Officer Lee interrupted, “Tina Young is prepared to speak with you.”
Sampson slowly opened his eyelids, and gave Officer Lee a smile, “I’ll speak with Mrs. Young. I think it’s time you make your way home to Mrs. Kristen and salvage the remainder of your anniversary. I can handle things from here.”
“Will do sir. Thank you!” Lee nodded to the officer at the door who led detective Sampson to the apartment next door.
Tina Young was a nondescript woman of average height. Her hair, brunette, lay flush to her shoulders while being suffocated underneath a functional knit beanie. She wore an expression mixed with shock, disbelief, and the feeling as if she was adrift in an unspeakable nightmare. She wore a yellow retro Denali North Face jacket fully zipped to her chin and a pair of dark blue jeans – they looked like Levi’s. She walked with an unsteady gait resting most of her body weight onto the officer escorting her through the apartment.
“Hello Mrs. Young, my name is Detective Carl Sampson.”
Sampson extended his right hand while fixing his gaze on her deep brown eyes. Tina limply took his hand and gave it a cursory shake while forcing a grimace to her pale lips.
“I understand you were the one to find the victim, Samantha. Why don't you walk me through what happened?”
When she spoke, her dialect was both unfamiliar and strong, “I already told the other cop what I seen.” The words trembled on her lip as her lower eyelids began to puddle with tears. Her pupils looked like blank saucers as she observed Sampson.
“Officer Lee relayed to me your account; however, it would benefit me greatly if I could hear the story from your perspective.”
During this exchange Tina had not blinked and the puddles verged toward spilling onto her sunken cheekbone.
Resigned to her fate, she closed her eyes. A stream of tears permeated down both cheeks racing toward the point at her chin. When she opened her eyes, Sampson was surprised with the hollow far away essence they had taken.
“Sammy, Samantha, called me earlier in the day.”
“Hey Tina babe,” Tina said interrupting herself and dropping into her Samantha impersonation. “I know it’s last minute, but I need a huge favor. I need to borrow your sleeping bag.”
Sampson began to ponder how Samantha knew Tina had a sleeping bag but decided he would not interject.
“I told her sure and chuckled inwardly. The last time I used the bag, me and my husband, Ricky, decided to lay out in our back yard under the stars. He swore he seen a shooting star but I hadn't. He said his wish was to make love under the stars and we'd done just that! I told Sammy that story.”
The new tear stream formation on her chin was hanging precariously in a pendant shape waiting to descend weightlessly to the ground.
“I told her I would stop by after we ate dinner and I put the kids to bed. Cop sir, I did just that. I came right over after we ate. When I got here, I knocked. Sammy didn't open the door and I didn't hear any rustling inside. I knocked again. My fingers were getting cold. You know with this cold weather we are having, it's enough to drive me crazy. Sir, she still didn't answer.”
Her hollow eyes appeared to grow colder. “I reached for the doorknob expecting it to be locked, Sammy always locks her doors. But it won't locked. Mr. Cop, the door won't locked. This is when I knew something was wrong.”
“Sammy,” I said slowly pushing the door open. “Sammy hun are you home?”
“The house was quiet. The house was too quiet. I walked into the apartment and flipped on the light. That's when I saw it. That's when I saw her.”
She closed her eyes again, the action jolting the pendant tear from her chin. Gravity tugged the clear substance until it met the ground with a splash.
“She was laying there – dead.”
Tina could hold back no longer. The tears flowed continuously. She swiped the back of her hand down and across the side of her face. She did th
e same on the other side with the other hand. Sampson reached into his pocket, extracted his handkerchief and passed it along to Tina.
“Mrs. Young, you've been so brave. Thank you for sharing. Do you recall anything else? Anything out of place, anything missing?”
Tina blew her nose into the handkerchief, folded it over once and dabbed both corners of her eyes. “I honestly don’t recall much after that. In a panic, I dialed 911 and shortly thereafter I fainted. The next thing I remember is your cop friend waking me up.”
Her stomach began to heave as she pulled her shoulders in on herself as if she was going to introduce the dinner she ate before coming to the apartment. However, she was able to keep it at bay, she was stronger than she gave herself credit for given the circumstances.
Composure regained, she continued in a raspy whisper, “There was a guy she was seeing. She didn’t talk much about him, but I could see the glow in her anytime she spent time with him. Since she didn’t talk to me much about him, I could only assume he was married. She knew I would not approve so we operated on the ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. Do you think he would do this to her?”
Sampson had not yet formed any opinion, “We are looking into every lead. We will do everything possible to locate who did this to Samantha.”
Sampson stood, plucking a card from his pocket and handed it over to Tina. Some of the color had come back into her cheeks and that hollow, vacant expression she had been carrying was starting to clear.
“In the meantime, I'm going to have an officer drive you back to your home. Here's my card. If you think of anything else, regardless of how small you think it may be, I want you to call me.”
He turned on his heel and headed for the door. As he did, he began to tug at a string holding together a thought he could not reach. He walked back to Samantha’s apartment and once again stood in the middle of the room. As he stood there something had caught his eye.
Hour of Reckoning (Donatella Book 2) Page 2