The photo of him holding a big check for thirty million dollars was on all the newspapers’ front pages. When a TV reporter asked what he planned to do with all that money, Big Bob grinned and said, “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”
Instead of taking the full amount in payments over twenty-five years, Big Bob opted for a single lump-sum payment for a reduced amount. After taxes he was left with a little over half the lottery prize.
He quickly sold the dealership and then began a life of indulgence and excess. That should have been the last time people heard of Big Bob, but over the ten years after he won, Big Bob’s life had been filled with drama and even tragedy.
Fisher stared at his lifeless body. As a kid she had seen Big Bob’s ads on TV. She thought he was a typical car salesman. He made big promises but delivered very little. He once boasted he had sold a refrigerator to an Eskimo. He would even claim he had proof of this sale: it was the middle of July, and even the Eskimos needed a place to cool their meat.
He may not have been the most honest guy around, but he was a lot of fun to watch.
Who could have overpowered such a big man? she thought.
FIVE
The little girl eyed him with malice. She was wearing a pink dress, pink slippers, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon.
Lee Callaway stood at the entrance of a store located inside a shopping mall. The store specialized in all things girls: dresses, shoes, jackets, make-up, hair accessories, and even dolls.
Callaway was tall, tanned, and he had silver around his temples. Crow’s feet had started to emerge around his eyes, but even then, he looked youthful for his age.
He wore a light blue shirt with a black tie, dark blue pants with side pockets, and black work boots. A walkie-talkie was attached to his black belt, and he had a notepad and pen stashed in his pants pockets.
Callaway adjusted his shirt collar even though it was not tight around his neck. The girl’s stare was making him squirm.
How can you be so intimidating when you are so tiny? he thought.
Callaway had recently been hired as a store security guard. It was not on top of his list of chosen occupations, but the store was the only one that was willing to hire him.
He was once a deputy sheriff for a small town. The job came with a steady income and lots of benefits, but he left it to become a private investigator, which came with little money and no benefits. But at the time, quitting the county sheriff’s department was the best decision he had ever made. He was tired of patrolling the town’s streets looking for drunks or dealing with minor spats between neighbors. He could not wait to leave the job and the town.
As a PI, though, he was always living from paycheck to paycheck. He never knew when he would get another case and how much it paid. In desperate times he would even take on cases that he would otherwise turn away.
One time, a client wanted to see if his fiancée would cheat on him. He hired Callaway to follow his fiancée and strike up a conversation with her. Callaway caught up with the fiancée at a coffee shop. After a short chat, Callaway asked if she wanted to go around the block and have a drink at a bar. She agreed. The client took this as a sign that she was unfaithful.
Callaway felt the fiancée loved the client. She had just got caught up in the moment. She believed she had gone to the same high school as Callaway (a lie made up by Callaway to break the ice). She also thought Callaway had a fiancée (another lie to ease her concerns so that she would take to him).
Callaway relayed his feelings to the client, but he did not believe Callaway. Instead, he ended his engagement soon after. Callaway hated himself for what he was hired to do. He had slept with married clients before, but only because their spouses were caught cheating on them. In Callaway’s eyes, the fiancée had done no wrong. The client’s assumption that his fiancée would sleep with Callaway after having a few drinks with him was ludicrous. Such a notion said more about the client than the fiancée.
“How much longer?” the girl asked him.
The store opened in half an hour and there was already a long line that snaked through the mall. The fifty or so customers consisted mostly of mothers and their precocious daughters.
The store had received a shipment of the hottest line of princess dolls. They were all the rage. Every girl between the age of six and eleven wanted one.
Callaway had already snagged a doll for his daughter. This was another reason he had wanted to work at this location. The pay was slightly above minimum wage. He was used to not having a dime in his pocket, so the wage was more than enough for him. On top of a regular paycheck, there was the employee discounts on store items. He could buy whatever he wanted for his little girl without having to pay full price for it.
As the clock ticked closer to 9 a.m., he saw the look on the mothers’ faces. They were ready to rush into the store like stampeding bulls, ready to fight each other over the dolls. They did not care who got trampled, maimed, or gored in the process.
He swallowed and said a small prayer.
SIX
Holt and Fisher were examining the body up close. Big Bob’s eyes were closed, and his skin was pale. He was wearing a white shirt that was now covered in red. The stain was darkest where he was stabbed. Without removing the shirt, Fisher guessed Big Bob was stabbed multiple times.
She squinted and said, “What do you think that is?”
She pointed to a raw gash on Big Bob’s cheek which streaked down from the eye to the corner of his lip.
“Maybe it came from his assailant.”
“We’ll swab it for DNA.” If Big Bob and his killer had gotten into a fight and during the altercation the attacker scratched his face, their fingernails would have left some evidence.
The blood on the cheek had dried, but Fisher saw a spot that was still wet. The Crime Scene Unit would be arriving soon. They would gather the necessary evidence. But Fisher did not want to lose the opportunity. She pulled out a small plastic container which held a cotton swab. She dabbed blood onto the swab and then sealed it back in the container. She made a note on the container’s label about where she got the sample and then placed it in her coat pocket.
“Take a look at this,” Holt said.
He held up Big Bob’s right hand. A bloody stump was where his thumb should have been.
“Someone cut off his thumb?” Fisher said, surprised.
“Looks like it.”
“But why?”
“Maybe the victim gave the killer a thumbs-down,” Holt replied.
Fisher rolled her eyes. Holt was not good with jokes, and he rarely smiled to begin with, but Fisher knew he was trying his best to lighten the mood.
The Milton PD had invested heavily in the Officer Assistance Program. A full-time counselor was on staff to help officers navigate through the stresses they encountered on a daily basis. The counselor’s main initiative was to get officers to smile, laugh, and joke more. Studies had shown that this released endorphins which helped with depression and anxiety. The department also held weekly laughter yoga sessions which involved exercises that included clapping, laughing for no reason, and deep breathing.
Holt had gone to one session. He was embarrassed to see officers laugh so hard and loud that some of them fell off their chairs.
Childish, he had thought at the time, and he vowed to never go again.
Fisher looked around. “Where do you suppose the thumb is?”
Holt looked around as well.
She stood up and followed the blood trail from the house’s main entrance to the living room. There was a deep red stain on the carpet, located next to an armchair.
That’s where Big Bob must have collapsed after getting stabbed, she thought.
Next to the large stain was another smaller stain.
The killer must have cut off his thumb at that very spot.
She surveyed the living room. When she did not find what she was looking for, she returned to the body. “Why didn’t Big Bob crawl to the fro
nt door?” she said. “Why did he go to the stairs instead?”
“That’s a good question,” Holt said. “I wish I had an answer.”
SEVEN
The house had five bedrooms and eight bathrooms, and it also had a gym, sauna, game room, a swimming pool in the backyard, and a theatre room. It had everything a person with money could want. The décor was tacky and unpleasing to the eye, however.
There were semi-nude paintings of large women in each room, the wallpaper was either too bright or too dark, and the furniture was neither modern nor classic. Sometimes the furniture looked like it had been picked up from someone’s yard sale.
The house had so many themes going at once that Fisher was not sure if it was intentional or if Big Bob just did not bother to hire an interior decorator.
If Fisher had Big Bob’s money, she would have opted for a regal décor, something she had seen in European palaces. Such décor was expensive, but the result would have been magnificent.
Fisher only played the lottery when the jackpot was astronomically high. She knew it was a bad time to play when everyone else was playing as well. The odds of getting hit by lightning twice was far more than winning a single jackpot, so she wanted to use her “luck” on a substantial prize that could change her life forever.
Winning a million was no longer enough to retire on. The government would take half in taxes, and after purchasing a modest home, she would still need to work.
But what if she did win the big one? Would she quit being a detective?
The simple answer would be no. She loved her job too much to give it up.
The more complex answer would likely be yes.
Spending eighteen-hour days chasing a lead, digging through filth for clues, and analyzing a case’s every detail can take a toll on a person. This was on top of the emotional beating a detective took on a regular basis. Dealing with death and its aftermath was not easy.
The crimes were shocking and brutal. The impact on the grieving was even worse. Some never recovered from losing a loved one in such a horrific manner. It was Fisher’s job to bring them closure. Each case left unsolved was a victory for the bad guy.
If money was no longer an object, Fisher would contemplate leaving the grind behind her.
But what would she do with her life then? She had no idea.
She shook her head. I don’t have millions in my bank account, she thought. So why am I wasting my energy thinking about it?
She had already scoured the kitchen. She found no knife missing from the wooden block. This told her the assailant had brought his own weapon. On the off chance the killer picked up some other knife from the kitchen, he or she must have taken it with them.
She took the stairs up to the second floor and checked the bedrooms. The first room contained a collection of items, including an odd one. There were signed music records on the walls, vintage guitars, sports memorabilia, and even the skull of a dinosaur.
When you can afford to buy anything, you buy everything.
She moved to the master bedroom which had a king-sized bed, an armoire, a dresser, and a small writing table. She checked the closet and it was half empty.
Maybe Big Bob didn’t have time to shop for clothes.
She knew that was not the case. Along with men’s clothing, she also saw high heels, scarfs, and a purse.
There was a photo on the dresser. She walked over and picked the photo up. Big Bob was standing next to a woman. He was wearing a tuxedo while the woman was wearing a wedding dress. The woman looked much younger than him.
Why does she look familiar?
Fisher remembered. When she had arrived at the scene, there was a woman who had answered the door.
I guess it’s time I had a word with Mrs. Big Bob.
She left the master bedroom and was about to head back downstairs when her eyes caught something across the hall.
She walked over to take a closer look. The door of the third room had two holes. The holes were the size of a dime, and when she squinted, she could see through them into the room.
She slowly pushed the door back. The room was being used as a guest room. There was a double bed in the corner with a closet and table across from it.
She spotted two additional holes in the wall next to the bed.
Fisher pulled out a pen and stuck it in one of the holes. She was fidgeting with the pen when something fell out of the hole and hit the carpet. She leaned down and picked the object up. It was a bullet.
Someone had fired at the door!
The bullets had gone straight through the door and had lodged in the wall. She placed the bullet in a plastic baggie. The CSU would be notified about the second bullet.
Several questions raced through her head. Who fired into the room? And more importantly, who was the intended target?
EIGHT
Fisher returned downstairs and found Holt in another room which, by the looks of it, Big Bob used as an office. The walls were made of dark wood panels. There was a coffee-colored desk in the middle with a leather chair next to it. A large shelf filled with books was behind the desk, and a large globe was near the window.
Fisher spotted a framed picture frame on the wall. The photo showed Big Bob holding the giant check for the winning prize. He was flanked on either side by his family.
“Look what I found,” Holt said, waving her over.
She walked around the desk and saw what Holt was pointing at. An open safe was hidden underneath the desk. On the floor next to it was Big Bob’s severed thumb.
“Now we know why the killer chose to cut it off,” Holt said.
Big Bob was a big man. There was no way the killer could have dragged his body across the house without exerting a ton of energy. It was simpler to remove what was needed in order to access the safe.
Fisher leaned down and looked inside the safe. She found some documents for properties and investments Big Bob had purchased, his passport, a copy of a check for the very first car he had sold in his dealership, certificates for savings bonds, and some old photographs likely of Big Bob as a child. What she did not find was any cash.
This discovery begged a question: how did the killer know where Big Bob kept his safe?
As if reading her thoughts, Holt said, “Do you think this murder has something to do with a break and enter?”
“I think it just might.”
Several years ago, Big Bob was robbed at gunpoint. Two masked men forced their way into the house. After roughing him up and tying him to a chair, they ran away with two hundred thousand in cash and almost fifty thousand in jewelry. After that, Big Bob had increased his security and he started carrying a gun with him at all times.
Fisher pulled out the baggie with the bullet. “I found this in one of the rooms upstairs,” she said.
Holt frowned. “Who was doing the shooting?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be the killer.”
Holt nodded. If the killer had a gun, why did he or she not shoot Big Bob instead of stabbing him?
Fisher rubbed her chin. A thought occurred to her. She hurried out to the hall, crossed the entrance, and went into the living room. A leather armchair was in the corner, next to a wall. At the foot of the chair was a half empty bottle of whiskey and a glass.
Fisher had seen this during her initial survey of the house but paid little attention to it.
This time, though, she wanted to be thorough. She looked behind the chair but saw nothing. She was pulling the chair towards her when she spotted something on the floor, wedged between the wall and the chair. She reached down and retrieved a semi-automatic pistol. She held the gun up as Holt came up behind her.
His eyes were wide in disbelief. “How’d you know it would be there?”
“I didn’t, but I have a theory forming in my head.”
“Okay, let me have it.”
Holt and Fisher had been partners long enough that they loved to bounce theories and scenarios off each other.
S
he said, “There is only one gun in the house and it was next to the chair likely used by Big Bob. A bottle of alcohol supports the theory that he may have been drinking prior to the attack. This means that there is a strong likelihood that the bullets found in the room upstairs belong to Big Bob’s gun.”
“But if he had a gun, then why did he not use it on his assailant?”
“Good question. The killer stabbed Big Bob, which means he came into the house only armed with a knife. He may have even surprised Big Bob, who could have been a little inebriated. He may have even inadvertently knocked the gun off the armrest and could not access it in time.”
“Okay, sure, but who did he shoot in the room upstairs?”
“It wasn’t his assailant, that’s for sure. I found no blood in the room.”
“Perhaps it was another person who was with the assailant.”
Fisher frowned. If it was, then it did not fit the narrative. If two people came to rob Big Bob, then why would he shoot at one and not the other? And then why would he go downstairs and have a drink while they were still in the house? It just didn’t make sense.
She then said, “I think I know why he crawled to the staircase and not the front door.”
“And why is that?”
“He was trying to get to the safe.”
“Why? He had far more money in his bank account than what he had in the safe.”
“That is something only he and his killer know.”
NINE
Callaway waited in line at a fast-food restaurant. It was lunchtime, and the mall’s food court was packed with hungry shoppers. Callaway was famished and exhausted. The moment he had opened the store’s doors, the mothers and their daughters rushed in. He tried to keep order, but they were like an angry mob.
He saw one mother snatch a doll from a girl’s hand. He tried to intervene, but the look on the mother’s face told him to back off. Her eyes were wide, and she was foaming at the mouth. He did not want to get his arm bitten off.
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