He called the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore. As a former head of the regional office of the Maryland State Police Criminal Investigation Bureau, he had a little more pull than the average small town police chief. He hoped one of his old colleagues had drawn Sunday duty. The voice that answered sounded young, but the officer recognized his name.
“Major McNamara! Major Brixson asked me to call you, sir. I was just about to do that.”
McNamara heard the salute in the nervous tone. “It’s not Major anymore, but I appreciate the courtesy.” He rarely pulled rank outside of his official duties and tried never to step back into the MSP world unless he had to. To his mind, nothing said ‘fool’ more than someone pretending to be who they no longer were.
“Are there any preliminary results on the body we sent up from Mallard Bay this morning?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. But that’s not why I was supposed to call you. We have another body Major Brixson would like you to have a look at. He wanted to know if you could come in today?”
Some things you never forget.
Memories, pleasant and disturbing, can be recalled in an instant with a visual or verbal trigger, a smell, or a touch. The sterile autopsy room and its grisly contents offered all four. McNamara hoped he wouldn’t have to touch the body in front of him. Looking at it, listening to Jeff Brixson and smelling the significantly deteriorated corpse through a double mask was bad enough.
“You said you have a video of the Overton family. Anything in it that might help us make a preliminary identification?”
“I have it on my phone. I’ll send it to you,” McNamara said. “It’s possible this is Heath Overton, but you’ll need to work your magic to know for sure.” He looked up at his friend of more than thirty years. They had closed many cases together, and McNamara knew he was being asked to identify the body out of friendship, as well as professional courtesy. Brixson could easily have obtained the film and studied it himself, but he’d given his friend a place on the front line of the investigation. Not that McNamara wouldn’t have some heavy lifting to do.
“You’ll notify the family?” Brixson asked.
McNamara nodded. “They moved up from Georgia recently. Overton was only here for two short visits, so if I can’t get anything with his DNA, we’ll need samples from his children.”
“I’ll send a tech with you.”
“Sounds like a plan. So, what happened?” McNamara gestured toward the table between them. “Looks like any of half a dozen injuries could have killed him.”
The corpse known only by a long string of numbers had been in a refrigerated drawer for the past four days. The autopsy reported a fatal head wound and numerous post mortem injuries. As bad as the head looked, it was the mangled hands that made McNamara queasy.
Brixson said, “If this is Heath Overton, he skipped his trip south and took the scenic route to a west Baltimore landfill dump. Most of the damage to the body was post-mortem and consistent with being cycled through a trash truck compactor.”
McNamara winced. “Any idea when death occurred?”
“It’s a fairly wide window, but since you say he was last seen alive on the evening of May 6, I’d estimate within a forty-eight-hour period after that. He’d been dead at least a week when we got him.”
McNamara held up a hand as Brixson made a move to recover the body. “What ties this guy to Heath Overton?”
“Despite the damage, he’s about the right size. But what got our attention was this.” Brixson handed McNamara a small plastic bag containing a misshapen gold ring.
McNamara looked at the corpse again and asked, “Where was it?”
“Crushed into the left stump.”
McNamara studied the pulpy mass that had once been part of a hand. “Overton is reported to have worn a wide gold band with three intertwined circles engraved on it.”
“You can’t make out much through the plastic, Mac, but the engraving is still visible. Only it looks like there might be four circles.” He handed McNamara a second bag. “It matches the pattern on the one I took off the woman you sent up here.”
McNamara nodded and looked down at the ravaged face of the dead man. A murder investigation would put a hold on at least half of the sisters’ insurance payout.
“Can you tell what caused the fatal injury?”
Brixson pointed to photographs that hung behind them. The back of the dead man’s head was caved in. “I only know the what, not the how, but I’m working on it.”
“What’s the call on Felicia Jones Overton?” McNamara asked as Brixson returned the corpse to its drawer.
“Moved her to the front of the line when we made the ring connection. I think you’ve got another murder on your hands.”
“Murder?” McNamara said. “Not suicide?”
“Not unless she smothered herself. Why did you assume suicide?”
The question caught McNamara off balance. Why was he surprised at the swift and unequivocal answer? Because the suspects were Grace’s clients? Or because one of them was a teenage girl? Thirty years of police work told him this would be the outcome, but he was off-kilter these days.
He said, “Open pill bottles on the bedside table pointed to a possible overdose. I sent them up with the body. It was a classic setting, and she was in a stressful situation.”
Brixson said, “We checked it out. They’re heavy duty sleeping pills, all right, but they didn’t kill her. There’s something else you should see.”
McNamara and Brixson stepped out into the hallway, where they shed their protective coverings into a bin. “The testing will go on for a while, as you know, but Mrs. Overton suffered an interesting antemortem injury.”
Brixson led the way into a small office and picked up a file from the desk. Handing it to McNamara, he said, “I’ll give you any copies you need.”
This time the corpse was easily recognizable. Brixson pointed to Felicia’s face, but it wasn’t necessary. McNamara saw a large greenish bruise on her cheek.
This time McNamara knew the assailant was an Overton. The only questions were, which one, and was she also the killer?
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You aren’t going to see Grace, are you?” Avril stood at the edge of her yard, arms crossed, glaring at him.
McNamara had interrupted her gardening again, this time to collect a key to the Overton house. He was tired after the long day and needed to check in with Brixson. The last thing he should do was drop in on the suspects’ attorney.
“It’s hot as blazes out here, and it’s getting dark,” she went on when he didn’t respond. “Give me your arm and walk me into the house, please.”
If she’d asked him to loan her money, he wouldn’t have been any more surprised. Then he realized she was playing him. Her arthritic fingers still had a grip that could deaden the nerves in his arm. She didn’t need his support; she wanted to keep him on her side of the woods.
“Why don’t you want me to see Grace?” he asked as they walked up the steps.
“Because I was over there earlier, and she’s resting.”
Resting? Grace?
“Is she okay? Banks said she fainted yesterday, but it was the heat.”
“Oh, yes,” Avril said, sarcastically. “All women fall over when the temperature hits ninety.”
“Are you saying she’s sick?” he wasn’t in the mood for banter.
“David was here, but he’s gone.” Her tone said ‘gone’ might be permanent.
He tried not to be hopeful about her non sequitur, but his heart lifted a little. “Idiot,” he said under his breath.
“They’re a pair of idiots,” she said and squeezed his arm before letting him go. “Try not to make it a threesome. Come on in and have a drink with me.”
When they reached the kitchen, she sank onto a cafe chair with a red plastic seat, told him to find something good, and bring her a double. He thought it was too late for her to have coffee, but water seemed inadequate. A box o
f Lipton tea bags sat on the counter, neatly answering his dilemma.
“I bought that tea for Grace,” she said when he filled the kettle. “There’s some bourbon in the sideboard. Far right side on the bottom.”
“None for me. It’s only — ” he looked at his watch, surprised to find it was well after eight. “Oh, why not.” He found a small juice glass, poured himself an inch of bourbon, and then saw Avril glaring at him.
“I meant for me,” she said. “But, please join me.”
He got another glass and splashed a bit of bourbon in it only to have Avril switch with him and drink the larger portion with one swallow.
“Better,” she said and burped.
He laughed in spite of himself.
“You take things too seriously, Lee. It’s just life.” After a second, she added, “And death. And in either case, bourbon helps.”
He swallowed the scant ounce he’d poured for her and was pleased to find her watching him in her usual hawkish way. Some color had returned to her face, and he decided he could call the bourbon medicinal.
“There’s ham in the fridge, and a half a brick of cheddar. Get that and some gherkins, and let’s have dinner.”
“No veggies?” He teased as he got up to do her bidding.
“Damn things tear up my insides, so I puree them and drink a glass in the morning. It’s delightful if you’d like a sample. And yes, I’m fine, just old, so don’t even get into it.”
He put the bourbon away, assembled the ‘dinner,’ and they ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes.
“You see anyone next door since we talked this morning?” he asked when her eating slowed. She’d had enough food to absorb the alcohol, he reasoned, but he got them each a glass of water.
“Bring the cookie jar, too,” she said before answering his question. When he’d complied, she took an oatmeal cookie and said, “No one’s been over there unless they came while I was at Grace’s. How’s it going with Ashley?”
Bourbon, pork, and sugar worked wonders for Avril, McNamara thought. She had perked right up while he was floundering for an answer. He decided what the hell and answered her. “Ashley isn’t the one.”
“Are you ready to find The One? I mean another One, of course.”
He smiled at the old woman across from him, grateful there was someone left who knew his heart. “It seems so,” he answered.
“Grace isn’t Meredith, Lee,” she said, referring to his late wife.
“We were talking about Ashley.”
“And now I’m not. You’re a man. A good man, but nonetheless, you’re a man, and you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Hard-pressed to come up with a response, McNamara sat back and let himself be lectured. Like he had a choice.
“Meri was a good woman,” she said. “She was cut from the same cloth you are. Grace is different. A good person, but not for you. She’ll lead you on a wild ride, and I’m not sure either of you will survive.”
“I’m not discussing Grace,” he said, knowing he was wasting his breath.
“You don’t have to. Just listen to me.” Avril waved one of her semi-lethal index fingers at him. “She’s refusing to believe that she loves you, and she’s bound up in something big right now. David stormed out of there today, and if she’s lucky, he’ll stay gone. But you have to know that girl’s never been able to recognize her good fortune. It’s a curse with those Delaneys. Always in the middle of something and trying to fix everything. She can’t leave anything alone, and she’ll drive you crazy with her constant crusades and causes that she calls clients. Nothing she ever settles on is exactly right for her, and I’m afraid that will include you. I’m worried about both of you.”
McNamara said he understood and kissed her cheek before telling her not to worry and taking his leave. He behaved as he always had, but Avril knew he hadn’t absorbed a word she’d said after ‘she loves you.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
McNamara arranged for a search warrant and coordinated the details with the MSP. On Sunday morning, while the Overtons were waking up in an Easton hotel, search specialists from the MSP and the Kingston County Sheriff’s Office joined McNamara and Banks in going through the family’s home. They entered the house at seven, their actions closely monitored by the property owner who watched from her side porch.
Brixson had given up his Saturday evening to complete Felicia’s autopsy and confirm the cause of death. Among the first items to be bagged for testing were all the pillows and bed linens.
The women and children had left in a hurry the day before, leaving clothes, unmatched shoes, and less favored toys scattered in a haphazard trail from the bedrooms to the front door. Relegated to outdoor duty, Banks spent the first hour sulking as he photographed and bagged toys, an assortment of flip-flops, and the occasional Lego block. His instructions were to catalog and collect anything unusual or out of place outside the house. He spent some time deciding whether shoes and toys should be considered out of place, but this only earned him a sharp rebuke from Marbury, who was in charge of the outside search area.
Red-faced and furious, Banks picked up speed and photographed everything he could see. He was so intent on looking as professional as the state officers that he almost missed the bright pink plastic phone case. One of the drop-proof, water-resistant kind that might have survived the events that landed it under a leafy nandina and within range of the sprinkler system.
He called out, “Found something,” then stood back and let the MSP techs do their thing. When McNamara joined him, he accepted the Chief’s ‘good work’ without comment.
“That solves one mystery,” McNamara said after he’d conferred with the tech. “Hallie Overton couldn’t produce her cell phone when I asked to see it.”
A veteran of dropped, dunked, and sat-upon phone emergencies, Banks itched to attempt the resurrection. Instead, he followed McNamara to the rear of the house where they watched as another team emerged from the back door carrying sealed boxes and bags.
His pleasure at making the find vanished and was instantly replaced by worry for Hallie. He might not be a good police officer — sometimes not even a competent one — but he felt sure she was innocent. He couldn’t explain the gut reaction he’d had when interviewing her, but Banks knew whatever had happened to Felicia had also swept Hallie up and dropped her in dangerous territory.
He’d connected with the girl, and understood her yearning for order, for things to be right. He’d felt the same at her age. He recognized her determination to be the fixer, and he knew disappointment was waiting for her. Had already found her. Whatever was left of her family when this current soap opera was over, Hallie would never be the same. None of them would, but he worried Hallie might lose the most. Her childhood would be over, and the sense of rightness that had driven her would be crushed under the weight of adult reality.
No one gets out free.
“What?” McNamara was looking at him with a quizzical expression. “Who doesn’t?”
Banks shook his head, embarrassed to have spoken his last thought out loud. “It’s nothing,” he said and was saved from further questioning by a shout from inside the house.
Once blood was discovered on clothes in the closet of the room where Felicia died, the intensity of the search ramped up. More officers were called in, and luminal lights were used to sweep every inch of the house. Closets were emptied, and drawers that had been sight checked were now unloaded in order to scan each item they contained. Furniture cushions, curtains, and loose rugs were flipped, unhung, and shaken out, but nothing more of interest was found.
“Somebody in that house was stoned or stupid or both,” Banks said when he and McNamara met up as the search teams dispersed.
“And you’re making this determination based on what?” McNamara asked.
“Finding the dead person’s bloody clothes on the closet floor?”
“You don’t know they belonged to Felicia.”
“But,
they were in her closet,” Banks protested.
“No, they weren’t.” McNamara had no patience for Banks’ argumentative attitude. “I thought you were in the interviews with Marbury yesterday.”
“I was — oh. Felicia took Hallie’s room.”
“Hallie’s room, Hallie’s closet. The clothes could be hers, too. Or they might belong to anyone who lives there. We can’t make assumptions with that many people in the house.” They needed to get back to work, but McNamara let the next few seconds pass in silence.
When Banks started again, he spoke more deliberately. “Someone either put the bloody clothes in the closet because she didn’t consider them incriminating evidence or because she did and wanted them found where they were.”
McNamara was impressed, but only said, “A woman?”
“You see any men living here? Hell, yeah, the person who dumped those clothes is a woman, and I think it’s Whitney Overton.”
“Why?” McNamara was astounded that somehow, despite Banks’ jackrabbit reasoning, they had reached the same conclusion.
“Simple,” Banks said, somewhat mollified. “She’s always the loudest. Whitney, I mean. She’s the one who jumps in to correct people. Interrupts them when she thinks they’re getting off track, tries to explain what they really meant to say when she thinks they’re looking bad, that kind of thing. The opposite of her sister. Melanie is all fluttering hands and hugging herself, and God almighty the crying. The woman is a leaky faucet, isn’t she?”
McNamara said nothing but was still listening, so Banks plunged on.
“Heath didn’t abide by the rules. They had a game plan, but he and Felicia ditched it, and Melanie and Whitney were left looking like fools. Maybe they could have saved the TV series, maybe not. The point is, Heath and his new wife — Jesus, can you imagine any man wanting three? Anyway, the newlyweds did what they wanted to, and the family be damned.
Bad Intent Page 16