Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller

by Nenny May

  He was at a dead end. The Sherriff wasn't going to budge. He would have to make do with Detective Olson on his mother's case. But the moment she slipped up and he caught wind of a document or evidence going missing because of negligence on her part... he would do everything in his power to get her off the case and off the force.

  "I can offer you something." The Sherriff flipped through his booklet; thick salt eyebrows dipped in concentration. "Now I can't guarantee it'll help, but it'll definitely ease your mind on this case." He ripped out a page and slid it across the table. "Psychologist Lisa Patterson. Best in the business in my opinion. She's going to help you out with this pent-up anxiety you have concerning this case."

  "I get it." Paul grabbed the paper rather roughly. "You want to get me off your back so your officers can work." He nodded to himself, his tongue poking the inner of his right cheek. "I'll check out your psychologist, but you can't get me off your back. I am going to be on top of my mother's case because I hate to say it, the justice system is fucked, and I'll be damned if I let them mess up my family's case." He pulled himself up and leaned against the Sherriff's table adding; "Few sessions and I'm back on your neck. Until a killer is caught, I'm going to be this precinct's worst nightmare."

  ◆◆◆

  She was gone. His mother was dead.

  He could feel it. The color draining from his face.

  Killed.

  The night had spread a blackness that seemed intent on slipping in through the hotel bay windows.

  The room was small. Basic. It had a four-post bed, king sized, two beige arm chairs in the corner by the fifty-inch television settled on a stand that now held his watch and Claire Fisher’s box of tampons. The screen radiated a darkness, and he couldn’t help but gaze at it as if he didn’t know what he would see if he were to turn it on.

  Her face… the thought was a wandering soul, lost admits the chaos.

  He couldn’t get his mind to tire itself out.

  There was an empty fridge by the bed, above which sat used coffee mugs and plates piled and stained. It was their doing, most of it was Claire… he didn’t exactly have an appetite.

  Was this grief?

  Paul tossed in the cheap hotel bed till he was on his back, glaring at the ceiling, sheets muffling beneath him. Muscles tensed, he’d listened to Claire Fisher’s soft and subtle snores, fingers curled around the plain sheets. They hadn’t gotten a duvet. The air conditioner wasn’t strong enough to warrant that. She groaned, the sound, faint. He didn’t intend to rouse her.

  Lips drawn between his teeth, he hoped she didn’t stir.

  He’d heard it again, her soft tired breathing. His shoulders eased.

  They were as acquainted as estranged cousins. Grief, his old distant friend, the one from junior high. It almost seemed to hit him with a force harder than the last time it had paid him a visit. His grip on the sheets loosened.

  How in hell could his mother be dead? He resisted the urge to chuckle bitterly to himself. That would certainly wake Claire. He didn’t need that. His mother didn’t have the best reputation. He should have seen it coming. Blake Campbell was loathed amongst her peers. His family was shunned. They were the black sheep. His mother was called all sorts of things, a skank, a whore… his father was a predator… and he? Well, the media couldn’t seem to leave the harmless kid out of the mix… he was the untrained son, the spoiled kid suspended from Tillamook Junior high before it was even cool…

  Tillamook Times, The State of Tillamook, neither sought the true story. They longed for a scandal and his family was the flowing river. They turned a blind eye to Blake Campbell as the woman who’d fought to retain their family home despite the death of her husband. To Paul, that was a story he would flip through if he were to come across it in the paper… Not the tale of a family in shambles.

  From Grace to Grass, Tillamook Times had covered in an article the downfall of the Campbell name, the brand to be buried with the deceased Christopher. Their manor on the verge of being snatched from their hungry fingers. Paul never once perceived his home as a mansion, to him it was home and nothing more. He was born there. He’d lived there almost his whole life. It held his games, his sporting gear, and his family—something he’d never given a second thought until like a rug pulled from underneath him, it was gone. If only he’d known just how much that house cost… Undeniably, it was bigger than other houses he’d been to, but a naïve child, he never once settled down to consider it.

  Until, he had. And a new light had been cast on his mother. She wasn’t the villain locals made her out to be. She was a mother who’d had the world against her and did whatever the hell it took to give him a suitable life.

  Sleep was lost on him. And even still he’d forced his eyes shut, overlooking the churning in his stomach.

  Christopher with Campbell’s House of Timber had been able to shoulder a fraction of the cost for their home, but after his passing and Campbell’s Antiques nearly going under, it was a miracle they hadn’t been kicked to the curb.

  Paul Campbell’s mind just couldn’t shut off. He didn’t know what time it was… There was a clock over his head. Above the bed. It wasn’t ticking, the fingers were gliding over the numbers. He’d pegged it off as a tacky attempt to bring the room to life. He didn’t bother to check.

  He couldn’t imagine being homeless… Blake would have been shunned seeking shelter from Christopher Campbell’s sisters. Paul’s own cousins didn’t value him. To them, he was that cousin, the one they invited for gatherings because they had to.

  He winced, his bottom lip wobbling. The green monster sauntered out of the corner and joined him by the bed, and with it, an undeniable envy that sat heavy on his chest. Both Claire’s parents Avni and Joseph Fisher were still alive and kicking. Residing in New Delhi. She had a family, her three sisters Krisha, Rebecca, and Mayra and her two brothers Jay and Alex. And what did he have? A dead body he couldn’t bring himself to claim. He’d tried. After Claire had made him promise he would. He’d made his way out of the main building of the Sherriff’s department, and beneath the blonde strands of the morning sun, he’d kicked against his decision. He hadn’t been ready to sit with what was left of his mother. A mere carcass carved and branded by a killer and county morgue.

  She didn’t deserve that. No one deserved that.

  Anger seethed within him.

  He bit down on his bottom lip.

  Blake had done more than just give him a roof over his head. As the days turned to months after his father’s cremation, he’d gotten closer to her. He’d learned about her grief; it hadn’t been perfect, but he’d noticed she would still talk to Christopher as if he were there with her. And even after she’d confided in him about this, he’d caught her, day after day, singing to Christopher’s portrait, taking it out for morning walks as she would her late husband in his last days. Why couldn’t the papers, the news stations for once see her as the victim?

  The minute they’d gotten wind of her unusual behavioral patterns, she was once more the subject of ridicule on the headlines. From the Business Front to the Looney Bin…

  He blamed himself. He ought to have said or done something to nip it in the bud.

  Paul kicked off the plain sheets, his skin scorching. He hadn’t been sweating, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. He sat up, his back pressed against the headrest.

  He was never going to be old enough to deal with the loss of a loved one. And especially not in this manner.

  Twenty-two stab wounds.

  He placed a hand over his lips, the other on the mattress, palms flat.

  Four gashes-lined her right rib,

  He lowered his head.

  She’d been strangled to death.

  The first of many warm damp tears streaked down his taut cheek.

  Six jagged punctures layered her left.

  He forced a breath to his lungs, jerking his head and glaring at Claire’s rising and falling torso beneath the sheets.

  Wha
t he felt in his chest wasn’t envy… it had morphed into something darker, something that seethed within him. Jealousy perhaps? She could fucking sleep despite his world crumbling around him. Her world continued to spin unphased by the anguish that fed off him. He didn’t bother to hold back the torrent. It had been building up inside for far too long.

  Blake Campbell was supposed to be at his wedding. He was going to make her promise not to bring the damn picture of his father she carried around. He could swear the older that woman got, the tighter her grip on that thing became.

  He sat up and flung his legs over the side of the bed. He wasn’t going to get any sleep.

  In the darkness, his body raked with swallowed sobs. It burned, everything burned, it was a dull ache from the inside.

  “She was a fucking victim,” He whispered. Blake had always been a victim. he drew in a long breath and blew out his cheeks.

  He reached for his phone he’d kept on the end table and winced at the glaring screen; he’d been tempted to shut it off.

  It was too late; he’d been entranced by it.

  The screen was overwhelmed with messages, condolences, and inquiries, from distant cousins deliberating just what happened to their aunt Blake… it wasn’t as if they cared.

  There was a message that stood out amidst the rest, one that piqued his interest.

  From an unregistered number.

  And reading the few words on his notification bar, it had been a message from the lead Detective on his mother’s case.

  What the hell did she want? He’d thought rather displeasingly as his fingers clicked over the message bubble.

  We need to talk about Blake Campbell, is it okay if you can come down to my office tomorrow?

  She had real guts reaching out to him in this manner. What did she want to ask that she couldn’t find an answer to at the scene of the crime? Had she come across some new information? His eyebrows eased at the idea.

  He was antsy.

  What if the rumors were true? That there was more to his mother than he’d known?

  Because despite not wanting to admit it, if someone had done this, they’d had to have had a reason.

  Twenty-two stab wounds were a personal attack. Right? She’d been strangled as if to add icing to the bitter cake.

  This couldn’t be a regular breaking and entering. No, this person had been agitated with her. From what he’d heard she’d been chased from the kitchen to the master bedroom where she’d fallen, her back on the bed.

  The facts were troubling.

  She was the target and that made him nauseous.

  He couldn’t sit still. Each nerve seemed flustered.

  Possibly, and this was a long shot, but what if someone had gone after her because of Christopher…? No, his father had enemies, but even then, they’d never been the type to commit a murder. This was a personal attack… Someone had gone after his mother in particular, and they’d succeeded.

  He needed to take matters into his own hands, the Sherriff’s department was incompetent.

  Their lead Detective… what had her name been… Olson or something… didn’t seem capable, and Sherriff Pierce could barely remember Paul’s name… trusting them didn’t seem worth his time.

  He leaped to his feet.

  He had an idea. But he wasn’t sure just how to kick it into gear.

  He ran a hand over his stubbled, chiseled chin.

  He would invest in a private investigator.

  Where would he find one…? They didn’t have fliers hanging about, neither did they have a particular website he could log into.

  And even if he did, how would he know which one to trust…?

  He couldn’t say he knew anyone that knew anyone, he was as much a local to Tillamook as Claire was, that is to say, they were both aliens, despite him being born and raised in Tillamook County.

  Restless, he paced the room, deliberating just how much from their savings he would need for his venture.

  “Do you want to talk about it, or are you good burning a hole in the floor?” Claire sat up, groggy. She’d flung her hands over her head and let out a mighty yawn.

  Like a deer caught in headlights, Paul paused in place, staring at the outline of her body in the barely lit room. Her curves were just one of the reasons he’d been drawn to her.

  It was the first time she was getting the opportunity to shut her eyes. He didn’t need her awake. If anything, he’d found a chaotic solace in pacing, planning, and anticipating even if he felt like Detective Olson’s office, a mess.

  His fiancé hadn’t been prepared to up and travel with him to Tillamook at the end of a busy shift at the University of Portland Community College. He hadn’t invited her. He’d merely told her that he would be making an unscheduled trip to Tillamook, his return was indefinite.

  Hearing this, she hadn’t packed, she’d just caught up with him at the airport and picked up an over-the-counter ticket, and hopped on the plane.

  Thinking back to that, his chest was overwhelmed with affection for the tired woman.

  “This is someone we saw just a couple months ago over Christmas, Claire.” He said, breathless, running both hands through his hair and letting them fall roughly at either of his sides. “Over fucking Christmas.” He echoed.

  “I know.” Claire said.

  “She didn’t know then that this was going to happen, for fuck sakes I didn’t know.” His voice cracked.

  “This wasn’t something either of us could predict.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her palm.

  They couldn’t predict the crime, but they could predict the sentence.

  Homicide, Claire thought. Legally, whoever did this would pay with their blood. The code was their spine, section 1111(b). Blake Campbell’s killer would be ripe for the death sentence. They just needed to know who this monster could be?

  “But I should have been here…” Paul continued to pace their hotel carpet.

  They had with them limited funds; they hadn’t splurged on the best hotel. They’d settled on a little on 3rd Street by Ocean Avenue. They didn’t know how long they would be in Tillamook. They were walking on eggshells trying not to max out their credit cards.

  “We live in Portland, Paul, and you didn’t have any reason to be here,”

  His head tilted.

  “She was my mother; I didn’t need a reason to be around her.”

  And she was her mother-in-law.

  Claire shuddered.

  “You’re a grown man, even she would have been bothered with you around her out of the blue.”

  “Bullshit!” Paul spat. “I was all she had left. After my father’s passing, she poured herself into… Pro…Campbell’s Antiques and worked well into the night, day after day.” He paused; his breath caught in his throat. “I could have visited more; I could have been closer to her… oh God!”

  “Paul,” Claire called. “I understand you,”

  He frowned. She’d struck a nerve, shit! “No, you fucking don’t.” He chuckled to himself. If he had a penny for how many times, he’d heard that in the span of time it had taken him to fly from Portland to Tillamook… “You’re just saying that because you want me to calm the hell down, well I can’t… I didn’t have siblings growing up, Claire, she was all I had after Christopher’s heart attack, so don’t sit there and bullshit me.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m fucking jealous of you, you have such a big family, three sisters, two brothers and both your parents are ALIVE!” He took a step towards the bed, towards her. “Both my parents are dead; my dear fiancé and I don’t fucking know my cousins… I…” He heaved a sigh welcoming an uncomfortable silence.

  Blake Campbell had promised to pick out wedding dresses with Claire…

  She sat pin straight in the bed. She hadn’t said anything after his outburst.

  “I’m scared, Claire.” His voice sounded brittle to his own ears and wailed of weakness. He dreaded it.

  “Scared?” She pulled the sheets further up he
r frame.

  “I’m scared of what was done to her…” He joined her by the edge of the bed. It dipped with his weight. She couldn’t say she could see him all that well, but from what she could see, he’d had his head hung low on broad shoulders, legs apart, elbows on his knee in a way that his hands fell between his parted legs. “I’m scared of accepting that this is my life now.” He caught his head in his palms.

  Christopher hadn’t just left them with a home they couldn’t afford, he’d left behind the debts Campbell’s house of Timber had accumulated over the years. Lawsuits that when he’d for the first time met Claire, they’d sorted through and settled. Paul had done the best he could to pick up the pieces of Christopher Campbell’s passing. Knowing he would have to do all of that again with Blake Campbell’s death gnawed at him.

  “I’m an orphan, Claire. Sure, I won’t be taken to an orphanage or anything like that, but I don’t have anyone else. I have no one,” His head rose and in his eyes were leaking pools.

  She reached for his forearm, he pulled away. If she’d been affected by this, he hadn’t been able to see in the darkness. And from what he could make out with the outline of her body, she’d retreated into her former position with her back pressed against headboard.

  “Why her?” Paul asked, his jaw clenched.

  Claire hadn’t had an answer to that. “I was just trying to help.” She said instead.

  What was he to do, apologize for lashing out? His mother was stabbed and strangled by a killer no one knew. He had a right to lash out.

  “And I was just trying to wrap my head around my mother being killed.”

  ◆◆◆

  Paul hadn’t been looking forward to the moment the sun would awaken from its slumber. When it had and light had spilled in through the windows and past the thin cloth the hotel tried to pass off as curtains, hope for a pleasant outcome for the day he had ahead, diminished. The morning promised as much as the night.