Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller

by Nenny May

  Quite the workaholic, Rachel often found it... difficult to turn down a few extra hours. Especially the ones Sherriff Pierce had wedged her with. What he’d failed to mention till she’d turned in that morning had been the detail that those extra hours meant visits to the Campbell home on Miller Avenue.

  Initially, she'd thought to overlook it, and maybe, just maybe, the day would be over before she knew it. That hadn’t been the case.

  She’d admitted it before, and she would do it again. The Campbells had an expensive taste.

  The home was modern with an elderly touch, at least what was left of it.

  Walking in, one would assume they’d been conveyed to a villa. Whoever the late Blake Campbell had been she’d sat and lavished in the lap of luxury. The marble floors were unaffected by the incident. The living room walls, beige remained untouched by the owner’s blood. The chairs, the cream had an old story behind them, accents to the modern aura of the home. There wasn’t a television in this room, but there were shelves of books and knickknacks.

  “Wonder if we can stake our claim on any of these?” Detective Dawson wandered through the home in as much awe as Rachel had been.

  She hadn’t been looking at him but at the chandelier that drooped from the high ceiling. It seemed to be made with crystals.

  “Don’t think we’re that lucky,” She gauged his reaction. He was already outstretched on the couch. “I don’t think you should be… doing that,” She gestured to her partner who’d had his eyes shut.

  “Come on, don’t be such a sour-puss, join me, imagine what it’ll be like to live in a place like this.” She couldn’t for more reasons than one reason.

  “I can’t because, hmm… we have to uncover what happened to the last owner and relay that information to the D.A.” His eyes parted and he tapped the space next to him.

  “Err… We already know what happened to the last owner, she was stabbed twenty-two times and strangled to death.” His words had been accompanied by a coy smile. He glanced over his shoulder, left then right. The smile was gone. “And most of the rookies are downstairs.” His voice dropped a few decibels. When he saw that she wasn’t budging, he reached out a hand. “I thought we talked about you being less stuck up with your work?”

  “We talked about you coming back to work with the Sherriff’s department.”

  “I’m only asking for two minutes on a couch to dream about what it would be like to be rich.” Detective Dawson wasn’t going to let up. She knew this. It was the same way he’d egged her into doing-some-crazy-out-of-her-comfort-zone-thing with him after work.

  She blew out her cheeks and one heavy step after another, she flopped beside him on the couch, her eyes to the ceiling. She couldn’t draw her eyes from the shimmering chandelier. It resembled something she’d seen before. Perhaps on an online auction. Whatever the case she would have to work years on her salary to afford a life somewhat similar to what Blake had enjoyed in the days leading up to her death.

  Rachel Olson had done her research. Blake Campbell hadn’t gotten this life on her own. Christopher Campbell had worked day and night and spoiled his youthful wife with a home many could only dream of owning, pampered her with the most expensive clothes and jewelry.

  She turned to Detective Dawson, he’d had his eyes shut and she’d taken in his chiseled features. Long lashes rested on his defined face. What was once a five o'clock shadow had been replaced by a soft stubble of dark brown hair. Closer, there was a line, faded that ran down from his left eye and vanished beneath the growing hair. A scar. She resisted the urge to trace her finger over it.

  She would ask about it sometime. This didn’t seem like the right time.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, thinking back to his office, to his dept.

  How had she pushed him away when life had been driving him to the curb. “I said imagine being rich, not imagine undressing me, Olson.” She turned away.

  He hadn’t once opened his eyes. And she’d been sneaking a glance at the bags beneath his eye when a thought collided into her, this wasn’t about imagining a future, this was about getting a wink of sleep. Sometime to close his eyes and not have a dead woman’s case to handle. She couldn’t help the smile on her face. She dared one final glance at him and shut her eyes easing into the aged fabric couch.

  A woman had lounged on this couch unaware that days later she would be killed in the room above.

  The thought stirred gruesome memories in Rachel’s gut.

  She didn’t want to let them out, but they were banging against the door she’d locked them behind.

  “Even years on our salaries a life like this is unlikely.” She said forcing herself to think of something else.

  “Mhmm…” His eyes parted and he took in the living room and foyer anew. “If I lived in a home like this, I wouldn’t lift a finger another day in my life.”

  “It’s going to get lonely, living here, all alone. Maybe wealth isn’t all that it’s cut out to be?”

  “Olson,” He warned.

  “I mean, Blake had everything money could ask for, a mansion, cars, a son who still ran away to start a life in Portland. She was alone, Chase.”

  He groaned.

  “What’s the point of wealth if you have no one to share it with.”

  “And there goes my rich-boy- fantasy.”

  “I’m serious,” He turned to her, she’d had a faraway look in her eyes and a sadness that ran beyond the facts of the case.

  “Whatever you’re getting sentimental about, cut it out. I mean it Olson. You’re not Blake Campbell, she died alone, your destinies aren’t fated so stop acting like it.” His tone was firm. “And point of correction, this house was nearly withdrawn by the mortgage bank it was sold on and the cars were for hire, her company went bankrupt after Mr. Campbell’s death and her son had to be withdrawn and put in public school. She didn’t live a life of wealth; she lived a lie. And she died in her lie.”

  She could feel it. Her resolve crumbling, piece by piece, and she leaped to her feet. Detective Dawson remained unmoved on the couch; she didn’t bother with a response. She didn’t bother to acknowledge his words.

  He’d watched, powerlessly as she strode out of the living room and vanished up the blood-stained grand stairway.

  She needed to pull herself together and she didn’t think she would be able to in the presence of Detective Dawson.

  Running from him seemed to be her signature move. She’d done it enough times in one case. But she had demons to fight that this case was determined to resurrect.

  Demons tied to her mother and her ex-boyfriend Mathew Rollins.

  She would find a way to get out of whatever he had planned for later that day.

  For now, she was apart from him and that would suffice.

  The study where she’d joined Dan Harriet, Steve Woods, Lieutenant Wilson, and Sargent Garwood from the City P.D. was everything, she would imagine a luxury study to resemble. Timber danced across the walls and floors. In Rachel’s opinion, the only thing that wasn’t crafted from the bark of a tree had been the chairs.

  Lieutenant Wilson who’d been in a light conversation with Garwood in the middle of the room approached Detective Olson. His face had been scrunched. Much like her, he didn’t seem too pleased to be there.

  “Detective Olson, it’s been a while.” Wilson reached out a flaky hand. Rachel took it in a firm shake. It had been much too long since she’d worked with Lieutenant Connelly Wilson. Not since Leona Wendy’s case.

  He’d been at the scene on the morning of the 9-1-1 call. The morning of Blake Campbell’s murder. She hadn’t lingered long enough to have a chat with the head of the City P.D.

  “Indeed.” She echoed with a dry smile.

  He didn’t look any different from the last time she’d seen him.

  There was silence. He cleared his throat and gestured to Garwood. “The Sergeant and I were just discussing a complete lack of witness interrogation on your end.” She stiffened. “I’ve
paid more than one visit to Pierce’s Department and it’s always the rookies that are in our witnesses face.”

  She didn’t bother to rise to her own defense.

  “I’m all about delegation of powers, Miss. Olson,” Garwood said. Rachel shifted from one foot to the other, almost hoping for Detective Dawson to materialize and rescue her from his team with a witty comment. He always had one of those ready to save a situation. “But I can bet you have no idea who our witnesses are.” That was wrong! Rachel knew the witnesses… In all honesty, she knew of them. At best, she knew them by the reports that had fallen on her desk. She knew them by imaging, she knew the statements they’d provided. “You can rely on employee accounts all you want. But witnesses are a key element to any murder investigation.”

  Rachel strained to keep her features stoic, unreadable. This sure as hell wasn’t the time for a scolding from a different department. She was doing the best she could despite the weight the case placed on her feeble shoulders. Didn’t that count for anything?

  It had to count. She straightened.

  There, in Garwood’s own words was the difference between the Sherriff’s Department and the City P.D., there was a fine line of trust that ran between the staff. She could delegate her responsibilities and the rookies would handle it as if their jobs depended on it. The City P.D. couldn’t.

  Not that she was going to square shoulders with the Sargent.

  “There’s a woman, Ruby Lee Jones, founder Maids for Tillamook. She was at the scene minutes after the murder.” At Garwood’s words, Rachel’s interest was piqued, the pressure on her jaw loosened, she unclenched her fits. “Claims Campbell hired her to dust off the place.”

  “She’s been questioned by our team, and your… rookies before.” Connelly Wilson took over. “Said when she got here, the place didn’t look like it had been lived in for months.” So along with being a collector, the late Miss. Campbell had been a slob. Rachel didn’t know what to feel about this. Reading too much into it and she could risk another sentimental outburst, something similar to what Dawson had endured. “We want you to rile her, get some answers from her.”

  “Fill in the blanks in her story.” Garwood added.

  “Think she could have pulled it off?” Her tone was creaky.

  “No, but we think she could have seen or heard something.” Wilson clarified.

  “Something she’s trying so hard to forget.” Garwood reached into her pocket for her vibrating phone. “Garwood,” Her voice was firm.

  “And you believe I have the moxie to get it out of her?” Rachel had her eyes on Lieutenant Connelly Wilson.

  “We believe if you and Dawson were up against her, some new information might slip out.” Wilson’s eyes softened. “I know this is a lot. I know, this is still new to you,” His taut stance eased. He glanced at Garwood for a moment, she’d been leaned against the wall by the window, her phone pressed to her ear. He returned his attention to Detective Olson. “But space yourself, Olson. I know your working style. It’s going to kill you before your fourth murder case.”

  She’d heard it before. Different versions of the same request from different voices. She was too invested in her case.

  “Start small. Stop taking your work home with you, how about that,” He reasoned.

  She was hardheaded. She had to take her work with her. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t get half as much done.

  With a steeled heart and an unmoved resolve, Rachel offered him a smile that didn’t meet her eyes, nodded, and excused herself to meet Dan Harriet.

  Dan had been occupied with taking books down from the shelf, flipping through them, and tossing them in a box that would be logged into evidence by Steve Woods.

  “How’s everything going in here?” She rippled their work pattern.

  This was how she’d handled Leona Wendy’s case. And she’d done a banging job. Anything less and she wouldn’t hold the title of lead detective. And even if she did, she wouldn’t feel as though she’d earned it.

  “Not only was our deceased a collector of antiques, she must have also been passionate about Timber.” Steve Woods who’d been bagging the items Dan tossed in the box responded.

  “No, her husband worked in Timber exportation.” Rachel corrected, slightly irked that days into the investigation and he hadn’t been properly briefed with the facts as the evidence technician.

  “That was the case, but the documents we’ve bagged are recent publications.” Dan Harriet explained flipping through yet another book.

  “Ooh,” She deliberated his words and spoke. “Perhaps her son kept collecting them even after his father’s passing.”

  “Can’t you get in touch with him and ask? Dawson said you’ve got the guy on speed dial.” Her face blanched. What she’d done had been illegal. She’d gone through private records to get that number.

  She swallowed the bile lodged in her throat.

  “What else has Dawson told you about me,” At her words, Steve Woods barked a laugh, one that earned him a slap on the forearm by Dan Harriet.

  “I guess there’s a lot being said about me during these after work circles at American Angel.” She said more to herself than to the men in the room.

  That was fine. They could discuss her behind her back. It didn’t matter. Why then did her heartache? Why did her lips bobble, and her fingers tremble? Clenching her hands in a fist, she wandered through the room, determined to occupy her rattled nerves.

  She wasn’t good with people if her last relationship was any indication. Mathew hadn’t just left her. He’d opened her eyes to the realization that no one would be able to tolerate her. No one would be able to love a woman who saw only herself, heard only her own voice, and did things her way alone. Even when she’d tried to be inclusive her selfishness ran deeper than her conscious mind. And she’d asked him; if he’d known her actions were unconscious was that worth leaving?

  He’d left anyway.

  She ran her hands over a wall of drawers. The first few she’d drawn open had contained medical reports, ECG reports, test records. She’d brought out all she could and placed them on the desk Steve Woods had been leaned against. “You might want to get these on record.” She called to Steve and pointed to the stack of papers and folders.

  He pushed himself upright and approached them. “What are these?”

  “Medical records, we can hand these over to forensics for interpretation.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He began bagging them and placing them away in a box he turned and trudged over to the table. “Found anything on the phone yet?” Her stomach churned. She shook her head. “Because it’s been days and the Sherriff is getting curious.”

  “I haven’t been able to bypass her passcode, and I was supposed to take it to a guy I know, but I haven’t… had the time.” She hadn’t gotten around to it.

  “Let me handle it. I didn’t take a year in Computer engineering at MIT for nothing.” Confusion crossed her face. He saw it and explained further. “I saw it, hated it and ditched it, took up pre-law and this job seemed doable so, here I am.”

  There was so much she didn’t know about her crew. She worked with them and yet seemed to overlook that they had lives much like her, pasts, families, and degrees. They didn’t just wake up one morning as Medical Examiners or Evidence Technicians. They fought for this job as much as she strained for hers as lead Detective.

  “Fine, Betty has it.” She paused then clarified, “My car, the white Lexus parked up front, it’s in the glove compartment beneath my car papers.” She reached into her pocket and handed him the keys. “How long will you need to crack the code?”

  “I’ll get to it afterwork. I can get it to your desk by morning.”

  She nodded. She was fine with that.

  He was off without another word and she continued to unload drawers of medical reports until she’d come across multiple EEG scans and prescription papers.

  She’d taken her time to go through them before adding to the g
rowing pile of documents awaiting Steve Woods's return.

  These reports were the answer to the question Detective Dawson had wedged Paul Campbell with.

  Dawson had been bluffing that day in her office. He’d had a theory, improbable as it might have been, she’d allowed him to voice it. It hadn’t gotten to the Sherriff, he would have hauled it over his shoulder, but it had gotten to Paul. Dawson had been of the impression that the late Mrs. Campbell had been crazy, loony enough to convince someone to stick a knife through her.

  He hadn’t been far off.

  Blake Campbell had been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia confirmed by multiple healthcare centers around Tillamook.

  ◆◆◆

  A knock at her door had her head perking in that direction. Christian Lewis poked his head in. “You’re late, again,” He let himself in and shut the door. Confusion clouded her long face. The day wasn’t over, and she’d already bitten off more than she could chew. “Another briefing in the conference room,”

  Regan groaned. “It’s the second one this week?”

  She leaned back in her chair and took in the man by the door.

  Christian Lewis wasn’t old per se. Going on fifty-five, he was as vigorous as the youths he worked with. He was a personal friend and colleague. As the Assistant Chief Deputy District Attorney, he was in simple terms a glorified secretary with a higher salary and bragging rights. He wasn’t too bad at his side hustle as her partner in crime. Just one of the fifteen-man personnel team she worked with.

  “Tom has gone mad with power,” Christian Observed with a shrug. He’d had his hands in his pants pocket and stood with a hunch. At over six-foot it was barely noticeable.

  Tom was the Chief Deputy District Attorney. He’d already rallied the team days ago to express his disdain with the rise of crime in Tillamook. Regan Sinclair had loathed herself for not sitting that one out.

  “And it seems like someone is getting laid off,” Christian added.

  “What do you mean?”