The Secret Letter: Darkness Past- Book 1

by Roger Hayden

  Heads turned toward him as he flashed his badge and went about examining the countertop where a butcher knife lay, gleaming in the sunlight from a small window above the sink. The knife was clean, with not a drop of blood on it, and it suddenly occurred to Dobson that he didn’t yet know how Ms. Wade had been killed.

  “Morning, Detective,” a tall and bulky officer said, his entire head clean-shaved without a trace of hair. Dobson recognized him as Staff Sergeant Peterson, a three-year officer on the force. A pair of Oakley sunglasses rested on top of his forehead, in a similar fashion to his counterparts.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” Dobson said, looking around. To his right was a hallway with two rooms. He could hear a TV on in one of the bedrooms and saw some shadowed movement. “Where’s Detective Harris?”

  An officer with slick, jet-black hair and a mustache who Dobson didn’t recognize motioned to the bedroom. “Back there with the victim.”

  Dobson nodded and observed as the frantic, pacing officer stopped and leaned against the counter with a troubled look in his eyes. “It was my call. Corporal suggested that we look into it. I thought she was crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought she might have made the whole thing up.” Dobson recognized the officer as Sergeant Cruz. He had seen Cruz the evening prior, just as his shift was ending.

  “What do you mean?” Dobson asked, stepping forward.

  The three officers all looked at him as though they were at a loss for words. Sergeant Cruz then dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Corporal Powell and I were here last night.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Ms. Wade had contacted us to report a threatening letter she got in the mail.”

  Dobson’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t even finished his sweep and already the case had taken an unexpected turn.

  “She said that someone was out to get her,” Cruz continued. “The same person who killed some friend of hers from high school. I told her that we’d investigate, but—”

  “Hold on,” Dobson said, leaning against the counter. “What did this letter say? Did you file a report?”

  Sergeant Cruz glanced at the floor and then back at Dobson, nervous. “Yes. I started it—”

  “And?” Dobson asked.

  “My shift was over,” Cruz said defensively. “Corporal Powell was supposed to…” He stopped to correct himself. “It was my responsibility. I should have finished the report.” He then turned to Dobson with a look of conviction in his eyes. “Ms. Wade had made several paranoid claims in the past. How were we supposed to know?” He then spoke with a calmer tone. “I came to the station early this morning, ready to check on her and make sure everything was okay. Then we received the call.”

  “The call?” Dobson asked, intrigued.

  “An anonymous call to the station,” Staff Sergeant Peterson said, cutting in. “Desk clerk got

  the call around five this morning. Said there had been a murder here.”

  Detective Harris suddenly called out from the bedroom. “Is that you, Dobson? Christ, get in here already.”

  Dobson turned and then moved within inches of Sergeant Cruz’s face. “Don’t say anything to anyone about this yet. Nothing about your visit yesterday and nothing about this letter.”

  Cruz nodded, taken aback. Dobson had heard enough for the moment despite the growing number of questions on his mind. He walked past the officers and toward the bedroom at the end of the hall, passing a bathroom and closet along the way.

  The curtains in the bedroom had been opened, allowing sunlight to enter the room. Harris stood at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips and his back to Dobson. There were boxes piled up all over the room, clothes strewn across the floor, and everything was cluttered, like Dobson’s own bedroom.

  It was hard to tell if the mess was a result of the room being ransacked or if it was just how the victim lived. The dresser drawers were intact, clothes were still hanging in the closet, and a nearby television sitting on a stand had been left alone, just like anything else of apparent value throughout the house. As for Betsy. Wade, Dobson had yet to see her.

  He approached Harris and noticed a figure shrouded under white sheets, propped up and lying on the twin-sized bed. Dark red stains bled through the sheets, and he knew that Ms. Wade’s corpse would not be a pleasant sight.

  “This is how we found her,” Harris said, running a hand through his wavy gray hair. “All covered up in her bed.”

  Dobson moved to the side and took another picture with his pocket-sized digital camera.

  “I was on my way out this morning when a call came in about a murder at this address. Sergeant Cruz had just arrived, and he told us that Ms. Wade had contacted the department last night. So, we all thought that she had placed the call this morning. Not so. This time, it was someone else. A male’s distorted voice, and we couldn’t trace the number.”

  “The killer called it in?” Dobson asked, astonished.

  “Him or someone who knew about it,” Harris said. “Honestly, I was skeptical until the very end. Cruz was the first to get here. Said the door was left unlocked, and this is where he found her.”

  Harris leaned down and lifted the sheet up with gloved hands. As he slowly pulled the bloodied fabric back, Dobson thought for a moment that he was staring at an optical illusion. There was a body lying there under the sheets dressed in a sweatshirt and pants with its arms at the sides. The only thing missing was her head.

  Though he had been warned about the victim’s state, Dobson jumped back with his hand over his mouth and gasped in shock.

  “You okay, buddy?” Harris asked, re-covering the headless body again.

  The image of the victim’s bloody stump of a neck sent Dobson reeling to the corner of the room. Her purple sweatshirt was drenched in blood, but there was a startling lack of blood anywhere else, and from the looks of it, the murder was anything but a crime of passion. It seemed the killer had been meticulous and careful in his savagery.

  “Where’s the…” Dobson began, pausing to catch his breath. He felt dizzy and light-headed. Not himself.

  “The head?” Harris finished, stepping away from the bed and leaning against a tall wooden dresser. “We’re all asking ourselves the same thing. Could be anywhere. We haven’t located any blood outside the bedroom or anywhere else so far, but I think you know who, or what, we’re dealing with here.”

  “One sick son of a bitch,” Dobson said, looking around the sad little room.

  “Could be more than just one,” Harris said. “I saw something like this before when I worked Cincinnati Homicide. Single woman, lived alone. Couple of kids broke into her house, mutilated her in her sleep. Two males who couldn’t have been over the age of twenty. Called it a thrill kill.” He dug into his pocket and took out a small bag of peanuts, tossing one in his mouth.

  Dobson shook his head while trying to get his thoughts together. He had been prepared for a homicide that morning, but nothing like this. He’d seen victims shot, stabbed, strangled, butchered, but seeing a woman completely decapitated was a first. A dozen scenarios passed through his mind. Perhaps it was terrorism or related to a drug cartel. Something about the murder, however, seemed different from that; personal even.

  “Whoever did this obviously wanted to send a message,” Dobson said. He then began pacing the room with his hands folded. “And I wouldn’t be surprised to find that they took great care in covering their tracks.”

  He walked over to the two corner windows that looked out into the backyard. Both were locked, which technically meant nothing now. “They could have gotten into the house in a variety of ways. Point is, they purposefully left the front door unlocked for us to waltz right in here and find Ms. Wade’s headless corpse.”

  “Yup,” Harris said. He then turned to Dobson, clutching his arm. “There’s something else. We found her phone all busted up on the floor in the living room.”

  “Cell phone?” Dobson asked.

  “Yeah.”

&nb
sp; Dobson thought to himself. There was a lot to be done. Witness statements. Phone records. A search of the area. A Forensics sweep. And then a look at Sergeant Cruz’s report and the letter.

  “I want access to this crime scene kept to a minimum,” Dobson said. “Essential departments and staff only.”

  Harris placed his hands in his pocket and leaned back on his heels with a laugh. “Well, Mike. Looks like you just volunteered to lead the investigation.”

  “I just want to make sure everything’s done right,” he said, more disturbed than amused.

  “This isn’t an isolated murder.”

  “You think we’re dealing with a serial killer?” Harris asked, tossing another peanut into his mouth.

  “I’d say for sure that we are.”

  Dobson then turned to Harris as though something had just hit him. “Sergeant Cruz spoke about another murder, someone Ms. Wade knew in high school. We need to search the database for unsolved murders in relation to this acquaintance and see if there’s a pattern.”

  “Another decapitation?” Harris asked.

  “Any recent unsolved murder,” Dobson said. He then ran one hand down his face, feeling a headache coming. “I wasn’t expecting to wake up to this.”

  “Neither was I, buddy,” Harris said with a slap on his back. “Neither was I.”

  Dobson stared at the bed, silent. The body underneath the sheets gave him a stark, unsettling chill he hadn’t felt since his early days with Homicide. As a rookie detective, he had found it strange to be among the first to find a dead body.

  Most people he knew had never seen a corpse outside of a casket—already embalmed with skin tone applied to their face, wearing a suit or dress. The bodies he saw were never so dignified, and there was nothing more undignified or savage than a headless victim.

  Harris knelt beside the side of the bed and examined the carpet. “Fascinating… not a speck of blood anywhere.” He rose, placing his hands on his hips, tie swaying just above his belt buckle. “He must have committed the murder somewhere else.”

  Dobson thought to himself for a moment. “I suppose you’re right. Either way, there is a lot to consider, starting with Ms. Wade’s call last night, and now this letter.” He then leaned out of the bedroom door and called for the other officers.

  Sergeant Cruz soon entered with Staff Sergeant Peterson behind him. For a veteran on the police force, Cruz still looked shaken as his eyes avoided the bed.

  “A question for you, Sergeant Cruz,” Dobson said.

  But Cruz averted his eyes. Dobson then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant?”

  “Yes?” Cruz said, startled.

  “Where’s the other officer?” Harris asked, cutting in. “Sergeant Mustache?”

  “Sergeant Werner,” Peterson said.

  “Yeah, sure,” Harris said with a laugh.

  “He’s on the radio right now, requesting backup,” Peterson said.

  Dobson gripped Cruz’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. “I need to see that letter,” he said.

  Cruz nodded. “I didn’t think… none of us thought.”

  “That’s okay,” Dobson said. “The important thing is that we get Forensics here ASAP.”

  He released Cruz and then turned to address the room.

  “Listen up. We need to set up a cordon around the property. Get a K-9 unit to search the grounds. Look for footprints. Get the captain on the line. We need to talk to every resident within a three-block perimeter, witness statements, interviews. Someone had to have seen something.”

  He clapped his hands together, casting out directives left and right, just as sirens wailed in the distance. Dobson could identify each siren upon its approach. The scene had been called in: white female, DOA, killer at large.

  ***

  Dobson stood outside Betsy Wade’s house, waiting on the front lawn as an officer wrapped police tape around her modest property. A slew of residents had gathered outside, watching the scene unfold from their driveways. Dobson anticipated the autopsy results to answer the burning questions in his mind. Was she decapitated alive or murdered beforehand? An earlier search of her garage showed no apparent murder scene evidence, which was one of Harris’s theories: That she had been taken somewhere, not far from her bedroom, and murdered without drawing any attention from the neighbors or leaving a large amount of blood. Their second theory posited that she was decapitated in the bathroom or kitchen, where all evidence could be wiped clean with household bleach.

  In his coat pocket was the letter Ms. Wade had given to the officers before her murder. He had demanded it from Sergeant Cruz. It was as strange and disturbing a case as he had ever seen.

  “Look at that,” Harris said, approaching him. “Just in time for the morning news.”

  Dobson looked across the street, in the direction of Harris’s head toss, and noticed a local news van with its antenna towering above the trees behind it, a female reporter speaking into the camera with her back turned to them.

  Dobson told Harris, “We can’t mention the nature of this crime. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Peterson is in the process of getting a statement together,” Harris said. “Woman found dead in her home is the official line for now.”

  Dobson looked around the yard at the other police officers carefully searching the perimeter for evidence. It was going to be hard to keep the details of the case to a minimum. The news would get out, and undoubtedly the residents would put immense pressure on the department to find the culprit, which they should. A cool breeze blew Dobson’s red tie to his side as the overcast sky intensified its gray aura.

  “Is it supposed to rain today?” Harris asked, looking up.

  “Not sure,” Dobson said, in deep thought. Suddenly he snapped back with another thought. “Hey, what about her car?”

  Harris glanced at him and waved the question away. “That beater in the garage?”

  Betsy Wade’s Geo Metro looked as though it hadn’t been driven in ages. They found it covered in dust, parked in the garage next to piles of boxes and a washing machine and dryer. An initial search of the house had shown little in the way of evidence, at least on the surface.

  They had checked the living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and closet. All the windows and doors were locked, save for the front door, which they believed had been deliberately left that way by the killer. The only place they hadn’t looked was inside the car.

  “What do you think we’ll find in there?” Harris asked, turning to face the now-open garage door where the car sat in clear view.

  “I don’t know,” Dobson said. “Call it a hunch.”

  A K-9 unit suddenly pulled up and parked in the street next to a newly-arrived evidence van. The Forensics team was already inside, searching for fingerprints and DNA. A few officers were making their way around the neighborhood and getting statements from the residents.

  Though Dobson preferred to talk to the potential witnesses himself, there were a lot of moving pieces to keep track of. He couldn’t do it all. His boss, Captain Aaron Nelson, was nearing retirement himself. Some said that he didn’t run the department with the same vigor that he used to. Dobson, however, knew all too well how the captain felt.

  “You want to check out the back yard?” Harris asked, leaning within earshot.

  “Not just yet,” he said. “I’m going to do another sweep of the house.”

  Harris nodded. “Good luck. I’m off shift now. Have fun.”

  Dobson tried to smile, but then something caught his attention next to Ms. Wade’s parked car: two plastic trash cans, one with the lid slightly off-center.

  “Hold on,” he said, walking toward the garage. “What’s this?”

  Harris sighed and reluctantly followed, as the busy activity of the uniformed police officers surrounding them continued. Dobson made his way inside the cramped garage and went immediately to the driver’s side door, pulling on the door handle, only to find it locked.

  Harris went around to
the passenger side door with the same results. “What’s up?” he asked, crouching to look inside beyond the dusty tinted windows.

  “I don’t know,” Dobson said as he wiped part of the driver’s side window clean with his coat sleeve. It was then that he saw something. Ms. Wade’s keys were in the ignition. “Keys in the ignition. That ain’t right.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned…” Harris said, taking a closer look.

  Dobson glanced at the concrete floor and saw scuff marks near the car. He followed them to a visible handprint on the passenger side window, surprised he hadn’t noticed it until then. He turned around and stared at a plastic garbage bin with its lid pushed to the side. Several scenarios passed through his mind: Ms. Wade running from her attacker and into her car, only to be yanked out and dragged back inside the house. The black scuff marks on the concrete indicated such a struggle, but he couldn’t be sure. He hesitated to remove the trash lid, fearful of what he might find.

  “Earth to Mike?” Harris said, walking over. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Dobson removed the lid, fully prepared to find Ms. Wade’s severed head, perhaps placed inside a trash bag, or just resting atop the garbage with its lifeless eyes closed and that neutral look of indifference he’d seen through the years in the face of the dead.

  Inside, however, he saw a black trash bag stuffed to the brim but with something resting on top. Not a head, but an empty gallon of bleach. He reached for a rusty skewer on a nearby shelf, slid one end into the handle’s loop, and pulled the bleach bottle out, displaying it to Harris as he approached.

  “Clorox?” Harris said. “You think that he, uh, used that to clean up?”

  “I sure do,” Dobson said.

  He set it gently back atop the trash bag and then opened the lid to the bin beside it, finding two stuffed black trash bags inside. The last thing he wanted to do was tear the bags apart and search for evidence.