Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

  Never too Dead to Talk

  Deborah Middleton

  CHAPTER 1

  She stood on the fringes of the sumptuous room, self-conscious, waiting for an earlier shot of vodka to work its magic. They had yet to notice her. The ruby, a gift from her host, hung heavily in the valley between her adolescent breasts, accentuated by the plunging neckline of her crimson evening gown. Feeling fragile and vulnerable, she observed the disparity in age between the wealthy, grizzled men and their younger escorts. She doubted any were wives. She had seen too much of this with her mother’s showbiz friends.

  A distinguished black gentleman, taking a glass of champagne from the Russian butler’s silver salver, approached her smiling. She took in the well-tailored clothes, the gold Rolex and his incipient paunch. Her stomach fluttered. Hell, she wanted to be an actress, she’d better start now. Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room to meet him as heads began to turn. The gentleman held back a smile of amusement as he watched the clumsy transformation from lost little girl to femme fatale, sensing immediately her effect on the other guests and the shift in the room’s atmosphere. The air suddenly seemed harder to breathe, heavier, electric - sexually charged. The young girl, pleased, now courted their attention, failing completely to comprehend that to these people, she was merely fresh prey.

  The noose was tightening around his neck, choking the very life out of him. Arms flailing, hands gripping nothing but air, he was aware of a gurgling sound. Was that him? A distant voice called him ever more urgently, “Buddy… Buddy!”

  Detective Inspector Leon ‘Buddy’ Burgess awoke with a start, chest heaving, perspiration pooling on his chest.

  “Buddy, you were thrashing around and making a horrible sound in the back of your throat!” Jacintha’s worried face, framed by her long black hair, looked down at him in the dawn light. She switched on the bedside lamp. “Were you having that nightmare again?”

  Burgess, now more composed yet still feeling the hammering of his heart, looked at her and managed a reassuring smile. “It just comes out of the blue. I guess it’s something I’m going to have to live with.”

  Since his escape from near-death nine months before at the hands of a professional hit man, he had been troubled with nightmares and occasional bouts of depression. The police psychiatrist had told him to expect this and had given him some medication to ‘smooth things out’, as he put it. The worst thing he had to deal with was the fact he had bludgeoned his assailant to death with a golf club. It had been a bloody, visceral attack and Burgess was coming to terms with the fact that he was capable of such raw violence, even if it was in self-defense. The scars from the knife attack had begun to heal nicely on his chest but those left on his psyche were taking much longer. With a sigh, he swung long brown legs over the side of the bed.

  “Coffee?” he inquired, looking back over his shoulder at Jacintha. “Or do you want to go back to sleep?”

  “Let’s enjoy a coffee on the patio and watch the sun come up over the ocean. You know, this is really my favorite time of day. The tree frogs and the kiskadees are actually singing together.” Jacintha was referring to those few fleeting minutes just before dawn broke, when the nocturnal tree frogs chirruped in unison with the yellow-breasted kiskadees, before turning over the day once and for all to those querulous birds that were so much a feature of the island.

  Jacintha was such a joy to have in his life. How could somebody who spent most of their day cutting up dead bodies always be so upbeat? Perhaps it was her proximity to death on a regular basis that made her appreciate life so much more. She was a continuing source of amazement to him. Burgess’s girlfriend was Dr. Jacintha Brangman, resident pathologist at Bermuda’s King Edward VII Memorial Hospital. She had helped the police put more than one criminal behind bars and had become close to the detective while working the ‘Square Snapper’ case: a cocktail of murder and violence that had spanned the Atlantic from Miami to Bermuda. Shortly after Burgess’s attack, she had moved in with him and, since that time, had grown to appreciate this quiet man’s hidden depths. She and his best friend, Archie Carmichael, were the only ones who knew how courageously he was grappling with the aftermath of the attack. To his colleagues, he was a tower of strength and an oasis of calm in a crisis. This was his talent, the ability to appear calm, think clearly and act decisively when the need arose. He was drawing on this talent more and more as his caseload increased. Thankfully, in the months since the last case, there had been few major crimes. He and his team were able to dedicate more time clearing up the usual domestic disturbances, robberies and gang-related issues. He had been grateful for the respite but knew, just thinking statistically, that this could all come to an end at any moment. It was always just a matter of time before someone committed a serious crime. In fact, a small part of him was ashamed to admit that he even desired it. Little did he know, in the small hours of that peaceful May morning, just how soon that desire would fulfil itself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mrs. Ingham rang the bell of the imposing cedar door several times. She looked through one of the flanking glass panels to see if Maria or Fernando, the new live-in Filipino housekeeping couple, was anywhere nearby but instead met the silent gaze of the two imposing gilt kinnaries, statues of mythical creatures from Thailand that were half-woman, half-bird, keeping silent guard one each side of the door. Everything was still. She could hear the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming ten o’clock. Thinking nothing of it, she began digging around in her large handbag for her key, cursing the fact she was not wearing her glasses. Squinting, she bent close to the lock as she inserted the key when, to her amazement, the door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges. A prickle of alarm settled itself in the pit of her stomach. That’s unusual. Strange for them both to be out and the door unlocked. Cautiously now, she stepped into the cool, beautifully appointed entrance hall with its sumptuous oriental carpet and various exotic carved artefacts that Mrs. Ingham was unable to identify - and hated even more to dust.

  She called out tentatively, “Anybody home?”

  The discreet hum of the air conditioning system was all that responded. What was that smell? Was something burning? She hesitated. You’re being stupid. Pull yourself together. Taking a deep breath and feigning normalcy, she breezed into the living room only to pull up short with a start. It took a few seconds for the scene to register in her brain. She then threw back her head and issued a bloodcurdling scream. Turning, she ran out of the house as fast as her arthritic legs could carry her.

  Less than an hour later, Burgess negotiated the long driveway which wound towards the house, huge trees providing a majestic avenue of shade. Breathing in the pungent smell of wild freesias growing in abundance amongst the grass, he reflected on how much he loved the springtime. The sun had yet to acquire its intensity of the summer and warmed, rather than baked, the many flowers. He spotted blue plumbagos, pink oleanders, red hibiscus, yellow day lilies and white frangipani, their flowers providing a riot of colour against the varying greens of the foliage. The many other flowers he was unable to identify but just the sight of them lifted his spirits. Parking away from the main entrance, he paused to survey the scene. It was a familiar one: Two ambulances, lights still flashing, police cars, yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the house and people everywhere. One of the emergency medical technicians was assisting an emotionally overwrought, plump, grey-haired lady.

  “Mornin’, sir.” A uniformed officer approached. “We know the drill. We’re waiting for the police photographer to finish and nobody has touched a thing. The lady over there is the
cleaner. She comes in three times a week and found the bodies.”

  “When was the last time she was here?”

  “Monday morning… and everything was okay.”

  “Good work, Stanley. Is Detective Sergeant Carmichael here yet?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s inside with the police photographer.”

  “Good. I’d like to take a look around the garden first and then I’ll go in. Let him know I’m here, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d also like to talk to the witness. Is there somewhere neutral where we can talk to her?”

  “Yes, sir. Around the back there’s a rear door to the kitchen. You could set up there without her having to go anywhere near the living room. That’s where she found them.”

  “When she’s ready, could you take her there and I’ll send someone in to see her? I imagine she’s pretty shaken up, so let’s try and put her at her ease.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks. How’s your son getting along, by the way? Is he still studying overseas or is he back yet?”

  “He’s still away.” The officer beamed. “He’s really doing well. He always phones home at the weekend, so we catch up with him then. He’ll be graduating next year and then wants to go to medical school.”

  “Oh, really? Maybe you should talk to Dr. Brangman about good medical schools. I’m sure she could give you some ideas. Has she been called?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s apparently on her way.”

  Burgess started to take out his notebook and the officer took that as his cue to get on with the business of preparing the witness, pleased that the distinguished detective had remembered him.

  “I’ll take Mrs. Ingham into the kitchen and wait with her there.”

  “Good. Thanks.” Burgess turned his mind to the task at hand. Part of him wanted to prolong the inevitable viewing of the crime but another part of him thrilled at the prospect of a new case that would test his skills and that of his team. Nothing spurred them more into a higher gear than tracking a serious criminal. He felt the familiar acceleration of his pulse as he walked around the garden. He took out his handkerchief and glanced around while wiping the perspiration from his forehead and closely-shaven head. He noticed some snapped branches on the bushes near the pool house and made a note to get the photographer to take a picture. Was that a partial footprint in the soil? It had not rained, so could that have been made after the irrigation had gone off? He made a note to check the timer on the irrigation system and to see if there was a gardener. It would have been a good vantage point for someone to wait, affording a view of the kitchen and family room. He noted that the curtains were drawn in the family room but the kitchen window only had a blind - and that was pulled up. If someone had waited in the bushes, they could have easily kept tabs on those inside, simply by looking through the kitchen window.

  “Hey, bro.” Burgess swung around at the sound of his sergeant’s Bajan accent. Archie Carmichael was Burgess’s right-hand man. A recruit from Barbados, he had adopted Bermuda as his new home and over the years had become Burgess’s best friend. His dark, heavily-muscled body was in complete contrast to Burgess’s brown-skinned, lithe, runner’s build. If you had to make a guess, you would probably say that one was a bodybuilder and the other a basketball player. “I checked on the light outside the kitchen door. The bulb’s been removed and there’s glass and some drops of blood just inside the kitchen door. I have asked Forensics to collect samples. They’re working in the living room and will do those afterwards. It’s a bloodbath in there… flies everywhere.”

  “Will I need to borrow your Vicks?” Burgess smiled to ease the tension. He was referring to Archie’s famous bottle of Vicks Vapor Rub, which he always carried with him. He passed it around at crime scenes where the smell was unbearable, advising colleagues to put a little under their nostrils. It was a trick he had learned from a pathologist in Barbados and it never failed to mask the smell of death.

  Archie avoided his eyes. “Nah. The air conditioning system seems to have kept things pretty cool. I’m not sure when all this took place. Jacintha is on her way and she’ll be able to give us an idea. Just from looking at rigor, I’d reckon it’s no more than a couple of days. There’s also some glass in the male victim’s right hand. I bet that’s from the light bulb. The place is a wreck.”

  “Okay, that sounds about right. The cleaner said that everything was fine when she was here on Monday. I’ll leave you to look around out here. Could you get the photographer to look at those bushes and I’d like a plaster cast of that partial footprint under them.” Burgess indicated to his sergeant exactly where it was. “Is De Souza here yet? I need to get him to go and talk to the lady who found the bodies. You know, they say fifty percent of the time, the person who finds the victim did the crime. You’ve seen the crime… and the cleaner. Think she could have done it?” Burgess smiled teasingly and Archie chuckled.

  “Yeah, I can see the headlines in the Bermuda Gazette: ‘Victims Mopped to Death!’ Speaking of headlines, I haven’t seen Johnny McCabe and his photographer. I can’t believe he’s not heard about this yet.”

  “He’s probably around the corner interviewing our witness! I bet you ten bucks his ZBF news van will be pulling up in the next five minutes and he’ll have a microphone in her face before you can say double homicide. We’d better get to her first.” Burgess took off towards the kitchen to arrange for De Souza to talk to poor Mrs. Ingham, who must be experiencing the worst day of her life.

  Archie continued to search around the back and sides of the house for anything to indicate how the perpetrators gained entry and for anything, anything at all, which might help them identify who could have committed such a heinous crime. He had deliberately not told Burgess just how bad it was in there. He would find out for himself. Archie had seen a lot of brutality in his days on the force but the cold-blooded nature of this crime had shaken him quite badly. He knew how squeamish Burgess was and hoped he would be able to cope. He also knew his friend and colleague was suffering from post traumatic stress after his attack, so he fervently hoped this would not send him over the edge. His survey took him around the front of the house and he was awed by the size of the grounds and the huge trees with grey moss dripping exotically from their branches.

  Another uniformed officer approached. “I’ve never seen so many different trees outside of the Botanical Gardens,” he commented to Archie.

  “You know, I was just thinking the same thing. What’s that moss called?

  “Old Man’s Beard, I think.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. Sure looks like it. Have you noticed anyone in the crowd over there particularly interested in the crime?” Archie nodded surreptitiously to a group of onlookers that had started to collect outside the police perimeter.

  “Not especially.” The uniformed officer started to give the crowd a hard look.

  In true Burgess fashion, Archie pulled out his notebook and wrote down the names of two prominent businessmen, probably neighbors, whom he recognized from the newspapers. “I’ll ask the police photographer to take a picture of them. Why don’t you go over and see if any of them live close by and can give us a statement. Perhaps they might have seen something or have some information on the owners.”

  “I’ll get right on it. I’ll let you know if I strike gold.”

  “Officer, I have to hand it to you. Either you’re a very positive person or you have a rich fantasy life!” Archie was referring to the perennial issue of witnesses’ reluctance to talk to the police. The problem on an island of only twenty-one square miles was that practically everyone knew everybody else. It was easy for the criminal element to intimidate a witness, while others simply preferred not to get involved. For this reason, Bermuda had an arrangement with Miami’s Crime Stoppers, so that witnesses could call in tips anonymously on their hotline and the information would then be fed back to the police in Bermuda.

  “You never know, Detecti
ve! I’ll be sure and give them Crime Stoppers’ 1-800 number.”

  “Good idea. Make sure you get to them before Johnny McCabe!” Archie nodded to the ZBF news van that was now winding up the long tree-lined driveway. Pocketing his notebook, he turned on his heel and went to look for the police photographer, anxious to steer clear of the press.

  CHAPTER 3

  Inside, the opulent home was a hive of activity as forensic experts moved through it wearing protective clothing, gloves and covered shoes as they collected trace evidence, knowing that the tiniest fragment could break a case wide open. Burgess made a conscious effort to shut them out as he focused on the scene. It sickened him. The house was in a shambles, completely ransacked. Just off the living room was a small office. In front of elegant bookshelves, the owners’ collection of books, DVDs and CDs now littered the floor. Someone had thrown a crystal vase full of white Easter lilies against the wall. The flowers were strewn on the plush white carpet leaving yellow pollen stains, their sickly sweet smell adding to the pall of death that hung in the air. He noticed the splash on the wall was a shade darker, still damp. This can’t have happened that long ago, otherwise the wall would be dry. He made a note in his book. He moved back into the living room. Mingling with the cloying scent of the lilies, a lingering smell of burning flesh pervaded the air. Amongst the debris of smashed china figurines and overturned chairs, the lifeless body of the Filipino housekeeper lay slumped in an ornate Louis IV Bergère chair to which he had been tied with white nylon rope, cigarette burns on his chest and a face turned to pulp, attesting to pain inflicted with complete indifference to suffering. Or had they actually enjoyed torturing him? The thought intrigued Burgess. To end the poor man’s agony, they had slashed his throat - a large bib of blood first soaking the front of his chest, then blossoming around the waist of his pajamas, to collect finally in a horrifyingly brown viscous stain at the base of the chair. Burgess looked away as a wave of nausea threatened to overtake him - yet another set of crime scene images forcing their way into his brain. He knew that for several days to come, he would replay them behind his eyes like a video in a loop. The body had already attracted the flies and he swatted at them with his notebook. Mentally bracing himself, he moved reluctantly over to the second body. He noticed some glass fragments on the kitchen floor by the door to the living room. The petite Filipino lady lay crumpled near that door, hands tied behind her back with what appeared to be the same nylon rope and then shot, execution style, with a bullet to the back of the head. Burgess made another note in his book. Where did the rope come from? He wanted that clarified.