Behind the Closed Door: A Detective Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers (The Jacob Hayden Series Book 2)

by Charles Prandy

“Mrs. Smith, are you okay?” Pat asked.

  “Just tell me,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice.

  “We found a corpse. Jack’s wallet and I.D. were near the body. We think it’s him but we’re not one hundred percent sure,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you sure?”

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure how she was going to take what I was about to tell her. Most people find it hard to imagine that someone they loved died at the hands of another. Some people scream at the top of their lungs. Some people pass out. Some people don’t say anything. They’re too shocked to react. In her current state, I wasn’t sure how she was going to react.

  “The body was decapitated.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me. I was quiet. Pat was quiet. I was waiting for a reaction.

  “The fingers were cut off as well.”

  No reaction.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  “I knew it,” she said. “When he didn’t come home. I knew something bad had happened.”

  “Mrs. Smith, I need to ask you something. Are you sure the last time you saw your husband was the Sunday he left for the conference?”

  “Of course.”

  I made a mental note in my head. It’d been three days since we found Jack Smith’s BMW. The hotel confirmed that a Jack Smith checked into his hotel room Sunday evening and checked out of his room Tuesday morning. Jack’s colleague said that he was at the conference on Tuesday afternoon and last saw him around three-fifteen. So from three-fifteen until just a couple of hours ago, Jack’s been unaccounted for. So why does the body look like it’d been dead longer than three days?

  “Mrs. Smith, is Jack’s mother still alive? The reason I ask is since we aren’t able to confirm through dental work or finger prints who the body belongs to, we can do what’s called a Mitochondria DNA test which would be able to verify if the body is Jack’s.”

  “Mitochondria DNA?”

  “Basically, Mitochondria DNA is passed on from the mother to her offspring with no change. If we can get a sample from Jack’s mother, we’d be able to tell if the body is her offspring.”

  “His mother’s still alive. She lives in a retirement community up north. I’ll call her and inform her of the news.”

  I nodded my head. Pat and I stood up. I told her that I’d get in contact with her once we confirm if the body is Jack’s or not.

  “And if it is Jack?” she asked.

  “Whoever it is,” I said, “I’ll find out who killed him.”

  Thirteen

  Later in the morning, I was on the phone with the medical examiner. The sun was up. The temperature was starting to climb to the mid-80s. The weather station driving in said it was going to be a beautiful day for mid-June. I’d only had about four hours sleep after Pat and I left Erin Smith’s house. I was tired and groggy. I was already on my second cup of coffee when the phone on my desk rang.

  I recognized the distinct voice immediately. The medical examiner’s name was Tracy Spencer. She was a nice woman with a cheery personality for someone who digs through dead bodies all day. But if you’ve never seen Tracy in person, you’d think you were talking to one of the three chipmunks. She was a heavy set Caucasian woman with short dark hair, dark glasses and couldn’t have been taller than five-one. I imagined her sitting at her cramped desk with stacks of folders and papers spread about. When she said, “Jacob, this is an interesting one,” I knew I was in for a long day.

  “I definitely understand your concerns,” she said.

  I had spoken with her about my curiosities before she conducted the autopsy.

  “What have you got?”

  “Well, I’d definitely say that death would be closer to two weeks ago. The abdomen and scrotum have already begun to swell suggesting that the deceased has been dead longer than a week. The skin is blistering and is discolored. But what intrigues me more is that the body isn’t more decomposed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’re in early summer. It’s been fairly warm the last couple of weeks. If the body’s been sitting out in the elements all this time, we should see more evidence of its decomposition. Plus, being in the woods with all of the bugs…I don’t think this body was out there too long.”

  “So there’s a good possibility that he hasn’t been in the elements for the past couple of weeks?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “Got anything else?”

  “Pretty strange, but the two holes in the chest were definitely from bullets. There were residual burn marks around the hole entrances. The diameter of the holes is roughly .355 inches suggesting that the bullets came from a nine millimeter hand gun.”

  “I’m sensing a but here.”

  “But the bullets have been removed.”

  “Removed?”

  “When I opened up the chest it’s clear that the bullets penetrated the heart. That’s what caused the death. But they’re not in the body.”

  “And there are no exit wounds?”

  “None at all. So the person or persons who shot him, dug into the wound, found the bullets and pulled them out.”

  I sat back in my chair and imagined someone digging around a bullet hole directly after pulling the trigger. Then cut off the head and fingers. While in thought, Pat sat at her desk and turned her chair to face me.

  “Thanks for the quick turnaround Tracy.”

  “You bet Jacob. Have a good one.”

  I hung the phone up. My face must have had confusion written all over it because Pat asked what was wrong.

  “Someone pulled the bullets out of the dead guy’s chest.”

  “Talk about covering your tracks.”

  “And the ME confirmed that the body’s been dead for about two weeks.”

  Pat turned round and grabbed a sheet of paper from her desk. “Just came back from forensics. Two things they’ve confirmed. First, the Mitochondria DNA confirms that the body is related to the mother, Evelyn Smith. So we now know that it is Jack Smith. And two, a partial footprint was found in the dirt near the body. This may be as easy as they come because the print is from that new kinda shoe that has the toes sticking out.”

  “Yeah, they’re the five fingers or something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Could they gather the size?”

  “They estimate the shoe size to be between a six and seven.”

  “Either that’s a woman’s print or a very small man.”

  “Judging by the shoe size, it’s a safe bet the print came from a woman.”

  “So what do we have so far?” I said. “A decapitated corpse with fingers missing which we now know is Jack Smith. We know Jack couldn’t have been at the convention in Virginia Beach earlier in the week because he’s been dead for at least two weeks. A worried wife who lied to us about the last time she saw her husband alive. A partial shoe print that possibly came from a woman. And a colleague who lied to us about the last time he saw Jack Smith alive too.”

  “The wife and the colleague are working together on this.”

  “Fax Jack Smith’s picture to the hotel to see if anyone remembers him checking in or out. I’m going to get on the phone to see about getting a search warrant for Erin Smith’s shoes.”

  Fourteen

  Max tapped the off button on his prepaid wireless phone. He paused for a moment and then dropped the phone to the ground. Stepped on it hard until it cracked open. He picked up the broken phone and pulled out its CPU. To his right, he had a small fire going in a fireplace. He threw the CPU in the fire along with the broken phone. He instructed the person on the other end of the phone call to do the same.

  Plan A was officially over. It went as smooth as planned. Max had no doubts about Plan A. Breaking into Clifton Marshall’s house and taking him and his son was easy. Clifton Marshall was unarmed and outnumbered. A high school student could have pulled it off. But that was just the beginning. The next plan was more difficult.
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  Everything was now in place. Everything was set to go. He just had to wait until the time was right. Timing was everything.

  Max sat in a soft leather chair next to the fire place and leaned his head back. Plan B had officially started. The gears were already in motion. He couldn’t turn back now even if he wanted to. Plan B had its difficulties, yes, but once pulled off he’d be the greatest to have ever done it. He smiled, and with that came a thought. He thought about what Jack Nicholson once famously said in his role as the Joker in the 1989 Batman movie. Wait until they get a load of me. Max’s smile widened. If Plan B would make him the greatest to have ever done it, then Plan C, which only he knew about, would make him legendary.

  Fifteen

  We pulled in front of Erin Smith’s house, four deep. Pat and I were in one car and two uniformed officers in a squad car pulled behind us. I was holding a search warrant that gave us the authority to search the closets for any shoes that matched the shoe prints that were found at the scene of the body. I was having a hard time believing that Erin was at the scene of her dead husband’s corpse. Plenty of wives have had their husbands killed, but most don’t want to be anywhere near the body. And the fact that the shoe print was found next to the body suggested that the owner of the shoe helped place the body against the tree. Which corroborates my theory that the body was carefully laid against the tree and not just dumped there.

  Whoever placed Jack Smith’s body there still cared for him enough to want his body to be comfortable in some sick twisted way.

  I rang the doorbell and heard the same ding dong sound echo through the house. A minute later Erin Smith opened the door. She still looked pale. Her skin color was near ghostly white. She still looked tired. Her hair was still pulled back into a ponytail. She changed her clothes to a pair of blue jeans and a hooded sweat shirt that had Georgetown University written across the front.

  I held out the search warrant and opened it up so she could read it. My tone wasn’t consoling like it was when I told her that we may have found Jack’s corpse. I was pissed that she lied to us.

  “Mrs. Smith, this is a warrant to search your house.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We confirmed that the body is Jack’s. We found a partial shoe print next to the corpse. We need to see if it matches any of your shoes.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What size shoe do you wear, Mrs. Smith?” Pat asked.

  “Six and a half. Why?”

  “Do you own a pair of five finger shoes?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my bedroom closet.”

  I looked back at one of the uniformed officers and motioned for him to get the shoes. Pat went with him since she knew what the shoes looked like.

  “Mrs. Smith, you’re going to have to come with us to the station for questioning.”

  “Do you think I killed my husband?”

  “We can talk about that at the station.”

  She nervously looked around. “Can I grab my purse from the kitchen?”

  “Sure.”

  She turned around and walked away. I knew the kitchen was at the left rear of the house. I watched her walk down a small hallway and turn the corner. I imagined that she was reaching for her purse on the kitchen counter. A few seconds later, I heard a loud thump. I quickly stepped in the house and saw Erin Smith lying on the kitchen floor, unconscious.

  Sixteen

  She said she felt lightheaded and that the room started to spin. She didn’t realize she had passed out and was unconscious for ninety seconds. She asked for water and told me where to find a glass.

  I wasn’t sure how to take this. I’ve seen people react differently when confronted with the prospect that the police think they’re involved in a murder. Some people cry. Some shout. Some don’t say anything. Some lie. Some faint. Some try to run. But this seemed too convenient. Like it was staged. I was beginning to wonder if Erin Smith was an actress at some point in her life. She did all of the right things. She was worried when we first arrived at the house a few days earlier. She was distraught and pale when we told her that we might have found Jack’s body. But now my eyes were looking through a different lens and I’m wondering if the whole thing was a big charade.

  She slowly stood up and steadied herself on the counter.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  Pat came into the room with a pair of gray and yellow shoes in a clear evidence bag. She looked at me with a look that said, these shoes were at the crime scene. Thirty minutes later we were at the station. The shoes were taken to forensics for shoe print comparison. We placed Erin in a small interrogation room that held a table with three chairs. A camera sat at the top of the wall near the ceiling. We watched her on a black and white TV screen for a few moments from a screening room. She sat quiet and motionless.

  “I’ll talk to her and see what I can get out of her,” I said to Pat. “I want you to go down to the lab. The minute you have news, text me.”

  Pat nodded and two minutes later I was sitting across from Erin Smith. She didn’t say anything. She looked sunken and sullen. She didn’t look at me either.

  “Mrs. Smith, what happened to your husband?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Have I been arrested?”

  “No. I’m just trying to find out what happened to Jack.”

  “I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Why did you tell us the last time you saw him alive was on Sunday?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “We both know that that couldn’t have been possible.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Because Jack’s been dead for at least two weeks.”

  Tears started falling from her eyes.

  I let her cry. In my experience, the longer a person cries, the greater the chance they’ll admit to what they’ve done. They visualize their mistakes and realize they won’t get away with it.

  I left the room for a second and grabbed a tissue box. She took three sheets and dried her eyes.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She shook her head and didn’t say anything.

  “Was he abusive to you? Did he threaten you? Did you feel you needed to do something before he hurt you?”

  She still didn’t answer.

  “Mrs. Smith, I can help you. But you’ve got to talk to me in order for me to help you.”

  No answer.

  Just then, my Blackberry buzzed. I excused myself from the room and looked at the text. It was from Pat with two words: positive match.

  The shoe print placed her at the scene of the body. It also proved that she lied to us about the last time she saw her husband alive. I walked back to my desk and called the front desk sergeant and asked him to send a uniformed officer.

  After that, I opened the interrogation room door and sat across from Erin Smith and looked into her eyes.

  “Mrs. Smith, we’ve positively matched your shoe print with a print we found next to Jack’s body. We know you were there. We know that Jack’s been dead for at least two weeks. He was shot twice in the chest. You lied to me. And I don’t like being lied to. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Still nothing.

  “One last chance, Mrs. Smith. I can still help you.”

  She didn’t speak.

  I stood up and knocked on the door. A uniformed officer came in holding a pair of handcuffs.

  “Mrs. Smith,” I said, “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband, Jack Smith.”

  I mirandized her while she was being placed in handcuffs.

  Seventeen

  The Next Day

  Presentment - D.C. Superior Court

  Erin Smith and everyone else in the courtroom stood up when the judge entered the room. Erin was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that was provided by the Department of Corrections. She looked rough. S
he looked like she didn’t sleep the whole night. Her skin was paler than before. Her eyes were red. She looked like she lost a few pounds over night.

  The judge called her case. She stood up with her defense lawyer at one table. Across from them the prosecutor, John Ballard, stood up as well.

  I was sitting a couple of rows behind them. I normally don’t attend presentments, which are similar to arraignments, but I was curious to see if the judge was going to allow her to make bail. She was being charged with first degree murder. The judge was reading the charging document made by the city.

  “Mrs. Smith, do you understand the charges that the city has brought against you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she replied. Her voice sounded weak.

  The prosecutor presented the facts of the case. He argued that Erin Smith should not be allowed bail due to the severity of her husband’s murder. He argued that Mrs. Smith was conniving enough to sever her husband’s head and fingers so that he’d be harder to identify. Erin Smith’s defense argued that she was an upstanding citizen of the community and has never been accused of a crime, and that when all of the facts came out, Erin Smith would be exonerated of these charges. Both sides argued the point before the judge made his ruling.

  “Mrs. Smith, I’m granting bail in the amount of $500,000. In the event you’re able to make bail, you’ll need to surrender your passport. You’re not to leave the area.”

  The judge wrote something down and handed it to the court clerk who was sitting to his right. He informed Erin Smith of her next court date and banged his gavel. Erin was ushered out of the room and the next defendant stood up before the judge.

  Later that day, I was at my desk when Captain Hellsworth came over.

  “Just got word that Erin Smith made bail,” he said.

  “Really? I wasn’t sure she’d be able to. Judge set the bail kinda high.”

  “Any luck finding the gun that killed Jack Smith?”