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

by Charles Prandy

  Back to square one. Autopsies were going to be performed this morning on the death of the two sisters, although it appeared that both were killed by gunshot wounds to the head. When she gets into the office, she’s going to call Fairfax P.D. to see if their forensics team came up with something from the apartment.

  Her run took her back to her apartment. An hour later she was showered, dressed and ready for work. She was now wearing a navy blue pants business suit. She was getting ready to get into her car when her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and saw that it was a number from the Bureau.

  “Agent Davis.”

  “Jayden, it’s Tim.”

  Tim Russell was the supervising agent of her department. It was odd for him to call this early in the morning.

  “Tim, is everything okay?”

  “There’s been another robbery.”

  “Where?”

  “Citibank on 9th & H Street. The branch manager was found dead in the vault.”

  “Oh, God. Is there a family involved again?”

  Tim paused, “His family is dead too.”

  Thirty-five

  I’ve been a part of the D.C. police department for ten years now. I’ve seen a lot of death. I’ve seen the bad in people and I’ve seen the worse. There have been times when people who we try to protect turn on us and try to kill us. When it comes to the murder of an adult, I’d like to think I’ve become numb to the emotion because I’ve seen it so many times. But when it comes to the murder of a child, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, no matter how many times I’ve held that lifeless child’s hand in mine, a part of me feels like I’ve died with that child.

  We were called to the scene thirty minutes ago where a mother and her two children were shot execution style in the back of the head. The three bodies lay next to each other in the living room. The killer had them lie on their stomachs, the mother in the middle, and the two children each on opposite sides. On the way over, I was informed that the father, Dan Flynn, was killed as well at his place of employment. Apparently, this is the result of a bank robbery which could be related to the one from yesterday where the branch manager and her sister were killed in Fairfax, Virginia.

  I stepped away from the bodies. I could feel my stomach starting to turn. I thought about what their last thoughts could have been before they died. They must have been crying because dried tears were still on their faces. What kind of a monster could do this? Shoot a helpless mother and her two kids? For no reason except that they were witnesses. My mind momentarily started drifting to my wife and I felt a familiar emptiness fill in my heart. She was killed for no reason except that she happened to be in the house when the bad guys came for me. She was supposed to be at work but decided to stay home and tend to me.

  I looked at the bodies again. Home is where we’re supposed to feel safe from the horrors of the outside world. This mother probably had no worries when her two kids turned their lights off and got into their beds. She had no reason to.

  I gathered myself and looked down at my notes. Upon entering the house, I noticed that the front locks had not been disturbed. There weren’t pry marks from where someone tried to force the front door open. After checking the bodies, I searched the other entrances to the house. They were undisturbed as well. Same with the windows. This lead to two conclusions: either the killers had a key to the locks, or they somehow managed to get the owners to open the door. Which brought another possible question: if the owners let the killers in, did they know them? Judging by the way the wife and kids were killed, I didn’t think they knew their killers.

  Whoever killed this family did it in an impersonal way. The mother and kids were executed. They were forced on their knees and shot in the back of their heads. The killers had no emotional attachment to this family so they just did away with them once their jobs were done. This looked like a professional assassination all the way through. Nothing appeared to be undisturbed in the house. TV’s weren’t missing. Jewelry in the mother’s bedroom was still intact. Laptops and an iPad were on the living room table. There was even eighty dollars in cash in a cup in one of the cabinets that was still there. I immediately ruled out burglary as a motive. This was just a senseless act as a way to get the father to the bank.

  I started talking to two other detectives to compare notes when I heard a soft but pleasant voice say, “Excuse me.”

  I turned around and a woman wearing a blue FBI jacket said, “Detective Hayden?”

  “Yes.”

  She extended her hand. “I’m Agent Davis.”

  Thirty-six

  After Agent Davis hung up her cell phone, she headed straight for the bank. When she got there, she saw that the crime scene was similar to yesterday’s. Agents wearing FBI jackets took notes at various places around the bank. D.C. police cars blocked off part of the street. Inside the vault, the body of the bank manager, Dan Flynn, was lying on its side. A pool of blood was under his head. Agent Davis bent down and looked at the man’s face and saw that his eyes were wide open. When she was a cop in Chicago, most people she’d seen who were murdered had their eyes open. The first time she saw it, it haunted her for more than a month.

  Before she became a cop she thought of death as people lying on their backs with their eyes closed, as if they were finally in peace. But after she became a cop she realized that wasn’t always the case. People who died at the hands of another usually died violently. A lot of time their faces still showed their agony and fear. They didn’t look at peace. They looked like they were scared of dying.

  Special Agent Fletcher Johnson, who was Agent Davis’ senior by two years, stood at the entrance of the vault.

  “Five-hundred and forty-two thousand in total was taken.”

  Agent Davis turned around and looked up shaking her head. “Jesus. Who found him?”

  “The supervising teller. She said that she usually comes in shortly after Mr. Flynn. Same thing as yesterday. She gets here and finds the front door unlocked. It shouldn’t be. She said she saw the news last night about what happened in Fairfax and how the front door was unlocked. She immediately freaked out and ran to the vault. And the rest is history.”

  “Why was there so much cash in the vault?”

  “Same reason. Payroll. A new hotel is being built a few blocks away and the construction company, Phelps & Co. banks with them.”

  Agent Davis stood up and looked round the vault. She noticed a few fake bricks of money were left behind on the floor.

  “Tim said that his wife and kids were killed as well.”

  “That’s right. They were shot in the back of their heads.”

  “Who in Metro is handling the homicide?”

  “Detective Jacob Hayden.”

  “Why does his name sound familiar?”

  “He’s the one who was accused of killing his wife earlier in the year.”

  Agent Davis nodded. She remembered the story. The detective who was initially accused of killing his wife because she found out that he was involved in a drug ring.

  Agent Davis left the bank and went to the Flynn’s house. She saw the three bodies lying face down in the living room. Her heart nearly sank at the sight of the two dead kids. Gone way too soon, she thought. Then she saw Detective Jacob Hayden. She remembered the news stories. He looked the same as he did on TV. Tall, lean, brown skin, short hair, five o’clock shadow. He was talking with two other individuals who she assumed were detectives because of the badges that hung from their necks.

  “Detective Hayden,” she called from behind.

  He turned around and said, “Yes.”

  Agent Davis extended her hand out of common courtesy. Regardless of what you hear about the FBI and local police not getting along, most of it is untrue. They work toward a common goal and try to help each other whenever possible.

  “I’m Agent Jayden Davis from the FBI.”

  Detective Hayden shook her hand. “Jacob,” he replied.

  There was a softness to his touc
h, but at the same time his hand was firm and masculine.

  “I’m investigating the bank robbery where Mr. Flynn was murdered.”

  “Does the FBI think it’s connected to what happened yesterday?”

  “Preliminary investigation leads one to think so, but we won’t know until forensics has a chance to sweep the bank.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Can you tell me what we’re looking at here?”

  Detective Hayden turned towards the bodies. “Forty-two-year-old mother and her twelve- and ten-year-old sons were shot in the back of the head at some point during the night. Their hands had been bound behind their backs.”

  “Any signs of forced entry?”

  “None.”

  Agent Davis made a mental note. No signs of forced entry at either of the two sisters’ places as well.

  They talked for a few minutes longer. Agent Davis asked a few more standard follow-up questions. Detective Hayden’s answers were similar to the answers she received the day before regarding the two sisters.

  She handed him her card. “We’re having a briefing later this afternoon at the Hoover building. I’ve invited the detective handling the investigation in Virginia to come. I’d like you to come as well.”

  Detective Hayden nodded and said he’d be there. She turned to leave, but before she did, she took one more look at the three dead bodies. She thought about the two sisters who died yesterday. In two days, five people were murdered in cold blood. Could this all be related to the same bank robbers? As she turned to leave, the only answer in her head was yes.

  Thirty-seven

  I left the crime scene still a little shaken up. No cop ever likes to see dead kids. It seems to disrupt the natural flow of life. We’re born. We grow up. We die. It shouldn’t be, we’re born, we grow a little and then we die. Doesn’t seem right. What kind of monster could just kill kids like that? Obviously someone without a conscience.

  I was in my car when my cell phone rang. D.C., like many other states, doesn’t allow drivers to talk on their phones unless it’s hands free. I applaud the nation for trying to do something about drivers killing each other because they’re on the phone. I attached the blue tooth to my ear, “Detective Hayden.”

  “Looks like somebody was trying to pull the wool over our eyes,” Pat said.

  “Erin Smith?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Detective Cartwright from the Duck P.D. just called back. The girl in the ATM video, Ms. Victoria Shepherd, said that she and her boyfriend were just in D.C. a couple of days ago.”

  “Okay. So she knows Erin Smith then.”

  “According to her statement she doesn’t. She said that they had just come out of a shop in Georgetown when they were approached by a woman who asked if they wanted to make some quick money. Victoria claimed that she was a little hesitant, but her boyfriend seemed to want to jump all on it.”

  “Cartwright did say that he’s always in the middle of trouble but somehow never gets caught.”

  “Exactly. Anyways, the woman gives them a bankcard, three hundred dollars in cash and a prepaid phone. Tells them that when they get back to North Carolina to text her and she’d give them the access code to the account and they could take out as much cash as the machine would let them.”

  “Hmmm…sounds a little fishy to me. How’d the woman know they were from North Carolina?”

  “That’s what Cartwright asked and Shepherd said that they were near their car so they assumed the woman saw their plates. But when they saw the three hundred in cash and the bankcard, the boyfriend took it without asking another question.”

  “What an idiot. So then they get back home, text this lady and they get access to the bank account?”

  “What better way to throw off the police than to make it seem like you’re in another state.”

  “When did all of this happen?”

  “Two days before Erin Smith was arrested. I sent Cartwright a mug shot of Erin Smith and he showed it to Ms. Shepherd and guess what?”

  “She identified her as the woman who approached her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Doesn’t sound like something an innocent woman would do.”

  “Not in the least.”

  I was getting ready to say something else when I noticed, in my rearview mirror, a car that I thought I saw near the crime scene. Now that I think about it, I’ve seen this car behind me before.

  “Jacob, you were saying something?”

  I looked to the road ahead and back in the rearview mirror. The car was still there. I didn’t want to alarm Pat so I told her that I’m on my way to the station. Two thoughts quickly came to mind and both were thoughts I didn’t want to have right now.

  Thirty-eight

  I haven’t been alone much since I went back to work. The in-laws have been coming over quite frequently, more than just the one day a week they used to come over. Even though they live together, they feel lonely since Theresa died. She was their best friend, someone they talked to daily. Now that relationship is gone forever. I remind them of Theresa so they like to come over and spend more time with me. They think that I think they come over to comfort me, but I know we all comfort each other.

  Then there’s Pat. When I’m not home, I’m usually at work with Pat trying to solve the Jack Smith case and other homicide cases that come up. Pat’s been a good partner so far. She’s a quick study and easy to talk to. It’s always good when you get along with the people you work with because a lot of times you’re with them more than your own family. So that brings me to my current situation.

  My tail, which is three cars back, is trying too hard not to be seen. They’re in a dark sedan with D.C. plates. The past couple of days my mind’s been stuck on Erin Smith. I haven’t been as perceptive as I usually am when I’m by myself, but now that I’m seeing the same car behind me again, I know I’m being watched. The obvious question now is, by whom?

  I keep my same speed. I don’t want to tip them off that I’ve caught on to them. I change lanes. I want to see if they change with me. They do. When they changed lanes, I saw two dark figures in the car. One driving and the other in the front passenger seat. It was hard to tell how big they were, but there were definitely two of them. I consciously moved my right hand from the steering wheel to my side arm. I knew it was there, but I needed to feel it with my hand.

  My mind quickly raced through why someone would be following me. Only two ideas came to mind. One: they are the people responsible for sending me a letter earlier in the year claiming that I’m going to be part of a game called life or death. Whatever that meant. But the letter was written by one person, or so it seemed because the author kept referencing “I” instead of “We” which leads me to think that this might not be the author of the letter.

  Idea two: Captain Hellsworth said that I pissed off some cops when I brought down Judge Frank Peters’ gun smuggling ring. Some of the cops who were indicted had close ties to other cops. So would they try to come after me for revenge? It’d be a bold move, but not without merit. I drove a little longer but my curiosity was eating at me. I’m not one for playing games and I hate being toyed with.

  I turned on my blinker to make a right at the next light. I don’t know who is following me, but I’m about to make a quick introduction.

  Thirty-nine

  Anthony Fuentes, better known as Antonio, because he thinks it sounds tougher, rode in the front passenger seat of the dark sedan that was following the detective three cars behind. His partner, who goes by the name Brows, because of his overly thick eyebrows, was the driver. They’d been tailing the detective for the past four days. Antonio was getting antsy because they’d been instructed to only follow and not interact. They were waiting for a call with instructions on what to do next. But until that call came, they were supposed to only observe.

  Antonio liked beating people up. That’s what he did. He was good at it. He’d been a figh
ter since he was a kid. He was the neighborhood bully. He took advantage of those weaker than him. Was it right? He didn’t care. He truly lived by the motto “the strongest shall survive”. He knew early on that he was meant to fight. He had incredibly strong hands. They were big which matched his big frame. It was his fighting instincts that led him to pummel the first neighborhood bully who thought that Antonio was a push over. Big mistake on his part. As a teenager, people tried to push him into boxing, but he didn’t want any of that. He didn’t much care for organized fighting because it had rules attached. So he fought in the streets and made a name for himself.

  Brows was a different story. He didn’t like to fight. He liked to kill. If a therapist was able to get him on one of their sofas and explore his mind, they’d have him locked up in a mental institution and labeled a sociopath. He didn’t know what drove him to kill. He just knew that he did it and was good at it. Sometimes life, he thought, decides what are destinies will be. He was meant to kill. And that’s what he planned to do. Like many sociopaths, Brows started young. When he was seven, he wanted to see what the inside of a cat looked like. So he found a stray and opened its belly. It didn’t take him long to get bored with animals. When he was eleven he stabbed a man who had hit his mother. The man and his mother were drunk. The man struck his mother like he always did. Brows followed the man home one day and waited until it got dark. He slipped inside the man’s house and slit his throat when he was a sleep. The police never suspected Brows of the murder. But one man knew. And that man ended up putting Brows on his payroll.