“I’m Tom Clipper,” he said with a smile, briefly displaying his badge. “Can you tell me what you know about this?”
“Rupert Jones.” the man replied, blinking nervously. “I…I just stopped to give Bill a ride and he didn’t answer, so I came in and he was dead.”
“How did you get in?” Clipper asked folding his lanky frame onto the edge of the couch and pulling a small notebook from his pocket.
“The door was unlocked,” answered Jones glancing in the direction of the front entrance. We’ve been business partners for years and I’ve got a key somewhere, but it was unlocked and I just came in and yelled, and I went upstairs when he didn’t answer and found him in the bedroom.”
“Did you see anyone else in the area?”
Jones shook his head. “No one. Who would do this?” he asked bleakly. Bill was a good guy.”
“Somebody didn’t think so. I understand he was separated from his wife?”
“They’re going through a rough patch, but Janice wouldn’t hurt any…” shaking his head. “No, no, that’s crazy.”
Was there anyone else Mr. Owens might have had trouble with? Business problems, neighbors?”
Jones hesitated, seemed to want to say something, but shook his head. “Bill lost his son in Afghanistan a while ago,” he finally said. “That changed him. He was quiet, sad. He wasn’t fighting with anyone, wasn’t hardly even talking with anyone.”
“Where were you last night, Mister Jones?”
Jones looked startled. “I worked until about six,” he said, and then I was home with my wife all night.”
“Where’s home?” asked Clipper, making a note in his notebook.
“1423 Union Street”
“Never left?”
“I…I went out to walk our dog about ten, just for a few minutes.”
After a few more minutes of questioning, Clipper terminated the interview with a feeling that Rupert Jones had something more to offer, although he did not sense guilt. Clipper jotted down Jones’s particulars and arranged for him to go to the station for a formal interview. When the older man left, Clipper called Peters with instructions to have someone interview Jones and his wife, and then went back upstairs to speak with the medical examiner who had arrived with the crime scene specialists.
Doc Church was an aging local pathologist who acted as a deputy medical examiner for the State. Criminal autopsies were done at the State Crime Lab in Augusta, but Doc Church had handled the preliminary crime scene work in Bangor for more than thirty years and was an old friend that Clipper depended on when he needed common-sense medical insight.
Clipper found him, clad in his signature black suit coat and old fedora, bent over, peering at the victim’s chest with an old fashioned magnifying glass.
“Interesting,” he said, straightening with arthritic slowness, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a wound just like this... It looks like this man was stabbed with some kind of triangular blade.”
Clipper took another look at the ragged wound and then paused as a stray memory struggled to be heard. “Didn’t bleed much,” he observed distractedly.
“Nope, I’d say death was pretty much instantaneous.” Doc Church pushed his hat back on his head and looked around the room. “At first glance, I’d say he was standing here by the bed with the killer in front of him. No defense wounds… one quick thrust, and he fell back on the bed. And, it was a hard hit. The knife went in right to the hilt, hard enough for the handle to leave a mark on the skin.”
“What do you think for time of death?”
“Well, he’s still pretty warm, and rigor’s not complete…, I’d guess sometime around midnight. Doc Church looked around the room again. “Looks pretty straightforward,” he said reaching for his bag, you can release him whenever you’re ready.”
With Doc Church out of the way, the two coverall clad crime scene specialists began the job of preserving the scene and collecting evidence. Clipper watched as they started shooting duplicate black and white and color stills of the body and the room. He knew they would follow up with video clips under a variety of lighting, and finally search for fingerprints before vacuuming the carpet and bed and examining the rest of the house. “Take a close look at the doors and windows downstairs,” he advised. “We don’t know how entry was made.”
Clipper wandered slowly through the house, checking windows for signs of forced entry and rooms for signs of theft or vandalism. The Owens residence was a large two story cape, well maintained, on a corner lot that featured an L shaped expanse of neatly mowed lawn. The good quality furniture, well-designed kitchen and general air of order and good repair bespoke a well-loved home. Clipper jotted the occasional note in his notebook as he sat at a desk in the downstairs den looking through a small pile of bills and household paperwork. At the end of an hour, he told the crimes scene officers he was leaving, and went outside to poke through the detached two car garage. Finding nothing unusual, he was just getting into his pick-up truck when John Peters called to say he had found Janice Owens and was taking her to the station.
Chapter 2.3
As chief of the Criminal Division, Clipper had the only office with real walls and a window, and he sat before it now studying the woman sitting in one of his comfortable guest chairs.
Janice Owens was a slender, five foot six brunette with soft brown eyes set in an unlined heart-shaped face and an attractive figure that belied her thirty-six years. Dressed in tan shorts and a light blue top, she sat still and compact, like a deer frozen by the approach of the hunter, reddened eyes intently searching Clipper’s face.
“What happened?” She demanded intensely. “Was it an accident? A heart attack? Why won’t anybody tell me what happened?”
“Mrs. Owens,” Clipper hesitated, “your husband was murdered last night.” Clipper stopped as Mrs. Owens swayed in her chair as though rocked by a hard punch. He rose and came around his desk to stand beside her. “He was at home and apparently alone.” He said, watching Mrs. Owens’s face closely.
“Murdered! Who… how…” she stuttered. “Did you catch him? Was it a robbery?”
Clipper shook his head. It looks like he was asleep and someone came into his room and stabbed him.” he said, and then asked quietly, “Mrs. Owens, do you have a key to the house?”
The woman frowned. “Of course I have a key. I… oh, no,” she said, realizing what he was asking, “I… I wasn’t there last night, I…”
Clipper held up his hand and stepped back to his desk. “Mrs. Owens,” he said, “this is a necessary part of the routine. I’m going to record the rest of our talk, and I have to start by advising you that you have the absolute right to remain silent...”
With the Miranda warning complete, Clipper asked, “Can you tell me where you were last night?”
“I was at my mothers’. We had supper and then watched TV ‘til about ten.”
“Your Mother is…?”
“Mrs. Jane Thompson. 138 Oak Street.”
“When was the last time you saw your husband?”
“I… we spoke last week.”
“What did you speak about? Did you argue?
The woman grew silent, and Clipper could see the tension stiffen her limbs.
“I understand you and your husband have been having some difficulties?” he prompted gently.
“I’m div… I was divorcing him. We separated two weeks ago, but we’re not angry with each other. We just drifted… I don’t know… he doesn’t seem to care…” Mrs. Owens slowed to a stop and then stiffened and looked Clipper in the eye. “I know what you think,” she declared hotly, “but I didn’t murder Bill! I couldn’t…”
“I don’t think anything, yet,” said Clipper interrupted calmly. “I’m just trying to gather information. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill your husband? Was he having money problems or problems at work?
“No,” she said, dully, “everyone liked Bill. He and Rupe have been good friends for years. They’ve built
a very successful software business, and money has never been an issue.” She began to cry silently, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“But somebody killed him,” Clipper said, carefully probing. “There’s no sign of forced entry and it doesn’t look like anything’s missing. Would he have had family or a friend in last night?”
Eyes down, Janice shook her head mutely, but Clipper could sense her thoughts forming.
“Missus, Owens?” he prompted.
“No.” she said, tears spilling from her eyes. He…he…”
Clipper turned off the recorder and slid a box of tissues across the desk as it became obvious that the woman was too distraught to continue. “That’s enough for now,” he said, standing, “I’ll have someone take you back to your mother’s house, and I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll need to get a formal statement, and have you take a look to make sure nothing’s missing from the house.”
Mrs. Owens made an obvious effort to compose herself. “What should I do about, ah…,” she asked uncertainly, getting to her feet.
“Once the Medical Examiner is finished with his examination, he’ll release the remains to whichever funeral home you choose. We should also be able to let you back in your house tomorrow or the next day. Understanding her silent shake of the head, Clipper walked Mrs. Owens out to the lobby and turned her over to a uniformed officer with instructions to take her to her mother’s house. On his way back to his office, he glanced at the bulletin board outside the patrol division ready room and broke into a grin. For several months, an unknown poet had been posting periodic observations on department life, most of which were generally uncomplimentary to department brass, city hall and other targets of opportunity. Speculation as to the phantom poet’s identity ran high, but he remained nameless despite the Chief’s solemn oath to find him and fire him. Clipper chuckled as he read the newest offering;
I walked my beat like I was told,
In rain and snow, in fog and cold.
Patrolled all night, in court all day,
And I did it all for last year’s pay.
It’s contract time, and once again
The city says, I feel your pain.
As a cop I know I won’t get rich,
But I need a raise, you son of a bitch!
PP
Still grinning, Clipper settled at his desk and worked steadily for an hour, writing his report of the morning’s activities, and then called his team into the conference room.
“Nobody in the neighborhood saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night. No strange vehicles, and nobody reports any problems at the house in the past.” reported Detective Edward Angelo, glancing at his notebook. “We talked to everybody on the street except for the woman directly across, a Mrs. Eunice Butler, who’s apparently gone shopping.”
Sgt. Peters scratched his head. “We found the wife at her mother’s, and she acted ok, but I think we need to take a close look at her. Got Rupert Jones and his wife on tape. She backs his alibi for last night, and that sounded ok to me, but I had the feeling that Jones knows more than he’s telling about a possible suspect. I’ll hit him again tomorrow. I think we’re looking at someone close. I spoke to the ID guys, and it doesn’t look like there was any forced entry, and nothing seems in the house seems disturbed. Looks like this guy died because someone was mad at him.”
Clipper reflected on his talk with the Janice Owens. “Well, the wife looked ok to me in the initial interview, but let’s talk to her mother and look at her activity for the past couple days. We’ll need to get her back in tomorrow for a statement and a walk-through anyway.”
At that moment, Officer Dave Adams, the department’s chief identification specialist, came in with his preliminary report. “Scene’s still secure,” he said, dropping heavily into a chair. “We’ll need to hit it again tomorrow but, so far, there’s nothing obvious. We vacuumed and took the bed sheets and lifted about a million latents, and we’ll be taking a closer look at all that. Looks like the whole thing happened right in the bedroom, nothing else disturbed. The ME will do the post tomorrow, but I think the single stab wound was it, and we couldn’t find any kind of blade in the house that looked like a match.”
“All right,” Clipper said, “listen up. John, you and Ken take Owens. Dig for business problems, other women, and financial activity, anything that might go to motive.” Clipper turned to Detective Angelo. “Ed, I want to know everything there is to know about Rupert Jones and Mrs. Owens, and everything they did, minute by minute, from yesterday morning ‘til right now. Take one of the guys to help.” To the ID officer, “Dave, I want you at the autopsy and let’s try to nail down time of death and the weapon. I also need those prints deciphered ASAP.”
Clipper started back to his office when he was intercepted by Paula, the criminal division receptionist and secretary.
“The chief’s looking for you.” she said, handing him a stack of reports for his in-basket. “He’s got one of the city councilmen with him.”
Clipper grimaced. “Great, just what I needed.”
At age forty-nine, Bangor’s Chief of Police, Albert Norris II, was a glib administrator who had been hired a year ago from outside the department based on a spotless twenty year west coast law enforcement record and a terrific oral interview. To veteran members of the department, it was obvious that his prior twenty years included no investigative and very little actual enforcement experience. He looked great in his crisply tailored uniforms and was the absolute master of the budget and the ten second sound bite, but he and Clipper rarely saw eye to eye on operational issues.
Clipper was ushered into the chief’s office by Miss Elliot, the chief’s secretary, where he stood silently as Chief Norris chatted with the other man in the room, ignoring him for thirty seconds.
“Ah, Lieutenant Clipper,” the chief finally said. “Good of you to join us. You know Councilman Bass?”
Clipper shook hands with the city councilor he had known since high school. “Afternoon, Ed,” he said, ignoring the chief’s quick frown. “You getting’ in any fishing?”
“Ah, Councilman Bass has a project he’s going to need a little help with,” interjected the chief, “and I think you’d be just the man for the job. Mr. Bass is heading up the City’s effort to recreate the Edgewink Gang’s capture for Founders’ Day. It needs to be realistic from every angle, and I want you to pass off whatever you’re doing to your sergeant, and assign yourself as an advisor to this project.”
Clipper swallowed his sudden surge of anger, knowing better than to show internal dissension in front of the Councilman. “Chief, I’m already up to my ears in the homicide we had today,” he said reasonable, “and even without that, the division’s got a pretty heavy load. I really need to stay on the job, but I’d be happy to help the council on my own time.”
Chief Norris smiled. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said, it’s been my experience that no one is irreplaceable. We’ll transfer a couple of patrol guys into the division if it gets too busy, but we need our best foot forward with this reenactment.” He turned to the Councilman. “Consider it done, Mr. Bass,” he said. The good lieutenant will be in your office first thing tomorrow morning.” As soon as the councilman had taken his leave, Chief Norris turned to Clipper and held up a cautionary hand. “We are not going to discuss this further,” he said. “If you’re not happy with your assignment, any further discussions we have today will be about the possibility of your transfer to the traffic division.”
Clipper nodded curtly and turned on his heel. He knew even Norris was not stupid enough to actually decapitate his criminal division, but he had no stomach for a pointless political skirmish. He smiled politely as he passed through Miss Elliot’s outer office, her power behind the throne was legendary and it paid to stay in her good graces, but then stormed coldly down the hall to his own office, nearly running over John Peters in his blind anger.
“What did No-Ass have to say?” quipped Peters with a grin.
�
�He said you’re in charge while I go play politics,” snarled Clipper slamming his fist into the door frame. “That damned political…” Clipper drew himself up with a visible effort. “I’ve been assigned to assist the council in a recreation of the Edgewink gang shooting, and you’re going to have to run the division until I can get out of it. You’ll lead the Owens thing, and request a couple of guys out of patrol for the light stuff. I’ll be here whenever I can get away.”
“Speaking of Owens,” said a suddenly sober Peters, “We caught up to the neighbor we missed in the initial neighborhood, and she says the wife was at the house last night about 1100 hours.”
“Huh,” mused Clipper, a strange sense of disappointment tempering his anger, “I guess I missed that one. Well, she’ll keep until tomorrow. Let’s see if we can get some hard evidence before we bring her in.”
“Oh! I checked the F.I. cards, too.” Guess who was wandering around Broadway last night?”
Without waiting for a reply, Peters glanced at his notebook and said, “Broadway and Summerset, 0045 hours, Randolph Pelky.”
F.I., or field interrogation cards were a holdover from earlier times when patrol officers made note of people who were out and about in their patrol areas at odd times or under suspicious circumstances. They were still a useful tool and the report box usually held a few of the yellow cards at the end of each night shift.
Clipper grin was not pleasant. “So, Peeps was in the neighborhood,” he said, almost to himself. Randolph ‘Peeps’ Pelky was well known to the Bangor Police Department. “Find him, and get his weasel-ass in here,” he said.
Clipper turned as Lieutenant Josh Preston, the department’s public information officer leaned into the office. “We’ve got two, five and the News out front,” he said. “You want to give me a statement, or talk to them yourself.
“Probably easier if I do it,” Clipper said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll keep you in the loop as we go.”
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