Nice fuckin’ crib, Jack thought as he approached the two-level brick home that was nestled on a cul-de-sac. He got out of the sedan and nodded at the patrolmen who were standing around conducting crowd control. It wasn’t much of a crowd—just the neighbors who lived on the block. He lifted the yellow ‘Police Do Not Cross’ tape and ducked under it, entering the crime scene. He saw Faye Miller—his rookie partner of two months. She wasn’t a rookie on the department. She’d spent five years in patrol and four in warrants, so that gave her nine years under her belt, just six years behind Jack. She was now in homicide and had to prove herself, not because she was a woman, but because she was a rookie, solving crimes from a gas station attendant being killed during a holdup to what they had on their plate at the moment, a flat out murder.
Faye, who wore jeans, a white crew neck and a lightweight navy blue blazer, walked toward Jack with two Starbucks coffee containers in her hand. “Coffee, Jack?” she asked. Her face was serious—the way it has been the past month while working with her new partner.
“The question is how do you know what I like today? I may like cream and sugar, or I just might like mine straight black, just like my women,” he told the tall and curvaceously slim woman. He wasn’t trying to hit on her, but out of sheer habit he blurted out the line. It was the way cops talked.
She held up the coffee cup in her right hand. “That’s why I brought cream and sugar.” She lowered that hand then raised the left. “And one that’s straight black.”
“Let’s get to work,” was all Jack could think to say as he took the cream and sugar from her. He watched as she gave one of the uniforms the black. “You wanted the cream and sugar?”
Faye replied, “Had a cup on the way. Just didn’t know what you wanted today. You know how you switch up on me at times. It all depends on your mood. Cream and sugar, you’re usually in a good mood. Black, shit is usually on your mind.”
Jack smiled. “Is that right, detective?”
“Just something I picked up on while working with you.”
They arrived at the front door of the home where a fresh out of the academy patrolman was standing to take their names. That was procedure for homicide crime scenes. Before anyone could enter a crime scene, their names had to be logged in so there would be a record of all who entered the scene.
As Jack signed his name he asked, “So what mood am I in?”
Faye answered, “Wife must’ve come home. You’re off the straight black.” She signed in.
Jack grinned. “Some detective, she’s still gone,” he muttered.
“Sorry, guess that’s what I get for assuming.”
“No harm,” he said as he mustered a smile then nodded toward the entrance as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “Let’s see what we got.”
The coroner was waiting to do his thing, but at Jack’s request, he waited before touching the body. The scene wasn’t gruesome by any means. He’d seen worse, though there was a lot of blood along with what smelled like bleach soaked into the mattress. The Caucasian male’s eyes were wide open. His hands were cupped over his groin, and he was on his side with his body bent almost in the fetal position.
Dr. Chan Ho Park, a tall, lanky coroner of Korean descent, who Jack had grown to know well during his six years in homicide, was writing on his notepad. “So, how long you think you’ll be?” Park asked Jack as he wrote.
“Park, you’re always in a rush. My partner and I need to do our thing,” Jack glanced over at Faye as he slid on his latex gloves to let Park know who his partner was. Jack grinned when he realized that she already had her latex on—she was one step ahead of him.
“So what do you notice about the victim? I mean, besides the obvious,” said Jack.
Detective Miller stepped toward the body, examined it closely then gave what diagnosis she could. “I would say from the position he’s in, hand covering his private area and his eyes wide open, that he was shot there first and then in the head.” She walked from the foot of the bed to the head as she continued to give her analysis. “The bleach water is a way of getting rid of evidence, and I would say the killer was someone who had a dislike for the victim.”
“Why is that?” asked Jack who was following Miller as she walked and talked.
“To shoot a man twice in the private area first, then the head,” she scanned the room looking at all the male officers then continued. “I think it’s safe to say that it wasn’t from bad sex, or a lot of men would be catching bullets every night.”
A crime scene investigator, who was taking photos, and Park, snickered at Faye’s statement. She had a way of slipping in a jab to men. She was like that, comfortable and loose around all the male officers, and she had to be since they dominated the department.
Jack was impressed. The crime scene unit had already taken many photos and was almost finished with lifting what prints they could. One of the crime scene investigators informed Faye that the shower was still running when the maid had arrived, and that she had turned it off. Faye had made a note to question the woman on what all she’d seen, touched and/or moved. She relayed the information to Jack. He told her to have a patrolman take the maid to the station and hold her there until he arrived.
The maid had arrived at the house before the squads, who were dispatched as soon as the reporter, Andrea Jones, from the Tribune called 9-1-1 after she’d received the call. Speaking of Andrea Jones, she was outside cooing one of the black uniforms who was on the other side of the yellow tape, standing bored out of his mind conducting crowd control for the all white crowd that wasn’t rowdy—just nosey. She figured he didn’t know much but picked the rookie’s brain for what he did know and found out that the man had been shot three times.
Andrea asked, “Do you know where he was shot?”
The rookie laughed slightly, then made a gun with his hand and pointed it at his private area, “The dick and then his dome.” He shook his head. “What a way to go.”
“You’re right about that,” Andrea said sarcastically as she shook her head, not at the way the man was killed, but at the way the rookie patrolman thought he was doing a good job of flirting.
Faye was walking out of the house with notebook in hand. She was writing and talking into her Bluetooth to her husband who was asking when she would be home. Faye shook her head and explained to him that this wasn’t like patrol or warrants. She was on the clock for however long it took for that day, and she was very busy. She then reminded him that they were separated and not to call her. Faye’s head jerked a bit when there was a click. Her husband was used to getting his way, but Faye was one that he was never able to control. His selfish ways were tolerated by her because he was her husband, and she loved him, but his latest antics had put their marriage at its breaking point.
Andrea noticed the blonde woman in the blazer with the badge hanging around her neck by a neck chain. The one in charge, she thought.
She waved her notepad and yelled, “Hey detective, over here!”
Faye looked at the woman and from the notepad she was waving and her look, she assumed she was a reporter. Faye continued to Jack’s sedan and retrieved her mini-cassette recorder so she could record voice notes of the scene; something Jack told her would make things significantly easier. Once she retrieved the item, she gave the young black woman a moment of her time.
Faye spoke first, “We have no comment at the moment. You can call public relations at the department later.”
“I know more than you think. Can you give me ten seconds?” she looked around at the people and patrolmen.
Faye took the hint, raised the tape and let the woman near her, giving them some privacy.
“I’m Detective Miller, go ahead and make it quick.”
“I’m the one she called, Andrea Jones. I’m Andrea Jones from the Chicago Tribune.”
Puzzled, Faye asked, “The alleged killer called you?”
“Yeah, the woman who supposedly did this. She called—”
> Faye pulled the woman even further away from everyone as she cut her off. “You received a call about what happened here?” she questioned the young woman with a furrowed brow.
“Yes. A woman called me and told me what happened. She gave me a few details, like the victim was Caucasian and that she’d shot him in the dick, oops, sorry. I mean, groin area, and then the head. Then I dialed 9-1-1 and gave them the address and information.” Andrea didn’t tell her everything, only what she wanted the detective to know. That is, until she was officially being questioned, then she’d divulge more.
Faye waved to one of the patrolmen. He eagerly came to see how he could help the detective. Most patrolmen hoped these small windows of opportunities would become stepping stones to move them from shift work in patrol and into the detective ranks someday.
“Detective?” the stout built Hispanic officer said.
“Can you hold Ms. Jones here until Detective Yancey or I come and get her?” Faye was telling him more so than asking.
“Sure, detective. No problem,” he stated. He was glad to be of assistance.
The black patrolman, who had talked to Andrea moments earlier, was a bit envious since he would have liked to have kept watch over Andrea’s petite self who was looking good even in her plain khaki pants and off white button-down shirt.
Andrea smiled as Faye walked into the house, and the patrolman offered her a seat in his cruiser. She slid on her fashionable sunglasses shielding herself from the June sun that was steadily creeping its way up the sky. She had been in the office since midnight, and one would have figured she would have been sleepy by now. But she was running on a more powerful stimulant than caffeine. What kept her awake was adrenaline. The thought of being the one a killer had sought to single out to report the murder to, had her buzzing and wondering, if and when, there would be more killings. The energetic reporter didn’t want any person to meet an untimely death, but if it was their time to meet their Maker, she wanted to be in the mix. She wanted to make a big splash at the beginning of her journalism career, maybe write a book about it.
All sorts of thoughts crossed her mind and the statement the killer made to her—‘Let the games begin’ led her to believe there would be more murders to come. The fat, rich yet deceased, Thomas Berryman, wasn’t the first.
Jack frowned as he checked his cell. It was a quarter past noon, and still there was no call from his wife. He wondered if she was home by now and was about to place a call to find out when Detective Miller came in with the reporter. She told the woman to have a seat as she gestured toward the uncomfortably looking wooden chair that was next to Jack’s desk.
“Be right back, Jack,” Faye said as she gave the reporter a look.
Andrea caught the hint and plopped her small frame into the chair that was beside the desk. It creaked when she sat in it, and she hoped it wasn’t going to collapse.
Jack smiled since he knew what she was thinking. “We’ve questioned three hundred pound men before, and the chair has never collapsed. Don’t worry, it will hold you.”
“Excuse me?” said Andrea.
He pointed. “The chair, I saw your face when it squeaked. It will hold you.”
There was a slight frown on her pretty oval face. “Oh,” was all she said.
“Let me get you another chair.” Jack headed over to one of the other detective’s desk who was out of the office. It was Sunday, and only detectives who have caught cases were in the office.
“Thanks, that’s much better,” Andrea said as she adjusted her small, yet shapely rear in the cushioned seat.
Jack, who was thirty-six, couldn’t help noticing the natural beauty Andrea possessed. He figured her to be about a decade younger than he and noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Faye read his thoughts and frowned when she saw the look on Jack’s face. She was approaching his desk with the 9-1-1 recording and a legal pad. “Are you going to take her statement, or do you want me to do it?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Faye looked up and saw a uniformed officer bringing in an average built middle-aged Hispanic woman. It was the maid. She was wearing blue sweat pants and a matching top. She looked disturbed and why not? She’d just found her employer naked and shot to death in his bed.
“You want me to?” asked Faye while pointing in the direction of the maid.
Jack nodded, and Faye smiled as she walked toward the maid and the officer. Jack shook off the thoughts of how sexy and innocent the young lady sitting before him looked and got down to business. He pulled a recorder from his desk and placed it in front of the reporter. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and it was obvious that she felt the uneasiness of being the one questioned since she was used to poking a recorder in someone’s face while taking in the accounts of a fresh news story.
“I’m going to record this interview, is that okay?” Jack asked as he positioned the small device in front of Andrea.
“Okay,” she replied softly. After observing the other cluttered desk in the office, Jack appeared to be the most organized. She had once wanted to be a cop. It was her first choice of profession when she was in high school, but once she got to Hampton University, she decided a career in journalism was a better fit for her.
Jack pressed the button on the recorder; spoke his title, name, time and date. He then spoke Andrea’s name as the person he was interviewing and began.
“So, about what time did you get the call?” Jack asked.
Andrea fidgeted, “Seven fifteen.”
“Exactly seven-fifteen, are you sure of that?” Jack asked.
“Yes. I wrote it down when I started taking notes,” Andrea answered.
“You said the caller was a female. Was there anything that would make you think that she was disguising her voice?”
Andrea shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so. She actually sounded kind of calm to me.”
“What do you mean by calm?”
“Well, she was smooth with her talking.”
Jack wanted her to elaborate. He leaned back and asked, “Smooth?”
“Yes, as if it was just another day for her. Not like she’d just killed someone,” Andrea said as she hunched her shoulders.
“If you had to take a guess, what age would you say she is?”
“Umm,” Andrea looked up at the ceiling and thought for a second. “Probably in her thirties, and she sounded a bit sophisticated.”
Jack wrote then asked, “Now, I need you to think hard. Tell us exactly what she said to you and what you said to her. Just let it flow. Whatever you can remember.”
“Okay.” Andrea took a deep breath and told Jack the conversation as best as she could. It was brief, just as it had been with the killer. There wasn’t much to go on. Nothing but the assumption there were possibly more killings to come since the killer stated ‘Let the games begin.’
2
Vanessa noticed the stares that came her way, stares from men of all ages. It was like this every day. She never missed a day of working out. One would say that she was obsessed. She would say that she was keeping father time off her ass. She was forty-three, but looked as if she wasn’t a day over thirty. That’s what a strict healthy diet, an intense workout routine and a stress free life would provide. Those were three components that she swore by to keep herself feeling and looking young. To tease the ones that stared and wondered how she did it—she increased the speed to 9.0. She was used to running her miles in under six minutes. The white Nike shirt, made to wick the perspiration away from the body and keep you cool, was soaked with sweat as was the sports bra that tried its best to keep her thirty-six c breasts from bouncing too much. Vanessa was on her fourth mile and close to her standard fifth. But today she had extra energy, and she was shooting for six, maybe seven.
She flaunted a flat stomach, nice-sized breasts, and complimenting hips with a shapely ass. Her wavy black hair was shoulder length, but at the moment, it was tied back and bouncing with every stride. Her
smooth butter pecan skin was darkened from being in the sun all day a couple of days ago while trout fishing on Lake Michigan. She didn’t care much for the sport until then. She had gone on the fishing trip to please Wilson McCarran. She was pleased with the way the date had ended. He hadn’t even bothered to try to have sex with her. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that the blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes actually liked her.
Vanessa smiled. Her pearly whites were perfect as if she’d never missed a dentist appointment in her life. Perfect, just like Dr. Wilson McCarran, who was single with no children and had close to a million in his savings, and it didn’t hurt that he lived in a huge condo in the John Hancock Building. He was thirty-nine and anxious to find a wife. One night while on the phone, he told Vanessa how he longed to find someone like her—beautiful, smart, funny and willing to do anything to please her man. She told him of her goal to be a chef and that pleased him in as much as he liked a woman with goals. Whenever he went out, he’d only meet women who were looking for the meal ticket and his expensive clothes and Lexus LS450 screamed gold digger lottery. Vanessa showed him what a real woman was about. She was self-sufficient with dreams of her own. He hadn’t read her poker face and was ready to push all his chips to the center of the table. All in was his play, a play he would soon regret.
Wilson smiled as he approached. “Finished?” he asked as he stepped on the treadmill that was next to the one Rochelle was running on.
The belt finally came to a halt, and Vanessa grabbed the water bottle that was in the cup holder. “Yep, a little over six miles,” she said before taking a healthy sip.
Wilson began pressing buttons to the treadmill he was standing on. “Rochelle, you should have told me that you were going to get here earlier than usual.” The belt to his treadmill began to move and his warm up period began.
Rochelle was the alias she used with Wilson and another man named Joshua Banks. It was a needed alias since she didn’t need the men to know her real name. That would have ruined the surprise—their demise.
The Corner II Page 27