“Ain’t we a pair,” Spencer laughed softly, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” Missy snuffled and asked.
He told her about his awkward experience with Joyce and how she’d threatened him with cake and they both had a much-needed laugh.
“That cake looks pretty amazing,” Missy said speculatively, eyeing the decadent dessert.
“Joyce seriously makes the best chocolate cake in the world,” Spencer told her gravely.
“Watch it young man, you’re talking to a pro,” she reminded him. “I do believe I’m gonna have to check out the competition.”
“Should I get some plates?” Spencer smiled.
“Forget plates, honey, just bring us some forks,” Missy directed.
The two demolished the cake while watching the end of the basketball game, and Missy fell asleep against Spencer’s shoulder. Carefully easing out from under her head and replacing his shoulder with a sofa cushion, he covered up the exhausted woman and went home, making sure to text Chas and give him a heads up.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Chas Beckett was grateful that he could work from the privacy of his office suite at his PI Agency most of the time, but when he needed to review evidence in a case it became problematic, because he couldn’t break the chain of custody by removing it from the police station. He’d remedied that by roping his Associate Investigator, Spencer Bengal, into coming down to the department with him to walk through the case. The two men sat poring over the mountains of evidence that had been collected from Maureen Gatling’s home, and tried to find common elements. They were in the midst of reviewing photographs of the scene when Art Solinsky appeared in the doorway of the conference room that they were using. Solinsky had Chas’s old office, so when Chas had to work at the station, he’d just hole up in one of the conference rooms.
“What do you think you’re doing here, Beckett?” the polyester-clad, combover-topped detective demanded. Solinsky’s Jersey accent was pronounced.
“I don’t answer to you, Solinsky,” Chas sighed. “Go ahead and shut the door behind you,” he directed.
“Don’t think that because you’re the teacher’s pet that I’m gonna just let you waltz in here and take my case,” his tone was menacing, and Spencer stood to his full height, ready to spring.
“Take it up with the Chief,” Chas said dismissively, then turned his attention back to the photos that he’d been perusing.
Solinsky took a step into the room, his jaw clenched, and Spencer was in his face, looming over him before he ever saw the young man move.
“Don’t even think about it,” the veteran warned quietly. “It won’t end well for you.”
“What, you hiring goons to protect you now, Daddy BigBucks?” Solinsky sneered, but backed off. “You’re gonna hear about this, you can bank on that,” his voice shook with rage and he stormed from the room.
“Well, that was pleasant,” Spencer commented, coming back to the table.
“He’ll be gone soon,” Chas mumbled, clearly distracted. “Look at this,” he pushed a series of photos over to Spencer.
“Footprints along the back of the house that terminate under the kitchen window,” he looked at the first pic. “Footprints consistent with the ones under the window, heading away from the property…wow, they were able to follow these prints for three blocks?” the young man wondered.
“It was right after a rain, so the prints were in the mud and the person who may have been the killer headed directly toward the college, according to soil samples and impressions that were made when he cut through a vacant lot.”
“Do we have shoe matches from suspects?”
“Forensics says that it looks to be a men’s ten and a half athletic shoe. Both the stalker and the victim’s son were found to have shoes that might fit the description.”
“What about the boyfriend?”
“The boyfriend doesn’t own athletic shoes, if he’s to be believed.”
“Do you think he’s lying?”
Chas tented his fingers under his chin. “Hard to say. Right now, my focus is on the stalker, Blake Mauzey. He made several phone calls to the victim, including one the night before her death. We’re working on getting records of his texts, which requires a subpoena, so it’ll take some time.”
“What about the other suspect? The boyfriend?”
“I’m not ruling him out either, and quite frankly, something seemed more than a bit off about the son as well,” the detective pursed his lips.
“So, where do we go from here?” Spencer asked.
“Let’s keep digging through this evidence. I feel like there may be something that we’re missing.”
“Do we have the coroner’s report back yet?”
“Not yet. That might help shed some light on things too. After we finish up here, I want to go back to the house too. We can poke around outside and see if the techs overlooked anything.”
“Those guys are typically wickedly thorough,” Spencer reminded him. “They’re obsessed with the details.”
“I like that about them,” Chas nodded. “But I just want to walk through over there one more time.”
“Has the tape been taken down?” Spencer asked.
“Yeah, a few days ago.”
“So, the scene could essentially be compromised by now,” the young man pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s worth a shot.”
“True enough,” Spencer nodded.
**
“Can I help on this one, please?” Fiona McCamish begged her boss as they stood over Maureen Gatling’s body on the ice-cold stainless-steel table.
“This one isn’t exactly rocket-science, so go ahead, walk me through what you see so far,” Tim shrugged.
The case was cut and dried as far as he was concerned. Unless there were some internal injuries found during the autopsy, it was a simple case of blunt force trauma.
“Can I make the incisions after the external assessment?” Fiona’s eyes went wide with hope.
Tim gave her a look.
“Oh, come on! You never let me do the fun stuff,” she complained.
“When you’re done with your courses, you can begin practical training. Not before.”
Timothy Eckels was serious about his work, and would allow nothing less than perfection to take place in his mortuary.
“Now, tell me what you see,” he ordered, pushing his heavy glasses up with the back of his gloved hand.
“Blunt force trauma, resulting in shattered skull and physical injury to the brain,” Fiona shone her headlamp on the area and peered closer. “The weapon used had an edge to it which had a ninety-degree angle,” she continued, a bit startled when Tim interrupted her focus.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because of this clear line right here. The coloration is really pronounced on this line,” she gestured without touching the victim, other than to hold back the hair surrounding the wound. “And it fades out as it goes away from the center.”
“Precisely,” Tim nodded, impressed. “What else?”
“The perp swung the object with his right hand, indicating that he is most likely right-handed,” Fiona observed, making a swinging motion in the air.
“Correct, but what makes you so certain that the killer was male?” he tested her.
“Because of the angle. You could tell by the position that she was in on the bedroom floor that she had been standing when the blow came, most likely running away from the perp. The angle shows that whoever inflicted this head wound was taller than the victim, by quite a bit. While it’s possible that she was killed by a very tall female, it’s far more likely that the murderer was male,” she deduced.
“Yes, that’s a pretty good bet. Do you see anything else that may be significant?”
“Yep,” Fiona nodded.
“Well?” Tim prompted.
“She didn’t die right away.”
“How can you tell?” he stared at
her over the top of his glasses.
“Because of the blood. She had smudges of it on her hand and across her cheek, which show that she didn’t die right away. She put her hand on the wound and it brushed across her face before it dropped into the position where we found it at the scene. I’m guessing that you already tested the blood smears on her face and hand and found that it was hers?”
“Indeed,” Tim nodded and almost smiled. Almost. “And what does this tell us about the cause of death?”
“She didn’t die as a direct result of the trauma. The official cause would be exsanguination. She bled out. The murderer left her to suffer and die,” Fiona summed up.
“I do believe there may be hope for you, yet,” Tim teased, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a half smile.
“Does that mean I can do some cutting for the autopsy?”
“Not even close.”
**
Chas and Spencer pulled up in front of Maureen Gatling’s former residence and were surprised to see a battered small pickup truck in the driveway.
“Surely the landlord hasn’t already rented this place?” Spencer’s eyebrows were raised.
“I wouldn’t even think that they would have had time to clean up the scene yet. Our guys are thorough, but they needed to replace carpeting and clear out belongings at the very least,” Chas frowned.
“Maybe that’s what’s happening now,” Spencer guessed.
“Most likely. Let’s go find out,” Chas unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door handle.
The front doorbell still hadn’t been fixed, so when they approached the house, Chas pounded on the front door.
“Go away,” a male voice yelled from inside.
Chas and Spencer exchanged a surprised look.
“Well, that’s unexpected,” Spencer muttered.
Chas pounded harder on the door this time. “Calgon PD, open up!” he demanded.
They could tell by the sounds that they heard behind the door that the man inside was standing on the opposite side of the door, most likely staring at them through the peephole.
“Oh no. No, no, no! You’re not gonna get me. I see those suits, I know the government has been trying to tap into my brain. I saw that report on the TV last night. No sir, you’re not getting me,” the man yelled through the door, sounding nearly hysterical.
“Open the door or I’ll be forced to break it down,” Chas rolled his eyes and pounded again.
There was a rattling of locks, and the door opened a couple of inches. A crazed-looking eye glared out at them.
“Go away!” the man practically screamed.
“Settle down and open the door, we just want to talk with you,” Chas said calmly.
“They always say that. Right before they take you in and do experiments on you,” the man muttered, but then he shut the door, undid the chain and opened it back up again, not inviting them in, but at least standing where they could see him.
He was very thin, almost bony, and was around Spencer’s age, with long, unkempt hair and clothing which looked like it could use some serious time in the washing machine. He was barefoot.
“What’s your name?” Chas asked, trying to sound non-confrontational.
“See, I knew it,” the young man shook his head and fidgeted nervously. “First, they ask your name and then the next thing you know, you’re in a confinement facility,” his eye twitched.
“I’d rather not have this conversation down at the police station, but we can make that happen if you don’t start answering some questions,” Chas said mildly.
“Bart,” the man blurted.
“Your name is Bart? Bart what?”
“Bart Chalfie,” he held his hands up to his chest and started tapping his fingers together rhythmically.
“Nice to meet you, Bart, I’m Chas.”
“Nice, not nice. Nice, not nice,” Bart rocked back and forth.
“What are you doing here, Bart?”
“I live here. I fix things,” Bart’s eyes darted back and forth, from Chas’s feet to Spencer’s feet and back again, his chin to his chest.
“What kinds of things do you fix, Bart?”
“I fix the house. All the houses. I fix them,” his rocking got faster.
“You fix houses? Are you a handyman?”
“I’m a fixer. I fix them.”
“What are you fixing right now, Bart?”
“I didn’t fix the door,” Bart shook his head and looked stressed.
“The back door?”
Bart stopped rocking and raised his head, eyes glittering. “You did it? You broke the back door?” he whispered. “Are you breaking in to get me while I sleep?” he started hitting his temples with his fists, becoming more and more agitated.
Chas glanced at Spencer. The lock on the back door was broken when he found the body, but it looked like it had been that way for quite some time.
“Why do you live here, Bart?” Chas asked, wondering how long the man would last without having some sort of breakdown.
“I’m done, I’m done, I’m done. You go now. I fought for my country. You can’t take me out of my home. The government can’t do that. I got rights,” Bart screamed, ducked inside and shut the door. Chas let it go this time. He motioned for Spencer to walk back to the car.
“That guy’s got a few screws loose,” Spencer shook his head. “What now?”
“Now we sit in the alley behind the house and follow him when he leaves.”
“What if he sees us, won’t he freak out and just hide in the corner or something?”
“There’s a place behind the garage where we’ll be able to see him and he won’t be able to see us,” Chas replied quietly. “I found that vantage point when I was examining the scene. That’s probably where the killer waited to surprise the victim.”
They had barely pulled Chas’s nondescript sedan behind the garage, when the battered little truck pulled out of the driveway and headed east.
“Here we go,” Chas said, following the truck from far enough behind that the ultra-paranoid Bart wouldn’t see them and get suspicious.
Surprisingly, Bart headed for a decent commercial area of town, got out of his truck and entered a small office building. Chas waited until he was certain that Bart was inside the building before pulling into the parking lot.
“Well, there’s a property management office in there, maybe Bart actually works as a handyman for them,” Spencer commented.
“Let’s go find out,” Chas said, getting out of the car and striding toward the building.
Once inside, he and Spencer headed for the property management office on the left, and when they entered the reception area, Bart started howling.
“Daaaaaad…they found me. They’re going to take me away. Dad! Help! Heeeeeeeeelp,” he yelled, running down the hall behind the reception area.
“Just what in the heck is going on around here?” a large man with a bushy grey and white mustache stopped Bart in the hallway and grabbed him by the shoulders, looking past him at Chas and Spencer. “You gentlemen need something?” he frowned.
“Are you Bart’s father?” Chas asked.
The large man paled slightly. “Yeah, who wants to know?” he challenged, still holding on to his son.
“Detective Chas Beckett, Calgon PD,” Chas flashed his badge. “Can we talk to you for a minute?”
“Yeah, come on back,” he waved them forward. “Bart, go watch TV in the break room and don’t move until I tell you. We’ll get something to eat in a little bit,” he promised, steering his son to a room across the hall.
“What if it’s poisoned?” Bart asked in a stage whisper.
“I’ll make sure it isn’t. Now go on,” his father shooed him away and ushered Chas and Spencer into his simply furnished, but spacious, office.
“What did he do now?” the man whose desk name plate identified him as Ned Chalfie sighed.
“Does he get into trouble often?” Chas avoided the question.
“When he forgets to take his meds, he does.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“It’d be easier to ask what isn’t wrong with him,” Ned shook his head. “PTSD, psychosis, schizophrenia. He was fine before he went to war. Came back screwed up. Forgetful. Paranoid. He can’t hold down a job, so I’ve got him doing small repairs on my rental properties. Sometimes he wanders off. Folks don’t understand that he’s harmless, so they get scared and call the police,” Ned shrugged. “He’s got a tough road ahead of him. I do what I can.”
“We found him today when we went over to Maureen Gatling’s former residence. Is he supposed to be there?”
“Yeah, it’s one of my low-rent properties, so I told him that he could live there. I figured maybe having a place of his own to take care of might help him feel more independent.”
“He mentioned something about the back door being broken. What can you tell me about that?”
Ned closed his eyes briefly.
“He’s carrying a lot of guilt right now,” he began.
“Guilt?”
“Yeah. He was supposed to go over last week to change the lock on the back door because it was broken. Ms. Gatling had complained about it a couple of times, so I sent him over to fix it, but he never made it over there, and the next day, she was found murdered. It’s a darn shame and doesn’t have anything to do with Bart, but he keeps saying that if he had just fixed the lock, she wouldn’t have gotten killed.”
“He blames himself for the murder of Maureen Gatling?” Chas clarified.
“Yeah, crazy huh?” Ned shook his head.
“I don’t know…is it?” Chas stared levelly at him.
“Bart isn’t capable of hurting anyone, if that’s what you’re getting at. Ever since he came back from the war, he can’t deal with any kind of conflict. He couldn’t even watch the presidential debates. He was climbing the walls when they were on, even with the meds. I had to turn the TV off. He can’t play games because he can’t stand the thought of people battling it out, even on a game board.”
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