Dear Crossing (The Ray Schiller Series)
Page 2
Woody brushed perspiration from his forehead though the temperature was cool, the sun still low in the sky. “Claims? You’re saying you doubt his story?”
“I’m saying he’s a suspect at this point.” Ray pulled his cap farther down on his brow. “Just because you may have gone to school with the guy or shared a few laughs over a beer or something doesn’t mean he’s above suspicion.”
“Look, you arrogant—”
“Sorry.” Ray moved on quickly, the simple apology leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “I’m just saying something might’ve set him off. Maybe she criticized the job he did, or maybe they argued over his bill. Who knows?”
“I don’t buy it. Barton’s laidback—levelheaded.” Woody turned his back to the bloody tree stump. “Besides, why would he incriminate himself by leaving his axe behind?”
“Maybe he panicked,” Ray said. “Or it might’ve been his way of trying to throw us off the track, knowing it would probably be the last thing we’d expect him to do.”
“That’s crazy, Ray. Ted’s not the type.”
“Now there’s a scientific approach.”
“Don’t worry. If the evidence points in his direction, I’ll get scientific real damn fast. In the meantime, I’m going on gut instinct.”
“Okay, but don’t get too attached to that. Barton’s reactions did seem genuine to me, though. He was still as green as grass when he left.” He looked back at the stump. “What happened was probably unpremeditated…especially if someone else did it. If you plan to kill someone, you don’t leave your choice of weapon to chance.”
Woody tipped his hat back off his damp brow. “So, the axe was a weapon of opportunity.”
“More than likely.”
Ray and Woody walked back toward the house as Chuck Wilke and two other officers approached from the front yard. As first responding officer, Ray gave them a brief rundown before issuing orders. “I want the entire area cordoned off. Create a wide perimeter. Unwanted spectators are going to start showing up soon. Keep them back when they come—as far away as possible. No exceptions.” Ray told Officer Rodgers, “Station yourself at the front entrance. You’re in charge of the logbook. No unnecessary personnel inside. Got it?”
Woody glanced around the property. “Chuck, Where’s Neil?”
Chuck Wilke hiked his pants up over his beach ball belly. “Still at Hank Kramer’s place, I guess. The old fart’s got a missing cow.”
“I know,” Woody said. “Kramer called me about it at home this morning. Twice.”
“Neil will find it, Chief. He prob’ly earned a cow-tracking badge in Eagle Scouts or something.” A chuckle set his stomach in motion.
Woody cut his deputy’s laughter short. “The damn cow can wait. I need him here. Now.”
“Irene might’ve had trouble reaching him, Chief. He and his radio are probably out of range. He’s likely to be out in some field, sidestepping cow patties.”
“All right, never mind. Get busy.”
As Wilke hurried away, Ray pointed to a tree growing alongside the second-floor balcony. “Broken branch. See it?”
Woody shielded his eyes, trying to locate the cracked limb. “The means of entry?”
“That’s my guess. If the balcony door was unlocked, only a ladder propped against the side of the house would’ve given the perp easier access.”
“Shit,” Woody said, crossing his arms. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to go through this entire place inch by inch right now.”
“The BCA would hand us our heads. Whoever did this was already long gone by the time I got here. I found muddy footprints upstairs in the master bedroom. The mud’s dry. It confirms entry was probably made through the balcony window.”
Woody nodded. “So someone climbs the tree and gets inside. Mrs. Davis hears or sees him and takes off through the French doors. He gives chase and catches her out back near the axe and—”
Ray twisted his neck, trying to loosen the tight muscles. “Judging from the condition of the living room, they must’ve had a confrontation there before Valerie Davis made it outside.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t see any blood in there. It figures she had to have made it out of the house before the axe came into the picture.” He drew a deep breath. “I can show you where the mud upstairs came from if you want to see.”
On the move, Woody hollered to Chuck Wilke, “Everything under control over there?”
Wilke gave him a thumbs-up as Officer Neil Lloyd stumbled outside through the French doors. He hunched over, retching. He straightened up, his face as flushed as a tropical sunset.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” Ray hollered.
Neil wiped his mouth. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything.”
“You had no business being in there in the first place. Rodgers is supposed to be keeping unauthorized personnel out of the house. What the hell is he doing?”
Neil wiped his mouth again. “He was heading into the woods. I think he’s taking a leak.”
“Geezus.”
“It’s no big deal. I told you I didn’t touch anything.”
“No big deal? You’re damn lucky you didn’t puke inside. As it is, you could’ve just upchucked on something crucial out here.”
“Enough,” Woody said. “Neil, help the others secure the area. Ray walked away as Woody stopped Neil. “Hey, did you find Kramer’s cow?”
Neil nodded. “It was dead—in the last place Kramer said it would be.”
“That figures. The miserable old bastard’s not happy unless he’s stirring up trouble.”
Officer Cooper, a middle-aged cop with middle-age spread, approached Woody.
Waiting impatiently at the south side of the house, Ray tried to interpret their body language as the two men talked briefly.
As Woody rejoined him, he announced, “New issue. Suppose someone knew Barton left the axe behind. That would make it an inviting choice of weapons. It couldn’t be traced like a gun and it would throw suspicion elsewhere—on Barton in this case.”
Ray turned his back to the glare of the sun just coming over the crest of the Davises’ property. “Unless Barton told someone he’d left it here, that’s a stretch.”
“Not if someone saw the axe sitting there. Paul Davis was here yesterday, Ray.”
“Her husband was here?” Ray said.
“That’s what Coop just told me. He did the property checks yesterday morning and saw Paul Davis coming out of the house. The two of them even talked for a minute before Davis excused himself and left. Coop heard Barton’s chainsaw, so Barton was already at work out back.”
“Where’s Davis now?”
“Back in the Cities as far as I know. Crap. I’m going to have to have the authorities there notify him about his wife. Better them than me, I suppose.”
“Chances are he already knows. You know the statistics as well as I do.”
Woody started away. “I’ve got to get the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension rolling on this.”
“Already done—the BCA and the medical examiner, too. We’d better finish cordoning off this area fast.”
“Right,” Woody said. “This place is going to turn into a parade ground in a hurry.”
“Probably sooner than you think,” Ray told him. “The media’s going to turn this town into a three-ring circus. The press, TV and the rubberneckers are going to be crawling out of the woodwork.”
Woody looked toward the sound of approaching sirens. “Yeah. The wife of Paul Davis—daughter of Chester Stockton. A woman with connections to two high-profile men. We couldn’t keep the media away with artillery fire.”
“You’ve got that right.” Ray gestured toward the foundation of the house and the broad strip of soil recently tilled for Valerie Davis’s spring planting. “Take a look at this.” Deep boot prints remained in the earth turned to mud by Friday night’s rain. Ray held his foot over one of the impressions for comparison. “Probably size eleven or better—wide.”
“No, but a man in his position would probably hire someone to do his dirty work for him. You want me to help with perimeter control?” Ray asked.
“No, I need you with me.”
The statement comprised an order, but underlying the directive, Ray noted a clear admission and a small piece fell from the chip lodged on his shoulder.
3
Paul Davis walked into the Widmer police station, targeting Woody, who was talking with one of his men. “I want to see my wife. Where is she?” Every hair was in place, his clothing impeccable as always, but he seemed as tightly wound as piano wire. Davis barked, “I said where is she?”
Ray stayed at his desk, dissecting Davis’s appearance and behavior.
Trying to direct him toward his office Woody approached with his arm extended. “Mr. Davis, if you’ll come with me—”
“I want answers and I want them now. I’m not moving another inch until you tell me what’s happened.”
“Sir,”—Woody took him by the elbow— “come into my office. I’ll tell you all I can, but I’d rather we talk privately.”
Unaccustomed to taking orders, Davis bristled, but followed, his body rigid, his patrician face frozen in a grimace. Woody gestured Ray inside where he took up a spot beside one of two gray filing cabinets.
“Mr. Davis, I think you’ve already met Officer Schiller.”
“Damn it, stop stalling.” The tension in his voice swelled to a new level. “Tell me what happened to my wife.”
Woody braced himself. “It appears she died of blood loss. That and possibly shock.”
Davis dropped into a chair like his legs had snapped. Elbows on his knees, he clutched his graying temples and sagged against the back of the chair, hands lying limp on his lap. “I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “You say it was blood loss. In God’s name, how? The officers who notified me refused to give any details. What kind of accident did my wife have?”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident,” Woody said. “Your wife was killed by an intruder.”
“An intruder?” Davis repeated it as though he didn’t understand. “A burglar?”
“We don’t think so. Nothing appears to have been taken. We’ll need you to verify that later.”
“Was she…?” The unspoken word seemed to catch in Paul Davis’s throat.
“There was no sexual assault,” Woody told him. “So far, we haven’t been able to establish a motive.”
“Who would kill her?” Davis’s voice cracked. “For what reason?”
Ray stepped closer. “We hoped you might be able to tell us.”
“I have no idea. None.”
“Is there someone who might’ve held a grudge of some sort? Someone who might stand to gain something by her death?”
Davis hesitated, his expression changing subtly. “No, nobody.”
“Don’t be too quick to rule that out,” Ray said. “When you’ve had a chance to think—”
“How?” The question gushed out of Davis’s mouth. “How was she killed? I mean…” He couldn’t finish.
“Her left arm was severed by an axe,” Woody said, “…just below the elbow.”
Davis rocked forward and back. “Oh, dear God.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Davis.”
Several moments passed in silence. Ray went to the water cooler, filled a paper cup and offered it to him.
Davis took it in a trembling hand, emptying the cup in a single gulp. “When did this happen?”
“We estimate the time of death was between ten and twelve last night,” Ray said.
“The time of death…” Davis said the words as though he were testing the feel of them on his tongue.
“The medical examiner will be able to pinpoint it more accurately after the autopsy.”
The paper cup slipped from Davis’s fingers. “Is an autopsy necessary?”
“I’m afraid so,” Woody said.
Davis’s knuckles whitened around the arms of the chair. “An axe you said. That man…The one Valerie hired…He—”
“We’ve checked his story,” Woody told him. “He was in town the entire evening—nowhere near your lake home at that time. Several men are willing to swear he was with them at a local bar from 9:00 p.m. until closing. He never left the entire night.”
“The axe is his,” Ray added, “but he’s not our man. After he took that tree down for you on Saturday, he forgot his axe on your property. When he came back for it this morning, he discovered your wife’s body.”
Davis’s shoulders sagged.
Woody moved to his side. “I wish we could make this easier for you. All I can do is promise that we’ll find out who did this.”
Davis’s voice steadied. “Has anyone notified Valerie’s father?”
“No, Mr. Stockton hasn’t been informed yet.” Woody slipped his hands into his pockets. “I understand that your father-in-law is in frail health. We thought it might be better coming from someone closer to him—someone who might know the best way to break the news, but if you’d rather have us—”
“No, you’re right. I’ll do it.” He stood, preparing to leave.
“Sir,” Woody said, “we need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Now?”
“I’m sorry. The sooner we fill in the missing pieces of this puzzle, the sooner we’ll be able to make some headway. We can’t afford to wait.”
Davis reseated himself. “Then ask your questions.” He draped his forearms over the chair’s metal armrests.
On the opposite side of the desk, Woody mirrored his pose. “According to one of my officers, you were at home with your wife yesterday—Saturday morning.”
“Yes, I was there.”
“When did you and your wife arrive?”
“On Friday. She left Minneapolis earlier in the day. I came up later.”
“What time?”
“I arrived around eleven. Maybe a little later.”
“So, you drove up separately.”
“Yes. I returned to Minneapolis Saturday morning.”
“What time?”
“I didn’t check, but it was early. I was in a hurry to get back to the Cities.”
“I see,” Woody said. “But when you left your house, Officer Cooper recalls you saying you were going into Widmer.”
“Yes, I forgot. That’s right. I did make a short stop in town first.”
“And when did you return to the house?”
“I didn’t. I still haven’t.”
“You didn’t go back to your summer house at all on Saturday?”
“No. That’s what I just said.”
Ray stepped forward. “What was the purpose of your side trip into town yesterday morning?”
“What?” Davis’s annoyance was evident. “What difference does it make?”
“It’s a simple question. Would you answer, please?”
“What bearing does that have on my wife’s death?”
“Mr. Davis,” Ray persisted, “why did you go into town?”
“I don’t see the point of your question.” Davis glared at the two of them. “All right, fine. I wanted a cup of coffee before I left. I stopped at that little café on Main Street—The Copper Kettle.”
“Why didn’t you just have coffee at home with your wife?”
Davis hitched himself to the front of his seat. “This is asinine. Where I chose to have my morning coffee is completely irrelevant.”
“Had you and your wife parted on less than friendly terms, Mr. Davis?”
“No, Officer Schiller, we did not.”
“But you arrived late on Friday night, left early on Saturday morning and never returned to say goodbye to your wife. Sounds to me like the two of you may have parted badly.”
Color flooded Da
vis’s face. “Whatever it is you’re getting at, I suggest you watch your step.”
Ray’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “You’re not in your boardroom now. This is our playing field.”
Davis’s voice rasped, “See here, you—”
“Hold on a second.” Woody threw a warning glance at Ray. “Mr. Davis, we’re doing our job. Under the circumstances, would you want us to do any less?”
“You have no right to imply—”
“I know the questions sound harsh, but we have to ask.”
“I had nothing to do with Valerie’s death.”
The chair creaked as Woody leaned closer. “Mr. Davis, sometimes we can get farther by eliminating people than by incriminating them. In order to do that, we need answers to these questions.”
Davis loosened his grip on the chair’s armrests.
“So, how about it?” Ray asked. “Had the two of you argued?”
“No.”
“Then why the short stay?”
“I had business in Minneapolis.”
“Business? On a Saturday?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Do you make a habit of conducting business on weekends?”
Woody held his hand up. “Just a minute, Ray. Mr. Davis, why don’t you just tell us in your own words what happened Friday and Saturday.”
“All right, but it’s pointless.” Davis cleared his throat. “I joined Valerie on Friday evening around eleven. We spent the night together talking until—I don’t know, one, maybe two in the morning. When I got up on Saturday, she was still sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her by rummaging around in the kitchen, making coffee.” He dropped his face into his hands. “I just wanted to let her sleep.”
“Take your time,” Woody said.
Davis’s dark eyes shifted. “I thought I’d run into town rather than chance disturbing her. Afterward, I drove back to Minneapolis. That’s it. There’s nothing more to tell.”
“And you didn’t return to Widmer until now?”
“No. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
Ray tried a new angle of attack. “Why did the two of you drive up separately?”