by Matthew Boyd
She closed the notepad up and tucked it away again. Stacey’s eyes began to glaze over as she thought about it.
Looking down at her feet, she muttered, “I can’t begin to imagine how terrible this all must be for those children.”
Stacey recovered and continued to give a run-down on the investigation so far.
“The neighbors didn’t see anything or anyone unusual in the area last night or this morning. One lady said she thought there was an old car driving around she hadn’t seen in the neighborhood before, but it was dark and she was pretty unsure about it. She passed by it while driving, so she didn’t get a look at the person behind the wheel. Looks like a nice neighborhood. Most people in places like this notice anything really strange.”
Jake nodded his head in agreement and pointed to the hallway, “Let’s go take a look in the back, shall we? I’m sure the boys from forensics are just about done.”
The hallway was dark and peaceful, their footsteps echoing down it all the way to the bedrooms at the back of the house. Jake took a cursory look into the kid’s rooms. They looked just like any other, even his children’s. There were colorful posters on the walls and toys on the floor. He shuddered to think of the fear and sadness that had filled this house when they found their mother this morning.
Rounding the corner to the master bedroom, Jake saw the forensics team snapping closed the various bags and cases that accompanied them everywhere. The red-haired crime scene photographer snapped one last picture and began packing up his camera. They all looked tired, and with good reason. Murder and suicides were not all that common in Winchester.
There was plenty of standard criminal activity, such as drugs and theft, but the forensics team was used to a much less busy pace than there had been lately. They were still trying to focus on the last suicide from a few days ago, which had become a local media blitz, when this one happened. The county coroner leaned against the doorframe of the nearby closet with his arms crossed impatiently, waiting for the go ahead to take the body to the morgue. He had a similar look on his face.
Mike Woo, the lead forensics investigator, took off his blue nitrile gloves with a snap, balling them up and tossing them into the biohazard bag. He saw Jake and Stacey waiting to talk to him. With a sigh, Mike said to them, “Hey guys. Another one huh? I’m starting to wonder if this is all part of some crazy suicide cult or something. You would think they would at least get together and drink the kool-aid all at once or something. Would make my job a whole lot easier.”
Jake and Stacey just gave Mike a strange look and continued to listen.
Mike rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the tension. “Anyway, not a lot in there, uhm, except the dead lady in the tub. From what we can tell, looks like she took a razor knife and slashed her wrists and arms multiple times. No signs of a struggle or anything. We got some prints from the room, but they are most likely from the victim or the family. She’s got a small cut on her neck. Looks like she may have attempted to cut herself there, which is a bit unusual. Not a bruise on her though, from what I could tell. The rest of the room is totally clean; all the blood is in the tub.”
Jake asked, “Did she leave a note or anything? According to Stace, this was another one that didn’t match the profile for someone that was depressed or suicidal.”
Mike replied, “Nope. No note. The only thing that looks really suspicious to me is that she cut her self so many times, like she really wanted to die in a hurry. Most wrist-slashers I’ve seen just cut once on each wrist. I had one a few years ago though that slashed himself so many times I kept losing count.”
Mike gestured like he was holding a blade and mimicked slashing himself all the way up both arms, making a small “swish” sound with each pass of the pretend blade.
“I guess the M.E. can check it out and make sure it is self-inflicted or not, but everything else lines up like a suicide. Looking at her skin and body temperature, she probably offed herself sometime late last night. That’s it. We’ll let you know if we discover any trace evidence or anything else.”
With that, the rest of the forensics team finished packing up and headed out the door.
Once all the techs were out of the way, Jake entered the master bathroom. The air was thick with the metallic smell of blood. A drop of water fell from the faucet into the bathtub with a plop, creating small ripples across the previously calm surface. Claire Miller was lying naked in a bathtub full of her own blood, with her eyes open and staring up at the ceiling. Her skin was as pale as alabaster and her body looked like every ounce of life had been drained from it. The water was so red that she appeared to disappear from the neck down.
Jake looked at her face for a moment, recalling the last few victims. He would have all the answers if only he could talk to them. Examining the room a bit further, Jake turned up the bathroom rugs only to discover clean floors that had recently been replaced. The entire bathroom looked like it had seen a remodel in the last month or so, which was not generally something that suicidal, depressed people put much thought into. He opened the medicine cabinet and saw the typical contents; aspirin, lotions, band-aids, nothing unusual. No anti-depressants or self-help books. Nothing here was out of place at all.
Jake started running it through his mind, “Maybe all these suicides were just coincidental; maybe the moon was driving people mad, maybe…” then Jake saw the tiny smudge on the edge of the toilet tank lid.
It was barely there, and the light had hit it just right. It was almost like rubbing a pencil eraser across a clean desk. Any other bathroom and it might have gone unnoticed, but nevertheless there it was. Jake put on his gloves and took a close look at the smudge. It looked like someone had simply smeared a bit of water over the edge of the lid. There were no discernable fingerprints. Jake carefully lifted the lid and looked down into the water in the tank. There was a small object inside which he was not able to make out.
Jake looked over at Stacey and tilted his head, saying, “Here goes nothin’.“
Rolling up his sleeve, Jake reached into the cold water with his teeth clenched and retrieved the object. It was a chess piece.
“How did you know to look in there?” Stacey asked, shocked.
Jake turned the pawn around in his gloved fingers, taking in every detail. It appeared to be a normal, white, pawn chess piece. There were no weird markings. It was relatively heavy and composed of some type of stone. Stacey held out a clear plastic baggie, and Jake dropped the pawn into it.
“Hmmm. I saw a little smudge over on the corner of the toilet lid. Thought maybe someone had gotten in there. That oughta give forensics something to do, like they aren’t busy enough already, huh?”
Jake smiled as Stacey zipped up the baggie. He rose to his feet and removed his gloves, also tossing his into the biohazard bag. With a thumb pointed towards the bathroom, he motioned to the coroner and said, “All yours, Harry.”
“Thanks a lot, Harris,” the coroner said with a hint of sarcasm. “I can’t wait to fish her outta there.”
Jake walked outside the house, examining the perimeter. The grass along the sidewalk had been edged to perfection. Blooming flowers had sprouted up in a carefully arranged pattern in a little natural area in the front yard around a post lamp. There were giant, well-groomed azalea bushes lining the front and rear walls of the house. Colorful pink and white flowers covered every bush. Each bed of vegetation was surrounded by a lush, newly spread layer of mulch. It was obvious that the Millers took a great deal of pride in maintaining their home.
“Let’s see what we can find out here,” Jake said as he spread the bushes aside and began to take took a closer look around the window of the master bedroom.
“The mulch appears to have been disturbed here a bit,” Stacey commented, “But that could be from an animal or anything, really.”
The windows were clean and closed up tight. The frame had only the faintest hint of pollen on it, the universal signal that spring and hay fever a
llergies were quickly approaching. Then, on the underside of the window frame, Jake spotted two unmistakable thumb prints. They were plain splotches and would never give up a fingerprint for identification, but someone had obviously pushed up there to open the window.
Standing on his tip-toes, Jake could see marks where someone had similarly pushed down on the window to close it. The window was not very high off the ground. It would have been easy for a tall man to open and climb right in without a ladder. Heading back inside, Jake noted that the window was not locked. There did not appear to be any dirt or debris on the carpet.
Scratching his chin, Jake stared off into space for a moment.
“Whoever got in here was meticulous, if anyone did come in through that window. I’m of the persuasion that this has just become a homicide, Stacey, or at least a bit more than meets the eye. What do you think?”
Stacey looked doubtful as she said, “I don’t know, Jake. How do we know one of the kids didn’t put that thing in the toilet or something? For all we know it could have come from anywhere. I’ll admit the marks on the window are a bit suspicious though.”
Jake cracked his knuckles loudly and said, “Well, we could ask the kids about the chess piece, but they are probably too young to be reliable and they are traumatized by all this mess. Tell ya what, let’s go check out something. I have an idea that maybe something got missed or maybe even overlooked at the last suicide. We can take my car, get Carl or somebody to drive yours back to the station. Heck, I’d better call my wife. I have a feeling that this day just got a lot longer.”
Chapter 4
The silver 2002 Ford Crown Victoria pulled up into the hilly driveway, its axles squeaking and the suspension bouncing around the passengers inside. The old car had seen a lot of action when it was first commissioned into the police force years ago; plenty of high-speed chases and minor crashes. Now it belonged to Detective Jake Harris, who had nothing but respect for the old clunker. Turning off the engine, Jake peered out the windows at the property. Everything looked the same as the last time he was here. The house had only been vacant a few days and police tape was still covering the front door.
“Alright, let’s scope it out Stace.”
“Right behind you, Holmes,” Stacey said with a snicker.
He and Stacey exited the vehicle and wandered around the outside of the house. Only a few days ago news reporters and their vans had littered the street in front of the house, all of them hoping to be the first to get the scoop on any new information. The resident there had been Father James Hodgkins, priest of the First Church of Christ just down the street, and victim of the last known suicide in the county.
The Father had a large and devoted congregation and was well known for his rousing sermons and dedicated faith. He was an active member of the community and contributed much of his time to helping with volunteer organizations for the less fortunate. Father Hodgkins was a loved and happy man, something that made his apparent suicide all that much more surprising to everyone that knew him.
The WPD had launched a rigorous investigation into his death, devoting all of their available manpower to it and leaving no stone unturned. The forensics team and investigators had pored over seemingly every detail of the man’s home, habits, and relationships. They had found nothing. Each and every member of the church had been questioned repeatedly, but motive for murder could never be found.
“I know what you’re thinking Stace,” Jake mumbled, feeling his now-swollen lymph nodes in his neck, “the team went through this place with a fine-tooth comb. So how are we gonna find anything they didn’t?”
She knew Jake far too well to even try to deceive her thoughts to him. It was obvious she thought they were grasping at straws.
Stacey shook her head and spoke with a tone that expressed her doubt, “You hit the nail on the head. I remember seeing Mike covered head to toe with insulation from the attic,” Stacey cracked a smile at the thought. “They went through every speck of dust in the place, trying to rule this one out as anything but a suicide. I think the phrase, ‘needle in the haystack’ might be appropriate here, Jake.”
Jake tore the police tape off the front door and entered the house. The off-white blinds and curtains were all closed, but someone had forgotten a small side lamp and left it on. Father Hodgkins was not a deeply private person. The investigators had closed all the windows to discourage nosy gawkers from trying to get a peek inside.
Stacey started turning on more lights so they could see. They both walked into the now brightly-lit kitchen, where Father Hodgkin’s body was discovered. There was a chalk outline of his body still marked on the floor where he had collapsed. A concerned neighbor had looked in the window and seen him there and called police. Strewn across the floor and inside his stomach were the remains of a bottle of the prescription heart medication, Tranzidek. The fatal overdose had killed him within 30 minutes, stopping his heart. There were no bruises, scrapes, or unusual damage to the body.
Jake strolled right across the kitchen and into the small study in the next room. Clicking on a light, he wondered over to the one thing here he thought might give them a clue; a small collection of various board and parlor games the old Father had stowed away in an old closet.
“I remembered seeing all this stuff in here before when we were doing our investigation. Didn’t think much of it till now.” Jake said, reaching up high and pulling down the cardboard box full of games.
It was barely holding together anymore, and just after getting it out of the closet, the bottom of the box tore open and out spilled Monopoly, Clue, Risk, Chutes and Ladders, checkers…and chess. Jake set the old wooden chessboard to the side. It was closed up and secured with a small brass latch.
He flipped the latch and opened the chessboard. The pieces were plain, faded, plastic black and white chess pieces. As Jake began to root through them, he noticed one that was different; it was heavier than the rest and made of stone. It was the Bishop piece. Jake flipped up the bottom of the chessboard, revealing a small, handwritten note. The scrawled writing on it said only one thing, “Your Move.”
“Son of a gun,” Jake said, and held the piece up to the light, searching for any additional information. “I think we’re on to something, Stace.”
Stacey called in their discovery. Within minutes, detectives from several cities across the county converged on the sites of every previous suicide in the last three weeks. It didn’t take long for them to find the chess pieces. Most of them had been left out in plain sight or stashed with any other chess pieces that might be in the residence.
Of the remaining eight suicides, seven of them revealed a chess piece. The one scene that did not contain a piece was the only one generally thought all along to have been a suicide that “made sense”. It was the suicide of a young man who had recently failed out of college and lost his girlfriend in the same week.
All the chess pieces had been overlooked as unimportant during their respective investigations, or they had never been found in the first place. Each piece was of the same white stone, and all appeared to have come from the same set. Four were pawns, two were rooks, and the last was a knight.
By the time they were ready to wrap things up, it had gotten late and the investigation had drawn on a few hours past midnight. The detectives were confident, however, that they had discovered a pattern to the deaths.
“Ok, so now we know that each piece represents something about the person who was killed,” spat WPD’s Chief of Police Harold Lunkster.
He had served as the WPD’s police chief for over fifteen years. Everyone affectionately referred to him as “The Lunk”, a nickname he hated but had eventually embraced. His hair was permanently thinning and white, but his thick moustache rivaled any in the land, and his wife hated it. He was perpetually chewing gum since he quit smoking six years ago. He chomped it loudly between each sentence.
“The pawns were just regular, ordinary folks; one guy was a florist, for cryin’ out loud. Ano
ther one was a house wife. The bishop was a preacher. The guy they found the knight with was an active-duty marine sergeant on leave. We thought he killed himself because of the war, or post-traumatic whats-it-something. Guess we were wrong, huh?”
Chief Lunkster tossed down the stack of papers he was holding on his desk and looked around the room at his detectives.
“What gets me is this rook piece. Just what the heck does a castle have to do with a couple of fishermen?” The Lunk glanced around the room but came up empty. No one seemed to know.
“Well sir,” Stacey perked up, “In Russian, the rook, or ladya, stands for ship or boat. There aren’t exactly castles in Winchester, so I guess he had to find some connection he could use for his sick game”. Stacey was always a bit shy to flaunt her intelligence. She blushed a bit, but put on a look that dared anyone to mock her. She threw up her hands in mock agitation. “What, I took a couple of classes in Russian. You guys are so uncivilized.”