by Chris Taylor
But there was still a glaring problem: Franklin’s clothing had failed to disclose any blood spatter and there was no way he could have instigated the vicious attack without having that kind of blood pattern on them.
Jett threw himself in his chair with an irritable grunt, already out of sorts. The lack of blood spatter bugged him. It wasn’t just him. Everyone working the case agreed, the killer couldn’t have escaped such a bloodbath unscathed. At the back of his mind, he knew he was missing something obvious. Yet, Jett had been over the security camera footage again. No one who’d left the building during the relevant time period appeared to be covered in blood.
What was he missing?
The thud of several packages landing on his desk startled him from his heavy thoughts. With a frown of annoyance, he stared at the clear plastic bags in front of him and then looked up. Lane stared back at him.
“You’re in nice and early,” Jett’s colleague commented with a smile.
“What are these?” Jett replied, pointing to the bags that looked to contain clothing.
“I stopped by the lab on my way into work. It’s the clothes from our suspects. The pathologist who ran the tests asked me to collect them now that their analyses are done.”
Jett picked up the bag that lay on top of the pile and glanced at the label that sealed the opening. COOK—Franklin James File Reference 6653/2016. A jolt of awareness went through him. They were the clothes Sabrina’s husband had worn the day of the murders. It was a shame they hadn’t found anything to assist the investigation.
Half-heartedly, Jett broke the seal with his fingernail and tugged out the jacket of a charcoal-gray suit. It was stained with patches of blood. The suit pants were relatively clean, but the pale blue shirt was ruined. A large, dark red stain covered most of the front of it. The bright yellow silk tie had fared even worse. It looked like it had been dipped in blood. The image turned Jett’s stomach.
He looked away, but as he did so, something stirred in his memory. He turned back and stared at Franklin’s clothing, trying to figure out what it was. He remembered seeing Franklin wearing the blue shirt and tie at the crime scene. The yellow had been hard to miss. Coated in bright red blood, it had provided a stark reminder of why they were there but was there something he was missing?
“What is it?” Lane asked, noticing Jett’s narrow-eyed look of concentration.
Jett shook his head, nonplussed. “I’m not sure. I just got a weird feeling when I looked at Cook’s clothing, like I should be noticing something I’m not.”
“Well, that’s definitely what he was wearing on the day of the murders. I’ll never forget that tie. It looks a like a canary went a few rounds with a Tom cat. There’s no guessing who came off second best.”
Lane chuckled at his own joke, but Jett’s mind stayed focused on the clothing in front of him. A moment later, it hit him. Franklin’s own words suddenly echoed in Jett’s head: How do you know he’s given you the clothes he was wearing that day?
“That’s it! The clothing! We know Franklin Cook wore these clothes at the crime scene. We both saw him in it. But are we sure this is the same clothing he wore prior to our arrival?”
Lane shrugged. “I guess so.”
“A guess, isn’t good enough,” Jett responded thinking how Franklin might have given himself away. “Lucky for us, we can find out for sure.”
“How?”
“The television footage. Remember? You got it for the purposes of canvassing the crowd of demonstrators. We found Barber looking angry and menacing. It provided him with motive. Coupled with his fingerprints, we thought he was our man.”
Lane grimaced. “Yeah, until he wasn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jett replied a little impatiently, tugging his keyboard toward him. “What matters is that the TV camera crew filmed Franklin leaving the courthouse with his client in tow. It was taken on the day of the murders. We can compare Cook’s clothing then with these clothes, the ones he wore when we arrived at the penthouse.”
Tapping on his keyboard, Jett brought up the file containing the TV footage and clicked on it. A few moments later, the scene outside the courthouse erupted on Jett’s computer screen in noisy Technicolor detail. He fast-forwarded to the part where the courthouse doors swung open and Franklin and his young client were standing at the top of the stairs. Hitting pause, he stared at Sabrina’s husband.
“Holy shit,” Lane breathed and Jett’s gut tightened with excitement.
Franklin Cook stood beside Bilal Al-Jabiri. Looking every bit the distinguished lawyer who was prepared for a fight, Franklin stared arrogantly into the crowd of protestors. He wore a navy-blue suit and a white shirt. Around his neck was an expensive looking navy-and-white striped tie.
“It’s him,” Jett breathed, his heart racing.
With his breath coming fast, Jett worked quickly to bring up the footage taken outside the Cooks’ building. Once again, he fast-forwarded until he found the place where Franklin entered the complex. Hitting pause once again, both officers stared at Franklin’s clothing. Though the images were grainier and in black and white, there was no mistaking the man wore a striped, dark-colored tie.
“We’ve got him,” Lane said, his voice filled with grim satisfaction.
Jett let out a whoop of glee. “I don’t believe it. The bastard argued with his wife, came home and murdered her and their infant daughter, cleaned up, changed his clothes and then staged it to look like the clothes he wore when we arrived were what he’d been wearing all along. We got there and, of course, we didn’t know any different.”
“Do we know what triggered the argument?” Lane asked.
“No, but there are a couple of possibilities. Sabrina could have found out about the mistress. Franklin told us she knew about it, but it’s possible she didn’t. Then there’s the paternity test. I’m betting Franklin lied when he said he didn’t open the envelope to read the results. I’m betting he did just that and the results showed he wasn’t the dad.
“We know Sabrina was in the bath. Not only was she found there, but when Kevin Thompson arrived to carry out some plumbing repairs he said she’d told him she was going to take a bath. She asked him to come back later.
“That was about twelve o’clock. According to the security camera, Franklin arrived home at twelve forty-three. He didn’t make the emergency call until one thirty-six. If we run with the idea his phone call from his mistress didn’t happen, he had plenty of time to complete the murders, shower, change and get the blood on the second set of clothes.”
Lane shook his head in disbelief. “Barber arrived at the complex at one-twenty. By that time, Sabrina was already dead. Franklin was no doubt in the shower by then and didn’t see or hear Barber come in. It could also explain why Barber didn’t see anyone, either.”
“And it also explains why neither Barber nor Franklin saw each other in the elevator or downstairs,” Jett added. “According to the evidence provided by the time indicated on the security tapes, their paths should have crossed, and yet they didn’t.”
“Because Franklin was never in the foyer on the phone,” Lane finished. “The prick came home in a blind fury and went straight upstairs. The problem is, how do we prove it?”
Jett stared at the computer screen, his thoughts racing. “The lab results,” he said.
“What about them?” Lane asked.
“I’ve been asking for them since the funeral. Franklin said he couldn’t find them. When I pressed him, he gave me the name of the lab, but he lied. Again. I called the lab. They had no record of him or his daughter. I meant to check the crime scene photos as soon as I came in this morning.”
“What do they have to do with the lab test?” Lane asked.
“Franklin said he brought the lab results home from the office unopened. He even suggested we’d taken it along as evidence. If he’s like most of us, he probably tosses the mail and house keys on the table, or maybe a kitchen counter. Even wild with fury, it’s pos
sible old habits kicked in. With a bit of luck, the police photographer might have inadvertently captured a picture of the mail.”
Lane nodded his agreement. “It’s worth a shot. Let me know how that goes.” He turned away and then turned back to Jett. “Good work on this one, Craigdon. The boss will be pleased. You’ll make detective sergeant before you know it.” Lane gave him a wink and then headed toward his desk.
Jett drew in a deep breath and eased it out. His chest was still tight with excitement and the adrenaline that had poured through his veins. He was sure they were on the right track. It all fit together far too well. Franklin Cook had murdered his wife and daughter. Jett was now certain of it.
He thought of Danielle and his spirits sunk. Dread formed a hard knot in his gut. The knowledge that her brother-in-law was responsible would devastate her and when the time came, it would be up to Jett to tell her.
With a heavy sigh, he opened the file on Sabrina and Marnie Cook and retrieved the packet containing the crime scene photos. Flicking through them, his gut churned with remembered horror. Anger, sharp and icy, bit into his gut. Franklin Cook was a monster who had shown no mercy.
Pictures of the luxurious condominium followed those of Sabrina in the bath. The expensive furniture, the picture-perfect view—all that meant nothing because Jett knew what had happened inside those gilded walls.
A close-up had been taken of a sideboard where a bloody handprint could be seen. Jett recalled it had come back to Franklin. They’d assumed he’d rested his hand there at some point after discovering the carnage.
Right next to the handprint was a pile of mail. On the top was a sheet of paper with a letterhead. The contents of the letter weren’t visible, but it was a computer printout, not handwritten.
Jett’s heart skipped a beat and then took off at a gallop. Using special enhancement software, he managed to enlarge the image. Slowly, the letterhead became visible: DNA Tracker—Biological Testing Laboratory.
The lab test. That had to be the results. And as Jett guessed, the letter was open. The argument that Franklin had opened it before he arrived home was no longer purely circumstantial, and coupled with the other evidence, Jett was prepared to go with it.
Taking note of the laboratory’s details, he reached for the phone to confirm what he suspected. His call connected to a message bank and he cursed silently and then left a message requesting that someone call him back as a matter of urgency.
He glanced at his watch and noted it wasn’t even seven. The lab probably didn’t open until nine. He gritted his teeth against a surge of impatience and pushed away from his desk. Right now, he needed caffeine and plenty of it.
Two hours and several cups of coffee later, a friendly technician from DNA Tracker returned his call.
“Detective Craigdon, it’s Mary Peterson. What can I do for you?”
As quickly as he could, Jett explained the situation and asked for a copy of the lab results.
“I’m sorry, Detective. Those results are confidential. I can’t release them to you without Mr Cook’s consent and if that’s not forthcoming, I’ll need a subpoena.”
Jett cursed silently under his breath. He’d known a subpoena was more than likely in the cards. He could hardly approach Franklin for permission to access the results and chance revealing his hand. The man wasn’t stupid. He’d immediately realize the significance of Jett’s request.
“A subpoena it is, then,” he replied with a sigh.
“I’m really sorry, Detective, but rules are rules.”
After thanking her for her time, Jett ended the call and got on with it. A couple hours later and a quick visit to the court registry, he had a subpoena in his hand. Lane accompanied him to the laboratory to serve it.
He’d called ahead and had given Mary a heads-up and was grateful when she met him in reception with a copy of the Cook results. Wasting no time, Jett scanned the single page. It was as he’d guessed. Franklin Cook was not Marnie Cook’s biological father.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With the back of her forearm, Dani pushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes and once again leaned over to peer through the lenses of her microscope. The tiny sample of breast tissue on the slide contained malignant cells. It saddened her to know that somewhere there was a woman who would shortly be given the bad news. Dani could only hope the tumor hadn’t metastasized, reducing the woman’s chances of survival.
Like they had, a hundred times a day since the murders, Dani’s thoughts drifted to Sabrina. She wondered what her sister had felt in those final moments before death. Had she looked into the face of her killer? Had she tried to fight back?
Franklin had told her the police report had indicated there were no defensive wounds. Dani knew what that meant. More than likely, Sabrina was taken by surprise. She’d been found in the bath in the middle of the day. The water had still been warm. Dani could almost see her sister putting Marnie down for a nap and then taking the opportunity to relax. To think that perfect scene of serenity had been so violently destroyed. It weighed Dani down with sadness.
Memories of Sabrina inevitably brought forth thoughts of Franklin and she wondered uncomfortably about the possibility he could have been responsible for the deaths. When the detective had first raised the idea, Dani had been quick and vehement in her denial, but after learning about her brother-in-law’s dishonesty to the police and about the mistress he’d kept all these years, her faith in him had been irrevocably shaken.
She hadn’t expected Jett Craigdon to share the information with her. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming during the previous occasions they’d met. She guessed his reticence had something to do with the fact she’d been a potential suspect and she hoped that his show of confidence indicated she was finally off his list.
From their conversation the night before, it appeared almost certain that Jett regarded her brother-in-law as the prime suspect, despite the fact, as far as she knew, the police had no concrete evidence. Though she was anxious to find the killer, a part of her hoped desperately that Franklin wasn’t the person who’d done this terrible deed.
A shaft of pain stabbed through her chest at the possibility and she gasped and clenched her fist. She didn’t know how she would cope if it turned out to be Franklin. Though she hadn’t been as enamored of him as Sabrina had been, Dani liked him well enough. He’d been a good brother-in-law, caring and polite. He’d opened his home to her whenever she felt the need for company and always appeared genuinely pleased to see her.
He’d known from the earliest days of his courtship of her sister how close she and Sabrina were and he accepted their closeness with equanimity, even encouraged it. He’d once told her how special he regarded their sisterly relationship. As an only child, he’d never had the chance to bond with a sibling. Not once had he voiced any jealousy, or even intimated as much. It had only served to endear him to her. Over the years, she’d come to care for him very much.
Now, if Detective Craigdon’s instincts were correct, she might very well have to face the reality that the brother-in-law she respected and admired was a cold-hearted killer who had brutally stolen the lives of her beautiful sister and niece. The possibility filled her with a fresh wave of horror.
In an effort to distract herself, she focused on something else, like how good looking the detective was. He’d arrived at the bar still dressed in work clothes, though he was minus the jacket of his suit. The top couple of buttons on his blue-and-white striped shirt had been undone and his dark green tie had been loosened. The exposed column of his throat looked tanned and strong. She’d glimpsed a scattering of dark hair.
The sight of his bare skin had done funny things to her insides and she’d become flustered. She wasn’t used to the feeling. For more than a decade, she’d been strong and resilient, staunch in her independence and her vow to steer clear of men.
Apart from her brief fling with Ben, over the last ten years she hadn’t allowed another man to get close—and over tha
t time it hadn’t once been as hard as she was finding it now, to keep the detective at a distance. She’d been with countless men in her youth, but none of them had made her feel what the detective did—all warm and fluttery and achy inside.
And they hadn’t even kissed.
Of course, she’d been tempted. When he’d walked her to her door and had thanked her for the evening, it was all she could do not to lean over and press her mouth to his. The faint illumination from a nearby street light had accentuated the dark five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and gilded his hard male profile.
She’d been reluctant to accept his dinner invitation for the very same reason she’d refrained from kissing him. He unsettled her, made her feel things she couldn’t define, made her feel cut loose from her moorings and she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to find her way home.
For too many years, she’d kept up her vigilance, desperate and determined not to fall back in her old ways. Not that she worried she’d turn sluttish, but the feeling of being worthless, the damaged self-esteem—she never wanted to feel that way again and was scared that by giving in to her burgeoning feelings, she’d lose herself in the process. What was worse, she no longer had Sabrina to help her.
The very idea of dropping her guard terrified her, but the thought of spending the rest of her life alone was depressing. What if this thing with the detective—whatever it was—was real? What if it could help her heal? Even after a decade of therapy, she hadn’t forgiven herself for the waywardness of her youth and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever get to the point where she could.
The buzz of her cell phone interrupted her musings. She tugged the phone out of the pocket of her lab coat and glanced at the screen.
Jett.
Her heart skipped a beat. It was almost like he knew her thoughts had been centered on him. Taking a deep breath, she answered the call.