A Deeper Darkness

by J. T. Ellison

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  “I’m Dr. Samantha Owens. I am so sorry for your loss.” Sam resisted the urge to stick out her hand, like they were at a social mixer.

  She was glad she didn’t. The woman gave her a quick, hateful glance.

  “Oh. It’s you. Our loss, don’t you mean, Doctor? Considering how well you knew my husband.”

  “Susan,” Eleanor cautioned. “Little pitchers.”

  That was enough to stop the woman’s attack. She glanced at the girls. “Go watch TV in Grammy’s room, okay, chickens?”

  In the weary way of children who know the adults need to converse, they detangled themselves from their grandmother’s loving arms and silently melted away. Sam had seen that resigned maturity happen with children forced to grow up too quickly many times before. It was as if Death knocked on their doors as he passed and told them to behave, or they’d be next.

  She tamped down her annoyance with Susan Donovan and tried again.

  “Yes, he was my friend, too. But we hadn’t spoken in years.”

  Susan regarded her warily, then dismissed her entirely, turning to Eleanor. “What didn’t Eddie want me to see?”

  Eleanor hesitated a moment, handed her the note.

  Susan read it, flipped the page over, shook her head.

  “What is this?”

  “I don’t know, dear. Something Eddie gave me for safekeeping.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about it? You showed her instead?”

  Her.

  Sam nearly burst out laughing—when she was growing up, and her father was telling stories, he sometimes referred to Sam’s mother as her. Laura would always retort, “Who’s her, the cat’s mother?”

  The cat’s mother.

  “What’s so funny?” Susan was glaring at her.

  “Nothing,” Sam said, sobered. “A memory, from my childhood. It’s really nothing. Susan, truly, I am sorry. Eddie was a good man. He loved you very much.”

  “If you didn’t talk to him in years, how do you know all that?” Susan was starting to look dangerous—ready to cry or scream, or fly apart at the seams. Sam recognized the look and realized she needed to tread carefully.

  “Eleanor has been kind enough to share occasional updates with me.”

  Susan froze, unable or unwilling to acknowledge the perceived transgression from her mother-in-law. She changed the subject instead. “What exactly is it you plan to do here, Dr. Owens? Did my mother-in-law explain that I will not give my permission for a second autopsy? Professionals have done their jobs. There’s already been enough damage to my family. We can’t bring him back.”

  Sam turned on her medical examiner persona. She’d heard this argument too many times to count from a victim’s loved one, usually in denial of a primary autopsy. “Don’t you want the person who did this to see justice?”

  “Of course I do. But knowing won’t change anything. Eddie is still dead. Cutting him open again won’t bring him back to life.”

  Sam understood that. She understood it more than Susan could possibly know. She tried another tact.

  “I hate to mention this, but if he was murdered, and not randomly carjacked, you and the girls could be in danger, as well. Are you willing to risk their lives, too?”

  “That’s one hell of a low blow. And the only person who doesn’t think this was a carjacking is Eleanor.”

  “And me. This note feels real. And if Eddie was purposefully targeted, the danger to you and your family is a reality, Mrs. Donovan. Unfortunately, I see my share of violent crime. I’ve been a victim of it myself. So I understand that sometimes, when the primary target is neutralized, and the end game has not been played out, the ones closest to the victim are also at risk.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me. You hateful woman.”

  Sam did laugh then, albeit humorlessly and briefly. “I may be. But when it comes to protecting your children, I trust that you can put your ego aside for one minute and think about them.”

  “That’s enough!” Eleanor snapped. “We can’t be squabbling like this. Susan, please. Let Sam do her job. Let’s put all our minds at ease.” Eleanor softened her tone. “At the very least, give your permission for Sam to look over the autopsy report and speak with the medical examiner. There’s nothing intrusive about that.”

  Susan pulled at her ponytail. Sam could tell she was embarrassed by her outburst. Susan struck her as a woman who didn’t like to lose control. Sam understood that, too.

  “Fine,” Susan said at last. “Look at the notes. But after that, I trust you’ll go back to your life in Tennessee and leave us to bury our dead.”

  She swept from the room, calling for her daughters.

  Sam shared a long look with Eleanor. “You could have warned me that she hates me.”

  Eleanor began to tidy up their tea things.

  “She doesn’t hate you. She’s just afraid of what you might find.”

  Chapter Nine

  Georgetown

  Maggie Lyons

  Jennifer was just blowing out the candles on her cake when the doorbell rang.

  Maggie Lyons waved her hands over the table to dissipate the smoke, kissed her daughter on the top of the head and said, “Hold on a minute, sweetie. I’ll cut it for you in a second. Let me just see who’s at the door.”

  She tried to ignore the outpouring of cries followed by naughty laughter that emerged from the kitchen as she left, knowing full well the wolves had descended and there would be a mess when she returned. But that was fine. It was her baby’s birthday, and they were all a little hopped up on sugar and excitement. By the time she got back, the boys would be covered in icing. As would the table. And Jennifer.

  The porch light was still on. She’d forgotten; she flipped the switch into the off position. Through the beveled glass of the front door, she could see two men in suits standing outside. One was about six foot, with brown hair cut close to his head. The other was shorter, squat, a bodybuilder. His arms stood out from his body almost at angles.

  Cops.

  What had that fool done now?

  She pulled the door open, frowning. The taller of the two nodded at her.

  “Ma’am? I’m Detective Darren Fletcher. This is Detective Lonnie Hart. We’re with Metro P.D. We need to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?”

  She smiled in apology, slipped out the door and pulled it closed behind her. She knew what this was about. Her jerk of an ex-husband, who had turned from a fine, upstanding young lawyer into a degenerate alcoholic who liked to bust her around when he didn’t get his way. At least he was paying the child support again—though she knew his firm had garnisheed his future earnings to make that happen. They didn’t need the scandal, wanted her kept quiet and comfortable so she didn’t sue. Like she would—but that wasn’t the point.

  “Can we do this out here? I don’t want the kids to hear.”

  “Sure.” Fletcher studied his notebook. “You’re Margaret Lyons?”

  “Yes, I am.” She heard the weariness in her voice. God, they had all fallen so far. “So what did Roy do now?”

  Fletcher’s eyebrows creased, and the shorter man, Hart, chimed in. “Who’s Roy?”

  Maggie leaned against the column. “My ex, of course. He’s a frequent flyer with you. Gets delinquent on his support payments. Likes to get into fights. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Oh,” Fletcher said. “This isn’t about him. At least, I don’t think so. It’s about the homicide across the street.”

  “The what? Someone was killed? Here? Who?”

  She straightened up and looked past the two men, finally registering the multitude of police cars that were parked down the street. Man, she neede
d to get some more sleep. How did she miss this? And she was shocked the kids hadn’t noticed. Granted, they were all in the kitchen, which faced the garden, enticed with birthday cake, but one of the boys usually grabbed the paper for her in the morning. She glanced down. The paper was still on the porch. She felt a flash of anger.

  God, Maggie, get it together. Someone’s dead and you’re worried about the kids’ chores.

  The detective was talking again. She tuned back in.

  “Yes, ma’am. Happened overnight, sometime between two and four. We’re just checking to see if you heard or saw anything strange last night.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who’s dead?”

  Fletcher looked at Hart, who nodded imperceptibly.

  “His name is Harold Croswell.”

  Maggie felt the wind leave her body, an exhalation she hoped the detectives didn’t notice.

  She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with him. Where did this happen? I mean, which house?”

  Fletcher pointed over his shoulder to the Federal-style brick town house across the way.

  “But that’s Mrs. Emerson’s place. She’s in France for the spring and summer.”

  “So the house was vacant?” Fletcher asked.

  “It’s supposed to be. She travels quite a bit. A widow. A merry widow. George Emerson, that’s her husband, died three years ago. She’s been lonely, says travel helps.”

  Fletcher shifted and she realized she sounded like an idiot. That wouldn’t do.

  “God, I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Maybe this man was a friend of hers. She’s had a string of boyfriends. Amazing, really, a woman of her age keeping that pace.”

  “He might have been a bit young for her,” Hart said dryly. “Do you have contact information for Mrs. Emerson?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. She has a housekeeper, though. She’d probably have all that.”

  “Regular housekeeper?”

  “Yes. Daily when she’s home, weekly when she’s out of town.” She smiled apologetically. “Sure would be nice. I work full-time, trying to make partner, and with the three kids, and Roy… Well, things are a bit of a mess.”

  “You know when the maid was here last?”

  “Um.” Maggie thought about it. “Yesterday morning, maybe.”

  “This is a nice neighborhood,” Fletcher said.

  “Yeah, it is. I’ve lived here my whole life—my parents left me the place when they passed. But it’s not the kind you’d expect people to be murdered in.”

  The detectives were silent for a minute, just watching her. She hated how cops made her feel guilty, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maggie heard the kids’ screaming laughter, the decibels leaking out through the closed door.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s my daughter’s birthday, we’re having cake. Is there anything else?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “No, ma’am. Here’s my info. If you remember anything, please give us a call. Thanks for your time.”

  She took his card and went back inside. Shut the door, then turned the dead bolt. Debated telling the kids, decided against it. Keep them in the kitchen, away from the scene. They’d be fascinated and horrified, wanting all the details, then would have nightmares. Like Jen had last night. She really needed to smack Bobby for giving her that book. But they may be more cooperative… No. Better to keep them in the dark.

  She dropped Fletcher’s card on the table by the door and steeled herself for what she had to do next.

  She never even thought about what Jen had said to her, that small, scared voice in the dark. All she knew was as soon as they had their cake, she had to get them all out.

  She’d read about Donovan’s death. A carjacking. On the surface, a senseless act. But now, three days later, Croswell had been murdered in a house right across the street from her very own?

  The message was clear. One could be chalked up to a mishap. But two?

  The tiniest frisson of fear cruised down her spine. She shook it off. Pulled open the hall closet door and grabbed her bug-out bag, plus the smaller pack she had for the kids.

  Fucking past. She was never going to escape it, was she?

  Chapter Ten

  Washington, D.C.

  Detective Darren Fletcher

  The door to the house closed behind them, and the sun popped from behind the clouds, dumping warmth and brightness on their shoulders. Fletcher slid his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, put them on against the sudden glare.

  Hart put his notebook away and sighed. “So. Make that thirty people who didn’t see a thing. Either they’re all telling the truth, and this killer’s a ghost, or someone’s lying.”

  “Or they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, which means we need to be looking at suspects that fit into this neighborhood’s profile in particular.”

  They walked out to the street.

  Fletcher glanced back at Maggie Lyons’s house.

  “Hey, Hart. Was it my imagination, or did she flinch when I said Croswell’s name?”

  “Mmm, I don’t know if I’d call it a flinch. But she did react.”

  “Yeah.” Fletcher let that run through his mind. “We should probably find her ex, see if he knows anyone that matches Croswell’s description.”

  “Look into her, too?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Don’t overstate it or anything. So, Fletch, what’s next?”

  Hart looked tired. He and Jimenez had been canvassing all morning. Fletcher had only joined up for this last house so he could drag Hart with him to the notification.

  “We go to Falls Church and see Croswell’s wife.”

  “Super. Can’t wait.” He yawned widely and Fletcher did his best not to follow suit.

  They grabbed coffee at the Starbucks on Wisconsin. Fletcher had worked on the task force that investigated the triple murder case there in ’97. Talk about a town losing its innocence. He was a green detective then, partnered with a lumbering guy named Jim Kennedy. Kennedy taught him most of what he knew about homicide investigation. Kennedy had dropped from a massive coronary in 2004. He missed him.

  Traffic was starting to build, the morning rush hour already under way. Luckily they were going against traffic—the vast majority of commuters were trying to get into the District, only a few were driving out to the suburbs. Most of those workers took the Metro, anyway, which was easier, cheaper and much, much faster. Like New York, D.C. was a walking city for those who lived in its borders. D.C. parking operated on a sliding scale of seniority and importance—the daily ho-hum dwarves and environmentalists took the Metro, the midlevel management and government workers carpooled, paying through the nose for monthly passes to the parking lots, which weren’t overly plentiful. Those who garnered a bona fide parking permit were on the high end of the feeding pool, able to drive by themselves into town, park at a premium spot and parade into their buildings, high on self-importance and exhaust.

  For the thousandth time, Fletcher wondered why he’d chosen to set down roots in D.C. of all places—the most impermanent, intransigent, imitation place in the world. Teeming with tourists and power-hungry suits and senseless deaths, he sometimes lost sight of the city’s beauty, the fact that his parents met, married and loved there, the fact that the food was on par with any city in the world, and the sports weren’t too bad, either. He’d spent the past fifteen years in a small row house on Capitol Hill, a surprisingly quiet street kitty-corner to the Longworth Building. In his tiny front yard was a sculpture of an angel that he left in front of the recycling trashcan. He liked the way the white marble reflected off the blue plastic. It reminded him of why he was a cop—harmony and beauty marred by rubbish.

  He’d had a string of women in and out of the house—some stayi
ng longer than others—though he always managed to chase them away. He had an ex-wife, too, and a son who he didn’t get to see nearly enough, since his son’s bitch of a mother had managed to convince a judge that it wasn’t safe for the boy to be alone with his gun-toting homicide detective father for more than one weekend a month. Fletcher hadn’t helped the situation at the beginning by having to reschedule regular days because of crimes, and Felicia had taken full advantage of that. She wanted to move away, had finally convinced the judge that it would be better for Tad to be in another, cleaner, quieter environment. They’d made the move to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, last year, and Fletcher saw even less of his only child. By the time he was free to spend time with the boy, Tad would be grown and stressing over a family of his own.

  His ex wouldn’t speak to him outside of the grunted hello if they accidentally saw each other during their infrequent child exchanges. And now that Tad could drive, Felicia never came near him. She hated him with a passion.

  Maybe it was for the best. Maybe Felicia was right—he was poison. He wasn’t a good man. Good men didn’t cheat on their wives and stay out late with strangers. Good men didn’t drink too much scotch and lose interest in their chosen career paths. Good men didn’t—

  “Earth to Fletch.”

  He glanced to his right, where Hart was pointing to the light. “Buddy, light’s green. Has been. Where the hell were you?”

  “Felicia.”

  “Ah. Enough said. Let the self-flagellation continue. I’ll stay quiet.”

  He flipped Hart the bird. “Sit and spin.”

  Hart did his best breathy Marilyn. “Oh, Daddy, can I?”

  They both started to laugh. Count on Hart to drag his ass back from the doldrums. He really needed to think about taking that prescription the station shrink gave him at his last annual evaluation.

  “Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”

  “Join the club. I think that’s it on the right.”

  The house was a standard rambler, brick on the bottom with blue siding and a carport to the right. This area of Falls Church was established, heavily treed, an older neighborhood. Three houses down a McMansion preened, full of itself and its newfound glory. Land was at a premium in D.C., so folks were buying smaller, older houses, razing them and building huge manors. Safe neighborhoods became safer, property values started to rise and folks like the Croswell family, in their comparatively tiny ’70s bungalow, were either going to get on board, or get out of the way. Life has a way of marching on, whether you want it to or not.