(Un) Sound Mind
Page 9
“You got it, Lieutenant,” replied Holloway.
Lieutenant Peirce slowly walked to the open door, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the rug, and scrutinized the hall for additional evidence or anything of interest. The door led to a grand bedroom suite. Peirce was impressed by the elegance of the four-poster bed and the large stone fireplace at the other end of the room. He looked at the scattered pillows and twisted bed clothes lying on the floor. Streams of dried blood had recently flowed over and around their folds. There’s enough blood here for a murder, he proffered. Several of the dresser drawers were either partially open or pulled out of the chest completely and the contents dumped on an area rug. The footboard of the bed was cracked and pushed out from the bed frame. “Somebody put up one hell of a fight,” he said out loud. Lieutenant Peirce studied the hardwood floor and noticed watermarks dried onto the wood just outside the open bathroom doorway. He took note of a bath towel soaking in a full bathtub of water with a film of soap floating on its surface.
He could smell the scent of lavender and assumed that the film was the residue of bubble bath or bath oil on the water. Lavender wasn’t a scent he particularly liked, but it was a welcome relief from the metallic smell of blood that permeated the bedroom. Her bath appeared to have been interrupted. The vanity drawers were open, and on the sink and countertop were small droplets of blood, but not enough blood to have come from the same wound that caused all the stains in the other room. He stood very still, closed his eyes, and waited for some insight into what may have happened here.
As he stood waiting for the fruits of his intuition to gel into a plausible theory of the crime, he sensed his knees beginning to weaken. He held his right hand up in front of his face. It was shaking almost uncontrollably. A sour taste rose from his throat, and he felt a mild discomfort emanating from the center of his chest. It grew in size and weight until it became a pain so intense that it pushed the breath from his body. He groaned. “Not now,” he said in a hoarse voice and reached into his jacket pocket for a small oblong metal box. Sam Peirce removed a pale yellow pill from the box and placed it under his tongue. After a minute, the pain began to subside.
“Lieutenant, are you still up there?” shouted Holloway from the bottom of the stairs.
Lieutenant Peirce took a moment to compose himself, then answered in as strong a voice as he could muster, “What is it?”
“The forensic team will be here in ten minutes. Everyone else is outside, and I posted a guard at the door. Shall I come up?”
“Not necessary,” replied Lieutenant Peirce. “Wait until the team arrives, then bring them up.”
Sam Peirce sat on the closed toilet lid in the spacious, elegant bathroom, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow.
After a few minutes, he walked cautiously back into the bedroom. The sunlight was now beginning to penetrate the curtains with a brightness that disaffirmed the events of the previous night. A good cleaning and the next owner of this house would never know the violent atrocities that happened here, or, if it was publicized, the house would probably go for a song. I wonder how much…
He shook his head as he thought of how callous he had become in the last twenty years. Bloodstains and the destruction of property had become no more than clues. Victims and murderers had become case numbers to be closed or to grow cold and remain forever in an open file. At what point, he wondered, had he lost his sense of humanity?
A minor commotion on the first floor signaled the arrival of the forensic team. Startled back to full awareness, he straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the hall to meet the arriving officers.
The forensic team began to collect evidence at the scene. They placed small yellow placards with numbers next to anything they believed to be of value and photographed its location before sealing any evidence in plastic bags, labeling them, and filing them away. Small fiberglass brushes were twirled about on any surface that might hold a latent fingerprint. Each time a print was found, it was transferred by clear tape to a card and again labeled and filed.
“Holloway,” said Lieutenant Peirce, “everything seems to be covered here. I’m going back to the office. Bring a prelim of anything they find as soon as you can.”
***
8:30 a.m. Thursday
Lieutenant Peirce sat in his office sipping a steaming cup of coffee—cream, two sugars—and perusing the morning paper. At 8:32 Sergeant Holloway walked into Lieutenant Peirce’s office, carrying the forensic report.
“Anything important?” asked Lieutenant Peirce.
Holloway stared at Peirce for a second. “Nothing earth-shattering. The home belongs to one Sylvia Radcliffe. We tried locating her, but no luck.”
“Could she be away on business or a vacation?”
“Her clothes and suitcases are still in the closet, so we don’t think she went on a trip. We’re trying to reach her next of kin; she has a mother, Henrietta Radcliffe, and a younger sister, Emily. They both live in Allentown.” Holloway searched through the jar of jelly beans on Lieutenant Peirce’s desk, picking out as many orange candies as he could find.
Lieutenant Peirce looked up from his newspaper, locked his eyes on Holloway, and placed the lid sharply on his candy jar, almost trapping Holloway’s fingers. “She married or single?”
“Divorced. A neighbor told the officer doing the canvass that the ex moved to Utah a year ago.” Holloway carefully looked at his fingers, then slipped the five orange jelly beans into his shirt pocket.
Lieutenant Peirce stretched out his open hand toward Sergeant Holloway and waited in silence. As Holloway reached back into his shirt pocket to retrieve the candies, the lieutenant looked at the ceiling. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and said, “The forensic report?”
After Holloway handed it to him, Lieutenant Peirce leaned back in his chair and began to read the document.
“Did the canvass of the neighborhood turn up anything else?” Lieutenant Peirce asked, looking up from the report in his hand.
Holloway flipped a few pages in his notepad and replied, “A Mrs. Maxwell was walking her dog about eleven thirty last night. She said she saw a silver sedan, she didn’t know the make, speed out of the development coming from the direction of the Radcliffe house. She said he almost hit her dog. And I quote, ‘I didn’t see the face of the bastard who scared my Rodney, but he was in a silver car. If you catch him, I’m going to sue him for all he’s worth. My Rodney’s had diarrhea all night.’”
Lieutenant Peirce shook his head, chuckled, and returned his eyes to the report while Holloway quietly extracted orange jelly beans from his shirt pocket and one by one covertly placed them in his mouth.
The report indicated that there was indeed enough blood in the bedroom to support a homicide investigation. All the blood in both the bathroom and the bedroom was of the same type, type A. Future DNA data should indicate if all the blood samples were from the same individual. A clear trail of blood droplets was apparent and could be followed from the bedroom through the hall, down the stairs, and out the garage side door, eventually ending on the driveway. A pair of long stainless steel scissors was found among the bloody sheets. They would be evaluated as a possible murder weapon once a body was found. A small piece of blue fabric was caught in the joint of the scissors. It didn’t match any fabric at the scene. Fingerprints from at least four different individuals were present in the bedroom, and prints from an additional three people were found throughout the rest of the house. The lieutenant looked up from the report.
“Holloway, see if any of the prints they picked up in the house are in the system. The blood trail would indicate that the victim, assumed dead from the amount of blood loss, was carried out of the building through the garage. The trail ended on the driveway. I would assume that the body was placed in a vehicle of some sort and removed from the property. Check to see if any neighbors can remember a silver sedan parked at the Radcliffe house last night. And g
et me the address of the mother and sister; I’ll want to interview them.”
“You got it, boss,” said Holloway as he hurried out the door.
12
Red lights flashed, a whistle sounded, and clouds of dust and soot rose into the air, blown by the wind emanating from the train roaring through the crossing. Lieutenant Peirce waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his car as an untold number of freight cars passed before he could drive to the other side of the tracks where Henrietta and Emily Radcliffe made their home.
As he stepped up onto the wooden porch of the two-story house, he ran his finger along the peeling gray paint of the railing and walked to the front door. He could hear music and voices within, which he assumed were from a television game show. Someone was being asked to “Come on down.” Lieutenant Peirce summoned his official-duty face and poked the small, round, worn button on the doorframe. At the sound of the doorbell, the game show host was suddenly silenced. Lieutenant Peirce heard muffled voices inside; there was a momentary pause, and then the door opened, but only a crack.
“I’m Lieutenant Sam Peirce of the Luzerne County Police Department. I’m looking for Henrietta Radcliffe,” he said as he held his shield and ID in full view of the opening. The door opened wider, and a large woman in a yellow flowered housecoat leaned forward to inspect his credentials.
“I’m Henrietta Radcliffe. Is something wrong, Officer?” she asked.
“It’s Lieutenant, ma’am. We are trying to locate your daughter, Sylvia. Would you know where she might be?”
“I haven’t seen her for about two weeks. She do something wrong?” She opened the door the rest of the way and motioned for the lieutenant to follow her in.
Lieutenant Peirce stepped into the cramped living room and automatically began to survey the area. No one else was in the room. The sofa and side chair seemed to be showing some signs of age and wear in contrast to the apparently new fifty-inch flat-screen television that sat on a chipped and scratched television stand. The television dominated the better part of one wall of the small room. A bowl of chips of some sort, a glass, and two beer bottles sat on a portable snack table positioned in front of the sofa. The glass was about one-third full, yet both bottles were half-empty. Either Henrietta Radcliffe pours drinks with both hands, or that second bottle was being drunk by someone else who didn’t want his or her identity known.
“Would you please have a seat, Mrs. Radcliffe,” Lieutenant Peirce said in his most compassionate tone. Henrietta remained standing.
“There was a break-in last night at your daughter’s home. I don’t want to frighten you, but we think someone may have been home when the break-in occurred and may have been injured. Is anyone else here with you?” he asked, hoping that the shy guest would come forward and give support to this woman in her time of crisis.
“No, I’m alone,” she said in a firm voice. “My daughter Emily won’t be home until later this evening.”
Peirce was momentarily confused by her answer, but he quickly regrouped. “Does anyone besides Emily live here with you, Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“Lieutenant, has something happened to Sylvia?”
“We don’t know. There were signs of violence, and we haven’t been able to locate her.”
“Was anything taken from the house?” she asked.
Sam Peirce paused. This did not seem like the most natural follow-up question to ask. “We don’t know. Until we find Sylvia, we have no way of knowing what was in the house.”
“Maybe I could come by and see if I can tell what’s missing,” she said. “That might help with insurance claims.” Sam Peirce felt his stomach turn as he observed all the concern for her daughter suddenly melting into distress over the potential loss of property.
“The crime scene is sealed, Mrs. Radcliffe.” There was a sharp tone to his voice. “Please let us know if your daughter contacts you. Someone was hurt in that break-in. I’m sure you’re hoping it was someone other than your daughter.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket. “Here’s my card; call if you hear anything.”
Sam Peirce turned and walked to the door. As he slid into his car, he heard Mrs. Radcliffe call, “And please let me know as soon as I can get into my daughter’s house, Lieutenant.”
***
Ruth Klein sat at her desk, watching the second hand on her desk clock steadily sweep toward the twelve. She counted down the last few seconds as it progressed: “Five, four, three, two, one,” and pointed at the door, but there was no knock. She checked her desk clock against her wristwatch and looked at the door again. This was the first time in almost four years that Sylvia Radcliffe had not arrived exactly five minutes early. Ruth smiled. Maybe we’ve made more progress with her compulsive behavior disorder than I thought. Now all we have left to deal with is her narcissistic personality disorder and her relationship problems. That should keep us busy for at least a few more years. At two minutes after six, there was a knock on Ruth’s office door.
“It’s about time,” she shouted in a jovial voice. “I was just about to send out a search party for you. Come in, come in!”
The doorknob turned, and as the door slowly began to open, Ruth observed that this was not Sylvia’s usual high-speed entrance. Instead, when the door fully opened, it exposed a man with a slightly receding hairline wearing a rumpled gray suit, a white shirt with an unbuttoned collar, and a loosened blue tie. He was about six feet tall. His strong chin was one of his most prominent features, and in spite of his slightly overnourished appearance, he seemed quite well built. Ruth’s smile dissolved as her impish demeanor changed to one of slight humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” she said penitently. “I was expecting someone else. May I help you?”
“I was hoping to find Sylvia Radcliffe here, but as I feared, she has missed her appointment.”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on who does or does not have an appointment, sir. If you would—”
“My name is Lieutenant Sam Peirce. I’m with the Luzerne County Police Department,” he said as he held up his credentials. “I’m trying to find Sylvia Radcliffe. We found her appointment book, and I was hoping—”
“Where did you find her book?” Dr. Klein rose from her chair and started across the office toward the lieutenant.
“It appears that Ms. Radcliffe is missing,” he said, his eyes scanning her full height. “May we sit down?”
Ruth guided him to the sofa and sat on a chair facing him. “Has something happened to Sylvia?” she asked, leaning forward on the edge of her seat.
“We’re investigating an apparent burglary at her home. We believe some sort of violence did take place, but until we have more facts, we can’t draw any conclusions as to who may have been injured.” As he spoke, he automatically reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He looked up at the frown forming on Dr. Klein’s face, paused for a moment, and then put the pack back in his pocket.
“I was hoping that you could help with some information as to where she might have gone.”
“Actually, I have no idea where she might be, and of course you know that I can’t tell you anything she may have said here. I could, however, give you her address and that of her next of kin, but since you have her appointment book, I’m sure you already have that information.”
“Dr. Klein, would you know of anyone she may have had difficulty—”
“Lieutenant, as I said, anything said here falls under doctor-patient privilege. I’m afraid I can’t—”
“I understand.” Lieutenant Peirce removed his business card from a small leather card case and offered it to Dr. Klein. “If you should hear from her, please ask her to call.”
“I will,” said Dr. Klein as she accepted the card. “And could you also keep me informed if there are any new developments, Lieutenant?”
“We’ve kept it out of the press so far, but I’m sure that won’t last. We would appreciate your discretion. Thank you for your time, Dr. Klein.” Lieutenant Peir
ce rose from the sofa, smiled, and walked out of the office, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes as he left.
***
Ruth Klein was an educated woman, worldly to an extent, or so she believed. She was not the type to become unduly alarmed before all the facts were in. Yet an uneasy feeling had begun in the pit of her stomach and welled up within her throat. She opened a bottle of antacid tablets and quickly tossed three into her mouth with no regard for their flavor. Normally she matched the colors. Purple—grape—was her favorite, but there just wasn’t enough time. Bile is not a gourmand, she thought as she chewed and swallowed the medicine.
A few minutes later, her indigestion had passed in spite of the mismatched flavors, and she began to settle down in her desk chair to write notes from her sessions earlier that day.
Suddenly the lights went out. She waited at her desk for the twenty-three-second delay to pass before the emergency power would come on. Power failures were not that common, but she remembered a time last year when a drunk driver hit a utility pole, causing a chain reaction that plunged the town into darkness for twelve hours.
Ruth usually felt safe in her office, but that visit from Lieutenant Peirce, and the thought of a break-in at Sylvia Radcliffe’s home, made her feel nervous. And now this damn darkness had her ready to jump out of her skin.
As she sat waiting for the lights to come back on, Ruth’s attention was drawn to a low but rather consistent tapping. She tried to look around to locate the source of the annoying sound, but she was completely confounded by the darkness. Ruth sat still, waiting.
Ruth claimed that she had never been afraid of the dark. Not even when she was eight years old and accidentally locked herself in the trunk of her father’s car. Her father didn’t find her for hours. He and her mother searched every inch of the house and the yard. They called most of the parents of her friends, and finally, when her dad got in his car to drive around the neighborhood to look for her, he heard the muffled sound of her kicks and screams coming from the trunk. Ruth hadn’t admitted, even then, that she had been afraid of the dark, but she slept with her Sleeping Beauty night-light on for at least a week.