by Dale Hudson
“What have you got, John?” Hendrick cut the lamp on beside his bed, then patted his wife back to sleep.
“Hate to get you out of bed for this,” King apologized, “but it looks like we have a homicide on the beach. I’ve already called the lieutenant. I thought you both would want to be in on this one.”
Hendrick had been in law enforcement for twenty-six years—as long as he and his wife, Jennie, had been married. They both accepted the fact his job was always going to be a forty-hour-plus week. Like most police officers, when Sam wasn’t working, he was thinking about work. This would not be the first or the last time he would have to crawl out of bed after midnight, put on a coat and tie and drive to the beach to investigate a murder.
Hendrick straightened his tie in the mirror, kissed his wife good-bye, then headed out the door. Without saying so, they both knew it would be some time before he would see his family again. On his way out the door, he remembered being told over the phone that the young man who had just been shot on the beach was twenty-three years old. His own son, Sandy, had just turned twenty-one.
It was a little after 12:30 A.M. when Captain Hendrick arrived at the Eighty-first Avenue beach access. As he stepped off the boardwalk and onto the beach, there was an assembled crowd of law enforcement officers to greet him. Hendrick recognized there were two elements in working a crime on the beach that he could always count on. Regardless of the time of year, he always found the beach windy at night, and he always had a heck of a time walking on the beach without the gritty sand clinging to his shoes and clothes like a layer of glue.
As chief of the Investigation Division, Hendrick not only had the control of the day-to-day operations with the detectives, narcotics and crime scene investigations, but at any time a major crime occurred every department fell under his jurisdiction for chain of command. Although he didn’t directly supervise the beach patrol, he had jurisdiction over them and anything that related to this crime scene. Hendrick expected a full report from every department who was working this case.
“What have you got so far?” Hendrick asked, singling out his sergeant.
Sergeant King looked up. “Good morning, Chief. We’ve got a robbery here, where this one guy was shot. Wife was with him, but she wasn’t shot. She’s our only witness. Detective Joyce has her at the station now interviewing her.”
“What is it she said she saw?” Hendrick wanted to know.
King held up his notepad in the light shining from the trucks still parked on the beach. “She told us someone wearing a mask and dressed in black came up from behind them on the beach, robbed them and then shot her husband.”
King lowered his pad and stepped toward Hendrick. He led him a few feet away, cupped a hand around his mouth as a shield, then said in a low voice, “We got the call about ten minutes ago that he died. Detective Altman is still at the hospital talking with the doctors and emergency responders, hoping they’ll be able to shed some light on the situation.”
Captain Hendrick and Sergeant King walked over to the cordoned area of the beach, which was being spotlighted by the beach patrol trucks. Careful to stay outside of the immediate crime scene area so as not to contaminate the evidence, they observed from a distance the pool of crimson blood that stained the beach’s white sand.
“The wife said the robber made her and her husband lie on their back with their feet together before asking for their money and jewelry,” King continued. “And then, for no apparent reason, he shot her husband.” He paused. “Said he shot him in the head. Shot him twice.”
Hendrick thought about what he had just heard. A few of the details King had given him were a little odd, but he had learned over the years to reserve his comments until all the facts of the story were in. Victims of serious crimes often experience confusion or momentary memory lapse due to the shock and trauma of the moment. Until they got the complete story from the victim’s wife, he would take a wait-and-see posture.
“The robber shot him here.” King pointed as they walked around the back side of the yellow-taped area, which was about the same square footage as the standard boxing ring. They moved in for a closer look. The evidence collection team was busy sifting through the sand, searching for any morsel of a clue to the crime. An additional officer, Dean Mayer, who was particularly gifted with a metal detector, had been called in to help examine the area.
King motioned toward the officers, then reported what had already been found.
“They’ve located several spent shells, so we know the robber shot the guy here. We believe he then took off at a northward angle toward the beach access. The dogs were able to pick up his scent to the beach access, but then they lost the trail there. We figured that is where the gunman probably got into his parked car and drove off.”
“What have you got by way of footprints?” Hendrick asked.
“Well, there were so many people in and out of this area to begin with, especially when the paramedics came down here to treat the body,” King said, “I am afraid we don’t have anything solid in that department.”
King knelt down and grabbed a handful of sand. He shook his head as if the fault lay with the grainy material he now had squeezed between his palm and fingers. “Besides, you know how this soft sand is. It never gives a good print.” He opened his hand and let if fall in one clump to the ground, then brushed his hand off against his pants pocket.
“How about the patrol officer, what does he know?”
King nodded toward the officer standing by his truck. “Officer Brown, who found the couple, is over there with his supervisor, reviewing his report.”
Hendrick looked over at the young, clean-shaven and white-walled officer.
“Brown did say he noticed one thing in particular about the victim’s wife that was unusual,” King continued. “She had told him the robber made her and her husband lie on their backs, with their feet together before he robbed them. He said when she first approached him on the beach, to say that her husband had been shot, he asked her to sit in his truck. Yet, when she got out of his truck some time later, he looked closely at the back of her shirt and noticed there was no sand on it. Nor was there any sand on the back of the cloth-covered seats where she had been sitting.”
“On the back of her pants, either?” Hendrick asked with a quizzical look.
“No, sir. There was nothing on her pants or the back of her shirt.”
“How about blood?” Hendrick pressed. “Any blood on either her shirt or pants?”
“There was a tiny drop of blood on her pants and some on her hand. But, other than that, there was nothing.”
“And you said she is our only witness of what went down?” Hendrick reiterated.
King answered in the affirmative.
Hendrick walked King away from the crime scene and toward Officer Brown and his supervisor, who were standing at the truck. He wanted to hear it again from the patrol officer and get his perspective.
Hendrick being to summarize the facts. More so for himself than Sergeant King. “So, in essence, we got the robbery of a young couple. The husband is shot and the wife is not. The wife is the only person we have at this point who knows what happened, and the only person we can get any information from.”
“It’s the only one we know about so far,” King confirmed. “We believe there might have been other witnesses, but we don’t have any at this time.”
“Well, we can’t count on finding another witness, so it is possible this girl is all we’ve got. And, given that her husband is dead, she just might turn out to be the only witness to the shooting.” Hendrick scratched his head. He didn’t like the direction this case had taken. “We’ve got no choice at this point but to stay with the girl and get all we can out of her, if we’re ever going to find out what happened here.”
“Yes, sir,” King snapped.
“I agree with that.”
Hendrick stepped up to Officer Brown and his supervisor, huddled around the lit truck. The additional informa
tion from Officer Brown could be the piece of the puzzle they needed to help solve this case. Brown repeated what he’d told his supervisor. Hendricks recognized immediately the officer was no raw recruit. Fortunately, this three-year veteran was a well-trained, astute and observant officer, everything Hendrick had aspired for all his men.
“And you’re sure, Officer Brown, there was no sand anywhere on her front or backside?” Hendrick asked.
“No, sir.” Brown gestured with his hands. “The only sand I saw on her was on the knees of her jeans. Now, I did see a large amount of sand in my front seat when she exited my vehicle. She had to have gotten that on her when she and I checked on her husband. She had knelt down beside him and held his hand. I’m certain that’s where the sand on the seat of her pants came from.”
Hendrick pulled King aside again. “John, we’ve got to get to this girl. We need to get her story from her and get it fast!”
“Yes, sir, I understand. She is important.”
“She is more than important,” Hendrick emphasized with great emotion, his hands flapping. “This whole case may depend on her and her testimony. In fact, if we don’t get it, we may never be able to solve this murder.”
While serving in the army, Hendrick had played a little poker. Although he was never very good at it, he had learned a thing or two about human nature. The men in his outfit who consistently won were those who knew how to read and play other players. If they were ever going to solve this case, he needed a man like that: someone who was a natural at pinpointing changes in facial expressions and reading body language, someone who could hone in on the smallest sigh or bead of sweat on the upper lip, someone who could use that emotion and get the person to betray his or her true feelings.
That someone, Hendrick knew from the very beginning, was Detective Terry Altman.
CHAPTER 9
Detective Altman left the hospital, then drove back to the crime scene to meet with Lieutenant Frontz and Captain Hendrick. This was the first murder on the beach they had ever worked.
“Good to see you back, Altman.” Frontz chuckled when he saw Terry walking toward him. “The chief’s got some news for you.”
Thinking there had been some new development in the case, Altman felt his hope rise. He quickened his pace and headed toward Hendrick, who was still talking with Sergeant King. Maybe he would say they had found the killer and they could all go home and get some sleep. But that was not to be.
“At this point and time,” Hendrick stated, “it’s crucial that we put our best foot forward and assign who we think is the best person for the job of lead detective. Unfortunately, we’ve got to play the hand we’ve been dealt. We have one living witness—the widow—and she’s the only person we have to tell us what happened. Now, that’s scary.”
“Yes, sir, I agree,” King added.
“It looks like her story might be all we’ve got, so we’ve got to get her to show us the hand she’s playing. I’m telling you, solving this case is going to depend solely on the person we choose to get information from that lady sitting in our office. And it’s going to take someone like Altman to get the truth out of her.”
King nodded.
When Hendrick informed Altman he had been appointed the lead detective on this case, he responded jokingly, “Oh, crap, that’s all I need.”
For the next thirty minutes, Altman briefed Hendrick and Frontz and shared what he had learned at the hospital, especially that of Dr. Duffy’s candid opinion. They, in turn, provided him additional information they had garnered from the crime scene. By now, the crime scene evidence team had completed their search, and the three detectives were able to walk through and examine the bloodied area. They studied the scene and discussed the found evidence and the “how’s and why’s” this murder could have occurred.
“We found two spent nine-millimeter cartridges,” Hendrick told Altman. “There was one on top of the sand to begin with. Then we found another one when we brought in Officer Mayer, who skimmed the sand with a metal detector. He is the expert at finding things buried beneath the ground. I don’t think anything else was there or he would have found it.”
Altman pictured in his mind’s eye the shapes and casts of a 9mm cartridge—silver casing and copper jacketed with hollow expansion points. A chill suddenly passed over his body. These were synonymous with the two bullets the killer had fired directly into Brent’s head that shattered his brain.
“Another four live cartridges were found,” Hendrick continued. “All of these I believe came from the same nine-millimeter gun. Three were found on top of the sand by Grazioso when he processed the crime scene. The fourth one had been hidden under the sand and was found by Mayer and his metal detector.”
Corporal Grazioso walked over to the group, holding an evidence bag.
“Good so far, Graz,” Altman chimed in. “What else you got for us?”
“We found a beach towel, a button, some loose change and a pack of Marlboro Light cigarettes near the bloodstain on the beach,” Grazioso reported.
“All these probably belonged to the victim,” Altman speculated.
Grazioso dug down deeper in his bag and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. “One silver knife,” he said as he held it out in front of Altman for examination. “It was closed when we found it, so I doubt it was used at the crime scene.”
Altman watched the knife as Grazioso turned it over in his gloved hands. He wondered if there had been a struggle. If the knife belonged to Brent, then why hadn’t he used it. Remembering the gunshot wounds to Brent’s head, Altman wondered if he had had time to defend himself at all.
Grazioso reached down in his bag again.
“Oh, and most important, when we were digging in the sand, we found this buried along beside a penny.” Grazioso dropped a small gold wedding band into Altman’s open hand. “We believe it belonged to the victim’s wife.”
Altman stared at the wedding band resting in his palm. He thought about the value of his and his wife’s own wedding bands. They were certainly worth more than a penny each, and he would at the drop of a hat fight anyone who attempted to wrestle it from his or her hand. But, he wasn’t too sure he would be willing to give up his life in exchange for their rings.
After talking with Grazioso, Altman did his own bit of canvassing through some of the blue garbage cans that were down in the area. He hoped he might find anything that would provide a clue to this murder. Of course, that had already been done by the other officers, but he went through them again anyway. He wanted to make certain nothing had been overlooked.
It was important for Altman to get into the right frame of mind and begin formulating his own thoughts and perspective about this case. He had, for all intents and purposes, just been named the lead detective.
CHAPTER 10
While Renee Poole continued talking with victim’s advocate Mary Stogner, Detective Joyce called Don Myers. Myers was working the security division of Nations Bank and gave him the name of George Ross. He was in charge of the central office and supervised the persons that handled debit and credit cards. Ross made several calls and finally connected Joyce with their Charlotte, North Carolina, office, which was tracking any activity of the Pooles’ stolen plastic cards. There was a flag on any card activity, but so far the cards had not been used.
Detective Joyce thought it odd that the robber hadn’t used the debit card or a single credit card. In nearly all of these type cases, the robber tries to access the card as quickly as possible to avoid eventual detection.
“Are you sure there’s been no report on any of these cards?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve checked it twice,” the cordial lady in the Charlotte office confirmed.
Joyce hung up the phone and had just started walking back toward the interview room when he was called back. It was Detective Altman calling to tell him Brent Poole had died at the hospital. The long and thin man hung up the phone and slowly walked to Stogner’s office. He looked as burdened as an old plo
w horse.
Renee must have recognized the glum in Joyce’s sullen cheeks when he walked in and closed the door behind him. “How’s Brent doing?” she asked apprehensively. Joyce shook his head, then answered softly, “He didn’t make it.”
Renee’s stomach tightened. She felt her body begin to shake and heard a voice trying to comfort her. Her head dropped. She hadn’t been told anything about Brent. She knew nothing about what hospital he had been transferred to or that he had been in surgery. Fighting to contain her tears, she didn’t want to believe what she was hearing. It was all still like a bad dream. From the outside, she saw someone that resembled herself sitting in that chair and listening to these people trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t comprehend what it was.
Renee got sick again and had to go to the bathroom. When she came back to the office, she took a seat in the same chair and found herself staring across the desk at a large, red-faced man with a permanent scowl. She swallowed hard.
“Mrs. Poole, I am the Myrtle Beach captain of investigation, Sam Hendrick,” the burly man said quietly, looking at her through rose-tinted glasses. “Is there anyone you need to call?”
Renee cleared her throat. “I need to call Brent’s parents.” Mary Stogner handed her a pencil and a piece of paper and Renee wrote down the number, then slid it across the desk. “They live in Clemmons, North Carolina.”
Hendrick dialed the numbers, then patiently waited until he heard a female answer on the other end. He identified himself and asked if this was the home of Bill and Agnes Poole. It was. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have some bad news about your son. He’s been in a terrible accident here at the beach.”
Dead silence. Hendrick thought he did hear her eyelids blink.
Law enforcement officials normally try to be very sensitive when notifying the victim’s family members of an impending death. It’s common knowledge that bad news always seems to come unexpectedly by phone in the middle of the night. And when that happens, the police believe it is easier to receive disturbing news from a known person rather than a complete stranger. Captain Hendrick believed Brent’s parents would prefer hearing the account of their son’s death from their daughter-in-law rather than the police.