He retrieved the gun from under a couch cushion, tucked it under his shirt at his back, grabbed his hat from a coat hook, and pulled it on. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, as he opened the door and wheeled the bike into the hallway. He carried it down the stairs, out to the sidewalk, and jumped on.
He left the bicycle in an alleyway a block from his destination, looked carefully up and down the street, and then walked boldly to Jackson Badger’s house.
He covered the tip of his finger with the sleeve of his shirt, rang the doorbell, and put his hands behind his back, one hand gripping the butt of the pistol. He waited patiently.
Nobody answered. He knocked on the door.
Badger opened the door and scowled down at Jeremy. “Shouldn’t you be in school? What d’you want?”
“Are you Jackson Badger?” Jeremy asked.
Badger didn’t answer but it didn’t matter; Jeremy had the right guy. He pulled out the pistol and swung it forward.
Badger reacted fast. He turned and raced away, leaving the door open. Jeremy sprang inside. Badger was going for the back door; he couldn’t let him get away.
As Badger struggled to unlock the door, Jeremy made it to the kitchen and leveled the gun. He pulled the trigger, but Badger ducked, and the window in the door shattered.
Badger dove across the room, behind the table. “What do you want?” he screamed.
Jeremy rounded the table carefully. “I want you,” he said.
The thief was on his knees, caught in a corner, his hands in front of him as if to stop the attack. “Why?” he whined. “What did I do to you?”
Jeremy stayed back five feet and sighted carefully. A shot to the head could miss and then there may be trouble. The sensible thing would be to select the larger target, wound first, disabling his opponent, and then finish the job.
“It’s not what you did to me,” Jeremy said, as he tightened his finger on the trigger. “It’s who you are that’s the problem.”
Badger looked confused.
Jeremy pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot filling the room, almost deafening him. The bullet hit Badger in the chest. Blood sprayed, stopping short of where Jeremy stood.
The thief’s eyes closed as he wobbled, and then fell forward into a puddle of blood. One more shot in the back of the head ensured the job was done. Jeremy stood back, examining his handiwork.
He put the gun behind his belt and took the back door out, avoiding the broken glass, and went up the side of the house to the street.
He found his bike where he left it, and seeing no one on the sidewalk, he jumped on and pedaled away.
Thus far, it had been a wonderful day.
~~*~~
MRS. EDITH BADGER pulled her car into the driveway, squinted through the windshield toward the front door of her house, and frowned. Her worthless son left the front door open again. He’d always been careless that way, and it was no wonder he got caught for his crimes. He was too inattentive and irresponsible.
She opened the back door of her car, retrieved a bag of groceries, and headed up the walkway to the front door. She stepped inside and called, “Jackson? You here?”
There was no answer.
She closed the door, set her bag on a small corner table, and raised her voice. “Jackson?”
Still no answer. She sighed, removed her jacket and scarf, and hung them on a hook behind the door. Retrieving her bag of groceries, she carried them into the kitchen, stopping once to call her son again, and dropped the bag on the kitchen counter.
Mrs. Badger looked down and frowned at a trickle of red liquid at her feet. Her eyes grew wide and she spun around, then advanced cautiously around the kitchen table, following the trickle of what she now realized was blood.
She froze for a moment, and then screamed again, the sound fading away as she collapsed to the floor and fainted. She lay still a few moments before opening her eyes, the realization of what she’d seen rushing back in.
She scrambled backwards, away from the sight, struggled to her feet, and then stumbled for the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, 9:36 AM
HANK WAS AT HIS desk in the precinct when RHPD dispatch was notified of the 9-1-1 call. They informed him immediately.
He glanced over toward the water cooler. King was wasting time as usual, chatting with a young female intern who didn’t seem all that interested in talking to the unkempt cop.
Detective Simon King, recently transferred to RHPD and placed in the narcotics division, occasionally teamed up with Hank when not working a case. And right now was one of those times. Hank preferred to work alone and wasn’t keen on being coupled with the stringy-haired cop—always with three days growth of beard on his face, sloppy clothes, and an overall lazy attitude—but with the Spencer case, the captain insisted on it.
Hank strode over to King. “We got a body.”
King straightened up, winked at the intern, tossed his paper cup into the wastebasket, and followed Hank from the precinct to the parking lot at the rear of the building.
They climbed in Hank’s Chevy. “Who’s the vic?” King asked.
Hank started the car and pulled out. He slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to his partner. “It’s all there. A woman came home from shopping this morning. Found her son dead in the kitchen. Blood all over the place.”
King studied the paper and whistled. “Jackson Badger. I know that name.”
Hank glanced over at King. “A petty thief. Multiple break-ins. Released on bail yesterday.”
“Yup.”
Hank didn’t want to make any presumptions, but the presence of Jeremy Spencer in the area, and a victim who was a thief, seemed to point in one direction.
“You think it’s Spencer, don’t you?” King asked, squinting at Hank.
Hank shrugged. “Maybe. Can’t say yet.”
First responders had cordoned off the entire property by the time they arrived. Three cruisers were parked on the street, one cop directing traffic. Hank pulled in behind the forensic van, shut off the engine, and they got out.
They ducked under the yellow tape and made their way to the front door. A uniformed cop leaning against the brick wall greeted them. “Morning, Hank, King,” the cop said, handing over two pair of booties.
“Morning, Yappy,” Hank said, and King grunted. They slipped the shoe covers on and stepped inside.
Investigators were busy conducting a rigorous examination of the entire house. Lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson, approached him, a clipboard in his hand. “The action’s in the kitchen, Hank.” Jameson said, pointing down the hallway.
The detectives went into the kitchen, a hub of activity. The police photographer, finished taking photos of the victim, left the room. Hank went around the table and approached the body. Jackson Badger lay face down in a pool of blood trickled across the floor toward the counter, distinct footprints in a stream of blood near the sink.
Glass crunched under King’s feet as he approached the back door. Hank frowned at the careless cop. “Watch the glass, King,” he said. “Be careful of the evidence.”
Hank pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, approached the door carefully, and pushed on it. “The door’s unlocked. The killer might’ve entered this way.”
Jameson had come in the room. “The front door was open when the first responders arrived,” he said.
Hank stepped back and looked at the investigator. “So he might’ve entered through the back and left through the front, or the other way around.”
Jameson stepped aside to allow Nancy Pietek, the chief medical examiner, to enter the room. “Nice to see you again, Hank,” she said, as she put on a pair of examination gloves.
Hank nodded hello and motioned toward the body. Nancy approached Badger, crouched down, and examined the back of the victim’s head. She looked up at Hank. “Looks like a gunshot entry wound. I’ll know for sure after I do a thorough examination.”
; “So I assume the manner of death is a gunshot wound?” Hank asked.
“It looks like it,” Nancy replied. She motioned toward the side of the body. “Look at the blood here. That’s not from his head. I expect when we get him turned over, we’ll see a GSW in the chest as well.”
“If I were to hazard a guess,” Hank said. “He was shot in the chest, fell forward, and then took one more shot to the back of the head.”
Nancy stood. “It looks that way, but I can’t make a determination yet. We’ll have to wait until forensics is done before we move him.”
Hank thought he had a pretty good idea of what happened. He turned to Jameson. “I suppose there were no witnesses?”
“Nope. None that came forward.”
“And the victim’s mother?” Hank asked. “Edith Badger?”
Jameson motioned behind him. “In the living room.”
Hank looked at King. “I’ll go talk to the mother. Try not to step on too much evidence.”
King shrugged and brushed back his greasy hair. “Relax, Hank.”
Hank said nothing as he turned and went into the living room. Mrs. Badger sat on the couch, leaned forward, her head down, hands folded in her lap, gripping a tissue. A uniformed cop sat opposite her, looking uneasy. Mrs. Badger glanced up as Hank approached.
Hank nodded for the cop to leave, then pulled the chair in closer to the woman and sat down. He leaned forward and put his hand on her arm. “Mrs. Badger. I’m Detective Hank Corning.”
She smiled weakly, the few wrinkles in her mid-forties face exaggerated by the pain in her eyes.
“I’m very sorry about your son,” he said.
She sighed lightly and dabbed at her tears. “He really was a good boy at heart. I know he got in some trouble lately.” She stopped as a sob escaped her lips. “But he didn’t deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this, Mrs. Badger,” Hank said softly. “And I’ll do whatever I can to find out who’s responsible.”
She looked at him earnestly. “He was only twenty-two.”
Hank sat back and sighed deeply. He always hated this part—hated seeing the grief people went through, especially when it was a senseless death like this one. “I’m sorry I have to ask you,” he said. “Do you know of anyone who might’ve wanted your son dead?”
Mrs. Badger shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
King had come into the room, standing silently. He spoke up, “Your son was a nasty character, involved in a lot of criminal activity, and likely had a lot of nasty friends. Think, Mrs. Badger. Surely one of them may be responsible.”
Hank cleared his throat and frowned at the insensitive cop.
Mrs. Badger looked up at King, pain evident on her face. “I didn’t know them.”
“We have an idea who it might be,” King said.
She looked at him quizzically.
Hank spoke. “We have no suspects at this point, but we’ll be looking at everyone.” He waved for King to leave and waited for the crass detective to wander away before saying, “We need to get a complete statement from you when you feel up to it.”
She nodded and Hank rose to his feet. “One of the officers will stay with you awhile. Speak up if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
King stood by the living room door. Hank motioned to him and King followed him from the house. Hank stopped, turned back, his brows in a tight line, and glared at his tactless partner. He raised his voice. “I told you before. When someone is grieving, leave the questions to me.”
King glared back, and then finally looked aside and sauntered to the car.
Hank sighed and followed him, at the moment, feeling more like a babysitter than a cop.
Chapter 18
Wednesday, 10:12 AM
ANNIE FELT HER stomach doing somersaults when Jake pulled the Firebird off County Road 12 and onto the dusty laneway leading up to the old Spencer house.
It was awhile since she’d been here, and memories of the terrifying events flooded back into her mind like it was yesterday.
Jake stopped in front of the house and she peered through the windshield, up to the small second story window where Jenny was held, fearful for her life.
Down the laneway, a couple of hundred feet away, the old barn, now faded and worn with age, sat as a reminder of her own captivity. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to venture down the lane to the place where she was imprisoned, but she summoned up her courage and stepped from the vehicle.
Jake climbed from behind the steering wheel and watched her as she came around the front of the car to join him. “Are you ok?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ll be all right. It’s just creepy being here.”
The front lawn, once so nicely kept, was completely overgrown with weeds. Wild grass pushed up between the cracks in the crumbling sidewalk leading to the front porch that covered most of the front of the old red-brick farmhouse.
The surrounding fields hadn’t fared any better. No longer pushing up wheat, oats, and corn, the fertile soil fed a mixture of grass, weeds, and wildflowers.
Jake glanced around. “Jeremy still owns this place. I wonder why he never sold it. A bit of money can go a long way in prison.”
“Perhaps he expected to come back here one day.”
“He may still come back,” Jake said. “I hope he does. Maybe then, they can catch the little creep.”
Annie glanced apprehensively down the laneway. “Shall we go to the barn?”
They went down the gravel driveway and stopped in front of the small, decaying door. It was hooked on the outside, so Jake lifted the hook, unlatched the door, and it creaked open.
Jake followed Annie in and they looked around the enormous room, lit only by strips of light that streamed through spaces between the boards and splayed across the straw-covered floor. Rusty farm implements lined one side of the space. Huge columns supporting massive beams still held the roof firmly in place.
Annie shivered and caught her breath. On the far side of the room, fastened to a pillar, the chain that was used to hold her captive still hung, now rusting into dust.
As she moved closer to the pillar, she could make out the dog collar, secured to the end of the chain—the collar that had once been locked around her neck, chaining her up like a mad dog.
She stopped under the beam where Annette Spencer was found, hanging from a noose. She was glad she hadn’t witnessed that sight, but she could picture it in her mind. The woman, who Annie now believed was murdered, hanging helpless, gasping for air, as her killer watched.
She squinted upward. Strands of rope still clung to the beam. According to the police report, she hung thirty inches from the floor. The report concluded she’d climbed into the haymow, wrapped the noose around her neck, and jumped off.
Annie had her doubts.
“Did you bring the tape measure?” she asked.
Jake lifted his shirttail. It was fastened to his belt. He removed it and handed it to her.
Annie held up a hand. “That’s your job.” She pointed to a long, wooden ladder hanging on the wall. “I need you to use that and measure the distance from the rope on the beam, to the haymow.”
Jake removed the ladder from the wall and stood it up. The end barely touched the beam. He tested the rungs. “I don’t know if they’ll hold me,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” Annie said, as she took the end of the tape and climbed the ladder carefully. The rungs bent under her weight, but held. Jake took the other end, climbed into the haymow, and measured the distance. “Eleven feet, three inches,” he said, and climbed back down.
Annie hung on with one hand, pulled the report from her back pocket, and studied it. “Mrs. Spencer was five feet, four inches tall, and she hung thirty inches from her feet to the floor of the barn. I want to know the distance from the beam to the floor.”
She held the end of the tape while Jake measured. “Fifteen feet, seven inches.”
Annie climbed down the
ladder and did some quick calculations. Finally, she announced, “She couldn’t have done it herself. It’s impossible. The rope would’ve been a few inches too short.”
Jake looked up at the beam, then the haymow. “I’m pretty sure, if she’d jumped that far, her neck would’ve been broken as well. And it wasn’t.”
“Now we have to find out who killed her,” Annie said.
“I wonder if we should talk to the detective who was in charge of this,” Jake said, as he took the report from Annie and browsed it.
“He retired years ago, shortly after this case. Apparently, he has Alzheimer’s disease now, so I’m afraid all we have to go on are his sketchy accounts.”
“That doesn’t leave us with much, then,” Jake said, waving the report. “If the conclusion was suicide, then how much can we trust anything else in here?”
“There’s really nothing else in there,” Annie said. “It looks like we’re on our own.”
“And there’s absolutely no more evidence left,” Jake added, glancing around the space. “Is there anything else in here you want to look at?”
Annie shook her head. “Nothing.”
They left the barn, latched the door, and returned to the car. Annie was more certain than ever, they were looking for a cold-blooded killer.
“We’re still lacking a motive,” she said to Jake, as they drove away. “And somehow, it ties into the death of Quinton Spencer. That’s what we need to find out.”
“And with no witnesses to his murder, and no evidence,” Jake said. “Where do we start?”
Annie couldn’t answer that question right now, but she was determined to find those answers—one way or another.
Chapter 19
Wednesday, 10:59 AM
HANK SAT AT his desk, filling out a preliminary report on their investigation of the murder of Jackson Badger. King was in his usual spot by the water cooler. Around him, officers went about their tasks, the warm air inside the building not making their job of controlling crime in this small city any easier.
Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6) Page 7