Hank looked across the room and nodded toward the other body. “And the guy over there?”
Hank followed Nancy to the desk. “One shot in the face,” she said. “The bullet entering above the right eye, also from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches.”
Hank looked carefully at the position of the body, the arms dangling at the side, his face against the desk, blood drying on the laminate top, more spattered across papers and file folders.
Nancy continued, “The victim would’ve been sitting at the time, his head against the back of the chair, as indicated by the bodily tissue and blood pattern on the chair. Taking into account Hatfield’s height and the position of the exit wound, the gunman would’ve held the weapon at a height of approximately forty to forty-five inches.”
Hank looked at the position of the guest chair. “Considering the height of the shot, if the shooter was sitting, then he would’ve pushed the chair back later. But if he was standing at the time he took the shot, then he would’ve been fairly short.”
“I’d say he was standing, Hank. Remember, the shot came from a distance of eighteen to twenty-four inches, and the victim’s head was resting on the back of his chair. The killer appeared to have been leaning forward when he pulled the trigger.”
“The killer had to be standing then,” Hank said. “And he was either crouched down, or he was leaning in and about the same height as Jeremy Spencer.”
Hank looked thoughtfully at the body. “Hatfield was shot by a visitor, perhaps a client, or under the guise of a client, and then the receptionist came into the room, the gunman shot her from a distance, then moved in and finished the job.”
“It appears that way,” Nancy said.
“It seems to me,” Hank continued. “If he shot the receptionist first, as he entered the room, then Hatfield wouldn’t still be sitting at his desk. He would’ve tried to get away. Maybe behind, or under the desk, or behind the chair.” Hank paused a moment. “I think Hatfield was caught totally unaware.” He looked at Nancy and asked, “Time of death?”
“I’d say no less than one, perhaps two, hours ago.”
Hank strode out to the reception area and glanced at the magazines on the desk, some papers at one end, a pen, a make-up bag. He opened the top drawer, removed a small booklet, and flipped it open. It was a schedule of appointments with only two listings for that morning. A Mr. Black at 9:30 and a Mrs. Dora Quaker at 10:30.
Mrs. Quaker discovered the bodies, and Mr. Black sounded like an assumed name, taken on for the occasion.
Mr. Black was the killer, no doubt.
He went back into the office and approached the lead investigator, Rod Jameson. “Have anything for me? Fingerprints?”
“There’s a variety of fingerprints on the near edge of the desk,” Jameson said, pointing. “There’re also other prints in the outer office, on the chairs and on the entry door handle. We’ll get all those checked out ASAP.”
“What about the woman who called it in?”
“Mrs. Dora Quaker,” Jameson said, glancing at a clipboard in his hand. “Officers have taken her home and will get her statement. I spoke to her for a moment. She didn’t touch anything except the telephone in the outer office, and the chair she sat on.”
“I assume she was checked for gunshot residue?”
“Yes, and we checked in her handbag. No weapon. I’d be very surprised if she was the perpetrator.”
Hank nodded. “It’s not a woman’s preferred method of murder.” He paused. “What about surveillance video?”
“Nope. Nothing in here. Nothing in the outer office, and there doesn’t appear to be any type of surveillance set up anywhere along this street.”
“Officers are canvassing the neighborhood,” Jameson continued. “They already checked with the neighboring stores.” He pointed with a thumb. “A dry cleaner next door. A beauty parlor on the other side. Nobody heard anything or saw anything. They’ll check for video as well, but I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”
“Is there a back door here?” Hank asked, glancing around.
“No back door.”
Hank was missing one integral piece of the puzzle—a motive. If the killer was Jeremy Spencer, then what did he know Hank didn’t? Was the killer a thief? He pulled out his phone, called the precinct, and was put through to Callaway.
“I need all the info you can get me on Wendell Hatfield and Hatfield Investments,” he said, when Callaway answered. “Everything. Especially if it relates to anything dishonest he may have been involved in.”
“Right away,” Callaway said.
“I’ll check in with you later,” Hank said, and hung up.
This could’ve been a revenge killing, or something else, but whatever it was, it likely related to money. Hatfield Investments was all about money—perhaps big money. But whatever it was, and whoever the perpetrator was, it seemed to be personal.
And if Spencer was involved, Hank had to find a way, not only to connect him to these murders, but to track him down once and for all.
Chapter 36
Thursday, 12:26 PM
JAKE MOPED AROUND the house most of the morning and he and Annie hadn’t come up with a plan of action. He was aching to get some results, but was at a loss on how to proceed.
Annie was doing some research on a variety of things—spontaneous fire and arson, potential future targets, and the psychology of serial killers. Jake wasn’t sure what else she was looking into. His wife was always learning something new.
He was outside washing the Firebird when Hank parked at the curb and strode up the driveway carrying his briefcase. Jake shut off the washer, tossed the nozzle aside, and greeted him.
“Don’t shine that up too much,” Hank said with a chuckle, and motioned toward the Firebird. “Someone may decide to steal it again.”
“Let them try,” Jake said. “I’ll sic Jeremy Spencer on them.”
“Speaking of Spencer, I just came from a very interesting crime scene.”
“Oh? Another murder?”
“A double homicide,” Hank said. “Is Annie around?”
Jake jerked a thumb toward the house. “Inside.”
“She’ll want to hear this too.”
They went in the house and found Annie, still in the office, glaring at the computer monitor. She sat back and waited while they pulled up chairs and sat down.
Hank told them what took place at Hatfield Investments. When he was finished, he added, “I have Callaway checking into Wendell Hatfield now.”
“That was yesterday,” Annie said.
Hank was confused. “What was yesterday?”
“The story on Hatfield Investments was in yesterday’s paper.”
Hank leaned forward.
Annie left the room and came back with a newspaper. She opened it up and handed it to Hank, pointing to the bottom of page 4.
Hank read the headline aloud. “Investment Consultant Under Fraud Investigation.” He scanned the story and then tossed the paper onto the desk. “This is Spencer’s work. I can see his hand all over it.”
“And this time he killed two,” Jake put in.
“I think the receptionist was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Hank said.
“Normally, that creep doesn’t kill innocent people,” Jake added. “Maybe he assumed she was involved somehow.”
“Perhaps she was,” Annie put in. “Although the story doesn’t name her as being under suspicion. Maybe Jeremy’s upping his game and doesn’t care who he hurts any more.” She paused, and then asked, “What about the gun?”
“I think the ballistic evidence will show it was the same weapon Spencer has,” Hank said. “A 38 caliber. And I’m betting it’ll also show it was the same gun that killed Jackson Badger. Until we get the report back, I’m going under the presumption Spencer’s responsible.”
Hank gave Callaway a call and told him about the story on Hatfield in the paper. “Don’t spend any more time digging into Hatfield Inves
tments. See if King came up with something that’ll help you find a lead.”
When Hank finished with the call, Annie asked, “Did the fire investigator determine the cause of the fire in that building?”
Hank snapped his fingers, picked up his briefcase, and opened it. He removed a folder. “I got the investigator’s report early this morning.” He ran a finger over it. “Here it is. Arson suspected. The fire started in the basement in what was determined to be a combination of clothes, paper, and an unknown chemical.”
“Different accelerant than the barn fire,” Jake noted.
“If arson was involved in the barn fire, and the two are related,” Hank said. “Then it appears the arsonist used whatever was at hand. But we may be stretching the facts. There’s no evidence they’re related, other than coincidence.”
“I think they are,” Annie said. “But whether or not they’re connected to Jeremy’s killing spree, or to the murder of his parents, I don’t know.” She pulled a sheet of paper from a small pile on the corner of her desk, waved it, and handed it to Hank. “I’ve been working on a report for Diego, but there’s not much here.”
Hank took the paper and glanced at it.
Annie continued, “I spoke to Sophie Burnham yesterday. She’s the mother of the boy Quinton Spencer killed—now remarried. She doesn’t sound like a suspect and she has no idea where her ex is now. She said, although her husband was distraught at the time his son was killed, he didn’t appear to hold any special animosity toward Quinton Spencer.”
“If all that is correct, then we’re out of suspects,” Jake said.
“And you’re still firmly convinced Annette Spencer was murdered?” Hank asked.
Annie nodded. “I can’t prove it now the barn’s burnt down, but I’m fully convinced my measurements are correct.”
“They are,” Jake added. “I double-checked her figures.” He paused. “If that’s the only evidence of a murder, then that may be a motive to burn the barn down.”
“Perhaps,” Hank said. “But why after all these years? Who, besides us, knew Annie came up with some evidence?”
“No one,” Annie said. “Just us, King, and Callaway.”
Hank handed the report back to Annie. “That doesn’t point to arson then. It may’ve been spontaneous combustion like the fire investigator suggested.”
There was silence for a few moments, everyone with their own thoughts. Finally, Hank said, “I checked with the newspapers and the television station this morning and put undercover cops on two possibilities. I’ll do the same for tomorrow, and every day, if necessary, until we get this guy.”
“What if you held a press conference, Hank?” Annie asked.
“To what end?”
“This may sound like giving contrary advice, but perhaps you could explain who Jeremy’s targets are, and warn them, if they fit the profile, to be extra vigilant.”
Jake laughed. “Sort of like warning the bad guys not to get caught.”
Hank rubbed his chin. “It wouldn’t hurt and it may save a life. Even the bad guys don’t deserve to be murdered.”
“There’s one thing to consider,” Jake said. “Jeremy may see the press conference and be on his guard, resulting in a reverse effect to what we want. He may then turn to more obscure targets, and at the very least, be more careful.”
“You make it sound like a lose lose situation,” Hank said with a chuckle.
Jake shrugged. “It may be. Either way, if that weasel strikes again, someone loses.”
Hank leaned forward, rubbed at the back of his neck, and sighed deeply. “The problem is, we don’t have a lot of time. We’ve had three murders in two days, and there’s bound to be another one tomorrow if we don’t get Spencer on the run.”
“Anything we can do to help, Hank?” Jake asked.
“It doesn’t seem like it, unless you can come up with an idea. We have officers on the streets, we’re still going over everyone even remotely related, and investigators are studying the evidence from this morning’s murder.” Hank sat back, looked at Jake, and held up his hands, palms out. “What else is there?”
Jake grinned. “Annie’ll come up with something. She always does.”
“I appreciate your undying faith in me,” Annie said. “But right now, I’m as stumped as you guys are.”
Hank stood and picked up his briefcase. “Let me get back to the station, maybe toss some ideas past Diego, or talk to King. Give me any lead, no matter how small, and I’ll run with it.”
Jake walked to the door with Hank and watched the detective drive away. He rinsed off the Firebird, pulled it into the garage, and headed back into the house to see if, by any miracle, Annie came up with an idea. He wasn’t really expecting she had.
Chapter 37
Thursday, 12:54 PM
ANNIE HEARD THE doorbell ring and thought perhaps Hank came back for some reason. Jake was in the kitchen and she heard him rummaging around, likely looking for something to eat.
“I’ll get it,” Jake called.
She heard the bell ring again and in a moment, Jake running down the hallway. The front door opened and closed. Then it opened and closed again, and Jake came into the office.
“Those delivery guys don’t even give you a chance to get to the door any more. I had to chase him halfway to his van.” He tossed a padded envelope on the desk. “Package for you.”
Annie pulled the envelope toward her and looked at the front. “No return address,” she said. Her name and address was hand-written. She turned the package over. The back was blank.
She ripped the tab to open the package and peeked inside. Her eyes widened and she stared at Jake a moment, and then dumped out the contents of the envelope onto the desk. It was a stack of money—bills, bundled together with an elastic band. A single folded piece of paper fluttered out with the stack.
Jake had dropped into the chair and was leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. He watched her intently as she unfolded the paper and read, “I promised to pay you. Here’s a down payment. J.S.”
“It’s from Jeremy,” she said.
“Don’t touch the money. Fingerprints.”
“You don’t think we should keep it?”
Jake sat back and folded his arms. “I don’t know. I really think we should turn it over to Hank.”
Annie dropped the note she held as if it was on fire. “I shouldn’t have touched that.”
“How were you to know?”
“I think you’re right. We’d better give it to Hank.” Annie opened her desk drawer, found a pen, and used it to ease the note and the stack of bills back into the envelope.
Jake looked at his watch. “Let’s go right now. It’s only one o’clock, and Hank was headed for the precinct when he left here.”
Annie picked up the package, went to the kitchen, and put it into a grocery bag. Jake grabbed his keys and they hurried out to the Firebird.
Jake avoided a speeding ticket as they raced to the precinct, parked in the back, and hurried inside.
They said a quick hello to Yappy as they passed the duty officer and went straight to Hank’s desk where the detective had his head buried in paperwork.
Hank glanced up when Annie sat in the guest chair. His eyes widened. “I just got back. How’d you get here so fast?”
“We brought the Firebird,” Jake said. “It’ll outrun your heap any day.”
Hank chuckled. “And it drinks twice as much gas, too.”
Annie dumped the envelope from the grocery bag onto the desk. “It’s from Jeremy,” she said.
Hank raised both brows, looked at the package, and then at Annie. “Did you open it?”
“It’s money,” Annie said. “A stack of bills with a hand-written note from Jeremy.”
Hank leaned in, picked up the envelope by one corner, and dumped out the bills. “I wonder where he got that,” he mused.
“No idea,” Jake said.
Hank took a sharp breath, glared at the money a s
econd, and then grabbed his briefcase. He snapped it open, reached in, and dropped a video tape on the desk. He slapped the top of his desk. “I’ve been so busy, this completely slipped my mind.” He spun his chair around. “Callaway, do we have a VCR around here somewhere?”
“In the storage room,” Callaway called back. “You want me to get it?”
“Yes, quickly please,” Hank said, and then spun his chair back around. He picked up the tape and held it up. “This is a security video from a robbery that went down yesterday. A convenience store.”
Annie saw the connection. “And you think the money may’ve come from the robbery?”
“Yup. Could be.”
“But whatever that little piece of garbage is,” Jake said. “He’s not a thief.”
“I got a description of the robber from the store owner. You’re right, it wasn’t Spencer, but it could still be the money.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Annie said. “Here comes Callaway.” The cop was lugging a VCR across the room.
Hank spun his chair over to Callaway’s desk and Jake and Annie followed. They waited while the technical wizard plugged in some wires and then reached for the tape.
In a moment, they watched as the video played. The camera was ten feet from the cash register and they could plainly see a man standing behind the counter, watching over the store. A customer approached the register, paid for a package of something, and then left.
“How do we fast-forward this thing?” Hank asked.
Callaway showed him how and they continued to watch the video flash by at high speed. Soon, a huge man came into the store and Hank stopped the tape, rewound it a bit, and then hit the “Play” button.
They watched the robbery as it unfolded. There was no audio on the tape, a disappointment, but they had enough.
Justice Returns: A Private Investigator Mystery Series (A Jake & Annie Lincoln Thriller Book 6) Page 14