by Robin Cain
Frank wheeled himself to the entrance and pushed the button for the automatic door opener, giving a silent note of thanks to the laws that enabled him easy access. Since becoming bound to his chair, he had a new appreciation of things that made life easier.
Shiny spotless linoleum floors, bright overhead fluorescent lighting and a plate-glass window protecting the reception booth greeted his arrival. The women behind the counter, identically clad in white, sterile-looking lab coats, were busy and didn’t appear to notice him.
Frank cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
One of the women looked up, “May I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Frank Campelletti,” he hesitated, hoping this information would trigger some meaning on her part. When it didn’t, he added, “I’m meeting a Detective Frost here.”
Just as the look on her face indicated recognition, the outer door swung open and Detective Frost bounded in. Glancing at the receptionist and then at Frank’s chair, Frost’s face took on a look of confusion. Once the receptionist nodded, Frost extended his hand.
“Mr. Campelletti, I’m Detective Frost. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Frank was not in the mood for pleasantries and was relieved when the detective got right down to business.
“Elizabeth, would you buzz us in, please?” Security issues prevented entrance to any interior door without proper identification.
“Yes. And I will ring for Dr. Crase,” Elizabeth replied, referring to the coroner.
After a loud buzz, the heavy steel door unlatched with a sharp click. Detective Frost pulled it open and aside, allowing Frank to go first.
The next room was a duplicate of the previous one, with its linoleum floors and overhead lights, though this one led to a long, wide hallway with multiple closed doors along either side. Each of the doors had large red electric “Do Not Enter” signs affixed to the walls beside them. One could only assume the few illuminated ones meant business.
A short, heavyset, gray-haired man, outfitted in hospital scrubs and a long white lab coat, came out of a doorway at the end of the hall and walked toward them. The rhythmic squeak of his rubber soles on the unforgiving linoleum floor announced each of his heavy footsteps. His furrowed brow and the baggage under his eyes tellingly spoke of the man’s burden.
“Dr. William Crase,” the man introduced himself, extending his hand to Frank. After nodding at Detective Frost, Dr. Crase hastily got to the business at hand. “Mr. Campelletti, if you’re ready, I will take you to the viewing room.”
With an uncharacteristic lump beginning to form at the base of his throat, Frank was only able to nod.
Dr. Crase led the way down the corridor to the elevator at the end. He slowed his normally brisk pace to allow Frank and Detective Frost to keep up. The elevator was waiting for them when they arrived. Dr. Crase stepped aside and allowed Frank to wheel in and maneuver around to face outward. With Frank in place, Frost and Dr. Crase joined him inside. Dr. Crase pushed the button for the second floor and turned to address Frank.
“The body is upstairs on Two. We will let you have a look to see if it is a positive ID.” He spoke softly. “Keep in mind that there has been significant trauma to the body so, if it is your wife, it won’t be at all what you expect.”
Frank didn’t know how to respond. Words were failing him and, despite the cool temperature of the rooms, he was beginning to perspire.
The doors of the elevator slid open.
“Here we are,” Dr. Crase announced, stepping out onto the second floor. Another linoleum floor, more doors and more red signs. Frank wheeled himself out of the elevator, slowly following the doctor and detective. They arrived at one of the bigger steel gray doors and Dr. Crase slid his ID badge into the illuminated card reader mounted beside the door. It emitted a short double beep before the door lock released with a click.
A cool, clinical, almost fruity smell greeted Frank as he wheeled into the room. The lighting, even brighter in this room, illuminated a multitude of stainless steel surfaces. The entire wall to the right contained row after row of compartment doors. The freezer. It was familiar only because of movies he had seen.
Several waist-high surgical tables were centered in the room. Tall cabinets, filled with what Frank assumed were tools of the trade, lined the remainder of the walls. Above the steady hum of lab machines, he could now hear the rapid pounding of his own heart.
He moved himself over to the freezer wall, to a compartment in the middle of the row where Dr. Crase was standing. The label on the front read “Jane Doe 11-08-05-12”.
“Okay. If you’re ready?” Dr. Crase asked one last time before he reached for the door handle of the freezer compartment.
“Mr. Campelletti,” Frost interjected. “Please take as long as you need.”
Frank braced for that which he knew he was unprepared and very slowly nodded his head. Dr. Crase swung the door open and slid out the heavy steel shelf. Once the shelf was locked into place, he slowly laid back the white sheet covering the victim’s head and, without a word, stepped aside.
The sound of a sharp intake of breath filled the quiet of the room. Frank was unaware it was his own.
The body, its eyes closed and the skin a pasty pale mottled gray, looked like a horrifically amateur wax replica of what someone thought Sadie might have once looked like in caricature version. Her lips discolored and her cheeks and forehead inflated and bruised, she resembled something Frank could never have imagined in his own worst nightmare. The reality of what he was looking at—what Sadie must have gone through—struck him deep within his own chest. He felt the blood drain from his face.
“Oh my God,” he managed to finally whisper.
Required by standard protocol, Detective Frost had to ask, but he did so as gently as he knew how: “Mr. Campelletti, is this your wife?” Though he already knew the answer, he waited patiently for Frank’s response.
“Yes... yes. This is Sadie.”
Frank had seen enough. He dropped his chin to his chest and began to sob.
twenty-seven
DARREN PUT the caller on hold and buzzed Frost at his desk. “Detective? Call on Line Two. Says he might have info on our Jane Doe case from the lake.” He couldn’t remember the vic’s name, though he knew she had been recently identified.
Frost put down the file he was holding and pushed the button for the other line.
“Detective Frost.”
“Hello. My name is Charles Summerhill. I read the story in the paper about the body being found in the lake.”
“Yes, Mr. Summerhill. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s related, but my wife thought I’d better call, just in case.”
Frost had known that, once the media had gotten a hold of this case, something would surface, but he also knew better than to get his hopes up. Already working on several leads, good or otherwise, his department was not making a whole lot of progress and the media was riding his ass on this high-profile case.
“That’s good, sir. We are taking all leads at this point. Whatcha got?”
“Well, last Friday evening at about seven-thirty my wife, Twyla, and I were sitting out in our yard. We live in Green Bay.”
Frost knew that area on Lake Sullivan, about a mile from where the body was found and in the general area of the Campelletti home.
“Anyway, it was about seven-thirty and we were sitting out in the yard enjoying the evening and, like I said, having some wine. We’d been out there awhile, talking and drinking, and, well, we had quite a few, if you must know.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Summerhill. Go on.” With quite a few by seven-thirty, Frost wondered how much this guy could possibly remember.
“Well, there was a party going on a few houses down, with lots of music, laughing, hooting and hollering. It wasn’t bothering us or anything but, just before we were going inside to have dinner, we heard a scream. Figured it was just part of the group at the party, carrying on.”
“Man or woman’s scream?” Frost asked.
“It was a woman’s scream. But, like I said, we thought it was just part of the party commotion. Funny thing is, after we read the news, my wife and I started talking about it and we remembered that scream. Hadn’t given it a thought at the time, the wine and all, you know. But, then when we read the news, well, my wife brought it up. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the body, but my wife wanted to make sure I called. We think it came from the opposite direction of the party.”
“You’re absolutely right for calling, sir. What time did you say you heard the scream?”
“It was around seven-thirty Friday night.”
Mr. Summerhill had now repeated the same information three times. Good sign.
“And where was the party being held, in relation to where you thought the scream came from?” Frost was taking notes.
“We live in Green Bay, 5790 Water Street. The party was about four or five houses down the lake, north of us. The woman’s scream, we think, came from somewhere in the opposite direction. Almost sounded like it was out on the water, but just a guess. You know how noise carries on a lake.”
Frost could hear the man’s wife feed him details in the background, to make sure he relayed everything correctly.
“And just the one scream, sir?”
“Ah... yes. Just the one scream.”
Frost heard the wife say something else in the background.
“Detective? My wife wants me to tell you that she thought it sounded like a frightened scream as opposed to a happy scream, if that makes any sense.”
Frost smiled. He actually did think he knew what she meant.
“That’s great, Mr. Summerhill. Thank you.”
Frost wrote down the man’s contact information, intending to go to the Summerhill home as soon as possible to interview them further and have a look around. This was the first tip he’d heard that offered him some hope.
A party.
He would need to track all those people down and see if anyone else had heard or seen anything. It was something to go on.
Within the hour, Frost arrived at the Summerhill home. He pulled into the big circular driveway. There was a woman looking out the front window at him, but she moved away when their eyes met. He parked and climbed out of his car but, before he had a chance to ring the front bell, the door opened. A short, sixty-something-year-old man with a receding hairline greeted him.
“Good morning. I’m Detective Bill Frost. Mr. Summerhill? We spoke on the phone.”
Mr. Summerhill introduced himself and his wife, Twyla, the woman Frost had seen at the window. She didn’t speak as Summerhill shook Frost’s hand.
Permanently suspended somewhere in her forties, Twyla Summerhill was a classic example of plastic surgery gone too far. One-too-many facelifts had created an unnatural slant to her eyes. Disproportionately inflated lips outlined brilliantly whitened and perfectly veneered teeth. Now stationary from what one could only assume were regular Botox injections, her tattooed eyebrows stood tall and arched in a permanent look of surprise. An ungainly pair of unnaturally perky silicone breasts strained to burst out of a low-cut, lacy white top, which failed miserably to conceal the fact she wore no bra. She was the kind of woman that made a man lose his train of thought.
Soaring ceilings and gleaming, dark wood floors greeted Frost when Mr. and Mrs. Summerhill welcomed him inside their home. Frost guessed the home was just one of many stunning houses on the street, but he hadn’t been in any others. This one was truly impressive.
“Thanks for giving us a call. Beautiful home you have.”
He tried not to gawk too much at his surroundings as he reached inside his back pocket to take out the pen and little notebook he used for taking notes.
“Thank you, Detective. Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Summerhill offered.
Frost couldn’t get over the size of her lips. Who, he wondered, had convinced her they looked even close to natural?
“No, thanks, I’m good. I would like to see where you both were in your yard that night, though, if you don’t mind?” He needed to get an idea of their location on the shoreline.
“Oh, of course. Here, follow me.”
Mr. Summerhill led him down a short flight of stairs toward what Frost guessed was at least a five-hundred-foot square room. He had never seen a single room with so much space. It was like a hotel lobby. For a moment he stopped in awe, but the clicking sound of Mrs. Summerhill’s high heels on the travertine tile directly behind him urged him forward.
The entire back wall of the house consisted of towering glass windows. These windows provided Frost with a view of the expansive, beautifully landscaped and manicured back yard. Lining the patio, oversized ceramic urns overflowed with lush, colorful flowers. A negative-edge pool, constructed on eye level at the horizon, created the illusion that it was part of the lake itself. A fireplace, grill and bar ran along one side of the patio while half a dozen cushioned reclining chairs, some shaded by massive canvas umbrellas, lounged at the water’s edge. It reminded Frost of a resort where he had once stayed, back in his younger days.
Mr. Summerhill led Frost to the edge of the pool, where one of several chairs and table sat. From this vantage point, Frost could see several docks spaced unevenly up and down the shoreline. Summerhill pointed down the shore where the party had been and Frost realized the Campelletti home was not too far away. Though detectives had taken a look at the Campelletti house after the body had been found, nothing had turned up. Now there was a real possibility the actual crime scene might be nearby.
“Do you folks know Frank or Sadie Campelletti?” Frost asked.
Mrs. Summerhill answered first. “Yes, I met Mrs. Campelletti once, briefly. Friendly enough woman. She was out walking with that guy who does construction. I just happened to be in my front yard, planting flowers, when they passed.” She hesitated before adding, “They seemed to be quite good friends—if you know what I mean. I’ve never met Mr. Campelletti, but he’s somewhat famous, you know.”
Mr. Summerhill’s annoyance with his wife was visible.
“Don’t be such a gossip, Twyla. You don’t know either of them.” He turned back to address Frost and added, “I never met either of them. The neighbors here pretty much keep to themselves. There are a lot of people in this area who have other homes.”
Frost couldn’t even conceive of anyone having more than one home like this.
“Mrs. Summerhill, who was she walking with that day? You said he’s in construction?”
“Yes, nice man. Young man.”
Frost underlined the word in his notes when she emphasized the word “young.”
“He is the caretaker at the tan house down the street, on the corner. His name is Tyler. I can’t think of his last name right now, but I have his card somewhere.” Before Frost or her husband could question the reason, she quickly went on to explain. “I didn’t know who he was when they were walking, but a friend of mine recommended him for a project we were doing, and I recognized him when he showed up here to give me an estimate.”
Frost knew the victim had been killed by an object the ME said “could have been” a hammer. Might be something; might be nothing, Frost thought and added it to his list of things to check out further. Frost wondered if Mrs. Summerhill’s apparent obsession with age may have caused her to interpret something that wasn’t there. He changed the line of questioning.
“Do you happen to know the people who had the party that night?”
Again, Mrs. Summerhill spoke up, seeming more than anxious to be helpful.
“Yes, those are the McKinneys. Nice couple. It was Jed’s sixtyfifth birthday. We were invited but had plans for that night. Then, when our plans got cancelled, we didn’t feel right about changing our RSVP at the last minute.”
Frost didn’t think there was anything more he could glean from these people. His next stop would be the McKinney house. He turned to head back into the
house.
“Sure is awful what happened to that poor woman,” Mrs. Summerhill said, walking ahead of her husband and keeping close pace with Frost. “Any ideas yet who did it?” Her shoulders continually brushed Frost’s as they walked. Unaware of, or simply used to, his wife’s behavior, Mr. Summerhill said nothing and quietly walked behind them.
“No, ma’am, but I am certain we will soon. If you could locate that young man’s business card, though, that might help.”
Exposing her perfect pearl-white teeth with an oversized smile, Mrs. Summerhill told Frost to wait while she tried to find it in her kitchen drawer. He stood with Mr. Summerhill back at the front entrance, awkwardly discussing the weather until she reappeared with the card in her hand.
“Here you go. ‘Tyler Homes,’” she read. “And his last name is Holmes. Holmes Homes? Now that’s a mouthful,” she chuckled.
She had to be kidding. He read the card and realized it was no joke. Even he had to laugh.
“Alright, thanks, folks. If you think of anything else, anything at all, here is my card. Give me a call.” Frost stepped out the door, shading his eyes from the sun.
Mrs. Summerhill followed him out onto the front porch and, with one last supersized smile spread across her face, she reached out and shook Frost’s hand.
“Thanks for coming, detective. Please call if there’s anything else I can help you with.”
Her tone oozed with suggestion. Frost thanked her and walked to his car, unaware he was shaking his head. Some women were just turned on by cops.
He decided to look up this Tyler fellow right after he stopped at the McKinney house. He stuffed the kid’s card in his shirt pocket and snickered, wondering how anyone could possibly forget Holmes Homes.
Frost spent the next half hour at the McKinney house, turning up no more new information. They had hosted a party last Friday night, but neither Jed McKinney nor his wife had heard any scream. They agreed to get him a list of those who had attended as soon as possible. Frost toured their back yard and, though it was slightly less grand than the Summerhill’s, it was still better than what he was used to.