by Robin Cain
He was at a loss. Where were they going to find this guy now?
As he stood there pondering his next move, he noticed the hastily ripped-open box and bullets scattered all over the floor. This wasn’t a good sign.
“Hey!” Frost yelled, his senses now on high alert. “We might have a shooter somewhere.”
Everyone scrambled to get out of the house when they learned what Frost he had found. Once outside, Frost sent each of them in a different direction to search the property. Frost headed straight toward the back of the property line. He kept his eyes open and fixed on the scenery around him as he looked for signs of anything out of the ordinary. His gut was talking to him again.
The oversized gardening shed at the very back of the property sat tucked in between two rows of towering hedges. Frost hadn’t noticed it before. As he got closer, the unmistakable smell of rotting, putrid flesh confirmed his worst suspicions. He guessed the body had been there for well over a week, so it promised to be one special kind of ugly.
Frost stopped dead in his tracks and hollered for the other officers to join him before grabbing his cell phone from his belt to call Dispatch. They were going to need a bigger team at the scene now.
With the flies and various bugs already swarming around him, Frost was finding it difficult to breathe. The oppressive odor was getting to him. With his handkerchief put up to his nose, he waited until the other guys joined him before opening the door.
“Holy shit,” exclaimed one officer, when he joined Frost by the shed.
“Yep, I think we have a ripe one.”
With everyone on the scene, Frost opened the door. A few seconds of silence passed.
“Caucasian male, late twenties, blond hair—what’s left of it. Uh, bullet wound to, uh, what do ya think?” Frost asked as he gestured to the disfigured stump that sat on the shoulders where a man’s head once was. “Maybe the head?” He thought a little levity seemed to help in these situations. “I believe we have found our Mr. Holmes, gentlemen.”
It appeared Tyler had been sitting on the floor against the wall when he decided to blow his brains out. Slumped into the corner, what remained of his head, as well as parts of his bloated, blackened extremities, was serving as host to thousands of death’s creepy crawlies. The .44 Magnum, partially released from his hand when the bullet entered his head, lay still on his lap. His one remaining gaping eye socket, emptied now from the bug activity, was facing in the direction of his legs. Its focus—or lack thereof—called attention to what was lying there.
“Hey, there’s something lying under his leg. Hard to tell from here,” one of the guys standing in the doorway said. “Looks like a piece of paper or something.”
Frost leaned in to get a closer look. It was a piece of paper and it appeared to have some kind of writing on it.
“We’re not going to be able to touch it until Crime gets here,” Frost grumbled, stating the obvious. Too hard to distinguish with the guy’s leg on top of it, that evidence would have to wait. Nothing could be moved until pictures had been taken.
They all stepped back out in search of some fresh air and waited for the rest of the crew to show. The stench of the decaying body was going to cling to them for days as it was.
The youngest guy in the group spoke first. “Damn, that’s my first one.”
“Yeah, it never gets easy,” another detective added.
“Odd, though, how the place was so trashed, don’t you think?” Frost asked of no one in particular.
“I don’t know. Guy gets drunk; he’s pissed about something; trashes the place; and decides to blow his brains out. Seems like it fits to me.”
“Just kind of seemed like it was overdone. Taking the time to dump out milk like that, the eggs, the food... almost like someone was trying to make it look too good,” Frost said. “Like someone was making it look like he was mad.”
Frost was known for never being willing to take things at face value. It was one of the reasons he had made detective grade so early in his career. His intuition took him further than most people were willing to go.
“Ah, the kid was angry and obviously unstable. I think it’s going to turn out that he’s our guy,” another in the group offered.
Frost shook his head and walked away, thinking about all he’d put into his little notebook over the last few days. Just then his phone rang.
“Frost—Azarrella. I got some info for you. Ready?”
“Go.”
“A missing person’s report was filed last weekend for a Vivian Dean by her mother. The very next day, joggers out in Riverside Park found the dumped body. And get this. Body was missing a couple of fingers.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Mother came in. Identified body as her daughter. Same Vivian Dean who worked for your vic.”
“Holy shit.” Frost’s brain was really grinding now. “Are we positive it’s the same person—no question?”
“I think the mother would know her own daughter, Frost.”
“Yeah. What was TOD on Dean?”
“Los Angeles ME is putting it at late last week.”
“Okay, so this Friday. Campelletti disappears here last Friday; someone kills Dean in L.A.; and I got a related dead guy here looking like he offed himself around the same time. What the fuck...” Frost was thinking out loud.
“Your warrant?” Azarrella asked.
“Yep, got here and found the guy with his head blown off. Looks like suicide, but I’m not betting yet. How many fingers?”
“What?”
“How many fingers was Dean missing?”
“Uh,” Azarrella scanned his notes. “Two; right hand.”
“Okay, go see if anything has come back on prints for the rental car. I’ll hold,” Frost told him.
“W-what?” It immediately dawned on Azarrella what Frost was getting at. “Hold on.”
Frost had a sneaking suspicion that whoever killed Sadie Campelletti had also killed Dean and then had borrowed some body parts to make it look like Dean had done Sadie. This was an amateur but it sure was one sick amateur.
A few minutes later, Azarrella was back. “They are still running everything through the system, but I’ll see if I can get a set of Dean’s sent up to us to see if there is a match.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Frost said and disconnected. Sadie, Tyler, the personal assistant—all dead now. It just all didn’t add up.
The crime scene was crawling with people now and Frost had to focus on the work at hand. Crime photographers, lab techs, ME people; they had all come in force and the media had gotten wind of it as well. There were news crews starting to set up. This was a big crime for their little town, so Frost and the other first-on-scene guys hung around on the property until everything had been shot, bagged and tagged.
“Hey, Frost, you want to see this?” one of the technicians called out to him from the shed.
Frost went over to look at what he was holding. It was the piece of paper that had been under the victim’s leg. Blood sprayed upon impact of the bullet coated the top edge, but the victim’s leg had protected most of the note from the gush. Copious amounts of bodily fluid seepage had caused the paper to start to deteriorate. In an effort to protect it from further damage, the tech had sealed in a plastic evidence bag after it had been photographed.
Frost held up the plastic bag and saw that the paper had writing on it. Scrawled in a sloppy, childlike printing in red ink, the words could still be made out:
I killed Sadie. God help me.
Tyler Holmes
Frost read it over several times. “Hmm...”
“Well, guess this all makes sense now,” the crime tech interjected.
“Yeah... it would appear so, wouldn’t it?” Frost answered.
The tech turned to the group now gathered and shared the news. A few got closer, wanting to read the note for themselves. A couple of them just cheered and patted Frost on the back for a job well done, but most just wanted to get on with their d
ay. It had been a long week for everyone and there was a mountain of evidence and paperwork needing attention stacked up back at the station.
Frost was anxious to leave too, but not for the same reasons as everyone else. Something just wasn’t right. Why would this guy have killed her?
As far as he was concerned, this crime was far from solved. He decided to make one last call. The tech answered on the first ring.
Skipping all pleasantries, Frost asked, “You guys get a hit on the prints in the car yet?” He held his breath and waited. Something in his gut told him this would be his real break.
“Oh yeah, just a couple minutes ago. Dang, you have us bugged or something?” the tech teased.
“I wish. Well, what’d you get?”
“Nothing yet on most of them, but there were two we could match. One was on a Vivian Dean. Worked for the State of California once, so her prints were in the system. She was on the dashboard and the inside driver’s door,” she told him, referring to their origins.
Frost wasn’t surprised but he was pretty excited that his theory had panned out. “Hey, thanks. I’ll be down there later to see ‘em.” He was just about to hang up when the tech spoke again.
“Don’t you want to know about the other match?”
“Other match? I thought you had two from Dean.”
“No, two different people. This print, and it was just a small partial underneath the edge of the ashtray, belongs to Jane Lewis, AKA Jane Mitchell. One time ward of the state, a juvenile runaway, who spent some time in a psych ward for suicide attempts. So her prints were in the system.”
Frost thought back to all the notes he had taken in the last couple days. Jane Lewis. Jane Mitchell. Mitchell, Mitchell—where had he heard that name before? Damn, he was tired and his brain wasn’t working properly. He pulled out his little notebook and flipped through the numerous pages of his chicken scratch.
Bingo!
thirty-two
THE WOMEN’S CLINIC, a nondescript building on the west side of town, stood staffed and ready to inflict the final injury to all those previously-wounded souls entering its front doors. Covered in dark curtains to protect the privacy of the clients, the barred windows and doors remained locked at all times. The controversial nature of the procedures being performed inside was not something enthusiastically advertised to the outside world. Appointments, required just to enter the building, were booked solid.
Sam arrived early and had come alone. Her last fight with Tyler had kept her in poor spirits, sapping the energy she needed to focus on what had to be done. The note she’d left him after he wouldn’t return any of her calls did nothing to soothe the ache in her soul. Though she had never believed abortion to be the right thing, she was too young and too poor to have a baby on her own. This—her only option—was the reality she now faced. Tyler was in no condition to help her and she couldn’t raise a baby on her own.
She sat on the hard chair in the tiny, airless waiting room, unable to concentrate on the magazine in her lap that she had been absentmindedly flipping through. The television, droning on relentlessly in the corner of the room, couldn’t keep her from replaying Tyler’s words.
“How can you kill my child?” he had screamed at her through his tears.
Sam hadn’t meant to tell him in a fit of anger but, when Sadie had called and she’d found out Tyler was drinking again, she’d just snapped. Then for him to call her later that night while rip-roaring drunk—well, it had been more than she could take. None of his begging or pleading with her to reconsider could change her mind.
Tyler had spiraled back into the world of alcohol and blackouts and Sam knew they could never be together. She’d seen her mother and grandmother go through the same thing; she knew his promises would only be a temporary panacea and she’d ultimately be left alone with the responsibility of raising a child. Her world was too lonely and messed up to bring another person into it. She had thought long and hard about the abortion, trying to come to terms with what it all meant, but, when she reflected on his hurtful and disturbing behavior, she knew this was the right thing. Disappearing was not the behavior of a man prepared to be a father.
Several girls, none really old enough to be considered women, sat in various chairs around the room waiting for their own “procedures.” One very petite, dark-haired girl, wearing sweatpants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, sat quietly wiping away the tears that ran down her face. A friend sitting beside her made weak attempts at consolation. Another girl, pretending nonchalance, told the girl next to her—and everyone within earshot—that this was her third abortion and it was “no big deal.”
Sam shook her head in dismay, wondering how someone could be so irresponsible.
Her appointment, scheduled two days in advance, was already running thirty minutes behind schedule. She wondered if the clinic did this on purpose. Did the extra time allow for repentance or a change of heart?
Sam focused her attention on the television, trying not to think about what was in store for her. Though she rarely followed the news, it was the only thing in the room offering any hope of distraction.
“Staged suicide-murder deemed double homicide by Sullivan police. Details when we come back after this commercial break.” Channel 3’s perfectly-coiffed blonde news anchor’s smile contrasted the grisly announcement.
Sam hadn’t heard a thing about any murder-suicide in the last week, having not read a single paper or watched TV while in her self-prescribed seclusion. She had left town early that morning to get a motel room near the Woman’s Clinic.
After a long string of commercials touting fabric softener, fast food and the latest episode of some prime-time show, the news anchorwoman came back on the air. Sam leaned forward, trying to hear the words over the other conversations going on in the room.
“The police department in Sullivan, Washington, today announced that new evidence involving the murder of Sadie Campelletti, wife of the owner/CEO of the famous software company MineWare, has surfaced and an arrest is pending.”
Sadie? As in Tyler’s Sadie?
Sam stood up and walked closer to the television.
“Earlier this week,” the news anchor continued, “we reported the discovery of Sadie Campelletti’s body by scuba divers in Lake Sullivan. Locating what they believed to be the scene of the murder after working on a lead in the case, police later discovered the body of suspect Tyler Holmes—the victim of what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Mr. Holmes had left a note, claiming full responsibility for the murder of Mrs. Campelletti, but new evidence has revealed another suspect. We take you now to Tom Bryon, reporting at the scene”
“Oh my God! Tyler...?” Sam couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Visibly trembling, she sat down in the nearest chair, fearful she might faint.
“Hey, are you okay?” one of the other girls asked, after Sam broke down into hysterics. She motioned for the attendant behind the reception desk to come over to help. The news coverage continued in the background as the camera focused on the Sullivan Police Station, with the news reporter standing nearby.
“Yes, I am here at the Sullivan Police station, talking to Detective Bill Frost, lead investigator on the Campelletti murder. Detective? What can you tell us?”
“We now have reason to believe that Tyler Holmes was not responsible for the murder of Sadie Campelletti.”
“It was initially reported that Mr. Holmes had left a suicide note, claiming responsibility for the murder. What now has changed?”
“New evidence leads us to believe Mr. Holmes was framed for the murder after committing suicide. We have reason to believe the note was likely forged, confirming involvement of our other suspect.”
“Can you be more specific, Detective? What kind of evidence?”
“Fingerprints captured at both crime scenes indicate the suspect’s presence and participation,” Frost explained to the reporter.
“Thank you, Detective. We have learned through our sources
that the suspect has been located? Can you confirm that fact for our audience?”
The receptionist now stood in front of Sam and reached out for one of her hands. “Honey, you going to be okay?” she asked, trying at the same time to prevent Sam from sliding off the chair. Sam’s outburst had distracted everyone in the room but, as others tried to find out what was wrong, her eyes stayed riveted to the screen.
“He’s dead... Tyler’s dead,” Sam kept mumbling through her tears.
“It’s going to be okay,” the receptionist told her. She’d seen it all in this place, so nothing surprised her anymore.
“Come on now, honey. Let’s get you into the back and have you lie down. Is there someone we can call for you?”
“No... no. There is no one,” Sam sobbed, her chest convulsing as she struggled for air.
The receptionist was finally able to get Sam to stand up. She led her across the room to the hallway door, supporting her under the arm as they walked.
“Honey, you’re in no condition to go anywhere right now,” she told Sam.
“No, no. I need to leave. I can’t be here right now. I can’t do this anymore!” Sam flailed her arms, fighting to be free.
“Honey, honey. Calm down. No one is going to do anything to you today. You just need to lie down awhile and rest. Come on now with me,” she tried to gently coax.
“No, I have to go!” Sam suddenly turned and ran in the other direction. Not stopping to even pick up her purse, she headed blindly toward the front door. The others in the room, frozen in place, stared as the hysterical girl with the badly dyed hair and tears streaming down her face pulled open the front door and ran out.
The receptionist, uncertain what to do, stood and watched Sam leave. The histrionics associated with the job were sometimes without solution. This poor girl was obviously beyond help today.