The Donut Shop Murder

by Suzanne Jenkins

  The Donut Shop Murder

  A Greektown Novella

  Suzanne Jenkins

  Copyright © 2016 by

  Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.

  The Donut Shop Murder is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Go to suzannejenkins.net for more information and to the end for a list of her books.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  The detective crouching near the body was of taller than average height. However, observed from that angle, with long, black hair in a pony tail down her back, a slender leg encased in black denim bent so that her chin almost rested upon it, and Kevlar vest rising up above the waist band of her jeans emphasizing a slender physique, she appeared diminutive, almost childlike.

  “What do you think, Jill?” Detroit homicide detective Albert Wong, hovering close by, asked her.

  Often at the beginning of a death investigation, Jill Zannos sensed the unknown if allowed to linger at the scene of a crime. Usually doing so after the body was removed, in this case, the medical examiner was delayed on the other side of Detroit at the home of a fellow physician whose newborn was discovered that morning in her crib, dead. Given the luxury of spending time near the body, hopefully Jill’s gifts were allowed to operate. Insisting it was nothing more than intuition which she’d inherited from her mystic Greek grandmother, her partner Albert believed it was their secret weapon to crime solving success.

  Police officers at the crime scene knew of the supposed gifts. Although no one spoke of them openly, if the opportunity presented, they’d give her the room to do this cursory examination, whispered derision withstanding. In most cases, she’d have to wait until after the body was removed, the crime scene examined thoroughly, before she was alone. Secretly, she knew that the body didn’t have to be present for her to pick up whatever it was the universe was going to give her.

  Because the medical examiner hadn’t arrived, she was careful not to touch the body, or to disturb evidence. A stickler about protocol, no one had to remind her not to get too close.

  Slowly standing, she didn’t take her eyes off the body.

  “She’s been here a while,” Jill said softly, not wanting the others to hear because her conclusions weren’t necessarily based on scientific evidence. “Maybe overnight. She might have known her killer. Or tried to talk her way out of death. There are dried tear trails on her face, too, one trail right through blood.

  “It looks like the ring finger on her left hand is broken, or dislocated. That would be reason to shed a few tears.”

  Albert came along side her. Partners for fifteen years, Jill and Albert operated like brother and sister in the personal realm, and as soulmates in the professional. They moved as a unit, crouching down, resting on their heels to look at the victim’s left hand, positioned next to the body naturally, like lying down on the pavement to take a nap was a common thing to do.

  “I wonder if she was dead before the killer took the ring,” Albert said.

  “I don’t think so,” Jill murmured. “I think they fought over the ring. She wasn’t giving it up.”

  Rising up again, silently, Jill examined the body from above, noting the angle of the victim’s chin, down to the right, brown, curly, medium length hair, locks over her face covering blood, some in her mouth. Unless closely examined, the fact that the back of her head was missing wasn’t obvious.

  Jill leaned in to Albert.

  “The murderer, or whoever laid her down,” she whispered. “Look at her feet, perfectly aligned.”

  Heels together, her toes were pointed down to the side, increasing the sense of vulnerability. Tight, slim jeans, one leg hiked up slightly higher than the other, socks, one with a neat cuff, the other down in her Keds tennis shoes. “Who wears shoes like that anymore?” Albert asked.

  Usually dressed as though he’d reached into a much older man’s closet with his eyes closed and pulled out the first thing his hand touched, Albert was not known for his fashion sense.

  Frowning, Jill looked at him. “Tennis shoes are very trendy, Albert. That coat? It’s Frame. I know the brand because I couldn’t afford it. Three hundred dollars.”

  “For a velvet blazer?” he asked, shaking his head. “I must be out of it.”

  “I wonder what the ring looked like that it was worth killing someone over,” Jill said.

  “The ring was important?” Albert asked, looking at her.

  “What it symbolized. It was important enough to break her finger to take. I wish Sam would get here,” she said, tapping her foot. “I want to know who she is.”

  “Here comes Wasserman,” Don Short called out.

  A crime scene technician, Don, almost always the first on scene and a trusted member of their team, walked over to her.

  “So, Detective, what’s your gut feeling?” he asked, hovering over the body now.

  “You know me,” Jill answered. “No comment.”

  “Well, if you think of anything, let me know. So far, I don’t see a thing here.”

  “Like she was dumped.” Jill replied.

  “Just like she was dumped,” Don said. “I don’t see a speck of blood, but she’s rank with it.”

  “You can’t see it, but the black velvet is soaked. I can smell it too,” she agreed. “Look at her left hand.”

  “Ouch,” Don said, grimacing, moving back as Sam came up to the group, already dressed in a clean, disposable paper jump suit.

  “Sorry, folks. Got here as fast as I could,” he said, pulling blue gloves on. “Dr. Stone’s newborn.”

  “SIDS?” Albert asked.

  “Looks like it,” he said, kneeling down. “We’ll be short an ER physician for a while.”

  “How awful,” Jill said, shuddering.

  “She doesn’t have any ID,” Sam said, digging through her pockets. “We’ll print her when we get back.”

  “I hope she’s in the system,” Albert said.

  “So, tell me what you see,” Sam said, addressing Don Short first.

  The temptation was to always ask Jill because she could get to the nitty gritty of a case quickly, but complaints had been made by others. Everyone followed the rules exactly to avoid criticism or impropriety.

  “I got the call at the same time everyone else did,” Don said. “You can see for yourself, there’s nothing here but a body.”

  Looking around the area, a clean block of well maintained properties, it was not your usual crime scene.

  Nodding at Jill, Don was not taking any credit for that which Detective Zannos discovered. “Check out the left hand,” he said. “Jill saw it first.”

  Fingering her hands, first the right then the left, feeling the length of each finger, he shook his head. “Her ring finger is broken,” he said. “Looks like a ring jammed on it was pulled off. She’s lucky her finger is still attached because at the rate of swelling, I bet it was done before she was killed or while she was dying.”

  “Shine that light over here, please,” he requested.

  Brushing blood-soaked hair away from the right side of her face, Sam rocked back on his heels, pointing. “Gunshot wound to the right temple
. The gun must have been placed right to her head. There’s bruising the size of a coin around the entrance.”

  Gently turning her head, the trajectory of the bullet was clear because the back of her head was missing, the only blood at the scene on the pavement directly under where her head lay.

  “She bled out, but not here. Boosting himself up, Sam signaled for the stretcher. “We’ll get her prints first thing.”

  “When’s the post?” Albert asked.

  “I’m backed up, but maybe tonight,” he said, putting a second pair of gloves on.

  They wrapped her body in a white plastic shroud, placed her on a metal stretcher and rolled it to the van.

  While Don and his companion combed the scene, Jill spent the next hour with her eyes down, looking at the pavement around where the body had been, just in case she missed something. The sun was overhead, but it wasn’t warming up, autumn finally on its way out and winter just around the corner.

  “It’s too obvious,” Albert said. “Someone, possibly a boyfriend, wrestles with her to get the ring off and then shoots her at close range.”

  “Maybe,” she said, kicking the ground with the toe of her boot.

  Squatting down again, she moved to get a closer look at a small pile of newly fallen leaves on the pavement. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of blue exam gloves and a snack sized zipper bag.

  “What is it?” Albert asked.

  Picking at the end of a piece of paper which had become embedded in the mixture of leaves and debris at the curb a few yards from where the body had lain, Jill couldn’t be sure it wasn’t something that hadn’t been there earlier, but she didn’t think so. Examining it, she held it up for him to see.

  “It’s a receipt from New Delhi Donut. Part of a receipt, that is. See at the bottom here? It’s a URL for a survey. Tell us how we’re doing.

  “It doesn’t look like it’s been here long,” she said. “Maybe it fell out of the murderer’s vehicle and we trampled it.”

  “It looks new,” he said.

  “I’d like a coffee,” Jill replied.

  “Coffee and a donut. Let’s go,” Albert said.

  Placing the receipt in the bag, she walked toward Don Short.

  “Don, what’s your take on this,” she asked, handing it off to him.

  “It’s new,” he said, looking at it. “I mean, it hasn’t been on the ground long. I’ll stick it under the microscope. There might be part of a print. Do you want me to look on the bottom of her shoes?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It would be a miracle if the rest of it was stuck on her shoe. And I wonder if she has coffee in her stomach.”

  “That’ll be the first thing I ask Wasserman,” Don said. “Anything else?”

  “No, I just want to know who she is,” Jill said, Albert agreeing.

  “Who and what,” Albert added, wondering if she was a prostitute.

  Saying goodbye to Don, Jill followed Albert to the car.

  “So what do you think?” Albert asked. “Do you think she’s a professional?”

  “Could be,” Jill said. “But I doubt it. If she was, she wouldn’t wear a ring someone else might covet while she worked. At least not in Detroit.”

  Chapter 2

  Standing in front of her twelfth grade classroom, Faith Cooper went through the history lesson, pointing to a pull down chart yellow with age, she was certain it was the same chart she looked upon as a high school student. Turning to the blackboard with a piece of white chalk, she printed the names of the last president’s cabinet members, followed by their duties in the government in neat letters. The facts rolled off her tongue, names and places that she knew completely, the task had become effortless for her, so that she could do her job under any circumstance. She’d once come in to teach half dead from the flu and no one knew the difference, even the pacing of her words didn’t change. Of late, she’d come under some scrutiny by a group of peers. Their conclusion; the effort it took her, or lack thereof, resulted in the same response from her students; utter boredom.

  “Oh my God, look at the expressions on those poor faces,” Principal Adam Martin whispered as he and another teacher, Faith’s friend Margaret Pelham watched from the door.

  “Listen to her,” Margaret said. “Blah, blah, blah, blah. A complete monotone. Can’t something be done about it?”

  “Like what? She has a flawless attendance record in ten years. There’s never been a complaint about her, at least not in the three years I’ve been principal here. I can’t reprimand someone for being boring. You’re the only one who has ever complained.

  “Now maybe if there’s a pattern of failure in her students…”

  “I don’t mean do something to her. I mean ask her to spice it up,” Margaret said. “Her students do well, as a matter of fact. It’s amazing.

  “Plus she’s one of the nicest women here. She sort of melts into every situation. The only thing that is an issue for her, at least according to gossip, is her husband.”

  “She’s married to a trouble-maker, if I remember correctly,” Adam said.

  “Oh, yes. Her husband is sizzling hot, too.”

  “She’s sort of…” he grimaced, giving Faith the thumbs down. “Plain. I wouldn’t notice her on the street.”

  “Not really!” Margaret said disgusted, some belated loyalty taking over at the insult to her friend.

  “You were just complaining about her being boring,” he said defensively.

  “Being boring and being plain do not go hand in hand. That outfit she’s wearing? Nordstrom’s. Shoes? Her shoes cost more than my rent.”

  Shaking his head to clear it, Adam was confused.

  “How do you know this?” he asked, checking out Margaret in her black yoga pants and plain shirt.

  “I might look like I shop at Walmart, but I read Vogue,” she answered. “And I walk the mall with my mother twice a week so I know what clothes cost.”

  They tiptoed away, stifling laughter just as the bell rang.

  “Thank you, class,” Faith Cooper called out as her students gathered their books to leave the class. “As usual, you’ve done a wonderful job today.”

  True, she was boring, but she was such a kind, interested teacher, they wanted to do well to please her; most of them, anyway. Turning her back as the class filed out the door, she picked up an eraser to clean the board.

  “Mrs. Cooper?”

  Chris Burns, one of her students who’d required a little extra help, waited at her desk.

  “Yes, Chris?” she asked, glancing at the door to see if they were being observed.

  “I wanted to thank you for helping me with my English paper,” he said. “I got an A.”

  “That’s wonderful, Chris! I knew you could do it,” she replied, distractedly placing papers in her briefcase.

  “So how’s everything with you?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “I’m just fine Chris. You’re not to worry about me,” she said in a firm voice. “It’s not appropriate.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said. “I’m just asking.”

  “I’m fine, Chris,” she repeated, a timbre in her voice that was unmistakable.

  “I don’t think you are fine,” he whispered.

  She could feel the heat coming off him, his inner furnace running so hot it radiated, and his breath was tainted with cigarette smoke and spearmint gum. Straightening papers on her desk, she bit her lip to keep from saying more. The invisible line not to be crossed between student and teacher was narrowing down between them. It had not been reached yet, but if he got any closer, she was going to have to seek out the advice of her principal to keep all bases covered.

  “What you saw Friday, that was a fluke,” she finally said addressing the unavoidable, looking him in the eye. “It was a moment in a marriage. That’s all. Why were you even there? I’m concerned about that more than anything.”

  “I don’t like to see a ma
n treat a woman like that,” he snapped back. “It weren’t right. Like I said to your husband, I saw him with the other one. And I been following him. Her, too.”

  Putting her hand up, she shushed him. “You’re not to go there, Chris. Don’t say another word.”

  So the line had been crossed, unfortunately. Shoving more papers into her desk drawer, when it was neat, she took a jacket off the back of the chair and reached for her purse.

  “Leave, now,” she said, her voice trembling. “You go out first.”

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said, but he walked slowly toward the door, looking over his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to…”

  “Chris, enough. Stop it.”

  Waiting until Chris left the classroom; Faith quickly closed the door and picked up the receiver of the wall phone, dialing the front office.

  “This is Mrs. Cooper,” she said. “I need to speak with Mr. Martin right away.”

  While she waited for him to come to the phone, slowly locking the door to the classroom, she cringed when the click echoed throughout the cavernous room. Watching through the window in the door, if Chris returned she’d be safe.

  “Mrs. Cooper,” a voice said, out of breath. “This is Adam Martin. What can I do you for?”

  Blanching at the ridiculous idiom, Faith took a deep breath to keep from lashing out.

  “A student of mine is pushing the limits. I waited until there was something to report, and now there is. I haven’t determined if I need to contact my attorney yet, but I may.”

  “Come down to my office,” he said, contrite. “And I’m sorry about that corny comment.”

  “I’ll be right over,” she said, and hung up without saying goodbye.

  Waiting for her at the office door, he was glad the secretaries were there until four. Uneasy about dealing with Faith Cooper, he wanted a witness when he spoke with her, especially after their phone conversation. Turning to his administrative assistant, he decided to include her.

  “Candy,” he said. “Faith Cooper is on her way to down to discuss a problem she’s having with one of her students. Come in and take notes, please.”