The Donut Shop Murder

by Suzanne Jenkins

  The last view they’d had was of Allison Blumenthal and Faith Cooper leaving the donut shop together. Then the camera had flicked over to span another area of the parking lot, showing what appeared to be Faith Cooper’s SUV heading north on John R. Going through the videos from the other cameras hadn’t yielded anything, until now.

  Leaning in, holding their breath, they watched as the door to the older Mustang opened up and a tall, gangly man, really a boy, got out.

  “Is that Ken Cooper?” Albert muttered, getting closer to the monitor.

  “I’ll get his driver’s license picture,” Jill said.

  Watching him approach what they thought was the car which Allison Blumenthal had gotten into, the man signaled to her as she sat in the driver’s seat with the swirling motion of his hand.

  “He’s trying to get her to roll down her window,” Jill said, watching while he leaned in, elbows on her car.

  “It looks like he’s smiling, talking,” Albert said. “It’s a friendly visit. I wonder if they knew each other.”

  “Can you zoom in?” Jill asked.

  “He’s opening her door,” Albert said, doing as Jill asked.

  The man held the door open for Allison, who looked relaxed, gesturing with her hands. They walked together, the man’s arm around Allison’s shoulder, while she was cozying up to him visible from a security camera. The man showed the way to his car and walked around to the passenger side, opened the door for her. When he made his way on the return trip around the front of his car to get to the driver’s side, he looked out and around him, like he was surveying the area.

  “Did you get that?” Jill said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Where are they going?”

  “Do you want to get going?” Albert asked. “I’ll keep looking.”

  Reluctantly, she nodded and turned to leave. “Mr. Gupta is just going to have to wait.”

  Leaving the bullpen, the few others still working called out to her, thanking her for the pastries from her father’s grocery store. Running to her car, she pulled out of the precinct parking lot and sped to the medical center, pulling into a no parking zone. The guard at the door opened for her, smiling at the pretty detective as she ran up the steps to the main entrance.

  “Patient?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she replied, and he shuddered at the implication.

  Long legs covering the distance through the modern lobby of the new section of hospital to the isolated stairwell, she’d keep her hand on her sidearm as she ran down the steps. The institutional green paint was chipped, layer upon layer of application over a hundred years in the old part of the building. Reaching the basement, she looked through the chicken wire-embedded glass window before opening the door. The soupy smell of cafeteria food assaulted her olfactory, masking the wonderful memories of the dinner from Gus’s Greek Grocery she’d left behind at the precinct. The noise of voices taking much needed breaks echoed toward her as she quickly made her way to the morgue.

  “There you are,” Alex Kazmerek said softly as she turned the corner.

  The plus side of going to a post mortem was getting to see her boyfriend, Alex. Tall and handsome, hair also pulled into a ponytail like Jill’s, Alex’s hair was light brown with silver streaks already, a testimony to hard living. Working as a morgue assistant to pay the bills, he was an accomplished artist. Often when a case like this one started for Jill, they wouldn’t see each other for days at a time as she investigated. Looking around to make sure they were alone, she slid into his embrace. They’d been together since high school.

  “I’ll take it when I can,” she whispered, his arms tightening around her. “Are you ready in there?”

  “We are,” he said, letting her go. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  Winking at each other, Alex entered the morgue though automatic doors, an undeniable stench wafting out. Going through the locker room, Jill covered her hair with a paper cap such as the kind nurses wore in the operating room, so the smells of humanity mixed with formaldehyde wouldn’t cling to her.

  In the autopsy room, she saw others present; Don Short, who came to join her as he often did so they could whisper to each other during the examination, and one of the police officers who’d arrived at the scene when the call came through.

  “Hair combings include gravel and concrete dust,” Alex read from his notes into a microphone for recording. “Decedent’s clothing is blood soaked and layered with soil, gravel dust, and debris including what appears to be plastic and cardboard flakes, to be determined by microscopic examination.”

  “Vaginal exam yielded semen with live sperm and evidence of recent sexual intercourse with no trauma.”

  What Jill knew that no one else in the room knew, was that there were three possible donors for the sperm; Mr. Gupta from the donut shop, Ken Cooper, Faith Cooper’s husband and Allison Blumenthal’s lover, and the man/boy from the old Mustang, identity yet to be revealed.

  The medical examiner came to a conclusion about the size of the bullet after examining the entrance and exit wounds, and it was the same size as the casing.

  “Don, did that bullet casing get checked for prints yet?” Jill whispered.

  “I sent it to ballistics as soon as we got it,” he said. “Do you want me to text them?”

  “Would you please?” she asked.

  Jotting down notes as Sam and Alex spoke during the exam, she was anxious to leave before they cut her open. There wasn’t anything she needed to know about the interior of Allison Blumenthal.

  A faint beep of a phone sounded, and Don Short reached in his pocked.

  “Jill, they have a partial print, but it’s not in the system,” he whispered, and that was her signal that she could leave.

  Unable to get Alex’s attention to say goodbye, she slipped out the side door, putting her notepad in her vest pocket before she braved the exodus to the stairwell. The earlier melee of medical staff had thinned out somewhat, dinner over for the swing shift. Hand on gun, she made a swift exit from the basement and reached her car just as the tow-truck had arrived and determined it was an unmarked car.

  “Detective, someday a new guy is going to tow your vehicle away,” the driver said with a fatherly sound to his voice, tipping his hat in her direction.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’ll try to park in a parking zone next time I come for an autopsy.”

  Shuddering at the word, he nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. You have a nice evening,” he said and got in his truck.

  Freezing now that the sun was down, she quickly turned the car on so it could warm up. Hard to believe that she’d been working on this case for almost twelve hours, she sent Albert a text; Any word from the husband yet?

  The answer, nada. Dialing Albert’s phone, instead of texting again, Jill felt the first wave of tiredness hit her.

  “The sheriff called before he left the house a half hour ago,” Albert said. “No sign of Ken Cooper.”

  “I’m calling his wife again,” she said.

  “Okay. I have more news here, but it can wait until you get back.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  She took her notebook out again for Faith Cooper’s number and dialed. A soft, dreary voice answered.

  “Mrs. Cooper, this is Detective Zannos. Did your husband ever get home?” she asked.

  “No, he never did, and he’s not answering his phone, either. Is he a suspect?” she asked.

  “No, not yet,” Jill said honestly. “On the parking lot surveillance tape, we saw you drive away and watched Allison get into another car shortly after you were seen headed north.”

  “Oh, God, it wasn’t my husband’s car, was it?” she cried.

  “What kind of car does he drive?” Jill asked.

  “An Escalade,” she said. “New. White.”

  “It wasn’t an Escalade,” Jill said. “After you left the donut shop at about four, Miss Blumenthal was approached by
a young man driving an older model Mustang.”

  “What did he look like?” Faith asked, clipped and urgent sounding.

  “Tall, gangly, young. Curly hair, longish.”

  “Oh no! That sounds like it could be a student of mine,” Faith said. “Chris Burns. I’ve been having a little trouble with him. He followed my husband and me to a restaurant here in Birmingham last weekend. There was a scene. The sheriff showed up and told us to leave, but that was it.”

  “How long has he been following you, Mrs. Cooper? And why didn’t you tell us about it this afternoon?”

  Crying on the other end of the phone, Jill leaned back, shaking her head. “Can you come down to the station?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. What’s the name of your student again? Chris Burns? Do you know where he lives?”

  “His father is a coach at the college,” Faith said. “He lives over there somewhere. University City.”

  “Don’t say anything to him! Do you understand me, Mrs. Cooper?”

  “Yes, of course not. I won’t have any reason to speak to him. None.”

  Jill said goodbye and sped back to the station, her stomach reeling. The shabby, familiar building, dimly lit exterior lights in vintage, gothic fixtures flanking the entrance, the hum of voices inside, softer on the evening shift compared to the chaos of days, even the smell of chalk, with a pervasive hint of gunpowder served to calm Jill down.

  Stopping at the reception desk before going up to the bullpen, she pulled the public computer around and keyed in letters, looking for Chris Burns. His license with a good photo popped up with his age; eighteen, and address; Sherwood Forest, not University City. Hitting print, she waited for the copy. A handsome young man, hopefully he was innocent of wrong doing, but Jill couldn’t get a read on him, yet.

  “Please send a car around to pick up this young man for questioning,” she said, handing the paper to the evening clerk. “He was seen talking to a murder victim the same day she died.”

  Running up the staircase to the bullpen, few were at work inside after hours, the lighting appropriate for evening. The corner where Jill and Albert had their desks, near a window overlooking the alley, was in the shadows, Albert in the ante room off to the side with a bank of monitors, cursing.

  “What’s wrong now?” she asked, worried.

  “The camera behind the shop was tampered with,” he said, stony. “It’s got Gupta’s proverbial fingerprints all over it, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Is there any video from it at all?”

  “No,” he answered. “Not from Sunday, anyway.”

  “It’s wireless,” Jill said. “Mr. Gupta could be controlling it from his telephone.”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” Albert said, playing with the fast forward.

  “Yeah, well,” she replied, getting out her notebook again.

  Relaying the information she’d gathered after talking to Faith Cooper included a possible name of the driver of the Mustang, his connection with the Coopers, and that because of it, both of them should be on their way in to the station.

  Planning what their next step would be, a side trip to the DA’s office was first to obtain a warrant to impound the Mustang. The victim got into the car and what happened to her next was yet to be determined.

  The victim’s DNA on his car bumper was all they needed to threaten Mr. Gupta with a warrant for his arrest for murder if he didn’t start talking.

  Returning to the interrogation room, Albert stood aside. “After you,” he said, letting Jill pass, but not before she frowned.

  “What?” Albert whispered, trying to look innocent.

  Jill sat down and folded her hands after placing the case file on the table in front of her.

  “Okay, Mr. Gupta, sorry to keep you waiting. Here are the facts. A young woman met a friend for coffee in your shop yesterday afternoon. We can see them together on video, entering and leaving New Delhi Donut.

  “The next morning, her dead body was found blocks away. Your backyard is covered with her blood, a bullet casing was found next to your dumpster, and the victim’s DNA is on your car. That’s enough evidence for us to get a warrant for your arrest for murder if you don’t start talking.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t kill her,” he said, still stoic. “I had nothing to do with her murder.”

  “Were you aware that she was murdered in the yard behind your shop?”

  He hesitated, looking at his hands. “Yes, I knew she’d been murdered out there. But I didn’t do it.”

  “Talk,” Jill said. “I’ve had enough of this…”

  “I’ll talk,” he said. “But I need an attorney.”

  “He wants an attorney,” Jill said, looking at Albert who sat quietly with a smirk on his face.

  “Okay, get an attorney,” she said. “But you’re not leaving this interrogation room. We have just cause to hold you. It can be here or in a cell.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Mr. Gupta said, holding up his phone. “I have to call my brother, too.”

  “You need to stop messing around with your security cameras,” Jill said.

  “I’ll remove the app right now,” Mr. Gupta answered.

  “Enable the rear camera videos first. If you didn’t kill her, you have nothing to hide,” Jill said.

  Waiting as he made the changes to the camera, he held it up for them to see when he finished.

  Nodding to the door, Albert held it open for Jill again. “Why the face?” he asked when they were outside.

  “Let me know ahead of time if we’re playing good cop bad cop,” she said, taking a fake swat at his arm.

  “You’re better at interrogating men, that’s all,” he said. “I’m sorry if I have to remind you of that after fifteen years working together.

  “We have enough to charge him,” Albert added, following her back into the ante room with the computer monitors.

  “Yes, but he didn’t do it,” she said. “In the first place, he has no motive.”

  “We need to regroup,” he said, switching the camera on to the rear of the shop. “What’s your plan with Faith Cooper? I missed why you called her in.”

  Repeating what Faith had said about having trouble with the student, that he’d admitted following Ken Cooper, and then the altercation at the restaurant.

  “Also, the husband hasn’t come home. Time for an APB. If he’s guilty, he could be on the run, and I don’t want him to get too far.”

  “I told Roger I’d be home for dinner tonight,” Albert said.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Jill said. “At the rate we’re going, we should have this solved before midnight.”

  “Is that your inner voice talking, or do you know something I don’t know?”

  “Ha! How much can two cops cram into a day?” she replied.

  “Here’s the missing video. He’s going to be charged for obstruction of justice at the very least.”

  The camera didn’t scan the entire area in back, but there were some views to the dumpster. Their desk phone rang, and Jill got up from the computer to answer. Mumbling something into the receiver, Albert came out, stretching.

  “Let me guess,” he said.

  “It’s the kid. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Let’s do it together,” he said. “First come, first serve. I hate to leave this tape.”

  “I’ll call CSI,” she said. “If they’re not out, someone might be willing to take over for awhile.”

  Don Short had already left for the day, but a colleague would come up and watch video.

  The boy and his parents stood in the lobby with the officer, watching Jill and Albert descend the staircase. “Yikes, the parents are here?” Albert whispered.

  “Too bad,” she said, through smiling teeth. “He’s eighteen, and in Michigan, he’s an adult. They can call a lawyer if they want to.”

  Jill lagged back, letting Albert do the work this time. Mos
t parents trusted men, for some reason, but as it turned out these parents or specifically this father, didn’t seem to like Asian men, or perhaps as Albert later said, definitely not Gay Asian Men.

  Chest puffed out with his biceps tensed and ready to pounce, Jill remembered that Mr. Burns was a college athletic coach of some kind, and she watched as Albert made introductions. Sidestepping Albert and ignoring his outstretched hand, Mr. Burns reached out to shake Jill’s hand, first. She’d wash them as soon as she could.

  “Manners,” Mr. Burns said, correcting Albert. “Ladies first.”

  That did it for the detectives. “Your son is an adult,” Albert said, forgetting pleasantries. “It’s great that you accompanied him to the station, but he’s going to talk to us alone. Alone or with an attorney, that’s up to him.”

  “His car was towed away, so either we brought him in or the police would,” Mrs. Burns said. “We didn’t feel we had a choice.”

  “Have a seat over there,” Albert said, pointing to a row of beat up vinyl chairs.

  “We’d like to come in with Christopher,” Mrs. Burns persisted.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill said. “We’re legally allowed to speak with adults without their parents present.”

  “What am I here for?” Chris asked, finally speaking. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  “We’re not going to talk about it in the middle of the lobby,” Albert said, keeping his voice low and steady.

  The attending officer stood by calmly. “Come along with us, and we’ll explain everything to you,” Jill said softly, leading the way.

  He submitted unwillingly but outnumbered, the four of them walking toward the back of the precinct.

  Albert opened the door to the interrogation room. There was a plastic placard on the door stating Interrogation #1.

  “How many of these rooms do you have?” Chris asked.

  “Ten,” Albert lied. “The others are full up tonight.”

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” Jill asked. “We have fresh coffee.”

  “I’d like a coffee,” he said. “I’m tired, but I’m wired.”

  She left to get the coffee, while Albert sat down across the table from Chris. Checking his watch, it was close to midnight. Albert had an immediate dislike for the young man who stared at the detective with narrowed eyes. The way Mr. Burns had admonished Albert still festered, and he decided to wait for Jill to do the talking. Rarely allowing emotion to affect the way she dealt with a suspect, Jill overcame the dislike by whatever women did in such cases, a mystifying notion to Albert. Even when she hated the person on sight, she was able to push through that and treat them with respect, by the law.