A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1)

by Ben Miller

  “And then there were eleven other cases of domestic child abuse that, at least in part, involved strangulation or suffocation. One case last summer of homicide by suffocation of a 17-month-old male toddler by his mother’s boyfriend in southern Maryland. He is also currently incarcerated. Of the other ten cases, five had offenders that went to trial, four convicted and now serving sentences.”

  “So that leaves six cases in which we have no convictions?” Harringer calculated.

  “Yes. I spent the last two hours delving into two of them. Both were young toddlers—one boy and one girl—who were found to have evidence of multiple injuries. Both are too young to testify, though. So even though law enforcement had suspicions, no convictions could be made.”

  “OK,” Harringer said. “Try to finish up looking into those other cases for us by the end of the day tomorrow, but I’m guessing they’ll end up with similar stories—mostly domestic.”

  “I don’t think we should discount these, though, sir, just because they are domestic cases. Most violent people start being violent at home before they branch out to others,” Camilla argued.

  Harringer held up his hand and nodded. “Agreed. We need to investigate these cases thoroughly. I didn’t mean we should disregard them. One of these cases may indeed turn out to involve our un-sub. Any questions for Amanda?”

  Harringer looked at the others in the room and the agents projected on screen in front of him. They shook their heads.

  “Yes, sorry,” Friesz said from behind them, unafraid of asking the proverbial stupid question. “Un-sub?”

  Amanda turned to face him. “Unknown subject. Perpetrator.”

  Friesz nodded in understanding. “Thank you.”

  “OK.” Harringer turned his shoulders slightly to his right to face Charlie. “Charlie, what did you find out about the McBurney murder?”

  Charlie pulled out his notebook and flipped back the flimsy cardboard cover. He felt comfortable using most of the tools of modern technology but still preferred writing out his investigative notes by hand. He found it much more conducive to contemplating facts as he collected them, rather than simply recording them.

  “Stephanie McBurney, nine years old,” Charlie began. He always gave his investigative presentations in the same manner: through brief, informative, fact-filled sentences. His language contained no fluff. As long as his listeners could maintain their attention despite his staccato, monotone delivery, they would get all the necessary information.

  “Found on the afternoon of March 25th in some weeds on the periphery of a playground beside her family’s home in Frederick, Maryland. She lived with her mother, step-father, and five month-old half brother. Her mother, Jennifer Cugino, had been watching her on the swing set through their window. Around 4:30 pm the infant brother began to cry. Mrs. Cugino got up to get the baby and a bottle. When she came back to look out the window, about six minutes later, Stephanie was out of sight. She assumed Stephanie was on her way inside, so she sat down to give the baby his bottle. This took twelve minutes. A few minutes into the feeding, she realized that Stephanie wasn’t home, and assumed she had just missed seeing her during her last survey of the playground. At the end of the feed she got up to look out the window, but again did not see Stephanie. She put the baby in his swing seat and went outside to look for Stephanie. At 4:50 she found the body on the northwest corner of the playground, opposite the street and farthest from their house. She ran back into the house and called 9-1-1. The call was received at 4:52 pm.

  “Stephanie had been strangled by hand, no ligature marks. No evidence of blunt force trauma, except soft-tissue bruising around the breastbone and three lateral rib fractures, very similar to what we heard this morning about the second victim.”

  He looked up from his notepad and paused briefly, leaving a few seconds for questions. No one offered any, so he continued. “No DNA at the crime scene or on the body. No evidence of sexual assault. No fingerprints anywhere. Negative toxicology report. We all saw the note in her front right pocket this morning, a Serbian saying that translated into, ‘I do not hate you really.’

  “No witnesses. There are two houses on the opposite side of the street from the playground, but no one was home at the time of the murder. No passers-by on foot or by car that saw anything. Local police have interviewed nearly 200 people without getting any info.”

  “Suspects?” Harringer asked.

  “None at this point. The biological father, Andrew McBurney, still had partial custody and had seen her the weekend before. He also lives in Frederick and works at a local auto parts store. He was at work all day with numerous people to support his alibi. The step-father, Mario Cugino, was at work. He is a pharmaceutical sales rep and had paid his last visit of the day at a doctor’s office in Breezewood, PA, some 40 miles away. He had left that office at 4:25, corroborated by several office staff. After several interviews, the mother has been eliminated as a suspect at this point, though she has no one to corroborate her story.

  “No known family enemies. There are eighteen registered sex offenders that live in a 25 mile radius. Two were convicted of crimes against children, but both have been eliminated as suspects based on alibis.” Charlie flipped his notebook closed, which signaled the end of his presentation.

  “Questions from anyone at this point?” Harringer asked.

  Camilla had one. “Charlie, do you know anything about the landscaping or terrain around the playground?”

  “No. Why?”

  Everyone turned their focus to Camilla. “Because of the topography of our crime scene. We think the killer could have used it to his or her advantage as a shield from witnesses.”

  “I don’t know. I reviewed several crime scene photos, but none of the surroundings.”

  Harringer interjected. “Call the local PD tomorrow and ask them to send us photos of the surrounding areas, making sure they illustrate the topography of the area.”

  “Got it,” Charlie noted as he flipped his notebook back open to jot down his instructions.

  Then Harringer turned to face the screen in front of them. “Your turn,” he said, as he gestured to Camilla and Heath.

  Heath began by describing the crime scene. He then continued into the scenario that led up to Adrianna Cottrell’s disappearance, the discovery of her body, and the subsequent investigation. Camilla talked about their interviews that afternoon with the family and the inspection of their home, including Adrianna’s bedroom. These examinations revealed no new relevant information and supported the local investigator’s theory that the family was not involved. She then moved on to discuss the autopsy findings, finishing with the note found in Adrianna’s front pocket.

  Harringer pulled out a copy of the fax Camilla had sent earlier which contained the image of the note. He turned around to face Friesz for the first time this entire meeting. “Terry, did you have a chance to look at this yet?” He passed the fax over his shoulder to Friesz, clearly with a slight modicum of disdain. If he can’t come to the meeting on time, surely he hasn’t looked at this assignment ahead of time, Harringer’s body language stated to Friesz.

  Friesz held up his hand, refusing the paper.

  “I did look at it.” He stood up and moved to the front of the conference room. On the right side stood an easel supporting a large dry-erase board with a small shelf below with several colored markers. He moved the board closer to the center of the room, angling it towards the laptop in front so that Camilla and Heath could see it as well as the others in the room. He picked up a blue marker and wrote the phrase found on the piece of paper from memory:

  Everyone watching, even Harringer, was impressed by Friesz’s presentation. He had not lost his classroom presence as a college professor.

  “It’s Thai,” Friesz declared.

  “Thai?” Harringer asked.

  Friesz nodded. “Thai.”

  “Well, what does it mean?” Camilla voiced, though everyone else also sat on the edge of their seats, dying t
o know. Most FBI agents don’t care much for the dramatic flairs of former college professors.

  Friesz looked at her, at Heath, and then met the eyes of each member in the conference room. He was milking the limelight, and he loved it. His eyes came back and met Harringer’s before he offered the translation. “It means, ‘I want to be somebody.’”

  Harringer looked pensive for a moment, his investigative mind chewing this new morsel of information. After a barely discernible glimmer of realization in his eye, his gaze dropped down from Friesz’s face slowly to the floor.

  Friesz became concerned over the change in Harringer’s body language. “What is it?” he asked.

  Without looking up Harringer responded. “A message like this may suggest that we are dealing with a killer who will continue killing children for the purpose of achieving infamy.” He finally raised his vision to look at Friesz and the other agents in the room. “His accomplishment, or, more accurately, his goal, is not the murder itself. It’s the attention that follows. And as he continues killing, especially child victims, the attention will become greater and greater. His accomplishments then only continue to fuel further and further killing.”

  A somber mood fell over the agents. They seemed to tacitly agree upon Harringer’s interpretation of this most recent message from their killer. Camilla nodded, with expressions of recognition and despondence coming over her face simultaneously. “I wrote a thesis on such perpetrators back in undergrad. For these killers, it doesn’t matter who the victims are. It’s not about killing them. It’s just about killing somebody.”

  Harringer completed the thought. “Making it very difficult to predict where the killer will strike again.”

  16

  When Vicki and Jonah got home that afternoon, Jack had just finished reading an essay written by Montgomery Johnson in the late 90’s about the President Clinton/Monica Lewinsky affair. Johnson had admonished his fellow Democrat, but he also spent much of the article examining the scandal-hungry American culture. He compared and contrasted Clinton and John F. Kennedy, not in political terms, but more in social and interpersonal ways. Johnson displayed a knack for discussing political themes within American culture while remaining relatively politically neutral. Jack admired his writing skills and already looked forward to meeting him tomorrow.

  Jonah ran into the living room where Jack sat with his Dell on his lap and jumped up onto the couch beside him. “Hey, Daddy!”

  “Hey, Jonah!” Jack imitated with equal enthusiasm.

  “Whatcha doing?” Jonah asked.

  “Excuse me?” Jack replied in an exaggeratedly inquisitive tone.

  “Sorry,” Jonah said deliberately. “What ARE you doing?”

  Jonah previously had some difficulty saying the letter “R”, as did most toddlers, so he learned to avoid saying words with “R” as much as he could. Recently, though, Jack and Vicki enlisted the assistance of a speech therapist through Jonah’s school. After Johan sat through only a handful of sessions with her, his “R’s” improved significantly. However, he often still subconsciously reverted back to avoiding “R” words, and Jack and Vicki had vowed to each other to correct him at every opportunity.

  “Oh, yes,” Jack said, pretending that only now did he understand Jonah’s question. “I just finished reading an article online.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jonah replied. “What was it about?”

  “Well,” Jack answered, as he looked up at Vicki to see if she were also listening. “It was written by a man whom I am meeting for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Really?!” Jonah responded, evidently impressed that his father was going to meet someone who had written an article posted on The Internet.

  “Yep. His name is Montgomery Johnson.”

  Vicki’s eyebrows raised and she smiled; now she too was impressed.

  “He’s an important senator from Alabama,” Jack finished.

  “Alabama?!” Jonah answered, though he had no idea where that was or what it really meant.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said.

  “Yes, sir,” Jonah repeated.

  Vicki walked into the living room from the kitchen and leaned against the threshold separating the two. “Jonah, why don’t you go upstairs, put your school stuff in your room, and go to the bathroom before we go get Grandma for dinner.”

  “OK,” Jonah exclaimed as he jumped off the couch. He ran back into the kitchen to pick up a small workbook from school then headed upstairs.

  “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” Vicki called after him as she walked into the room and sat down on the couch beside her husband. She leaned over and they exchanged a kiss. “Senate Majority Leader Montgomery Johnson, huh?”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. I called Philip today to tell him I was interested in taking another meeting.”

  “So you’ve decided to pursue this,” Vicki said, more in the form or a statement rather than a question.

  “For now, yeah.” Jack took the computer from his lap and set it on the couch beside him, opposite Vicki. He shifted his weight to face her. “Dylan began presenting a new case today. Looks like a serial killer.”

  Vicki groaned.

  Jack nodded in agreement. “Yeah, groan. I just didn’t have the…I don’t know… fortitude, I guess?... to delve into another case right now. I felt like it was my subconscious trying to tell me something. I felt uneasy and uncertain, and it didn’t feel good.”

  Vicki smiled and took his hand. “Well, I think then it’s wise to meet with Philip and see where this takes you.”

  Jack smiled. Moments like this always reminded him of how much he loved his wife.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Vicki nodded and stood up. “I’m going to go change.”

  “OK. Where are we going tonight?”

  Ever since Anthony Byrne died, every Wednesday they all went out to eat with Jack’s mother Florence. They rotated through three different restaurants that she called her “favorites,” though they all knew that she called them “favorites” because they were very child-friendly and Jonah loved them. What Jack and Vicki never knew is that Florence also chose these places because she had never been there with Anthony. Thus they offered no memories of him. She did not habitually avoid places that provided memories of Anthony; she just preferred to go to those places alone. Wednesday evenings were a time for Jonah, for innocence, and for happiness, not for Anthony, for longing, or for sadness.

  Because of speaking engagements and book signings, Jack had missed the majority of these Wednesday dinners of the past few months. He therefore could not keep track of where they stood in the rotation.

  “Pirate Pete’s,” Vicki answered.

  “Arrr!” Jack growled like a pirate, with more than a hint of genuine excitement. “I never thought in my adult life I would get excited about going out to a restaurant whose most famous dish is the Bucket O’ Fish.”

  Vicki smiled in agreement as she turned to head for the stairs. She called behind her toward Jack, “Just one more reason to love parenthood.”

  17

  Randall sat at his desktop computer, surfing the internet, conducting both research and reconnaissance. Dave Brubeck’s classic genre-crossing album Time Out played on the turntable. Randall had recently replaced the needle to the beginning of the A side, “Blue Rondo a la Turk.”

  Behind him, in the makeshift living room, the TV showed the denouement of the latest iteration of a forensic crime scene investigation show, the volume turned down low but not completely off. Turns out the not-yet-fully-out-of-the-closet gay husband’s male lover killed the unsuspecting wife. Never saw that coming.

  Randall had arguably the best album collection anywhere in the world. Not CDs. Vinyl. And not best as in most, but best as in best quality. He believed listening on the turntable was the purest way to experience the music as the artist had intended. He had jazz, blues, heavy metal, new wave, punk, funk, bluegrass, hard rock, rap. Tonight felt like a jazz night, at least for now. Hence the Brubeck.


  CNN.com did not have anything exciting, nor did Reuters. He went to the website of WHTM, the local TV station that covered York, PA. He scrolled down, found a story on Adrianna Cottrell, clicked on it.

  He didn’t like disco, and he didn’t like modern pop. That included most modern country and hip-hop, which was just a marketing guru’s method of trying to repackage old familiar music under different, usually inane lyrics. Other than that, Randall would give a listen to just about anything.

  The TV went quiet before leading into the opening music of The Goodnight Hour. Randall turned to look at the TV. Caleb Goodnight, sitting in his arm-chair, went into his familiar introduction, “Good evening and welcome. I’m Caleb Goodnight, and this is The Goodnight Hour.”

  Randall turned back to the computer monitor, looked at the digital clock in the lower right corner.

  10:00 already? he thought. Huh.

  The online article about Adrianna Cottrell discussed the brief press conference held by the local police that evening. After skimming the article, Randall concluded that it did not reveal anything exciting. The photo at the top showed a healthy-looking African-American man behind a microphone. His name was Officer Kenneth Howard, according to the caption.

  “Tonight my guests are country music superstar couple Tim McGraw and Faith Hill,” Caleb Goodnight said. Randall lost interest.

  He focused on the photograph in front of him. In the background stood a plain-faced man wearing a plain suit. Though the man’s face was out of focus, Randall felt that he recognized him.

  Randall swiveled his chair to the right and grabbed a tattered book from the bookshelf beside him. Though the book had been published merely two months ago, it appeared decades old—its pages crinkled, dog-eared, scribbled on, highlighted. Randall opened the book to the middle section that contained several color photographs. He flipped past the photograph of Lamaya Hollows with her parents, and one of the crime scene. A few pages later he landed on the one he had been looking for. Again the man stood not in the foreground of the photo, but in the background. But, in this photo, the blurry man was properly identified.