by Al Boudreau
James nailed the throttle, planting us all firmly against the seat backs. “Most likely scenario, the way I see it. Why would this person ask for me specifically, otherwise? Cole knows we’re here, and he knows what we’ve been up to.”
“Let’s say you’re right,” Sarah said. “What do you suppose he’s doing, holding this person hostage? It would be a pretty huge departure from what we believe to be his modus operandi.”
“No idea,” James said. But, we’re about to find out.”
* * *
Three squad cars were parked at different angles out in front of 6 Markham Boulevard as we approached, Bridgeport’s officers using the vehicles as shields as they trained their weapons on the modest, single-story home. There was only one other vehicle parked at the address.
I recognized it as soon as we pulled up.
The red pickup belonged to Wayne Sophia, the code enforcement officer we’d spoken to a few hours prior. “Connie Lund mentioned that the guy she saw messing around under Cole’s door had grey hair. Sophia has grey hair.”
“Oh, my goodness. You think---” Sarah gasped as two men appeared behind the screen door of the home’s entry. Wayne Sophia appeared to be immobilized in a headlock, Jackson Cole using the man as a human shield, effectively blocking all but Cole’s face from view.
“I have no intention of harming this guy,” Cole shouted from behind the screen. “Send Detective James in here. Get that plain-clothes detective guy in here, too.”
We all looked at one another as the uniformed officer closest to James’s cruiser ran over in a crouched position. “You have a bullet proof vest with you, Detective James?” he asked.
“Just one, but this whacko wants two of us in there.”
Without hesitation, the officer tore the Velcro straps securing his own vest apart and removed it. “Take it,” he said then returned to his position behind his cruiser.
“That’s amazing,” Sarah said as James handed the protective garment over to me. “We don’t even know that officer.”
“That’s the brotherhood,” I said as I donned the vest. “Ready, if you are, Detective.”
James nodded, chambered a round, and swung his door open.
“Be safe,” Sarah said as I climbed out of the back.
I nodded and followed James to a position behind the squad car closest to the house.
“Mr. Cole,” James shouted. “We’re not coming anywhere near that house unless we can see both of your hands.”
Cole swung his free arm around in front of Sophia, wiggled his fingers, and placed his hand against the top of the screen.
“Go ahead,” I said to James. “I’ll cover you, then wait for your sign.”
James nodded, stood up straight, and walked slowly toward the house, his weapon trained on Cole’s head the entire time. “What’s the plan, here, Mr. Cole?”
“Get that other cop in here, and get your notebook out. Sophia, here, has something he’d like to confess.”
“I’d be much more comfortable if you both stepped out onto the stoop. I’m not about to go in there with you after what you did to Jared Posner up in York earlier today.”
“I’ve got no problem with you, Detective. I saw you inside my place. You were just doing your job. Consider this situation as me helping you to wrap it up.”
“Not sure I understand,” James said as he got within a few feet of the front door. “Wrap what up?”
“This case you’re working on. See, I put it all together a couple of hours ago. You’re all thinking I’m the one responsible for this killing spree. Robbie. My neighbor Mark. Vince, over at the park.” Cole laughed and shook his head. “No offense, Detective, but you screwed the pooch on this one, big-time. You want your killer?” Better get in here and take him while I’m still feeling a hint of self-restraint.”
“OK, OK,” James responded. “Carter, come on over.”
I pointed my weapon at what little I could see of Cole and made my way toward James’s position.
“All right, Mr. Cole. Being that you’re acting in a reasonable manner, we’ll play this your way. I want you to back slowly away from the door. Detective Peterson is going to cover me while I step inside.”
“What are you waiting for?” Cole asked.
James took the last two steps toward the door while I advanced an equal number of paces. “I’m coming in,” James said and grabbed the door handle.
I stood firm and waited for instructions from James as the three officers behind me advanced their positions, taking up defensive stances at different points across the front yard.
“Mr. Cole. I’m going to ask that you allow Mr. Sophia to take a seat on the sofa over there, then I’d like you to sit down next to him.”
Cole did exactly what James asked.
“Carter. Come on inside.”
I swung the door wide and assessed the situation. There were no weapons visible around Cole---who looked calm, and appeared to be very pleased with himself. Sophia, on the other hand, looked as if he might suffer a heart attack at any second.
“All right, gentlemen,” James said as he stepped closer to the pair. “My associate Detective Peterson is going to keep his weapon trained on you while I holster my own.” James then swapped his handgun for a pen and a notebook. “Mr. Cole, Mr. Sophia, I’m all ears.”
Cole motioned toward Sophia with his thumb. “Good old Wayne, here, owns the unit next to mine. He doesn’t stay there very often, but when he does, he likes to complain about the noise. Me and this guy, we’ve had our share of issues with one another, but when I saw him inside my condo with his grubby mitts on my stuff, well, that was the end of it. Thing is, the trespassing issue is nothing, compared to what I found out once the two of us had an opportunity to chat.”
“You saw him inside your condo?” James asked. “How?”
“Come on, Detective. Most people have some sort of video monitoring capabilities inside their homes these days. How do you think I knew that you and your detective friends were actively looking for me?”
“OK, I understand,” James replied. “Go on.”
“Wayne, here, tried to bully Robbie while I was overseas, but she told him to take a hike. Guess that didn’t sit too well with Wayne. You getting the picture, yet, Detectives?” Cole asked and pointed over toward the fireplace, located directly across the room from where he sat.
I didn’t want to take my eyes off from Cole, as I was the only one with a weapon in my hands, but I noticed James turn and walk over to where Cole was pointing. A few seconds later James returned with a fireplace broom. A shiny, decorative handle was attached to the top of the tool.
“This isn’t looking good, Mr. Sophia,” James said as he held the broom up for all to see.
“Tell them, Wayne,” Cole said.
“She wouldn’t listen,” Wayne Sophia said. I tried to be reasonable, but she just blew me off. I … I can’t cope with incessant noise. It’s a result of my disorder. I’m not a violent man, but … she wouldn’t listen. She just kept squeaking and squeaking away with that damn card-making nonsense. Finally, I reached the point where I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Sophia?” James asked.
“Misophonia. I have Misophonia. Repetitive noises. I can’t take repetitive noises. They drive me crazy. My wife, she did her best to help me live a normal life, but once she passed, I … I just got worse. I guess I just snapped. I had no choice. I had to make them stop.”
James turned to look at me, then placed the broom on the coffee table and took a seat. “So, you figured the only way to make the noise stop was to kill these people?”
“They wouldn’t listen. It’s all their fault. They drove me to the point where I just had to punish them.”
“I’m curious,” James said. “Vincent Sprague. What on earth did that man do to deserve being tortured by you?”
“That old, cantankerous bum was the worst of them, beating that stupid drum, non-stop, day after day, outside
my office over at Fort Frederick Park. I pleaded with him to move. I closed my windows. Ran a fan. Put earplugs in. Nothing stopped that stubborn prick’s incessant clanging from getting inside my head. He … he left me no choice.”
“And the others?”
“Cutter, and that damn kid of his. ‘Whoo, pitch it in here. Whoo, pitch it in here.’ Over and over. Listen to that for a couple hours and see how you feel.”
Sophia turned and looked at Cole, who was staring him down, then turned back toward James. “Get me out of here. Please.”
“Wayne Sophia, you have the right to remain silent,” James said as he stepped toward the door and motioned for the three Bridgeport officers to enter the house. He finished reciting Miranda to the murderous code enforcement officer before cuffing him. “One of you can take him down to lockup,” James said to the officers, then turned toward Cole. “Mr. Cole, first let me say I’m sorry for your loss as it relates to Ms. Kramer’s death. And, though I appreciate your assistance and can somewhat understand what you must be going through, none of it absolves you of the crimes committed against Mr. Sophia and Mr. Posner.”
“I get it,” he said as he stood up and voluntarily assumed the position against the wall. “I did what I had to do, and I expect no less from you, Detective.”
James read Cole his Miranda rights then nodded to the remaining officers. “Take him downtown.”
“I tucked my weapon inside the waist of my jeans, peeled off the bulletproof vest, and handed it back to the officer. “Much appreciated,” I said as he grabbed it and turned to follow Cole and the other officer out of the house.
James grabbed the fireplace broom and began walking toward the door. “Well, there’s a conclusion I couldn’t have conjured up. Not even after a couple of six-packs.”
“It all makes sense, in hindsight,” I said as we walked outside.
I spotted Sarah just steps away as the pair of criminals were transported from the scene.
“Wayne Sophia? He’s our murderer?”
“Gave us his confession right on the spot, surprisingly enough,” I replied.
“Probably didn’t hurt to have Cole sitting next to him,” James added.
“I can’t---did he say why?”
“He did,” I told her. “However, I’ve got to believe there’s more going on in this guy’s head than some simple sound disorder. Do a search for the term Misophonia.”
Sarah pulled out her phone and began working her thumbs. A few seconds later she said, “Misophonia. A disorder in which a person reacts extremely negatively to certain sounds that most people take little or no notice of.”
“That’s it,” I said.
“There’s no way he murdered three innocent people, and ultimately caused the death of a firefighter, because he didn’t like some sounds,” Sarah said, the look on her face telling me she felt a certain sense of compassion toward him. “Like you said, there’s got to be some deeper rooted issues we’re not privy to.”
“He’ll be getting a psych evaluation soon. One of the first steps taken after we apprehend a murderer of this caliber,” James said.
“OK, I have to know. What on earth did poor Vincent Sprague do to suffer Sophia’s wrath?”
“Played his kick drum for a few too many beats,” I replied.
Sarah buried her face in her hands. “You know, this case makes me want to cry.”
“It’s a tough one to swallow,” James responded.
“All things considered, Cole exercised a lot of restraint in not doing some real harm to Sophia before we got here,” Sarah said.
“True enough. That Posner video is a real good example of what Cole is capable of.”
James shrugged. “Let’s face it. Sophia did a decent job of helping to convince us that Cole was our murderer. I have to assume Cole knew he needed to keep Sophia in one piece if there was any hope of the real killer being brought to justice.”
Chapter 21
(One week later)
“I just got off the phone with James,” Sarah said as I stepped out of the shower. “He met with the district attorney first thing this morning. The results of Wayne Sophia’s psychiatric evaluation came back, and the findings are undoubtedly going to be key to his defense.”
“James give you any specifics?” I asked as I wrapped a towel around my waist.
“Well, according to the report, Sophia was telling the truth about his Misophonia, but the bigger issue is that the doctor believes he also has Borderline Personality Disorder. I’d never heard of it, so I looked it up.” Sarah picked up her laptop and began reading. “BPD is characterized by emotional instability, anxiety, and psychotic-like symptoms. Sufferers can become paranoid, suspicious of others without warning, and its presence often sets the stage for impulsive aggression.”
“Are you saying he was never diagnosed with BPD before now?” I asked.
“Apparently not,” Sarah replied. “Sophia has no immediate family, now that his wife is gone. The psychiatrist wrote in his notes that he believes Sophia’s wife acted with caretaker tendencies, and kept her husband on a fairly tight leash. In terms of getting properly diagnosed and ultimately receiving proper treatment, he’s another person who simply slipped through the cracks.”
“Probably nosed-dived into a downward spiral once his wife was gone. With nobody around to watch over him in, knowing what we know, it would have been nearly impossible for him to stay out of trouble.”
Sarah closed her computer and sat down on the bed. “It’s so tragic that innocent people have to die before troubled souls can get the help they need. In this case, two young kids are without a father, a war veteran who inspired others is gone, and a woman who seemed to have a great deal going for her had her life cut short.”
“Tragic is the right word,” I said. “Sadly, scenarios like this play out more often than anyone in the health care profession wants to admit. My feeling is that the entire system needs to be looked at so people who have these challenges get the assistance they need before it’s too late. It shouldn’t be about money when people are dying as a result of a fatally flawed system.”
“On a slightly more positive note, James thinks the DA is leaning toward going easy on Jackson Cole. Cole was instrumental in getting Sophia off the street, and the guy’s service record is exemplary. Not only that, but he just lost someone he cares about, which is punishment in and of itself.”
“Yep. Cole should definitely get bit of a break.”
“There’s something else I wanted to show you,” she said as she held up the morning paper and pointed. “I noticed this article on the front page.”
I took the paper and scanned the piece she was referring to. “Memorials will be built for the three murder victims, as well as the fallen firefighter, all designed for use in Fort Frederick Park. Wow. Generous.”
“I thought so, too,” Sarah said. “It’s wonderful that whoever this mystery benefactor is wants to have each memorial provide some sort of function that people can actually use. Fort Frederick Park is nice, but there’s not much there in the way of amenities. It gets better, too. Read the end of the article … it’s on the back page.”
I flipped the newsprint over and continued. “Huh. Half a million dollars to start an area mental health outreach program. Whoever’s donating this money has a lot of common sense. Nice to see.”
“It is. For all the heartache that resulted in Sophia not getting the help he needed, at least the final outcome became a catalyst for positive change.”
“Great way to look at it, Sarah.”
“I have to find some positive takeaway, or I’ll slip into a funk I might not be able to pull myself out of.”
I walked over and began rubbing her shoulders. “Tell you what. Today is going to be a day of rest, relaxation, and fun. It’s beautiful outside. What do you say we grab our beach gear and head over to Jenkin’s Beach? You mentioned how much you enjoyed it when we were there the other day.”
“That’s what I love a
bout you, Carter Peterson. You always know when it’s time to work, and when it’s time to play. I’d love to go back there.”
“I’ve got to take care of my best employee. You’d be mighty tough to replace.”
“Don’t waste any of your precious time worrying about that. We may be goofing off today, but our backlog of cases isn’t getting any smaller. I’m really anxious to figure out who sent us that thumb drive with all the pictures and files on it. It’s so intriguing. Bottom line is that you need me; I’m staying.”
“Good to know,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. “Now, grab your bathing suit and a towel. Let’s go to the beach.”
T he End
Thank you for reading
A City Of Dread
We now invite you to read the synopsis for
Book 8, entitled
Trail Of Broken Bonds
When private investigator Carter Peterson and his partner Sarah Woods arrive home to find an oversized carton hanging on their curbside mailbox, neither of them pay much attention---until they discover the package contains an unsolicited UBS thumb drive. No note. No explanation. Just a simple memory stick. Unsure of its contents or origin, they insert the drive into a spare laptop. Within seconds, four file folder icons appear on the screen, each one labeled with an intriguing name. A few curious clicks later, photographs, business ledgers, and a number of steamy, hand written notes populate the small screen. Yet, not a single detail of the mysterious media is recognizable by the detectives, leaving them at a complete loss---until they get the call.
If you wish to pre-order Book 8, please click the above link, which will bring you to the appropriate site.
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