He surveyed his small office from his desk with the beady eyes of a vulture but without really seeing much of anything. Piles of files on the floor in the corner, a thick layer of crud on most flat surfaces, a couple of dog toys under the desk. A smear on the window where someone had printed ‘clean me,’ and a mirror that hung crooked on the wall. That was on purpose. From there he could see if anyone was slipping a gun from under a coat, or sometimes look up a skirt if he was lucky. His own image in the mirror was less than appealing; sort of the human version of a pit bull. He spit on his hand, and pressed his scraggly hair down around his ears, and curled his lips up to see if any food particles remained in his teeth. He looked at his fingernails and started cleaning them with the corner of a court file.
He turned to his computer and checked his web history for the legal doc site. He needed to print out a few free business cards. Look at all the porn sites! Now that I am a ‘Married Man,’ I will have to start erasing these, he noted. Married, a newlywed. Ugh, bitch, ugly bitch, stupid- ugly –worthless- bitch. How he made it through that ceremony was certainly worthy of an Oscar. It had been a whirlwind romance because he wanted to get it over with. If she didn’t have all that money coming, he would not have married her. If he didn’t marry her, he wouldn’t have to kill her either. She isn’t pretty. It’s the fault of the money that she was going to die. Not him.
He heard his secretary knock something down in the other room. Then the intercom came on, “I’m here, so stay in your room! And you need a new TV snack table.”
Cunt. Bitch. Probably a whore too, even if she is ugly………ugly, UGLY. He answered her back, “I’m leaving for a couple of hours. Don’t commit me to any appointments.”
She came back with “Right.” He knew the unspoken words were, like anyone would make an appointment with you?
Even she couldn’t dampen his spirits today. Over the years of building his practice he had found funerals to be the best source of new clients. His practice had evolved to mostly estate planning and probate. He was cheap. Probably too cheap, but he was also smart and fast. If they wanted it done right, fast, and cheap, it was him. The price they paid for that was him. He had amassed a great deal of wealth, however, with the rich dumb ones. If they didn’t have a bunch of nosey family members, he made sure they signed over their real estate to him as payment for administering their estate.
It was so damn easy, he couldn’t believe it! He probably made twenty to forty thousand per month on average, just on real estate sales on properties he had never even seen. Occasionally some church or charity would call with questions, stating they had been told that so-and-so was leaving property to them. He had a standard answer, “Too bad, people lie.” He savored those calls!
Today there was a funeral only about two miles away. He loved funerals. Went to at least two a week. Funerals were his favorite hunting grounds. From the obituary it sounded like a big family. Lots of people to watch. He didn’t know any of these people. That’s what makes it so much fun! Especially watching the pretty ones cry.
* * *
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Betty had decided to ride with Agent Roger Dance in his car to the first victim’s home, Nettie Wilson. She was hoping she could gain some insight from reading his mind on the trip. She followed him across the parking lot toward his white Jeep Cherokee and watched him glance at the news trucks in the parking lot. His mind was very busy and she decided to filter only his strongest thoughts. They came in torrents. What has not been done? Did I bring the interview notes from the first detectives? Why kill an eighty year old lady? No money…. Is he transferring? Does she remind him of someone? Strangle her….personal…up close….violent…. Six. Six murders in seven weeks….he is losing control….He’ll make a mistake. He better.
It was about a twenty minute ride. Betty found out Roger was a good person but lonely. He had lost a fiancé to cancer over five years ago and had not been in a serious relationship since. He was all consumed with his career, which was probably why he was so good at it. He had thoughts that his age was beginning to affect him, and he worried he wasn’t as sharp as he used to be. All last year he had doubled up on his fitness program and time spent at the shooting range to compensate. He would turn fifty in February, and this case had him stumped. Worse than that, he was worried. This one seemed different. Maybe the bad guys are just getting smarter, he told himself. He was consulting a small map and said out loud, “Okay Roger, let’s get this guy!” As he turned his Jeep onto narrow dirt driveway to a cute little Cape Cod style house, parked, and turned off the engine.
He leaned against the warm hood of the car, stared at the house and surroundings, took out his note pad, and began writing short notes. House -fair condition/ needs new trim paint/ evidence of past flower beds/ icicle hanging from eaves / needs roof repair / lace curtains in windows. House screams old lady, not much money, lives alone, he thought as he moved toward the front porch. Yellow crime scene tape hung loose on either side of the door. He tore the tape down, wadded it up….invitation to vandals. The scene had long since been released to the family. Who was that? A niece named Joy Covington. Okay. What did he know about her? She found the body day after Nettie died, on the 7th, 10:30 a.m./ home-maker/ works part time as cook at nursing home/ not much family left/ friends. Good size funeral on Thursday Nov. 11th/ Neighbor, Mrs. Brooks, called the niece when Nettie didn’t answer phone morning of 7th. They were supposed to go to Senior Center for potluck.
Agent Dance used the key provided by the niece and unlocked the front door. The temperature outside was around forty degrees F, and it felt like the heat was on low in the house. Roger draped his wool overcoat over one of the Duncan Phyfe dining room chairs, and slowly scanned the rooms. The house smelled slightly stale, but looked very clean. He was struck at how similar all old persons’ homes were. There was the recliner with a stack of newspapers and magazines crawling up the side of the end table. An assortment of glasses with straws, remote controls and little pill bottles covered the top. A small spiral notebook and pen rested next to a twenty year old cordless phone. A pile of neatly folded lap blankets, a pillow hidden underneath on the floor, and a can of wasp spray on the lower shelf of the end table, every old ladies pistol. A paper bag with the top rolled over half filled with used tissues, coupon clippings, and junk mail. A small puzzle book, giant letters, lay next to a pair of reading glasses. A pair of slippers was neatly tucked under the table. Nettie had lived in this chair.
He took his time looking through the rest of the house paying attention to every detail. On the walls of the hall were family pictures. One showed a handsome young couple in wedding clothes. The frame had a small gold engraved plaque that said Charles and Nettie Wilson, 1949. A walker was parked at the end of the hall, the kind that had a basket under a small seat in the middle. In the basket were a few neatly folded clothes. Behind the door at the end of the hall a stackable washer and dryer had been squeezed into an old linen closet. It looked as if the installation had been done a while ago. The ticking of the large wall clock blasted through the silence. Clocks can have a comforting sound, like a heartbeat. He didn’t find it comforting today.
He walked back to where Nettie’s body had been found. He ran his fingers through his hair and massaged his temples. Another headache was brewing. She had died only two feet from the front door on a small linoleum vestibule. Nettie was a tiny, frail woman. She had let someone in. They closed the door, strangled her and left. Didn’t even walk onto the carpet. Why? Through the kitchen window he saw the elderly neighbor woman in her window, spastically motioning for him to come over. He had planned to. He laughed to himself that you don’t keep old women waiting. He flipped through his notebook to get her name. Mrs. Brooks.
Roger locked Nettie’s house and started toward the neighbor’s home, Betty at his side. Then we all showed up. Betty looked at her watch and then looked at us with her eyebrows raised. “We got lost!” Teresa explained.
&nbs
p; “But Linda figured out how to use the watch and here we are!” Mary said smiling. Linda looked pretty proud of herself. I was proud of her too. I didn’t have a clue how to do that yet.
“This is something you’d better learn.” Betty said to me. I got into trouble, and I didn’t even say anything!
Somehow Betty transferred a lot of information about Roger to us automatically, or something. I don’t quite know how she did that. We followed as the neighbor, Mrs. Brooks, led Roger into her home. He was showing her his badge and explaining he was FBI when she interrupted him, “Oh, I know who you are Honey from the TV. You are that good lookin’ one.” She frowned and said, “Well, have you caught the asshole yet or not?”
Roger was a little taken back by her question but never lost a step. “I assure you Mrs. Brooks, we are doing everything we can to solve this.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said as she plopped into her recliner. He noticed it looked just like Nettie’s. “You sit down young man and ask me some questions. Nobody knew Nettie better ‘en me.”
We all sat around the dining table and watched. “Mrs. Brooks,” Roger started, “the detective that interviewed you before probably asked you the same questions I am going to ask. We follow up like this in case you might remember more as time goes on.” He continued, “Just now you clearly saw me through Nettie’s kitchen window, but on November sixth, Sunday, you didn’t see anyone at Nettie’s house around say ten or eleven in the morning?”
“Well, like I told the other detective, who by the way isn’t as cute as you.” she winked.
I gagged, Betty frowned.
“Nettie didn’t drive anymore, and we usually go to 8:00 a.m. mass together. I still drive.”
She winked again. I did nothing.
Betty looked at me as Mrs. Brooks continued, “Then we had to stop at Andy’s market for a few groceries. The senior center pot luck was Monday, the day we found her.” She sniffled, “Nettie made her famous potato salad. I had to run a couple of errands after we went to Andy’s, so I just dropped Nettie off and left again. I wasn’t home to see who did this.” You could tell she had been agonizing over this fact.
“That’s how I knew something was wrong, you see. Nettie didn’t answer the phone Monday, when I called to say I was ready to go to the pot luck. I called a couple of times, but she didn’t answer. I couldn’t see anything through the windows, so I called Joy. I have her number in case of an emergency,” her voice trailed off to a near whisper, and she used the edge of her apron to dab her eyes. You could tell she really missed her friend.
Roger flipped back in his notebook, “You are speaking of Joy Covington, Nettie’s niece?”
“Yes,” she answered softly.
Roger pressed on, “Mrs. Brooks, I noticed that someone has straightened up Nettie’s house since our crime techs were here. Everything looks clean and tidy. Was that Joy that did that?”
“Yes, that was Joy. She wasn’t very happy with your people you know. Left that damn black powder on everything, moved all the furniture. Couldn’t reach Nettie’s cleaning gal, and had to do it herself! Took her a couple of days! I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t have that house on the market in another month.”
While Mrs. Brooks had been talking, Roger had been flipping back in his notebook. “I don’t think you mentioned the cleaning lady to the first detective.”
“He didn’t ask!” She said defensively.
“Do you happen to remember her name, or maybe a phone number?”
Mrs. Brooks pointed to a small spiral notebook across the room. “Hand me that book honey. I had to find this for Joy. Twice since you guys messed up the house again when you came into the picture. Let me see, here it is, you ready?” Roger nodded and had his pen ready, “Darla Phillips.” BINGO, victim number three. The first rape victim.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
* * *
Attorney James Devon stood in the vestibule of the funeral home trying to look like he was waiting for someone. He tried to brush the dog hairs from his suit. He could see them now in the light. This was one of his favorite funeral homes. They always had coffee and cookies out in the reception area, and the chairs were crammed close to each other. A few of the people coming in he actually knew, mostly the elderly women. For the most part they all looked like smurfs to him…little blue haired dim-wits. “Oh hello Maude, good to see you out. Watch your step there.” I’ve got to remember to send her a bill. Tell her I had to prepare some probate form. She can afford it. He watched Maude’s’ caregiver help her up the four steps to the reception hall. That is one UGLY woman, he thought.
Oh yes, this is more like it….Hubba—Hubba. Oh my God. He held the door for a gorgeous blond in a long white cashmere coat. She wore a long gold scarf that perfectly matched her hair, and had professionally applied makeup. She was perfect! Her eyes were a little rimmed in red, and he could see that under her coat was a proper black dress. Class act, he thought.
He slowly followed her up the stairs and watched as she was greeted by a few of the family members. She started to walk towards the guest book, and he carefully maneuvered his way to stand just behind her. When she finished signing, he made sure she noticed him. He tried his best smile, “Hello, were you close to Janet?” He had memorized some of the info on the funeral card.
She looked a little puzzled but answered, “I haven’t been as close to her as I would have liked in the past few years. My business has kept me a little out of touch. We used to be neighbors.” With that she excused herself, and sat in one of the chairs provided for non-family members. He looked at her signature in the book and committed it to memory, Ashley Tait.
He made his rounds of sad smiles; there- there pats of comfort, and visited the body, twice. He checked out the floral arrangements and handed out a few business cards. He heard their whispers. “Any lawyer good enough for Janet is certainly good enough for me. Especially one that takes the time to go to her funeral! My, my, a lawyer with a heart.” He was hysterical with laughter inside. This just never gets old.
He found a seat one row back, and a little to the right of Ms.Ashley Tait. He watched her out of the corner of his eye during the entire funeral. Yes! She was crying! Oh, this was too much to hope for! He couldn’t wait to get back to his office and find out a little more about her. Thank God for Google. He inserted himself into the recession line at the begging of some old smurf and as Ashley was leaving he asked her, “What kind of business did you say were in?”
She took her time before answering and finally said, “I’m a judge.”
* * *
Betty told us to get into the back seat of Roger’s car. I couldn’t believe it! Now she won’t let us fly at all? We have to take cars with people? She looked at me. I was still pouting. Then she said, “We can learn from Agent Dance’s thoughts on the way.” Oh, yeah.
Roger was talking into his cell phone, “Paul! Darla Phillips, our number three, was Nettie Wilson’s cleaning lady! We finally have our first break! Can you free yourself up to re- interview any friends or neighbors of Darla in that file?….. Great, I have Nettie’s niece to talk to yet then I will be back at the station. I want that Ginger Hall dump scene before it gets contaminated. CSI should be done soon.” With that he disconnected with Paul and flipped through his notebook. He dialed and waited. Finally he spoke, “Is this Joy Covington?” Roger was turning the key in the ignition. “This is Special Agent Dance with the FBI. I need to meet with you immediately.” We heard him think, Make time lady.
He spoke into the phone again as he was pulling out of the driveway. “I appreciate that Ms. Covington. I am on my way now.” He clicked the phone shut. Betty was in the front seat next to him. We were all in the back. Roger reached to the floorboard passing between Betty’s legs and pulled out a big round red ball that he slapped onto the dash and turned on. Oooooh Coooooooooool. We had sirens and flashing lights and everything!
Betty was laughing as she looked to the back seat. “You g
als better calm down, or you won’t be able to concentrate on Roger’s thoughts.” Her attempt to scold us just mildly worked. This was the most excitement we’d had since dying!
Betty had to filter Roger’s thoughts again to get clarity. His mind was racing. All of a sudden we heard him. It was like he was talking to himself, but his lips were not moving. Nettie was murdered on Nov. 6. Darla was found on Dec.6, a full month later. When was the last time she was seen? Nov 11. When was Nettie’s funeral? Damn, I already forgot…check on that. He started writing in his notebook. I screamed from the backseat, “DUDE! WATCH THE ROAD!!” I covered my eyes in horror. I think Betty changed the street lights to all green. We finally made it to a dingy looking house with a pickup truck running in the front yard, parked in the grass, and a big yellow dog tugging at a rope, and barking at us!
Betty advised us that most animals can see us. Great. Linda stayed real close to Roger, he had a gun. We all walked toward the house. Roger flipped his phone open and dialed, “Ms. Covington? I am here. Can you move your dog?” Good idea, I thought.
A minute later a woman appeared at the door and started yelling at the dog. “SHUT UP FLEA BAG!” Oh boy, she looked worse than Flea Bag. “He won’t hurt ya….come on in…he just barks a lot.” Roger suggested that she put the dog in the house, and they talk outside. She agreed. As she unhooked the rope and grabbed Flea Bag’s collar, he tore away from her. He stood barking, high pitch, at the group of us. (Ran right past Roger.) “Crazy fool dog!” Joy said as she ran up behind him.
Flea Bag was growling, snorting, barking, yelping, and frankly just putting on quite a show at apparently “nothing.” The four of us had floated up the big tree high enough he couldn’t get to us. He was right at the trunk of the tree going NUTS! Even Roger looked up the tree with a puzzled expression on his face. He finally spoke, “Ma’am? If you could just ….”
Alcohol Was Not Involved : A Shallow End Gals Trilogy Page 3