“I spent my best years raising that boy. He’s been nothing but trouble since the day he was born. He’s not right in the head.” She let out a deep cough of a smoker and continued once she regained her breath. “I should have gotten something for spending all those years cleaning after him, dressing him. He couldn’t even tie his own goddamn shoes. Now he’s someone else’s problem.”
Elizabeth remembered the shed but held her tongue. “Do you believe your son killed that priest, Ms. Miller?”
“Who knows what that boy is capable of? Spending all his time by himself. Talking in riddles. If he said he did it, well then, he did it.”
“Do you mind if I see the shed?” She was unsure what she expected to find, but figured she had come this far, she might as well go all the way.
“Well, I charge ten dollars for that.”
“You charge?” Elizabeth asked incredulously.
“I have to make a living somehow. It was very popular after he was arrested. Not many people get to see firsthand where a killer lives.”
Elizabeth stood staring with her mouth open. After a moment, she found her voice. “Did you let people in the shed before the police searched it?”
“Psshht, nah. I didn’t know Raymond was a killer until the police came. I might have gotten more.”
Exercising restraint she didn’t know she had, Elizabeth remained silent. Her other option was to tackle the woman and shake her senseless.
“Do you want that tour?”
Elizabeth dug her hand into her bag for her wallet and, after handing over the bill, was led to the backyard. Ms. Miller entered a combination into a twist dial lock and opened the door, and a wave of stale air hit Elizabeth. It was obvious that Ms. Miller hadn’t had a paying customer in a while.
The shed looked just as the pictures depicted, but the clothing items in the wooden crates appeared rifled through. The mattress still sat in the corner with the same blanket and sheets. Wrinkles in the covers indicated that a few of the voyeurs had lain on the bed to get the full experience. The toys remained on the shelf and the artwork still hung on the wall, but had faded with time. Elizabeth stopped in front of the picture with the two stick figures holding hands. As she stood in the middle of the shed, a deep sense of despair traveled through her. Who is Raymond Miller?
With nothing new learned from her visit to the shed, she turned to Ms. Miller, who stood guard at the door. “It seems that there’s nothing for me to do here. Thank you for your time.” She walked out of Raymond Miller’s former home and waited as Ms. Miller secured the lock. She took several cleansing breaths as she retreated back to her car and drove on to Rosa Sanchez’s apartment, which was only three short blocks from the Miller residence.
*
After completing her task with Rosa Sanchez, Elizabeth headed home with a large glass of white wine in mind. She lived in a ranch-style, three-bedroom home with the proverbial white picket fence. A large willow tree proudly took center stage amongst a meticulously cut lawn and colorful flower beds that lined the walkway. She chose this quiet middle-class neighborhood because nothing about it reminded her of her childhood home with its protective gates, massive lawns, and marble columns. Her parents’ disdain for Elizabeth’s common home rivaled their disdain for her corner office. This was another perk, in her eyes—her parents never came to visit.
What really sold her on the home was the fully remodeled, state-of-the-art kitchen with professional-grade stainless steel appliances and a granite slab center island. Not that she enjoyed cooking. She was deemed culinarily challenged by her friends. In college, she was caught red-handed boiling a box of frozen vegetables, box and all. In her defense, the instructions never said to remove the vegetables from the box before boiling. That part was assumed, unless you were Elizabeth Campbell.
However, she enjoyed the culinary mastery of her former college roommate and closest confidant, Michael Chan, aka BestChef. Michael assumed control over her kitchen the day she signed the escrow papers, and he hosted legendary dinner parties, Elizabeth’s presence being optional. Tonight was not a legendary dinner night, but a test run of Michael’s latest creation.
As Elizabeth opened her front door, she was assaulted by Charlie, her large gray cat, who greeted her every evening without fail. He sat perched on the windowsill watching her stride up the walkway, waiting for the right moment to start his wailing of starvation. Charlie often told complete lies of never being fed, even though his bowl was filled to the brim with food; however, he scoffed at this inferior dry food. He only dined on the expensive wet food that came in the small square containers that had to be refrigerated. He knew when Elizabeth tried to substitute with a cheap imitation from a tin can and would repay her faux pas by regurgitating the food in her bed, so she could enjoy the scent of the food a second time.
As Elizabeth and Michael worked fluidly together in the kitchen moving past each other with comfortable ease, she recited a CliffsNotes version of her day, editing out the grisly details.
After a quick squeeze of her shoulder, Michael said, “You know, what you really need is a quick roll in the hay. That will fix things right up.”
This earned him a playful slap on the arm.
“Seriously, how long has it been?”
She gave him a warning look, and Michael turned his back and resumed his chopping with curt but elegant movements. “Will you peel the carrots.” It wasn’t really a question.
Instead of tending to the carrots, she approached a pan of simmering sauce and lifted a wooden spoon. Michael turned on her, pointing his knife. “Step away from the sauce.” She stopped with the spoon poised halfway to her open mouth and quickly debated whether to run her tongue up and down the front and back of the spoon, just to goad him. She realized that might be a bit immature and plopped the spoon back in the pan and sulked her way back to the sink to peel the carrots.
After successfully scalping the carrots to within an inch of their lives, she pushed the discarded peels into the drain and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal. As the grinding noise filled the kitchen, she unconsciously began to hum “My Ding-A-Ling.”
“Damn it. You distracted me with your daily drama, and I forgot to start the roast. Can you tie the roast while I finish here?”
She measured out a sizeable piece of butcher’s twine resting next to the small piece of meat and tied a bow around the roast like a Christmas present. “Now what?”
He looked over to inspect her work. “What is that!”
“What?”
“What do you mean WHAT? We aren’t giving it away as a gift. It needs to hold the stuffing in.” He stormed over and untied Elizabeth’s bow and set about retying the roast. “You’re hopeless.”
“How was I supposed to know? You said tie the roast, so I tied—” She froze mid-sentence, her gesturing hand still suspended in midair.
“Forget it. No harm done.” Michael’s annoyance quickly faded.
“No, don’t you see? His mother said he couldn’t even tie his own shoes.” Elizabeth recalled the reports in the file. “Then how could he have tied up his victim?”
Chapter Two
Elizabeth pushed open the glass door to the police station and briefly paused at the large sign that listed prohibited items. She studied the list—knives, firearms, explosives, dangerous chemicals, flammable liquids, brass knuckles… She observed the various pictures beside the list and tilted her head sideways when she came to a photo of a power saw. Nope, I’m good.
She stood in the queue waiting her turn, curious as to how so many people could have business at the police station. When she advanced to the front of the line, she was summoned to approach by an officer in a dark blue uniform. His stomach threatened to pop open a button as it strained against the shirt. She figured he didn’t spend much time in the field, at least she hoped not.
“Morning, I’m Elizabeth Campbell. I’m an attorney. I’d like to speak to Detective Patrick Sullivan.”
“Who?” the
officer responded none too politely.
“Detective Patrick Sullivan. I’ve been asked to review an old case that was handled by the detective. I have a couple of questions.” She briefly explained the mayor’s request to review the Raymond Miller case.
“One second.” The officer pushed himself off his swivel chair and disappeared through a side door. As the minutes passed, she felt the impatience of the others in line behind her mounting and felt responsible. Not wanting to face the crowd, she decided to commit to memory the mission statement that was boldly printed and framed on the wall behind the counter.
At long last, the portly officer returned. “Detective Sullivan’s not here anymore. He’s retired.”
“Well, who else may I speak to, then?”
The officer huffed and again pushed himself up off his chair, shuffled toward the door, and disappeared.
Nope, definitely not in the field. She returned her attention to the mission statement. Now, where was I?
When the officer returned, she not only had the mission statement memorized, but also the officers’ work schedules for the next two weeks, which was taped on the wall.
“Have a seat. Detective Donovan will be out in a bit to talk to you.”
“Thank you.” She finally turned to face the line and heard a not too faint “Finally” from the crowd.
She sank down into a hard plastic chair and squirmed a bit in an attempt to get more comfortable before she gave up, realizing it was useless. The chair didn’t even offer armrests, so she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a wooden side door open and two figures emerge. A striking blond woman in a well-fitting gray suit walked beside a balding forty-something stout man with a suit that was not as complimentary. Fascinated, she discreetly watched the sleek woman who had her hair pulled into a loose ponytail accented with a few loose strands framing her soft oval face.
As they approached, Elizabeth stood and nonchalantly acknowledged the woman with a small smile before turning to the stocky man and thrusting out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell. Thank you, Detective Donovan, for taking the time to talk to me.”
“My pleasure,” answered the woman with her arms crossed and a smirk firmly on her face.
Flustered, Elizabeth turned to her. “Uh, I’m sorry, I—”
“I’ll catch you later, Grace,” the blonde’s companion interrupted as he turned away and continued walking out the front door of the station.
“I’m Detective Grace Donovan. How may I help you?” she asked in a professional tone.
“I’m sorry about that,” Elizabeth said and quickly debated whether to explain that her misjudgment was not because the detective was a woman, or better yet, an attractive woman, but simply because she was younger than most detectives. Elizabeth pegged her to be in her early thirties, only a few years older than herself. However, she missed any opportunity of redemption when Detective Donovan nodded with slight impatience, which Elizabeth took as a sign of accepting the apology and moving the conversation along.
Uncharacteristically flustered, but with no time to evaluate its meaning, she drew in a breath and straightened her shoulders. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell,” she said, and with her usual confidence returning, proceeded with a quick rundown of her assignment with the Raymond Miller file.
“Why don’t we step back to my desk?” Detective Donovan’s tone remained neutral, and she turned to key in a code in a large oak door, clearly expecting Elizabeth to follow. She trailed behind the detective as they walked through a hallway, passing glass offices that Elizabeth feigned great interest in to avoid staring at the lean body confidently striding in front of her. She guessed Detective Donovan to be about two inches taller than her five foot seven. As she sized her up, she couldn’t help but note that the suit jacket came only to the detective’s waist, giving Elizabeth a full view of her backside in her tailored slacks. Oh wow, look at that office. Elizabeth mentally pulled herself away, hoping she wasn’t sporting a blush. Elizabeth had always been able to appreciate the beauty of another woman, but somehow this felt different. The sensation was deeper and more primal.
When they reached a large open room that offered several desks neatly arranged in pairs, Elizabeth felt exhausted. She swore the walk down the hallway was more than a mile, but her watch told her it was under a minute. Detective Donovan gestured to a chair beside a metal desk near the corner, clearly unaware of Elizabeth’s mental discourse on their journey. After seating herself in the designated chair, Elizabeth plopped her bag at her feet and rubbed a knot building in her shoulder. When she returned her eyes to Detective Donovan, she was startled to find the detective wordlessly watching her hand movement.
Having been caught staring, Detective Donovan returned her eyes to her desk and picked up a pencil with a set of teeth marks pressed into the yellow wood and began twisting it. Elizabeth tried to imagine her unconsciously biting down on the pencil, deep in thought.
“So, how may I help you?” Detective Donovan asked, breaking Elizabeth out of her thought.
“I was hoping to discuss the Raymond Miller case.”
“I don’t get the sudden interest in the Miller case,” Detective Donovan said in a curt tone. “The guy had all of the victim’s things. He confessed.”
“You remember the case?” Elizabeth asked, pulling herself mentally back to where she needed to be.
“Not too many sadistic murder cases around here. Besides, I was the officer that arrested him.”
“You were the rookie officer that arrested him after the vagrancy call?” she said, but it came out as a surprised statement more than a question.
“That arrest got me my gold shield early.”
She realized that this would be a sensitive case for Detective Donovan and got to the point. “Well, there’s just something that bothers me. I was hoping you could put it together for me.”
“Go on. What is it?”
“I spoke with Raymond Miller’s mother, and—”
Detective Donovan broke in. “You spoke to his mother? I thought your job was to review the file, not conduct an investigation and harass witnesses.”
“I don’t believe she was a witness, and I’m not conducting an investigation. I simply asked a few questions.” Elizabeth took a calming breath. “Anyway, Raymond’s mother mentioned that Raymond couldn’t even tie his shoes.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, if he can’t tie his shoes, then how did he bind his victim with ropes?”
Detective Donovan tightened her grip on the pencil. “I don’t know. But he is guilty as sin. Even he said so. Why don’t you spend your time helping the people that say they’re innocent?”
“Is it possible that he worked with someone else, an accomplice?”
“No! Miller didn’t name an accomplice. He said he did it. I think we’re done here.”
Detective Donovan stood and started back for the doorway. Elizabeth rose and took one of the detective’s business cards out of a neat stack resting in a holder at the edge of the desk and stuffed it into her bag, then quickly walked in her wake, attempting to catch up. When they reached the large oak door, Detective Donovan held it open and offered, “Have a good day,” as her parting words.
Elizabeth watched the wooden door close. Wow, what was that?
*
Grace held open the glass door. “Evening, Mrs. Correll. Heading for your evening stroll?”
“Gotta keep this body moving,” Mrs. Correll responded as she attempted to move at a quickened pace with her walker.
“Well, you’re looking great,” she said as Mrs. Correll passed her.
Grace strolled into a bustling lobby that was made to resemble a living room with several couches strategically situated around a large fireplace that was glowing orange and radiating warmth throughout the room. She made small talk with two elderly men hunched over opposite sides of a checkerboard as she passed and then nodded to a trio of women who momentarily acknow
ledged her before they resumed their whispering gossip. Grace shook her head as she cleared the women. It never changed; there was always that one gossiping group, whether it was high school or Crestview Assisted Living. If anyone had business in this retirement community, these three women knew it.
Grace could hear the roar of the ballgame long before she reached the doorway of her father’s room. “Evening, Pops,” she shouted to compete with the noise as she entered.
“Gracie.” George Donovan smiled as he looked up at her from his reclined position in his chair. “Let me turn this down,” he said, pointing the black remote at the television and bringing the volume down to a more tolerable level. “How’s my beautiful girl this evening?”
“I’m well, Pops. How are you feeling today?” She leaned over and kissed his forehead.
“Still here and causing trouble.”
“I expect nothing less.” Grace smiled, but it pained her to see how much her father had changed. He looked to be only a fraction of the man that filled her memories. Gone was the man that would toss her in the air and effortlessly catch her with his meaty hands, calloused by his years in construction work. Now he looked frail and vulnerable with hands that bore translucent skin and blue lines. She knew if she had to, she could carry him.
Her father had been a resident of Crestview for the last two years after suffering a moderate stroke. Although he regained much of his faculties, she felt better knowing that he was being looked after on a continual basis. The cost of the facility set her back, but she lived modestly to compensate. Knowing that her father was cared for was well worth the sacrifice.
Growing up, it had only been Grace and her father, as Grace’s mother passed in childbirth. She only knew her mother through photographs that her father kept prominently displayed throughout their home, and although they never spoke of it, she knew how much he loved her and never fully overcame the heartbreak of her loss. It was Grace that gave him reason to keep moving on after she was gone. She envied the love that her parents shared, doubting that she would find something that pure and all-consuming.
Sins of Our Fathers Page 3