Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Jennifer Chase

  “Do you see an address for Haven?” she asked.

  “No. It’s still a ways up here,” the deputy replied with a deadpan expression.

  “How do you know?”

  “We receive calls out here a couple of times a month.”

  “For?” Katie asked.

  Deputy McGaven didn’t immediately answer, as if he wanted her to guess. But then he finally explained, “Mr. and Mrs. Haven are whacked.”

  “What?”

  “They have a different way of thinking; they yell and scream at one another, throw large objects, and they’re convinced there is always someone wanting to break into their house.”

  “Great,” Katie replied. She hadn’t realized that she was walking into a crackpot’s property, wanting to interview another one who lived in the barn. “And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell me?”

  “It’s your investigation. I’m here to make sure that you operate within the duties and laws of the department.”

  Another mile on and there was a large mailbox with Haven marked on it, and an old sign spray-painted with the word Eggs.

  “This it?” she asked.

  “Yep,” was the deputy’s reply. His irritation was obvious from his tone.

  Katie eased the car down the garbage-riddled driveway. The large farmhouse was in desperate need of repair, with peeling paint, a couple of boarded-up windows, and weeds everywhere. It didn’t seem that Price was helping with handyman jobs, by the looks of the place.

  She parked and stared at the dilapidated surroundings. “Well,” she said, unhooking her seat belt, “let’s go see what’s up.” She didn’t wait for the deputy to reply or follow her; instead, she made sure her gun was secure under her jacket.

  Outside the car, she stopped for a moment and listened, still surveying the area.

  Nothing.

  No sounds or indication that anyone was around. She half expected to hear power tools, hammering, chickens, or dogs barking, but there was nothing.

  She wasn’t sure if anyone was home, because there wasn’t a car parked anywhere. She walked up to the porch, stepped up the three stairs, and stood at the door. Knocking three times, she called, “Hello? Mr. or Mrs. Haven? Anyone home?” She knocked again.

  Deputy McGaven took his trained cover position behind Katie and a few steps to the right. His hand on his service weapon, he waited, looking in all directions.

  Two minutes passed without an answer or the sound of anyone moving around inside. Katie peered into a filthy window. The living room was quite neat and orderly. Nothing screamed foul play or that something was wrong.

  She decided to walk around the property just in case someone was working and hadn’t heard them drive up. There were junked cars, old refrigerators, and miscellaneous tossed items lying around. Most things had clearly been there for quite some time, as the weeds had taken over and intertwined themselves in every crack and crevice.

  McGaven followed at a distance, keeping alert, his focus on anything or anyone that could be waiting to ambush them.

  An old greenhouse sat in disarray with pieces of plastic flapping in the wind, a neat pile of fresh lumber lying on the ground a few feet away. Next to the greenhouse structure was a wooden shack. The door stood open and Katie could see that there was a cot inside, but no one was around.

  The barn was around back. One of the doors swung gently open and closed in the breeze.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” she called again.

  No one answered.

  She decided to go inside the large structure. McGaven waited outside. The barn was old, but there had been an attempt to maintain it with new paint and replacement of some of the siding. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Bales of hay were stacked neatly in two corners. Tools hung on the wall in a systematized manner arranged by type.

  “Hello?” she said again. “Mr. Price?” She presumed Terrance Price was most likely responsible for the maintenance on the barn and that he would be nearby.

  As she walked toward the left-hand side, an unusual hypnotic squeaking sound made her stop. It was consistent with the gentle banging of the barn door. The wind whistled through gaps in the structure and added a quirky harmony to the other noises.

  She moved deeper into the barn. Just as she was about to turn right, movement caught her attention at eye level. Startled, she stepped back. A body was hanging by its neck, swaying gently back and forth. It was the rope rubbing against the beam that made the squeaking sound.

  She caught her breath, trying to block out memories of dead bodies in combat, and focused on the hanging man before her. It appeared to be Terrance Price, based on his photo and description from the police file. He hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours; there were signs of rigor mortis just beginning to set in.

  It was his fixed, bulging eyes that spooked Katie the most, as they seemed to follow her no matter where she moved. She looked around but didn’t see anything that appeared suspicious. It seemed Price had jumped from the upper level of the barn and had had no time to change his mind. He would have broken his neck and died instantly.

  Retracing her steps, Katie returned to the main doors and practically ran into the waiting McGaven.

  “Call in a 10-54—actually a 10-56,” she ordered. The first code meant that there was a dead body, but then she changed it to a suicide instead. A full investigation would have to corroborate that initial call, but it was sufficient for now to get things moving forward.

  The deputy stared at her, his eyes wide.

  “Do it!” she exclaimed.

  Twenty-One

  Detective Templeton and another detective named Abrams had just exited the Comptons’ home. Templeton was angry that he had only been able to talk with Mrs. Compton—her husband had moved to Idaho less than a year ago. He hadn’t had any luck with her either, as she hadn’t had anything new to report. She remained committed to the same information she had first given the detective four years ago.

  “Check her original statement and see if there are any inconsistencies,” he barked to the other detective.

  Abrams nodded and took a cell-phone call. “Yes, we’ll be there in about half an hour.” He ended the call with a look of surprise.

  Templeton demanded, “Be where in half an hour?”

  “Detective Scott and Deputy McGaven have just found Terrance Price dead,” reported Abrams.

  “What?” Templeton’s voice was barely a whisper as he stood staring at his partner in disbelief.

  “Apparent suicide. They found him hanging in the Havens’ barn.”

  Templeton fumed. “What the hell was Scott doing looking for Price?” he snapped.

  Katie had arranged for the medical examiner and forensics to arrive. Even though it appeared to be a suicide, it was always prudent to have a death scene examined and documented in case the ME was to state a different cause and manner of death.

  She knew that Templeton would be contacted as well. It wouldn’t be long before he would arrive and demand an explanation for why she was at the Haven farm.

  “Thanks, Denise.” She ended her cell-phone call. “The Havens are at County General,” she told McGaven. “It seems Mr. Haven suffered a stroke and Mrs. Haven will probably end up in an assisted-living home.”

  The deputy nodded; he seemed to be more interested in the case now that a dead body had showed up.

  With her mountain of information to sift through, and witnesses she wanted to re-interview, Katie knew it was important to have someone on her side. She wouldn’t give up on the deputy. Especially now that Price’s death had raised more questions than answers. True, the man had been unstable, with mental issues, but why commit suicide barely twenty-four hours after Chelsea’s body was found?

  An unmarked police vehicle raced into the driveway and braked sharply, barely missing a patrol car. Detectives Templeton and Abrams exited, heading directly for Katie. Templeton’s face was red, his arms stiff with clenched fists, and he appeared to
want to spill blood.

  Here we go…

  “Scott!” he yelled.

  Katie stood her ground. She noticed that McGaven conveniently found somewhere else to go until the lecture was finished.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Templeton accused.

  “I secured a crime scene so there wouldn’t be any… mistakes,” Katie replied.

  “Your orders were to update the investigation as the information became available, along with any daily data entry.”

  “It’s being done as we speak. There’s tons of work to be filtered through. I’m filtering,” she said.

  Twenty-Two

  With her hair still damp from a long, hot shower, Katie dressed warmly in a thick robe and began to sort through the paperwork spread over her living room. She made notes of all the calls she had made at the police department after leaving the Haven farm. It was difficult at first to pry answers out of people, but with some coaxing they were able to give her what she needed.

  It was late, just after eleven p.m., and she was supposed to be at a briefing tomorrow morning at 0700 hours. Her eyes grew heavy as she organized her notes on Terrance Price into chronological order and began to read through everything carefully one more time.

  Terrance Price, born September 1st, 1962, in Sacramento, California. Price suffered a severe head injury in 1982 in a motorcycle accident. He was first diagnosed as having paranoid schizophrenia and later, according to another psychologist, he was thought to have a personality disorder. Self-medicating with drugs and alcohol made him a perfect candidate for homelessness. Price was in and out of jail nine times: drunk and disorderly, theft, trespassing, etc. All minor offenses. He took on several handyman jobs and light carpentry work. Recently he worked for the Havens. People who had direct contact with him said that he was doing better than he had in some time.

  She thumbed through some of the photographs taken earlier by the crime-scene unit, which had been emailed to her. She was relieved that forensics treated her like any other detective in the department. It would make her job much easier down the road.

  In the photographs, the barn and the body were as she remembered. The photographer had abided by the general rules of documenting a crime scene—or a potential one. There were three basic areas: an overview of the scene, close-up, and medium range. Everything in the barn appeared to be in order and nothing seemed suspicious.

  There was no suicide note. It was unclear if Terrance Price had ever spoken to anyone about committing suicide. His behavior had seemed more stable in the past year; those who knew him expressed the belief that his medications seemed to be working.

  Katie knew that the medical examiner would rule it a suicide and then the case would be closed. It was troublesome that she hadn’t got to talk to Price about the day he saw Chelsea get into a truck. Her instincts suggested to her that there was at least some truth to his statement. When he was pressed by Detective Templeton, it agitated and confused him, leading him to claim he didn’t remember. It wasn’t surprising that he acted like this; many interviewees didn’t want to talk with the detective. His moods and tactics made people want to get away from him.

  A long snore rumbled from under the coffee table. Cisco’s legs twitched, most likely due to a wonderful doggie dream.

  Katie leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. Just as on previous nights, she immediately saw Chelsea’s face, sometimes it was her friend Jenny.

  Tomorrow was a full day of investigation with many interviews to conduct. She wanted to come at it through the back door, instead of head-on with the parents. She knew Templeton would take care of that interview and obvious things like the autopsy and the preliminary reports from forensics. She was going to talk to the people of Pine Valley first, and would pay a visit to forensics and the ME after Templeton’s mad rush had slowed down.

  She scrolled through the crime-scene photographs once again as her eyelids became heavy and then closed. She fell into the dark abyss of much-needed sleep.

  * * *

  A loud crash woke Katie. She sat up and looked around in the darkness, trying to decipher her waking world. It wasn’t clear if she had been dreaming or if there really had been a crashing noise.

  Her eyes acclimatized to the dark and she slowly scanned her living room in the dim light. The furniture, shelves, and rug all appeared unchanged. But she didn’t remember turning off the lamp next to her. The house was in complete darkness. She knew she had left the kitchen light on, and a bedroom lamp too.

  Where was Cisco?

  Instinct told her to keep the lights off and to move around carefully. She stood up, took two steps to a small table, and opened the drawer. There was a stowed Beretta already loaded with one bullet in the chamber. She kept the safety engaged and tucked the gun in her pocket as a precaution.

  She glanced at her ornate mantel clock: 1.42 a.m. The sound of the clock seemed to increase in volume.

  She moved effortlessly to the front door area and peered outside. Her car was parked in the same position she had left it.

  She tried the outside light switch, but nothing happened. She walked quietly back to the couch, bent down, and tried the lamp toggle. Same outcome. Nothing.

  She realized that it was most likely a blown fuse or a tripped breaker. It was actually quite common in the old house.

  “Cisco? Here…”

  Quiet ensued without any sounds to indicate that she wasn’t alone. The only sound she heard was her heartbeat hammering in her ears—rapidly becoming faster.

  All the doors were shut tight and she couldn’t feel any draft wafting inside from an open window or door.

  “Cisco?” she whispered.

  Her question was answered by a low guttural growl emanating from one of the back bedrooms. She slowly moved in that direction, knowing she didn’t need to call for the dog again. Something was wrong, otherwise he would be next to her. It meant that something more urgent had drawn his attention away from her.

  She walked down the hallway, stopped, and tried another light switch, confirming that the breaker was off.

  Another low rumble floated down the hallway. The skin at the back of her neck and over her scalp prickled, making her shoulders and upper body shudder. She kept moving, now with her weapon drawn, not knowing what she would find.

  She stopped at the back bedroom, which had been her parents’. The furniture and artwork had been left the same as Katie remembered it. She had cleared out their personal belongings and clothes, leaving behind two boxes and extra linens in the closet. The bedroom was now a guest room, so she rarely entered it except to look for additional towels or sheets.

  As she stood in the doorway, she saw Cisco’s dark outline facing the window, perfectly still.

  “Cisco, here,” she whispered.

  She saw one of his perked ears move. She knew there was nothing wrong with him. He was standing guard over something.

  “Cisco. It’s okay. Here.”

  The dog finally moved, and obediently padded next to her, closer than normal.

  “Okay, boy. What’s over there?” she asked, just to hear her own voice.

  She began to approach the window, which had a blind to keep the light out. She tried to recollect the last time she had looked out that particular window and thought it had been years. It faced out toward the large back yard, framing the older trees and perennial flowers.

  Her night vision had enhanced, but she decided to grab a flashlight from one of the nightstand drawers. Balancing her weapon in her right hand and dropping the flashlight in the pocket of her robe, she took hold of the blind string with her left hand and tugged hard.

  The window covering clattered and drew upward at speed. The blind hung askew as it thumped lightly against the window frame. Katie pulled out the flashlight and targeted it directly at the window. It reflected back her own image. For an instant, she looked more like an apparition with a pale supernatural appearance than a woman holding a gun.

  She d
rew a deep breath, realizing that she hadn’t taken one for almost a minute. It made her slightly lightheaded and her vision blurred. Quickly inhaling and exhaling a couple more times, she regained her composure.

  Cisco growled and his body remained fixed to her left thigh.

  As she focused her attention on the window again, she saw a piece of paper stuck to the outside of the glass, facing inward. In scrawled blood-red handwriting it read:

  STAY AWAY.

  Twenty-Three

  Katie sat quietly, immersed in her own thoughts, as the morning briefing stirred up the personnel, causing them to fire questions at Sheriff Scott. The topic was the note that had been stuck to her window by someone who had turned off her electricity and left behind a visible shoe print matching the one she had earlier spotted next to her driveway.

  Everyone had an opinion and it seemed they thought it had something to do with Terrance Price’s suicide. Exactly how it tied to him wasn’t immediately clear—it was just pure speculation.

  Forensics were working on the letter to try to find any fingerprints or foreign substance that could identify the author. The boot prints were common, but they performed a casting in hopes of identifying tread characteristics if they ever had a shoe to compare it to during the investigation.

  Katie grew weary listening to the group drone on about theories; with less than four hours of sleep, she thought it possible she could drift off sitting in her chair. The investigation was difficult enough, but the lack of sleep was going to take its toll on her, and possibly cause her to make mistakes.

  “Detective Scott?” said the sheriff.

  Katie looked directly at her uncle, observing his usual authoritative demeanor. She had already answered a barrage of questions from him. Now she was going to have to endure it again for the department’s benefit.