Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  “Then the answer is no. I abhor violence of any form. I find it repugnant.”

  “I don’t care for it myself,” Elliot said, “though I do see quite a lot of it.”

  “In your occupation, I guess one would.”

  “That’s right. You get to know people pretty well, sensing at times when they’re telling the truth . . . or not.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “If I searched your office, would I find anything?”

  “I don’t know what you would be looking for, but I doubt you would find it here.”

  “How about your home?”

  Ms. Mullins’ face lost a little more color. “You would need a warrant for that, wouldn’t you? It would take time.”

  Elliot pulled the warrants to search her home and her office from his coat pocket and placed them on the desk. “I’ve already taken care of that.”

  Tears formed in Ms. Mullins’ eyes. “I didn’t kill Brighid, Mr. Elliot. I swear it.”

  “But you’re holding back. What are you hiding?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

  “My instincts tell me otherwise.”

  She buried her face in her hands, then brought them away again. “You’re going to arrest me, aren’t you?”

  “Not unless I have to,” Elliot said.

  She pulled a tissue from a box on her desk and wiped her eyes. “Am I going to need an attorney?”

  “That’s up to you. I suspect you would know more about that than I would at this point.”

  She nodded. “Do you want to know what hurts the most about this?”

  “Sure, if you feel like telling me.”

  “It’s Brighid, or rather what she was doing to me. She seemed like such a nice girl when we met.”

  Elliot thought of Cyndi . . . how she’d turned his world upside down. “You just never know, do you?”

  “In spite of what you might think, I am sorry about what happened to her.”

  Elliot began his search of the office. “Perhaps if she’d had someone around to give her some good advice, things might have turned out differently.”

  Close to an hour later, after having found nothing that would connect the dance instructor with Brighid’s murder, Elliot slid the drawers of her filing cabinets closed and turned to Ms. Mullins. “I’ll need to search your private residence now. It might be best if you came with me.”

  The suspect slid out of her chair and put on her coat and hat. The look on her face was that of someone who’d just been to a funeral.

  Felicia Mullins owned a large ranch-style home of beige bricks in an established subdivision near 51st Street. She lived alone in the house, which she explained she’d grown up in, her parents having left it to her. She and Elliot waited in the car until another white sedan pulled up and parked in front of them. It’d taken Elliot several hours to search Holsted’s place alone. He wanted some help this time.

  Elliot got out of the car and shook hands with Detective William Dombrowski. But a second officer had come with him. Michael Cunningham. Elliot said hello, but Cunningham didn’t answer, and he didn’t offer to shake hands. Elliot could feel his glare even though Dombrowski stood between them.

  “Sorry,” Dombrowski said. “It wasn’t my call.”

  Elliot shook his head. The news of his falling-out with Cunningham had already spread through the department. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. He then brought them up to speed on the case. Cunningham looked at the street the whole time.

  Elliot got Felicia Mullins from the car and introduced her.

  Moments later, she found her keys and unlocked the door. She was nervous, and once they were inside the house she shook visibly. “Please be careful. And try not to break anything.”

  The formal living area where Elliot and the other detectives now stood wasn’t cluttered, and everything was in its place, but it had been that way too long. The vases and figurines looked as if they had grown organically from the shelves and tables that supported them, existing now in a state of petrified stillness, collecting dust since the former owners had passed away.

  The thought that this might be an elaborate hoax, with Ms. Mullins owning the house but living elsewhere, crossed Elliot’s mind until he glanced through a doorway that led to the room on the other side of the wall, where he saw the red light of a cable television box and the telltale blinking of a telephone answering machine. That a person might actually live here sent cold fingers etching a path up his spine.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Cunningham asked. “Killer dust bunnies?”

  Wherever Elliot went, Felicia Mullins followed. It seemed strange, discussing such things in front of her. “Evidence,” he said, uncomfortable with how quick he’d been to cut his colleague with a statement of the obvious. “Specifically a .32 caliber handgun or anything else that might tie Ms. Mullins to the murder of Brighid McAlister. I’ll start with this room. Dombrowski, if you wouldn’t mind taking the kitchen. Cunningham, you got the den.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Elliot didn’t respond, but Dombrowski did. “Knock it off, Cunningham. You too, Elliot. I don’t want any crap from you guys. Don’t think I won’t report the both of you.” Without another word, he spun around and left the room. Elliot stared at the floor for a moment, then glanced at Ms. Mullins. He wondered if she could see the shame he felt, for letting his desire affect his professional life.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and began his search, looking behind doors, inside drawers, and anywhere else he thought something might be hidden. He saw a lot of things, but none of them came close to being the evidence he needed. About a half hour later, he left the room and started down the hallway.

  At the east end of the house were three doors clustered in an L shape, with one on the end and two along the south wall. The end room was open and looked like any other bedroom. The other two were locked.

  Elliot turned to see Ms. Mullins standing about two feet away from him. “You can’t go in there,” she said. “It’s not allowed.”

  Elliot stared at her for a moment. “Unlock the doors, Ms. Mullins. If you don’t, I’ll force them open.”

  Felicia Mullins nodded, but tears ran down her cheeks as she pulled a key from her pocket. Elliot reached for it, but Ms. Mullins seemed to cling to the notion that she might stop him and pulled away. “Please don’t do this. It’s not what you think, not what you’re hoping to find.”

  Sorrow ran through Elliot, but he suspected those doors weren’t locked because the beds were unmade or the furniture wasn’t up to par. They were locked because the owner of the house didn’t want anyone to know what was on the other side of them. He took the key then slid it into the lock of the first room on the south wall, and opened the door.

  Evidently it no longer served as a bedroom, but was now what might best be described as an observation post. Chock-full of photographic equipment, the room overlooked, via a large opening cut into the wall and fitted with a two-way mirror, the remaining bedroom, though it too had been converted. With hardwood floors and handrails bolted to the walls, it looked like a dance studio.

  The walls of the observation room were covered with photographs. Elliot wasn’t sure if they were enough to be incriminating, just some photos of Ms. Mullins’ students, nine- to ten-year-old girls, going through dance routines, but their outfits were skimpy and their poses suggestive. Exposure of her little games might cause her to lose what was, for a sexual predator like her, the perfect job, being able to work and live around that which she coveted. The exposure of her relationship with Brighid McAlister could be equally damaging to her career. The question was; how far would she go, or how far had she gone, to protect it?

  Elliot called Dombrowski and Cunningham into the room.

  Dombrowski put his hand to his forehead, “For the love of . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not enough to connect her for murder. Disgusting, but not enough.”


  “What’ll we do?” Elliot asked.

  “Seize the equipment, the photographs.”

  Elliot turned to the suspect, who had sunk to the floor, her back to the wall of the room. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Mullins.”

  Elliot caught up with Paul Atwood, the third member of Brighid’s dirty little party, at his store, a shop just off Sheridan Road that specialized in used sporting equipment. Several customers milled around the store. Atwood, an average-sized man in good shape, bounced around the showroom, trying to give everyone his fair share of attention. He wore blue jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt.

  Elliot stood near the checkout counter and waited, casually at first, but as time dragged on, he began to lose patience. He wondered if the suspect thought he might avoid him this way. “Excuse me,” he said.

  Glancing at Elliot, Atwood began working his way to the register, but then he detoured and engaged another shopper. Elliot put up with it for another minute or two, but he’d had enough. When Atwood came around again, Elliot flashed his badge. “I need a word with you.”

  Atwood smiled. “All right. Just let me finish with the customers, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Three people remained in the store and Elliot figured he’d let Atwood deal with them, then he’d have the man’s undivided attention. Until he heard the now-familiar bell ring and turned to see two more coming in. At that point, he pulled his badge and held it over his head. “I’m a police officer. I need to ask everyone to leave the store.” He ushered the last one out, then flipped the door sign to CLOSED. Turning to Atwood, he said, “Lock it.”

  As soon as Atwood complied, Elliot explained to him why he was there. The suspect nodded as if he’d known Elliot was coming and had been waiting for him. “I read about it in the paper,” he said. “I wish I could say I was sorry about it, but the truth is I’m relieved. She was putting a lot of pressure on me.”

  “I can imagine,” Elliot said. “Perhaps in the future you’ll be more careful of whom you associate with.”

  “I guess you already know what happened, or you wouldn’t be here. I’ve never done anything like that before, and believe you me, I’ve learned my lesson, and then some. I’ll play it straight from now on. You can count on that.” He paused and shook his head. “The whole affair was insane, started at a party. Someone suggested we go bar hopping, and one thing led to another, then . . . well, you get the picture. I barely remember sleeping with her. Scared me to death when she came after me like that.”

  “Why would she do that, Mr. Atwood?”

  The look on Atwood’s face said he thought the question was silly. “For the money, I guess.” He paused and then decided to elaborate. “Seems to me that someone in her profession might have a drug habit.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Elliot said. “Let me rephrase the question. Why would you go along with it? What did she have on you?”

  Atwood looked away for a moment, staring down at the checkout counter where he would later conduct business. “I’m a prominent member of my church, Detective. I have a good wife and two beautiful children who love and respect me. Something like this, well it goes beyond embarrassment. You get the picture.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “I need to ask you something else. Did you kill Brighid McAlister, Mr. Atwood?”

  He looked up from the counter, the expression on his face somewhere between appalled and frightened. “No, sir,” he said, “I most certainly did not.”

  Elliot studied Atwood’s face. He was inclined to believe him. “Where were you on January sixth, first half of the day?”

  Atwood fumbled through his date book. A few minutes later, with wrinkles creasing his forehead, he made a phone call. “Hey, hon. Could you look on the calendar in my office. Yeah, January sixth. Didn’t I go to Jenks, or somewhere?”

  Atwood hung up the phone. “I was in Jenks, picking up a load of softball equipment from the high school. Took me most of the morning and part of the afternoon. Check it out. The coach knows me. He’ll remember.”

  Elliot handed him a card. “Contact me if you think of anything that might help solve the case. I’ll be in touch.”

  Elliot walked out of the store and got into his car. He wondered what his next move would be. All of Brighid McAlister’s marks had something to lose through their relationships with her, or rather the exposure of the lurid nature of those relationships. Through the car window, Elliot could see traffic starting to snarl along 51st Street. He wondered if Brighid chose her victims at random, taking photos and hoping some of them fit the profile. Somehow that didn’t sound right. More than likely, she knew who to pick on. There had to be a connection.

  Elliot’s phone rang. Captain Lundsford needed him to drop everything and come downtown to attend a scheduling meeting.

  When Elliot got to the department, Detective Dombrowski was already in the captain’s office. Elliot took a seat next to him, leaving plenty of room on his colleague’s other side for whomever else might join them. A few minutes later, he found out that wasn’t going to matter. Besides Lundsford, he and Dombrowski were the only two in attendance.

  Lundsford had a habit of nodding and squinting when he talked. The more he talked, the more he squinted, until his eyes were nothing more than a couple of slits on his face. Elliot found this distracting and he tried to look elsewhere.

  “We’re understaffed,” the captain said. “You’re working on the case where the victim has yet to be identified?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like you to put this one to the side for a while.”

  “Excuse me,” Elliot said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dombrowski grimace. “Could I ask you to reconsider?”

  “Reconsider?”

  “I’m getting somewhere with this, starting to build a case.”

  “He died of a drug overdose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What makes you think it was anything other than just that?”

  Elliot did a mental inventory of the case. “The victim was seen with a prostitute the night he was killed. The next day, she was found dead, too.”

  “Same thing, drug overdose?”

  “No, sir. She was shot to death.”

  Captain Lundsford leaned back in his chair and made a few notes. “I appreciate your concern, Detective. But I’m not convinced that you have a case. What makes you think there’s a connection between the two?”

  “Rohypnol, sir. Both of the victims had traces of it in their systems. Heroin killed our john, but he was so far gone by then that he probably never knew what hit him, which means he didn’t administer the drug.”

  “How does the prostitute figure in?”

  “It’s a jump, but maybe she needed the money. Someone contacted her for a hit, told her what to do, probably even supplied the heroin. She found the john in a bar, put the rape drug in his drink, then took him to Windhall and shot him up. She never collected the money, though. She took a bullet in the gut instead.”

  Captain Lundsford opened a stick of chewing gum and stuck it in his mouth. “Why would anyone go to all that trouble?”

  “Brighid McAlister was blackmailing her customers. It’s no surprise that someone wanted her out of the way. What I can’t figure is the john. If I knew who he was, that might help.”

  “I don’t know, son. Don’t get me wrong. That’s good clear thinking, the kind of thing we need in this department. I’m just not sure it’s well spent.”

  “I disagree, sir.”

  Dombrowski cleared his throat. “What Detective Elliot means, sir, is that he’s put a lot of time into this. It’s his first case. You know how that is.”

  The captain’s eyes were open now, but as soon as he started to speak, they again began to narrow. “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Yes, sir,” Elliot said. “A man named Douglass Wistrom, a drifter, tops the list.”

  “What’s his connection?”

  “He was seen in the vicinity where the john was kill
ed, and the prostitute was shot just up the street from his apartment.”

  “Do we have a motive?”

  “I’ve yet to establish that.”

  “Then why is the man number one on your list?”

  “Because he disappeared right after I questioned him.”

  Captain Lundsford muttered something under his breath then shook his head. “What else do you have?”

  The captain’s attitude was beginning to get to Elliot, and for that reason the words he had only intended to think came out. “A drug dealer and a pedophile.”

  Captain Lundsford leaned back and laughed. “Good lord, son. Maybe you’re using the wrong bait.”

  “No, sir. I’m on the right trail. I can feel it.”

  The expression that came over the captain’s face told Elliot that he was in trouble. Dombrowski shook his head and mouthed no.

  “Feel it?” the captain said. “Are you telling me you’re one of them clairvoyants, or a genie with a crystal ball?”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that. It was just a figure of speech.”

  Elliot paused, then continued. “There’s more to it, sir. Last night, when I was questioning the bartender at Cymry’s, someone scratched a pagan symbol onto the hood of my car. Later I got an e-mail telling me to drop the case.”

  Captain Lundsford opened another stick of gum. “That’s interesting all right. You make notes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You got three days, Elliot. And this department runs on facts and hard evidence, not some hoodoo crap.”

  Elliot took the opportunity and got up from his chair. “Yes, sir,” he said. As he was leaving, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Elliot walked out of Captain Lundsford’s office knowing he needed to find a connection, some common ground between the victims and the remaining suspects, and before he reached his office it came to him. Both Zachariah Holsted and Brighid McAlister had related symbols tattooed onto their skin, Felicia Mullins worked for a church-sponsored school, and Paul Atwood was concerned about what his congregation might think should they learn of his involvement with a prostitute. The answer was religion.