The May Day Murders

by Scott Wittenburg

  There were a couple of other things that had bothered Roger as well. One was the message the assailant had left on her body. ”May Day.” God only knew what it meant, he’d told Sam, but it implied something that he hoped wasn’t the case here. A serial killing. It was often standard M.O. for a serial killer to leave either an object or a message of some kind behind for the police and the rest of the world to try and figure out. It was all part of the “psyche” of a deranged, cold-blooded murderer, Roger explained, to challenge the public, as if to say, “Well, now that I’ve done this, what the fuck are you gonna do about it? I’ll even make it easy for you-all you have to do is figure out this…”

  And another thing was bugging Roger. The fact that there had been no signs of forced entry and no signs of a struggle prior to or during Marsha’s rape and murder. No signs of trauma whatsoever were visible on her body other than the welt on her neck. This almost suggested that Marsha Bradley might have known her assailant, perhaps even intimately, and that she’d trusted him enough to allow him into her home. This was the most unsettling aspect of the whole case, Roger had declared. If Marsha Bradley had indeed known her assailant intimately, it posed a number of disturbing and “touchy” questions that needed to be asked and answered.

  Sam set the report down and went out to the coffee machine. After pouring himself a mug and adding a shot of milk he returned to his desk. He took a sip of the steaming brew, lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, staring pensively at the blinking cursor on the computer monitor.

  Sam was no detective by any stretch of the imagination, but there was one thing that wasn’t quite jibing in Roger’s theory of Marsha Bradley’s murder case. If it indeed turned out to be that Marsha had known her murderer, then why was Roger still so bent on thinking that he hadn’t been a local man? It would seem most likely that he had been, and that Marsha had been having an extramarital affair with him, as unfathomable as that may be. Had the murderer been an absolute stranger who just happened to have blown in from out of town, Marsha would most certainly have given her assailant one hell of a struggle during the rape, one would assume. Unless of course she had been either drugged or unconscious during the act, neither of which being the case. The autopsy had shown no signs of drugs in her system and only a slight trace of alcohol. Dave Bradley had told the police that his wife had drank a glass of white wine with her dinner that evening.

  Sam had brought this up to Roger the day before, and Roger had reiterated that his theory was by no means ironclad, and that he wasn’t by any means ruling out the possibility that Marsha Bradley’s assailant had been a local man. But Roger had then countered Sam by asking him what he thought the odds were of Marsha Bradley having an affair in Smithtown, Ohio and not a single person ever having known about it, or even suspecting it. Sam had had to agree that it was nearly impossible to conceive-considering the little town’s penchant for gossip and flinging rumors around like there was no tomorrow. Never once had anyone ever breathed so much as a shred of gossip that Marsha Bradley might be having an affair with anyone, period. Her and David’s marriage had been that seemingly rock-solid.

  Roger had gone on to say that there was really only one thing he was absolutely sure of, regarding the murder case. Marsha Bradley’s assailant was as clever as he was demented. He had somehow managed to pull the entire thing off without leaving any trails whatsoever. Not one of the neighbors questioned had seen anyone enter or leave the Bradley house on the night of the murder. Nor had they seen or heard anything unusual that night; no strange cars parked in the vicinity, no dogs barking, nothing. It was becoming more and more apparent that the only person living who might possibly have seen the murderer was little five-year old Tommy Bradley.

  Roger told Sam that Tommy Bradley was probably their only hope. He had to have seen or heard something that night. After all, there was little doubt that it was the perp who had locked the youngster up in the closet. The big problem was the fact that nobody could interrogate Tommy until the psychiatrist gave them the green light; and that could be weeks, maybe even months. In the meantime, the murderer’s trail was only going to get colder and colder.

  Smithtown Police Chief Thompson had decided it best to keep fairly tight-lipped about the case for the time being as far as the public was concerned. Sam wasn’t permitted to report any of the details concerning the murder, other than the fact that Marsha Bradley had been sexually assaulted prior to being murdered by strangulation. Not a thing was to be mentioned about the message left on her body, the possibility that it might have been a serial killing, nor that the only concrete evidence found so far had been nominal forensic evidence. There was no need to get the entire town in a panic that there might be a serial killer on the prowl, the chief had contended. Thus, until something broke in the case, the Observer was to portray Marsha Bradley’s rape and murder as little more than an “unfortunate loss to the community” and blatant testimony to the “extreme violence in today’s society.”

  Sam had vehemently objected to keeping the case so hush-hush. He had argued that the public had a right to know the facts about the murder. Public knowledge, he insisted, may actually help to open things up. Somebody might come forward with some vital evidence who may have otherwise remained silent, for instance. Or, if the killer had been a local man, then there was always a chance that someone local might be able to point a finger at him, having learned the details surrounding the case. Roger was sympathetic to Sam’s argument, but Chief Thompson had refused to budge an inch. He had told Sam, in his infinite wisdom, that it might be a good idea to advise the public to be on their guard and to impose a curfew on their kids, but beyond that, he was not to report any more than what had been established. Sam had been forced to comply.

  Sam took a drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He didn’t like being muscled around like this, and he had let George McNary, the managing editor of the Observer, know it. McNary, of course, had given him his usual pompous recitation about freedom of the press and how he had always believed in it unconditionally when he’d been a reporter just starting out back in the “good old days.” But, McNary had gone on to say, times have changed and one has to adapt. Furthermore, he added, it was never a good idea not to comply with the police. Hence, the old fart had whimped-out as he always did, and Sam again found himself praying for the day when the ultra-conservative, stubborn dick-head finally retired.

  Sam had already written two follow-up articles concerning Marsha Bradley’s murder and now wondered how much more he could expound on it. The piece for Monday’s edition was supposed to tie in with her memorial service today, and its intent was to more or less eulogize one of Smithtown’s most beloved and popular citizens. That was fair enough, he thought, but he’d much rather be reporting the facts of the case, or better yet, that her murderer had been apprehended…

  He glanced down at the police photo and once again felt a cold chill shoot down his spine. He had known Marsha Bradley well, and like everyone else who’d known her, couldn’t understand why anyone would want to murder such a wonderful woman. The familiar wave of contempt swept over him and Sam felt his blood begin to boil. Somehow, he thought, they would catch the low-life asshole who did this to her and make him pay dearly for it.

  And he wanted to be there when it happened.

  Sam now wanted to return to the murder scene as soon as it could be arranged. Dave and Tommy had been staying at Dave’s mother’s house until the police finished up with the investigation of their house, which would be soon-perhaps even tomorrow. Sam hadn’t remained very long at the Bradley house the night of the murder because Roger had insisted on letting his crew do their work. Now, Sam wanted to do his.

  Maybe, he thought, the police had overlooked something. It was a long shot, he realized, but there was always the possibility. It had happened before, hadn’t it? As thorough as Roger and his men were, Sam had seen first hand how they had missed seeing the forest for the trees a few times in the past. The edge a
lways seemed to be missing in a lot of police work-that overwhelming drive to leave no stone unturned, that driving motivation to capture the full picture.

  Sam, however, was motivated beyond words-certainly more than a handful of Smithtown cops would ever be. This was a dear friend of his who had been assaulted and robbed of her life-not to mention his ex-wife’s best friend. Sam had made a pledge to himself from the very beginning that he wasn’t going to sit around on his hands while Marsha’s murderer was still at large. He was going to do what ever was in his power to see that this bastard was brought to justice.

  Again, Sam tried to imagine himself in Dave Bradley’s shoes right now. What if it had been Ann instead of Marsha who had been murdered? he wondered. How would he deal with it? Could he deal with it?

  He didn’t even want to think about it…

  Sam picked up the phone and dialed Roger Hagstrom’s number.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was seven-thirty when Ann Middleton pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. It wasn’t until she reached for the door handle that she noticed the light on the front porch wasn’t lit, making her wonder if she’d forgotten to turn it on before she and Amy had left for Smithtown earlier that morning.

  “Do your remember if I turned on the porch light before we left?” she asked, turning to Amy.

  Amy, still half-asleep from the drive, replied, “Yes, you did, Mother.”

  “I wonder why it isn’t on now.”

  “Maybe it’s just burned out,” Amy suggested sleepily.

  “Maybe…”

  Ann opened the door and got out. Amy followed suit and walked sluggishly around the car to join her mother.

  “I wish they’d fix that damn streetlight,” Ann groaned as they walked cautiously up the walk in the darkness. “Watch your step, honey.”

  Ann held onto the porch railing as she led the way up the four steps leading to the porch of the modest Cape Cod. She opened the storm door, groped around until she finally managed to get the key into the lock, and freed the dead bolt.

  In the dim light afforded by a nightlight plugged into the wall at the far end of the room Ann located the switch and turned the living room lights on. She noticed that the other switch, the one that worked the porch light, was up, confirming that she had indeed turned it on. She waited until Amy was inside then stepped back out onto the porch and reached up to unscrew the bulb in the fixture. Noticing that it was already practically screwed all the way out of its socket, she tightened it up instead. It came on.

  “That’s strange,” Ann muttered to herself.

  “What’s that, Mom?” Amy asked from inside.

  “This stupid light-it wasn’t burned out. It was just loose in the socket.”

  Amy peered out through the door. “Maybe the boogie man did it!” she giggled.

  “That’s not funny!” Ann scolded, shooing her back inside.

  “Just kidding, Mom,” Amy chuckled, and made a beeline for the stairs leading to the second floor.

  Ann strode through the living room to the kitchen, removed her coat and flung it over the back of a chair. Mandy, their three-year-old calico cat, suddenly emerged from the laundry room and squinted up at Ann with that unmistakable look that said it was well past feeding time. Ann reached down and petted her before going over to the cupboard to get the Meow Mix.

  Even though they had stopped off at a Shoney’s near Chillicothe for supper on the way home, Ann realized that she still felt hungry. Deciding that it was probably due to the stress and emotions of the day, she went over to the refrigerator and took out a container of yogurt, got a spoon and dug in.

  Amy suddenly waltzed into the kitchen. “I’m going to the movies with Amanda.”

  Ann swallowed a spoonful of yogurt and stared at her daughter reproachfully. “What have I told you about asking first, young lady?”

  Amy pouted before replying. “Okay, Mom. Can I please go to the movies with Amanda?”

  Ann tried to hide her disappointment. She had hoped that Amy would stay home with her tonight-she didn’t want to be alone after today. But Ann knew that they would only get into an argument if she objected, and that was the last thing she needed right now. “Okay, honey,” she sighed. “Do you need a ride?”

  “No, Amanda’s mom is picking me up in half an hour. I’m going to take a quick shower and change first.”

  “Back by ten,” Ann warned.

  “Mother! The movie doesn’t even start until eight-thirty!”

  Ann shook her head in resignation and said, “All right. But I want you to come straight home when it’s over. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you,” Amy whined. She shrugged her shoulders and made a face before storming out of the kitchen.

  Ann was hurt and angry at Amy’s lack of consideration. Her daughter had to know that she was overwrought from the memorial service but Amy’s social life apparently took precedent over her mother’s emotions. For what had to be the hundredth time since she and Amy had moved to Columbus, Ann wished that Sam was there to help her get a handle on their daughter. She was starting to doubt that she could ever do it alone.

  With a sigh, Ann finished her yogurt and decided to give Karen a call. Maybe her friend could help cheer her up a bit. She went over to the phone and dialed Karen’s number.

  “Karen, it’s me. What are you up to?”

  “Hi, Ann. Just sitting here waiting for Bill. How did it go today?”

  “Horrible,” Ann replied. God, Karen, this is awful. I just can’t believe she’s gone!”

  “I feel so sad for you, Ann. I know how much she meant to you. All I can say is that she’s gone to a much better place,” Karen declared compassionately.

  “I guess so.”

  “How was her husband?”

  “Devastated. Cried like a baby through the whole service. I really feel sorry for him. And poor little Tommy. He wasn’t even there.”

  “The poor child. Has he spoken to anyone yet?” Karen inquired.

  “No, and Sam informed me that he’s practically having to be force-fed, too. It’s just awful… He won’t even speak to Dave! God only knows what that poor little boy must have gone through that night.”

  “I shudder to think. Have the police gotten any more leads on who might have done it? They mentioned it again on the six o’clock news, by the way, but they didn’t give any details. They just said that the investigation is still under way.”

  “No. Sam’s friend, Roger Hagstrom, the detective who’s in charge of the case, told Sam that nothing new has turned up. Apparently, they’ve done about all they can until they can interrogate Tommy. And that could be a long time, according to Roger.”

  “In the meantime, there’s a psycho killer on the prowl,” Karen said.

  “It’s frightening, isn’t it? I told Sam that I hope they hang him by the balls when they finally catch him.”

  Karen chuckled. “You sure have a way with words, Ann.”

  “It just infuriates me! Marsha was the nicest, most decent woman you could ever know. And for some crazy bastard to do that to her just makes me want to go out and find the monster myself and make him suffer.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit. Not to change the subject, but how is your ex doing? Did you two get along?”

  “I have to admit that I couldn’t have made it through all of this without Sam. For a while I almost forgot we were divorced, in fact. Sam’s basically a good man, and he’s always been at his best during a crisis.”

  “You miss him?” Karen asked.

  Ann sighed and paused a moment before answering. “Well, yes and no. I miss the stability of having Sam around more than I miss the man himself. And Amy… Christ! She’s turning into a regular delinquent! I know for a fact that she drinks because I’ve smelled alcohol on her breath a couple of times. And she’s smoking cigarettes now-I don’t think I told you about that yet. Found a pack stashed under her dresser yesterday. She’s become incorrigible, Karen. She hardly ever minds me a
nymore. I know that the divorce has a lot to do with it-she still resents it-and she blames me for it ever happening. She wants Sam and I to get back together; that I know for sure. This is so difficult, Karen…” she added, her voice wavering.

  “C’mon, dear, pull yourself together. You’ll get through all of this. You just need to get your mind off everything for a while. You’ve been through an awful lot lately, but things will look up. As for Amy, I’m sure she’ll come around eventually. Just give her some time. Part of her problem has to do with her age, bear in mind. I sure wouldn’t want to be that age again! Remember how tough it was? Teenagers are in their own little world and tend to shut everyone else out of it. But Amy’s a good kid. She’ll come around-you can count on it.”

  “I wish I were as optimistic as you are, Karen. As usual, you’re probably right-I only hope I don’t have a nervous breakdown in the meantime. There are just so many things going on that I feel out of touch with. Like Amy’s choice of friends at school, for instance. They all seem okay, but what do I know? We’ve only been in Columbus for three months and I still hardly know a soul in this neighborhood. And I’ve only met one of Amy’s friend’s parents so far-Amanda Givens. Her mother’s divorced and seems to be a nice enough gal, but her home is apparently the big hangout for all of Amanda’s friends. How do I know that she’s keeping an eye on things when all those teenage girls are congregating there?”

  “Ann, you worry too much! Woodcrest is one of the best suburbs in Columbus and has an excellent high school. Amy’s in good company, believe me. Speaking of which, how’s her schoolwork coming along?”