“I may surprise you this time,” Sam said as he got out.
They strode across the driveway and up the walk leading to the front porch. Sam headed straight across the front yard until he was directly in front of the house. Roger looked on impatiently as Sam peered through the camera viewfinder, made a few quick adjustments, then snapped a couple of shots from slightly varying angles. He then walked over to the east side of the house, near the pool, and took a few more shots before continuing around to the back. A few minutes later, he returned and joined Roger, who was still standing on the front porch tossing the key up in the air and catching it. “Get some good ones?” he asked with more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Sam leered at him indifferently. “Just keeping everything honest, buddy. What would the department think about this special privilege you’re giving your journalist friend if he didn’t follow through with what he was supposed to be doing?”
“It wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” Roger replied, deadpan, and unlocked the front door and stepped inside. As Sam followed behind, he felt that same eerie, indescribable sensation he always had whenever he was in the proximity of where death had raised its ugly head. And even though he knew that Marsha Bradley’s body was now buried six feet underground in a cemetery plot, he could still sense her presence inside the house the moment he entered it.
They stood in the ornate, marble-tiled foyer and Sam looked around. To his immediate right was the living room; the staircase leading to the second floor straight ahead. To his left, the den. It was enormous and resembled an amusement arcade more than anything else with its full-sized Brunswick pool table, pinball machine and big-screen television. He had only been in this house a few times before the night that Marsha was murdered. The Bradley’s had only recently moved here last winter, a couple of months before he and Ann had been divorced. Before the shit had hit the fan, he and Ann had come to their house warming party and were given the grand tour.
“Well, here we are,” Roger announced, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Where would you like to begin?”
Sam nodded toward the stairs. “Up there. I want to see the closet where Tommy was locked up.”
“This way, sir,” Roger said as if he were the butler. Sam followed him up the stairway and halfway up, Roger called over his shoulder, “Want to hear my theories, thus far?”
“Shoot,” Sam replied.
“After weighing all the evidence, which is minimal as you know, and taking into consideration all the clues we have to go on, which are about nil, here’s what I think may have happened: The murderer got into the house, either by stealth through a door or window, or perhaps by a reluctant and/or coerced invitation from Marsha Bradley herself. How he got in isn’t that relevant at this point-he got in somehow. It’s quite evident that once he was inside, he quickly took control of the situation by the use of force-immediately threatening Marsha in some way-most likely with a weapon of some kind, probably a gun. Otherwise, Marsha would have had time to call 911, flee the house, or at least do something. Are you with me so far?”
“Yeah, I’m with you,” Sam replied.
They reached the upstairs hallway and Roger led them past the master bedroom and bathroom to Tommy’s bedroom. It was large by any standard, especially taking into account that Tommy was only a five-year-old child. Sam followed Roger across the room, past the twin beds, through the array of toys, Nintendo video games, and every conceivable type of sports gear known to the western world that were scattered everywhere on the floor.
“Did your men make this mess?” Sam asked in utter amazement.
“Nope, we just rearranged the shit. Tommy obviously has a problem with putting his toys away,” Roger replied. “Anyway, the murderer forced Marsha and Tommy into this bedroom. Or, it’s possible that Tommy had already been in here taking a nap or whatever. Either way, the suspect threw the little tyke into this closet and locked the door.” Roger went through the motions of opening the door, throwing an imaginary person into the closet then closing and locking the door as he spoke.
Sam stared questioningly at the button-type lock on the doorknob and said, “I wonder why the hell this door even has a lock on it? Not much sense in that, any way you look at it. I mean, who in the fuck would want to lock their belongings inside a closet? It’s not like the shit is going to go anywhere!”
Roger grinned expectantly at him. “I wondered the exact same thing, myself. So I mentioned it to Dave and he told me that the closet and bedroom doors were accidentally switched when the workers were painting the interior of the house. He said that he’d meant to switch them back, but had never gotten around to it. That’s why the closet has a lock on it.”
Sam opened the door and peered inside. The closet was very small and very cluttered. He pictured a terrified Tommy Bradley stuffed inside this dark, cramped space, unable to escape, while his mother was being raped and murdered, and suddenly understood why the child was traumatized beyond speech. He closed the door and asked, “Why didn’t the bastard simply kill Tommy, too? Instead of letting him live, and possibly risk being identified by him?”
Roger replied, “There’s several possible options. One is, maybe the creep didn’t have the heart to murder an innocent, defenseless little kid. After all, Marsha is who he wanted, so he might have figured why needlessly kill a child? Furthermore, we still don’t know if Tommy even saw the guy; and even if he had seen him, it’s possible that the murderer could have been wearing a ski mask or something to hide his face. There’s also the possibility that he intended to kill Tommy after doing Marsha in, but had gotten scared off by something or someone-maybe even Dave-before he could follow through with it. Who knows?”
“Anyway,” Roger continued, “The crux of my theory is the fact that the murderer used Tommy as his leverage-his ace in the hole. He simply told Marsha that if she didn’t do as he said, he would kill her son. That would explain why she hadn’t put up a struggle. Her son’s life was at stake, and what mother wouldn’t do everything in her power to prevent her kid from being harmed? It also suggests that Marsha didn’t necessarily have to know her assailant, thus squelching the notion that she might have been having an extra-marital affair. What do you think?”
Sam took a flash attachment out of his coat pocket and slid it onto the camera’s hot shoe. “I think it’s a hell of a lot of speculation,” was his reply. He made his way back to the doorway, looked through the viewfinder then zoomed the lens out to its widest angle and snapped the shutter. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
“Don’t you want to check out any of the other rooms up here?” Roger asked.
“Not particularly. Everything else happened downstairs, didn’t it?”
“That, we’re pretty sure of. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Marsha Bradley’s assailant chose the kitchen to rape her in, instead of one of the bedrooms?” Roger said as he led the way out of Tommy’s bedroom.
“I think all of this is a little strange, to be quite honest,” Sam replied. “I’m still having trouble with the murderer locking Tommy up in that closet. Think about it, Rog. What are the odds of this bastard making a ‘lucky guess’ that Tommy’s closet is the only room in the house that can be locked and unlocked only from the outside? I’ve been through this house before, and I’m pretty sure that all the doors, including the bedrooms and bathrooms, lock only from the inside, just as they are intended to. Yet the killer seemed to miraculously know right where to put little Tommy to keep him out of the way.”
Roger paused at the top of the stairs and glanced back at Sam. “What are you driving at?”
“I’m not sure, really. Except that it’s starting to look more and more like the murderer knew the layout of this house pretty damn well, and in fact seemed to know a whole hell of a lot about everything. I think he might have not only planned this whole thing out carefully in advance, but that he also thoroughly cased the house out prior to the night of the murder… from the inside. It’s got
to be either that, or he’s been a guest here at some point in time-and most likely more than just once.”
Hagstrom shrugged his shoulders and started down the stairs. “Could be. You’re right about the locks-even the door to the basement has a two-way lock, which I thought was a little odd, I might add. But it wouldn’t have been very hard for the perp to notice the lock on Tommy’s closet door when…”
“C’mon, Roger!” Sam interrupted. “I don’t care how calm and cool this asshole might have been – the odds of him ‘just happening’ to notice that there was a lock on that door are slim to nil. Imagine the scenario you’ve just presented: he’s got a weapon of some kind, a gun, pointed at Marsha and a kid he has to get out of the way-quickly-because Tommy is probably already screaming and carrying on when he sees a stranger threatening his mom’s life. Let’s even suppose that the three of them are in Tommy’s room, with a fucking light on, no less. That closet door is in the far corner of the room with a little button on the doorknob facing away from the entrance, and is completely obscured from view by a dresser standing against the wall adjacent to it. The only way the killer could possibly have seen that little lock button would be for him to stand directly in front of the closet. Do you really think that he would sashay all the way across the room, through all that shit scattered around on the floor, just to see if the closet door, by chance, had a goddamn lock on it? Why would he even bother to? Nobody locks their shit up in a closet!”
Roger grinned at him, visibly impressed. “Okay, Sherlock… or is it Watson? You’ve just made an interesting observation-something I’ve overlooked, I must admit. It must be that photographic eye of yours, I reckon. But what does this all mean, may I ask, if you’re right?”
Sam reached the foot of the stairs and watched Roger as he took another sip of Jack Daniels. “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious that the whole thing was premeditated to the letter ‘T.’ And I don’t think Marsha’s murderer was a stranger. I think he was a local man.”
Sam could tell by the way Roger was eying him that he wasn’t buying the last part. “Hmmm,” was all he said before turning and making his way into the living room.
Sam followed him over to where Marsha’s body had been found lying on the living room floor near the sofa. The police had removed the black tape outline of her body, but he could still see the exact location and her body position clearly in his mind from viewing the police photos. Her nude body had been lying spread-eagle on the carpet just to the left side of the sofa, her head not far from the end table. Sam stood where he was and surveyed the living room, which was enormous like every other room in the house. There were two doorways besides the one leading to the foyer-one to his left in the corner, which led into the kitchen, and one to the right of the sofa, which led into the study. Roger had already gone into the kitchen and awaited him in the doorway. “Do you want to see where the rape took place?” he asked Sam.
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
He strode over and entered the kitchen. Roger led him over to the island in the center and pointed to a spot on the floor. “This is where he did the deed. Marsha’s clothes were placed neatly on this counter-yet another indication that she’d been quite cooperative with this bastard. None of her clothes were torn or even wrinkled-just placed on the counter here in a tidy little pile. We suspect that her assailant told her to remove them since there wasn’t any evidence that he’d done it for her.”
“How do you know he raped her here?” Sam asked.
“We found pubic hair and small traces of semen right here on the floor and nowhere else in the house. The housekeeper had just cleaned and put fresh sheets on the beds earlier that day, which made our work a lot easier,” he added.
Sam looked around the kitchen, stared down at the cold linoleum floor and wondered the same thing Roger had: why here, of all places?
Roger resumed. “My guess is that he ordered Marsha to face the counter, place her hands on it like so, then proceeded to enter her from the rear. We found fresh fingerprints, Marsha’s, where she’d grasped the overhang of the counter, so that pretty much corroborates that theory.”
Sam found it hard to conceive that Marsha Bradley could allow this to happen without putting up some resistance. Either she was the most iron-willed woman imaginable, or there was more to all of this than met the eye… As a matter of fact, none of this was making much sense the more he thought about it.
“After he was done in here,” Roger resumed, “Marsha’s assailant apparently ordered her to go into the living room-why the living room is anyone’s guess. At any rate, not long afterwards, he strangled her to death. Again, from behind.”
“How do you know she was strangled from behind?”
“The coroner’s report. He determined from the angle and size of the wound on her neck along with all that other technical shit that the murder weapon had been a fairly thin cord of some kind-about the same gauge as ordinary lamp cord-that had been pulled around her neck from behind.”
“Suggesting that she was unaware of what the killer was doing-like she was taken by surprise,” Sam said.
“Exactly. You’re really catching on to all this police work, Watson. I’m proud of you,” Roger chuckled.
Sam forced a weak smile, but for the moment had lost his sense of humor. There was one thing about Roger Hagstrom that he found annoying at times, and it was one of the reasons he was there right now with him at the Bradley house. He didn’t know if it was the effects of alcoholism or just plain lethargy, but his friend had a real problem with following through on things. He’d seen it happen on a few occasions before when he had tagged along with Roger during an investigation. If a crime wasn’t solved quickly and easily, he tended to just give it up, or simply let it get away from him. It wasn’t intentional, of course. It just seemed to sort of happen that way sometimes.
But this wasn’t an auto theft or a burglary. This was a murder case-and the victim just happened to be a very close friend of his and Ann’s. He was going to lean on Roger Hagstrom all the way through this investigation until the murderer was caught and convicted-even if it strained their friendship in the process.
“How long was the murderer in this house?” Sam asked.
Roger sipped and replied, “It’s hard to say exactly. Dave left at six-thirty to go to Matt Timmonds’ and returned at about nine-fifty. The autopsy indicates that the time of death was between eight and eight-thirty. My guess is that he didn’t stay long-just long enough to get Tommy out of the way, rape Marsha and strangle her; all of which could have taken between fifteen minutes and half and hour-depending on how quickly he worked, if you know what I mean. Tack that time onto her approximate time of death and that would put him in the house somewhere between the hours of seven-forty-five and eight-thirty.”
“Again, a lot of speculation, I see. What about the lipstick and the message he left? Where did he get the lipstick, anyway?”
“From Marsha’s purse-we know that for a fact. Her purse was found, opened, lying on the end table on the other side of the sofa. That was one of the first indications that the killer wasn’t interested in taking anything because all of Marsha’s credit cards and money-around $150.00 in cash-was untouched. Dave confirmed that the lipstick was hers and that she always carried it in her purse.”
“Is that where Marsha normally kept her purse?” Sam inquired.
“I knew you were going to ask that. The answer is no, it isn’t, and yes, I’ve already asked Dave where she usually kept it-no doubt your next question. She usually kept it on the dining room table. Now, go ahead and say what I think you’re going to say.”
Sam was undaunted by Roger’s brashness. “That definitely strengthens my theory, doesn’t it? The dining room table is completely out of sight from the living room and the kitchen. The killer would never have spent precious time searching for a tube of lipstick after having just murdered Marsha and no doubt wanting to split the scene ASAP. But he didn’t have to, because he already knew where Mar
sha kept her purse. Which indicates that her assailant knew this house and Marsha’s habits quite well. She had to have known this bastard, Rog! Either that, or he sure did a bang-up job of casing out this house and its occupants before coming here that night to carry out his crime.”
Roger drained the last of his Jack Daniels and stared at Sam. “I’m actually starting to think you may be absolutely right, buddy-you’re making me a believer. The question now is: which is it? And either way, which ever it is, we still don’t have jack shit to go on.”
Sam sighed. “I realize that. But it does give us a little insight into this prick. We know that he’s a clever sonofabitch beyond question-not to mention meticulous.”
“That’s a fact,” Roger agreed.
“What about the message? Any guesses?”
Roger shook his head. “Nope. “May Day…” The only thing that comes to mind is the international distress call for help. And the first of May-that spring celebration or whatever the fuck it is. The killer’s writing of that on Marsha’s tits after murdering her makes no sense at all, in light of the former-she was already beyond help. The first of May could be significant, though. But in what way? Who the fuck knows? Nope, buddy. That’s got me completely stymied.”
“Still think he could be a serial killer?”
“Fuck if I know. I’ll tell you the truth, and I’ve been saying it all along. Until Tommy Bradley talks to us, we’re just pissin’ in the wind on this case. All we have is a bunch of goddamn theories and two items of physical evidence: hair and cum. Big deal! We don’t even have a concrete motive yet, unless we want to believe that this was sheer rape and murder for the fucking fun of it-something for some sick ass to do on a lonely Wednesday evening. We need that kid to talk, Sam. That’s all there is to it.”
“Which could be weeks from now, you’ve been informed. What are you going to do in the meantime, Roger?” Sam asked purposefully, just to put him on the spot.
The May Day Murders Page 5