Murder.com

by Betty Sullivan La Pierre

  She felt uptight and stressed as she drove home. Maybe she'd talked too much about her problems. It did bother her greatly that Ken had harbored the secret of Melinda all these years, not even confiding in Sandy. That seemed odd, but what didn't seem strange anymore? Her whole life had taken on a different perspective. Look how much Bud had hidden from her.

  When she pulled into the garage, she noticed that Marty's car was gone. She hoped she hadn't decided to visit Melinda. Angie could prevent the girl from coming onto the premises, but she couldn't prevent Marty from seeing her own daughter.

  Just as she stepped inside the house, the phone rang. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter. “Hello."

  “Angie, this is Sandy. Why did you leave?"

  “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought up Melinda."

  “We upset you, didn't we?"

  “It shocked me to learn you knew. It makes me wonder how many other people are privileged with the same information."

  “We feel terrible about the whole thing. Ken has never told anyone in all these years and I certainly wouldn't have. We just prayed the girl would never enter your life. Can you forgive us?"

  Angie stared at the ceiling, biting her lower lip. “Don't worry about it."

  “Since this afternoon fell through like a bomb, I insist on taking you out to lunch next week."

  “Okay. We'll talk about it later."

  * * * *

  Early Monday morning, Tom and Cliff met John Graves in his office at the Hames & Goode Company. The three men sat around Graves’ desk as he studied the printed files from Bud's CD. Graves ran his hand over his face. “Well, gentlemen. I think not only do you have a good case for embezzlement, but a motive for murder."

  Cliff took off his cap and slapped it against his thigh. “Just as I thought. That company smelled too sweet."

  The two detectives left the office and headed for the Nevers complex. Cliff couldn't stand Tom's silence and blurted. “Okay, what's on your mind? You're too quiet."

  “Ryan Conners. I can't picture him as the mastermind. He has no guts. When we questioned him in Bud's office last week, he almost fell apart. And how did he manage to get access to Bud's computer? It doesn't add up."

  Cliff shoved loose strands of hair back up into his cap. “I'm surprised you're letting his appearance fool you. We've dealt with such men before and they turned out to be the masterminds of big shams. I agree this one has a more nervous disposition. Maybe it's his first time attempting such a scheme. Just reading him his rights might crack him."

  They pulled into the parking lot at eight thirty, just as people began arriving for work. Tom glanced around before getting out. “Keep a wary eye."

  Cliff gave him a concerned look, knowing Tom's inner sense must have kicked in. He adjusted his jacket and positioned his gun for easy access. Tom unbuttoned his coat, letting the sides flap open, exposing his shoulder holster.

  An odd sensation hit Cliff as they entered the building. He kept his hands loose at his sides. Just as they approached the receptionist's desk, a piercing scream reverberated down the hall.

  Both detectives drew their guns and raced toward the sound. A young woman stood in the hallway, sobbing hysterically, one hand over her mouth, the other pointing toward an opened door leading into an office.

  Tom quickly put an arm around her trembling shoulders. “What is it?"

  Again, she pointed toward the office. “In there,” she cried. “It's Mr. Conners. Blood everywhere.” One of the on-looking co-workers grabbed her as she sank to her knees. Tom and Cliff moved to the doorway.

  “Oh my God,” Tom said. “Everyone stay back."

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  It wasn't a pretty sight. Ryan Conners lay slumped over his desk, the top of his head blown off. A trail of blood and brains crossed the floor, ending in splatters on the opposite wall.

  Cliff quickly ushered the gathering crowd away from the doorway and down the hall to an empty office. Once he calmed the bewildered group, he hurried back to Tom, who'd already called for the investigation crew. The two detectives guarded the entrance of the office and viewed the grisly sight. Tom scrubbed his chin with his fist. “Looks like our man got damned scared and put a gun to his head."

  Cliff exhaled loudly. “Yep. Sure looks that way."

  At that moment, Ken Weber came running up the hall. “What's happened?” He glanced into the room and his face paled. “Oh, my God!” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Tom put out a hand. “Are you okay?"

  Ken waved him off. “Yeah. I'll be fine in a minute.” He bent over and took several deep breaths. “That's a pretty gruesome sight."

  Several emergency vehicles pulled up in front of the building, followed by the coroner's wagon. Within minutes they had the office cordoned off and the investigation crew began dusting for prints and taking pictures. Ken took a second look as the camera flashed, then staggered back to his office, his hand over his mouth.

  Tom and Cliff took measurements for their own purposes, then, working along with the team, searched the room for clues. After the body had been removed, Tom studied the blood-spattered computer and sheets of paper on the desk. He motioned to Cliff and pointed at the computer monitor. “Looks like a suicide note."

  Cliff slipped on his half-glasses and read aloud.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I thought after getting rid of Mr. Nevers, I could get by with my crimes. But the police are too close. I can't cope with the pressure.

  Ryan Conners

  Tom continued to examine the keyboard. “It's odd how the blood is smudged on these keys. If this note had been written before he died, it wouldn't be embedded in the letters. I think this note was written after his death."

  Cliff bent down and inspected it. “Good observation, Detective Hoffman.” He called over the photographer. “Did you get a close up of this note?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “Good. Now take several of this keyboard at different angles."

  The photographer nodded and adjusted his camera. After he finished, Cliff touched one of the keys with his gloved finger. “The blood's dry. And from the looks of the body, rigor mortis is setting in. He's probably been dead for several hours. We'll check the photos under a magnifier. That should give us a good clue of when this was written.” He hit the Print button and folded a copy of the note into his pocket.

  Later that day, Tom and Cliff drove out to Ryan Conners’ home. The address bordered the low-income part of town where young married couples found shabby but affordable places to live. The small frame home nestled between two others of identical architecture.

  The door opened, revealing a small, skinny woman with dishwater-blond hair that hung in greasy loose strands over her shoulders. Her freckled skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, shadowing already sunken, washed-out blue eyes. Two little girls, about two and three years old, clung to each side of her legs. She frowned at the two detectives. “Yes?"

  “Are you Mrs. Conners?"

  She nodded.

  The men displayed their badges and Cliff removed his ball cap, smoothing back his hair the best he could. “May we come in, Mrs. Conners?"

  She stepped back so they could enter.

  The little girls still clinging to their mother's legs were small and frail with stringy hair. Neither made a sound, but stared intently at the two men.

  When Tom led the way inside the house, the first thing he noticed was the stench of dirty diapers. The scarcity of furniture seemed odd. Surely Ryan Conners had made enough money to support his family better than this. He turned and looked at the woman again. “You are Mrs. Ryan Conners? Your husband works at Nevers Computer Technology Company?"

  She eyed them suspiciously. “Yes. Is there something wrong?"

  Cliff guided her to the worn couch. “Please sit down, Mrs. Conners. Do you have family nearby?"

  She slowly shook her head. “I h
ave no one but Ryan and my two girls.” She put an arm around each of the girls and pulled them up beside her, hugging them closely.

  Tom remained standing as he presented the news as kindly as possible. The woman never moved or blinked an eye. Cliff switched his hat from one hand to another as he watched her.

  “So he's dead?” she asked.

  Tom kept his voice soft. “Yes. I'm sorry."

  Cliff stepped in front of her. “I know this is a terrible time to be asking you any questions. But could you tell us if your husband owned a gun?"

  “Yes, he had a gun. But he kept it at the office because he took care of the money business. I wouldn't allow one in the house because of the girls."

  “I understand. Thank you."

  Tom wondered if the news had really sunk in. The woman seemed so void of emotion. “Is there anyone we can contact for you? Or anything we can do to make this matter easier?"

  Slowly she raised her head and gazed at him with tearless eyes. “No. Thank you. I'll be fine."

  “I'd like to ask you one more question,” Tom said. “Did your husband contact anyone at the office last night?"

  “Ryan never came home last night. He seldom does. He lives at that office. We seldom see him. I don't even know the names of the people he works with. I couldn't tell you who he does or doesn't talk to."

  “Excuse me, ma'am.” Cliff put his cap back on his head. “Was your husband right- or left-handed?"

  “Left."

  “Thank you."

  When the two detectives got back in the car, Cliff shook his head. “Boy, the way some people live. It just amazes me."

  Tom glanced over at him. “Have I missed something?"

  “Why do you ask?"

  “The left and right hand thing?"

  “Well, you might not have noticed, but the gun had fallen to the floor on his right side."

  “Very interesting,” Tom said, nodding.

  By the time the men got back to the police station, most of the regular staff had left. They went to Tom's office and started reviewing the packet of pictures the investigators had left. They were particularly interested in the photos of the keyboard.

  Angie felt totally shocked over the news of Ryan Conners’ suicide. She couldn't imagine that meek man involved in embezzlement. But one never knows. She knew the company would suffer. And sure enough, after only a few days, rumors were circulating that Ryan had been murdered like Mr. Nevers. Terror reigned throughout the company, with gossip about a madman stalking the halls. Several employees quit. She hoped Ken could get hold of the rumor and put an end to it.

  But before talking to Ken, she wanted to check with Tom to find out if the rumors had any foundation. She hadn't heard from him lately, but figured he had his hands full with two unsolved murder cases. She also wanted to wait until she heard from Dr. Parker on the DNA test results.

  Angie had her hand on the phone, contemplating who to call, when it rang.

  “Hello."

  “Angie, this is Sandy. Could you meet me for lunch?"

  “Sure."

  “Velvet Turtle in thirty minutes. I'll meet you in the bar."

  “Okay."

  After hanging up, Angie stared at the phone. That was sure abrupt, she thought. Sandy really sounded uptight and worried.

  Angie quickly freshened her face and hair, then left. She entered the restaurant's bar and stood on her tiptoes to see over the heads of the lunch hour crowd. She finally spotted Sandy in the far corner of the room and hurried toward her, greeting her with a hug. “It's good to see you."

  Sandy nodded and smiled faintly, then motioned for the waitress. Angie studied her friend and knew something was amiss when Sandy avoided her gaze. “What's wrong?"

  “Is it that apparent?"

  “I've known you too long not to see it written all over your face. Are the twins giving you problems?"

  “Not since I've sent them to mother's."

  Then she saw the tears glistening in Sandy's eyes and took hold of her wrist. “Is it that bad?"

  Sandy fumbled in her purse for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “It's not the girls, it's Ken."

  Not expecting that answer, Angie slumped back in her chair. “Ken?"

  She nodded. “Ever since Bud's death, he's been different. But since Ryan's death, he's totally changed for the worst."

  Angie's stomach lurched at the reference to Bud. How she missed him. He'd know what to do in this situation. Obviously, her reaction didn't show outwardly as Sandy continued talking.

  “He yells and screams at me and the girls like we're his enemies. It really upsets the twins. Even though I've tried to explain how these deaths have upset him, they don't understand his behavior.” She sighed. “And frankly, I don't either. One day, he slapped Cindy and it shocked her so bad that she's avoided him ever since.” Sandy choked down a sob. “He's never struck either of the girls before. It's gotten so bad that I had to send them away for awhile until he settles down."

  Angie frowned. “He's under a lot of pressure, not only with the deaths, but having to take over Bud's job as well as doing his own. Of course, it doesn't help with police swarming all over the place and people quitting left and right."

  “I realize that. But his behavior's erratic. Some nights he stays out for hours and comes home drunk. Then there are mornings he's up before the crack of dawn and never tells me where he's been. He even slapped me when I asked. Told me it wasn't any of my damn business."

  At that moment, they were called to their table. Angie watched Sandy pat her cheeks with the tissue, then smooth down her hair. “Do I look okay?"

  “You look fine."

  They continued their conversation after they were served.

  “Have you talked to Ken about his actions?” Angie asked.

  “Yes. But he doesn't care what I think. He's turned into some kind of a monster. I don't know what to do."

  Angie twisted her napkin in her lap. “Sandy, I don't know how to ask this, but do you feel your life is being threatened?"

  Sandy nervously waved a hand in the air. “Oh, no. I don't think he'd go that far."

  “Well, I've never seen you look so frightened. It worries me."

  Sandy poked at the food on her plate, then dropped both hands into her lap. She looked up at Angie with watery eyes. “I'm scared to death."

  Outside the restaurant, Angie watched Sandy trudge off to her car with slumped shoulders. “Wait,” she called, and ran to catch up with her. “Look, I'm all alone in my house. There's plenty of room if you'd like to come and stay until this blows over."

  Sandy leaned against her car. “I don't know if it would be a good idea. Ken needs me and he might really go off the deep end if I leave now."

  Angie bit her lip. It sounded like he'd already toppled over the cliff. The fear in Sandy's eyes told her that. “But you said you were scared."

  She shook her head and blinked, fighting back the tears. “I am. I'm just so baffled by his actions, I don't know which way to turn."

  “I can't let you go back home like this.” Angie said, putting her hand on the car door.

  “Thanks for your concern, I appreciate it.” Sandy climbed into her car, then poked her head out the window, giving Angie a weak smile. “But give me a day or two. Maybe things will calm down."

  She watched her friend drive away. The poorly concealed bruise on Sandy's cheek indicated to Angie that the slap she'd described was far worse than she admitted.

  What had happened to make Ken turn violent? Surely Bud's death wouldn't have caused that type of behavior. And she couldn't imagine the extra work doing it. Ken and Bud had always enjoyed an overload; they both thrived on it. She rubbed her temples. Maybe the fact that Bud had been murdered had affected him. Ken might even fear for his own life with the murderer still on the loose and the police no closer to finding a suspect. It frightened her too. She quickened her step. I need to talk to Tom. Find out what's happening.

  * * *

  Cha
pter Seventeen

  Tom slapped his hands against the surface of the desk. “We found the gun on his right side. Now tell me for God's sake, why would Conners, a left-handed man, shoot himself with his right hand? His fingerprints were on the gun, but no powder burns on his hand or head. Someone murdered him, then set it up like a suicide."

  Cliff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yep. And they definitely knew his pattern of practically living at the office. The coroner said he'd been dead several hours. Which means someone killed him in the wee hours of the morning. The employees I questioned didn't think Conners ever left his office. Which goes along with what his wife said. Also makes for more suspects."

  Tom twirled a pencil between his fingers. “We also know that whoever typed that note wore rubber gloves."

  “We searched every trash can in the place plus all the goddamn dumpsters in the area and never found them. So, I think it's time we start tracing Ken Weber's footsteps and press him hard for some answers."

  “Got the search warrants ready?"

  Cliff patted his pocket. “Yep."

  Tom stood and buttoned his jacket, concealing his gun. “We might as well get started.” In the car, he put in a call for backup.

  When they reached the Webers’ home, Tom rang the bell, then knocked several times before Sandy finally opened the door a few inches. Taken aback by her appearance, Tom shoved it open. “Sandy, what happened?"

  Holding her hand over the right side of her face, she ducked her head. “Hello, Tom. I'm so embarrassed. I slipped on the wet kitchen floor after mopping and hit my face against the edge of a cabinet. I've really made a mess of myself.” She turned her better side toward them, but her gaze went past Tom to the police car parked in the front. Two officers got out and walked toward the house. “What's going on?"

  Tom held up the warrant. “We're here to search the house."