Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6)

by Ray Flynt

  “Good God,” she said.

  Blood had dribbled from beneath the rear doors of the van, and dried in rivulets on the rear bumper.

  “There’s no question in your mind that’s blood?” Brad asked.

  “None.”

  Seeing blood on the bumper, Brad wondered if the van had served as the site of the embalmings, in addition to transporting bodies. What macabre picture would unfold when investigators unlocked the van?

  “Check this out,” Sharon called to him.

  Brad circled around to the other side and saw a plastic trash can so full that its lid no longer fit securely. Trash would be considered by the courts as abandoned property and not subject to the same warrant requirements for search and seizure. Brad lifted the lid and found an empty plastic gallon container labeled “Formalin.” The label showed it had come from a pet supply store. He recalled Wes Taylor’s words about formalin used to treat parasites on fish. A quick sniff of the open container reminded him of the embalming room smells.

  “I need to phone Nick.”

  “Let’s send him a couple of pictures,” Sharon suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  Brad reached Nick, explained their finds, and told him that Sharon would be e-mailing a couple of telling photos.

  “I’m standing next to Austin right now,” Nick said. “I’ll have him add the new information to our warrant request.”

  “You’ll need a full crime scene team here.”

  “Understood.”

  Brad looked at his watch. 11:38 a.m.

  Soon.

  Brad and Sharon stood next to the front door of the duplex.

  “Are you ready to see a man in his underwear?”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Sharon deadpanned.

  Brad chuckled as he pressed the doorbell.

  As Marge Chu had experienced before them, there was no response. Brad rang several more times before resorting to pounding on the door.

  The door swung open to reveal a bleary-eyed man in white briefs with a bad case of bed hair. “What the fuck do you want?” he said.

  Brad watched as Sharon stared at the man’s crotch then looked him in the eye while suppressing a laugh. Sharon knew how to ingratiate herself with a jerk.

  The man suddenly looked self-conscious and partially retreated behind the door exposing only his upper torso. “What do you want?” he repeated.

  “We’re private investigators interested in your roommate,” Brad began.

  “He ain’t my roommate. He rents. I worked all night and wanna get back to bed.”

  The man started to close the door, but Brad used the heel of his shoe to keep it open.

  “Mr. Murray is a serial killer. You won’t be getting any sleep. The police are on their way with a search warrant.”

  The man went slack-jawed and his eyes bugged out.

  Brad continued, “I suggest you throw on a few clothes and talk with us before they get here.”

  The man turned and headed up the stairs. He left the door propped open, which Brad took as an invitation for them to enter.

  To their right, Brad saw a living room with throws covering all the furniture. Beyond the living room through an archway was an eat-in kitchen.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Sharon paced on the wood floor in the hallway.

  Brad heard water running upstairs.

  “What’s taking him so long?” Sharon said.

  A toilet flushed.

  The owner ambled down the steps dressed in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. It looked like he’d doused water on his face and he kept rubbing his eyes with his palm.

  Brad handed the man his business card, and introduced himself and Sharon.

  “I’m Duncan,” the man said.

  “When did you last see Kip?” Brad asked.

  “Who?”

  “Kip Murray, your renter.”

  Duncan frowned. “He told me his name was Jerry. That’s what was on his photo ID.”

  Brad remembered the full name of Jeremiah Kipling Murray from the diploma hanging in Kip’s office.

  Duncan continued, “He was here at eight this morning when I got home from work.”

  “Where do you work?” Sharon asked.

  “A parcel delivery service near the airport.”

  “Did the two of you have a conversation?” Brad asked.

  Duncan shook his head. “I was arriving and he was heading out.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, but he packed a suitcase.”

  “The white van outside, is it yours or his?”

  “His. I don’t own a car. I either ride my bike or take transit.”

  Brad heard a siren not far away and hoped it might be Nick approaching.

  “How long has he rented from you?” Sharon asked.

  Duncan rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and said, “Six months, starting April first.” Duncan explained that “Jerry,” as he called him, had his own bedroom as well as kitchen and living room privileges.

  Shortly after noon, Nick arrived along with Detective Mike Perry and an evidence technician. Nick presented Duncan with the search warrant, who shrugged, saying he had nothing to hide.

  Brad filled Nick and Detective Perry in on what they’d learned from talking with the landlord.

  The police marched upstairs to Murray’s bedroom first, expressing their hope to find a set of keys to unlock the white van in the driveway.

  Brad knew Nick wouldn’t object, and he motioned to Sharon that they should join the search.

  Murray’s small room was furnished with only a bed and a desk on which a computer and printer sat.

  Detective Perry opened the closet door to see if keys might be hanging inside. He spotted two sets and tossed them to the technician, asking him to check if either opened the van. When the detective stepped back after shutting the closet door, he banged into the computer table, jostling the mouse, which brought the computer out of sleep mode.

  Murray’s computer screen came to life with a photograph.

  Sharon gasped.

  Brad recognized Christine Truit’s Facebook profile picture. He explained its significance to Nick.

  “Why does Murray have Truit’s wife’s picture on his computer?” Nick asked.

  “Beats me,” Brad said. “Riley never mentioned a history between his wife and Kip Murray.”

  “Maybe Christine knows him as Jerry?” Sharon speculated.

  Mike Perry rummaged in a trash can below the computer desk. He stood and smoothed out a crumpled piece of paper. “Look what I found.” He held up a smudged Delta Air Lines boarding pass.

  “I can’t see it from here,” Nick said. “Details, Mike.”

  “This is for a flight from Philly to Chicago.”

  “For when?” Brad asked.

  “This morning,” the detective said. “His flight left at ten-fifteen.”

  “Let me see.” Sharon reached for the document. She pulled out her smartphone and her fingers danced across the screen. “His flight left twenty-five minutes late,” she announced. “It arrived in Atlanta a few minutes ago and is scheduled to leave twenty-five minutes from now for Midway Airport in Chicago.”

  The technician shouted from the first floor. “Hey, Mike, you gotta see this.”

  Detective Perry headed downstairs.

  Nick followed, as did Sharon.

  Brad remained in Murray’s bedroom. He searched for Victor Seralago’s number on his phone. He would have to choose his words carefully, without revealing news of his brother-in-law’s death, or alarming him about Christine. Brad punched the number and hoped Victor would be available.

  “Seralago Realtors,” the receptionist answered.

  “This is Brad Frame calling for Victor.”

  “Hold on, Mr. Frame, I’ll put you through.”

  Brad took a deep breath.

  “It’s Victor, Brad. Any news?”

  “Does the name Jerry or Jeremiah Murray ring a bell?”<
br />
  A moment of silence before Victor thundered, “That creep. Does he have something to do with Riley being missing?”

  “Tell me about Jerry, Victor.”

  “Five years ago, before Christine met Riley, she dated Jerry. He was a hot-shot Air Force pilot, and she was smitten. Christine’s always been a sweet kid and somewhat innocent. Jerry took advantage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One night he slipped a drug in her drink and then raped her. She wasn’t even sure it had happened, but then she developed gonorrhea.”

  “Did she report him to the police?” Brad asked.

  “No. She didn’t want to drag her own reputation through the mud. She stopped seeing him, but he kept stalking her.”

  “Did she get a restraining order?”

  “No. Mark and I confronted that sick bastard and told him if he ever came near Christine again we’d kill him.”

  “Thanks for the information, Victor.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Riley?” Victor persisted.

  “I’ll let you know.” Brad left it at that, ended the call, and went searching for Nick.

  Brad found Nick and the others staring into the back of Murray’s van while the technician photographed the scene. There, Murray had created a mobile embalming room with a metal table fashioned from heating ductwork. Bottles and plastic tubing hung from the sides of the van in exactly the way Wes Taylor had suggested an amateur might embalm his victims. Enough blood could be seen on the rubber floor mat to ensure a DNA match for Truit and possibly Haller and Lucas.

  “They found a bottle of chloroform Murray used to disable his victims,” Sharon said.

  Brad tapped Nick on the shoulder and pulled him and Sharon aside.

  “We have to get to Chicago before Murray does. Truit’s wife, Christine, lives there. I just spoke with her brother and Murray’s been stalking her for years.”

  Nick pointed at his watch. “There’s no way we can get there faster than him. It would take me half a day for a travel authorization from the city.”

  “My corporate jet is waiting at Wings Field. If we leave right now, we can beat him there by twenty minutes.”

  Nick grinned. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

  30

  Nick provided an escort, siren blaring, as Brad followed the detective’s car to Wing’s Field, a general aviation airport in Montgomery County. Joedco’s leased Gulfstream waited for them as Andrew had promised.

  While Nick made phone calls, Brad introduced himself to Captain Travis and explained the impromptu change in destination. He also assured the pilot he still planned to travel to Houston that afternoon.

  Nick stepped onto the plane and pocketed his cell phone.

  Brad asked, “How did you make out?”

  “I let Franks know what I’m doing and alerted the Oak Park Police Department to the situation. They agreed to provide backup. I gave them Christine Truit’s address and noted she’s eight months pregnant. I said we were monitoring the subject’s movements and would let them know if he might arrive in Oak Park ahead of us. And I told them I’d be bringing handcuffs with me but leaving my service weapon.”

  After the Captain filed a new flight plan, they were wheels up for Chicago at 1:12 p.m Eastern time, a two-hour flight ahead of them.

  There were fifteen first-class-style leather seats in the aircraft. Several of them were arranged with traditional window views at the front of the cabin. Brad, Sharon, and Nick opted for chairs grouped around a table in mid-cabin. The captain provided an assortment of snacks and sodas.

  “I consider anything but the middle seat on a plane to be luxurious.” Nick stretched. “I could get used to this. Sharon, maybe you could take a picture I can send to Ruth. She won’t believe this.”

  Sharon obliged and said she would forward the photo to Nick’s e-mail.

  After all Nick had been through, Brad was glad Nick could relax and enjoy the moment.

  “On the trip back we’ll break into the mini-bar,” Brad promised.

  Sharon pulled up a flight-tracking program on her smartphone. “Murray’s Delta flight is delayed at Hartsfield-Jackson airport.”

  “That’s no surprise. Have you ever flown through Atlanta?” Nick asked.

  “They’re scheduled to depart the gate in five more minutes,” Sharon said. “I’ll let you know when his plane is in the air. We should still be ahead of him.”

  After they had reached cruising altitude, the first officer stepped into the cabin to ask if everyone was comfortable and enjoying the flight. When he spotted Sharon’s dirty shoes, he said, “Let me get you a rag to clean those and shoe polish.”

  A few minutes later he returned from the rear galley with a readi-shine kit.

  “Thanks,” Sharon said.

  Brad asked if it was possible to arrange for a taxi to be waiting for them when they arrived at Midway.

  “I’ll take care of that for you,” the first officer said. “Don’t forget to adjust your watches to Central time.”

  As Nick turned his watch back an hour, Brad asked, “Why did Curtis Franks want to see you this morning?”

  “Franks told me they’re not going to suspend Sanders and Barkow for their false accusations against me.”

  “What? Why not?” Sharon asked.

  “Because Internal Affairs is taking a closer look at their activities in the evidence room. They’re suspected of skimming drugs to sell. Also, there are at least three cases they’ve been involved with where the perps’ jail time was reduced or eliminated due to evidence tampering. They think this meddling was deliberate, done in exchange for bribes from a couple of high-profile suspects. Elverson’s involved too. All three of those guys are suspended pending the outcome of this investigation.” Nick’s grin had what-goes-around-comes-around written all over it.

  “In fact, Franks told me Internal Affairs had an undercover agent at Ruddigore’s last night hoping to catch Elverson in a drug sale.”

  Sharon and Brad exchanged glances.

  “Any idea what he—or she—looked like?” Sharon asked.

  “All I know it’s a detective on loan from Allentown PD. He’s twenty-eight years old, Franks said, but looks like a teenager.”

  “The kid with the wallet,” Sharon said.

  Brad nodded.

  “The LCB raid spoiled their timing, but with all the other stuff they’re looking at I don’t expect those guys back on the force.”

  Justice is good.

  A text message beeped on Brad’s cell. From his brother: “Chicago?!? WTF Expect you here at 7:30!!! We have a cake to celebrate the acquisition!”

  Cake indeed.

  Maybe if Andrew hadn’t used quite so many exclamation points, Brad would have responded.

  Nick looked up from his phone. “Brad, I got an e-mail from Mike Perry. They’re analyzing Murray’s computer. He’s been stalking Riley Truit online for six months, as well as Sterling Haller. But more recently, he’s been stalking you.”

  Brad thought that if Murray’s intention was to get rid of Truit so he could pursue Christine, killing Haller first would make her a wealthy widow. Was Lucas’ death intended to focus police attention on him and away from the real killer? If Brad hadn’t had an alibi at the time of Lucas’ murder that might have been the case.

  “They also found lots of information about embalming on Murray’s computer,” Nick said. “It includes documents, photos, and even videos.”

  “Sounds like an obsession,” Sharon said.

  With more than an hour before landing in Chicago, Brad settled back, closed his eyes and imagined justice for Sterling Haller, Henry Lucas, and Riley Truit.

  The established neighborhood of Oak Park, west of Chicago, dated from the turn of the last century. Truit’s block consisted of tree-lined streets and sturdy two-story homes.

  “Murray’s plane just landed,” Sharon updated them, as the taxi turned onto the street where Christine Truit lived—north of Chicago A
venue and a few blocks east of Frank Lloyd Wright’s historic home and studio.

  “Up here on the left,” Brad directed the cabbie toward an American- Craftsman-style home with attic dormers. He noticed an ambulance backed into its driveway.

  “That looks like an unmarked police vehicle over on the right,” Nick said.

  Brad paid the driver as Sharon and Nick climbed out of the cab.

  As they walked toward the Truit residence, the driver of the ambulance jumped into its front seat, activated the flashing lights and guided the vehicle out of the drive.

  At the rear of the driveway stood a man and a woman. “Are you Detective Rooney?” Nick called out.

  “Captain Argostino?” the man asked.

  Introductions were made all around. Detectives Paul Rooney and Loretta Segundo had come from the Oak Park Police Department.

  “We were waiting for you to arrive when the ambulance pulled up,” Rooney said. “At first we thought it might be a ruse and your suspect had figured out a way to arrive ahead of you.”

  “Ms. Truit went into labor this morning,” Segundo explained. “Apparently, she heard of her husband’s disappearance yesterday, and that caused enough stress to induce labor.”

  “Unfortunately, her husband was found dead this morning,” Brad said. “She’ll have a new life to take care of by the time she gets word about her husband. It’s his killer we’re here to get. His plane landed at Midway a few minutes ago, which means he should arrive in about a half hour.”

  “Let’s go inside and work on our game plan,” Nick said.

  At 2:47 p.m. Central time, Brad heard a car pull into the driveway.

  Segundo, who’d agreed to answer the door and play the role of a neighbor, called out, “He’s here. The taxi just dropped him off. Great,” she scoffed, “he’s got a bouquet of flowers with him.”

  Sharon seated herself at the dining room table, facing away from the front door. In the middle of the table sat a vase with a dozen long-stemmed roses arranged with baby’s breath—undoubtedly the flowers Riley had sent the previous weekend.

  Brad gave her a thumbs-up.

  Since her red hair was similar to Christine’s, Brad hoped Murray would see Sharon, be drawn into the dining room, and find himself trapped on all sides. There wasn’t a direct line of sight from the front door. Loretta would have to invite him in first.