First Murder

by Fred Limberg

  “Her wallet’s on the counter too, Ray,” Tony offered.

  Ray turned to Tony with an irritated look on his face then realized that his new partner was just trying to be helpful and had, in fact, been listening. His frown softened and he nodded.

  Careful to avoid the blood pool Tony stepped over to the sink. There was a bowl and a glass in the left basin. Both were dry and looked clean. There was a coffee mug in the right basin. He leaned over and saw that there was dried residue in it. He found the coffeemaker and, with one knuckle, rocked the carafe. It was over half full. He moved over to inspect the knife block. There was one empty slot from the deeper section of the oak carrier. Tony looked back at the body and winced, certain there was a substantial knife under the handle—a butcher blade or a big carver.

  Ray was now slowly circling the body, still droning into the recorder. Tony, making sure to stay out of his way, moved to the other side of the cabinets. He looked down and saw a dark smudge.

  “Ray, there’s a mark over here.”

  “I’m not there yet.” Ray sounded irritated.

  “It looks like a heel scuff.”

  “We’ll see.” Ray never raised his head or his voice as he continued to circle the corpse. Tony surveyed the room again. There was an alarm panel by the door.A solitary green light blinked patiently.

  “She might have known the killer, Ray.” Tony felt proud, having figured out this major factor, and on his first day, actually, first hour on the case.

  “Of course she did, son.” The air hissed when Tony’s balloon deflated.

  “I’m just trying to help,” Tony said, and kept the you asshole to himself.

  “I know.” Ray straightened up and looked across the room. “Why don’t you get some more lights on in here and take a look around, carefully, and see if you can find a planner or a calendar.”

  Tony flipped switches and prowled around the desktop tucked into a niche by the breakfast table. He watched Ray pause, look down at the smudge on the floor and say into the recorder, “There is a scuff mark, approximately four inches long angled diagonally across the room toward the body. Make sure forensics checks it against the deceased’s shoes.”

  Tony smiled triumphantly while he inspected the desk top. Magazines and newsprint shoppers were neatly stacked. There was a notepad and a spiral bound planner angled on the side.

  “Got it. There’s a note pad here too.”

  Done now with his death-dance around the corpse Ray joined Tony, took out a pen, and carefully flipped the planner open to the first week of October.

  “Monday. Yesterday. 9:30. CH/ORIENT. Wonder what CH/Orient means.” Tony mused.

  “We’ll find out.” Ray used his pen to flip the book shut. “We’ll let forensics have it first.” He stood tall and stretched, fists in the small of his back. “I’m not liking this one even a little bit, detective. Not a bit.”

  “Okay, why not?” Tony rubbed one eye, still a bit out of it.

  “You were right about her knowing the killer. I’m assuming you noticed the green light on the alarm. She let him or her in. The husband didn’t take the time to turn off the alarm, or he’s lying. I don’t think he is at this point. The killer also wasn’t necessarily planning on committing murder. They used a chance weapon, the knife—didn’t bring a weapon with them.”

  “What’s to like about any murder, Ray?” Tony asked, genuinely curious.

  “Some solve themselves. The husband is standing over the body with a smoking gun and just can’t wait to tell us why he killed her…or him. We’re going to have to get into these people’s lives, Tony. These are the worst. I hate getting into people’s lives.” Ray took a deep breath. “Go get the scientists and then we’ll snoop around the rest of the house before we go talk to Mr. Fredrickson.”

  “We can do that?” Tony was no rookie, but he had always been left at the door when the detectives arrived.

  “It’s a crime scene,” Ray replied. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

  The first tech in the door was one of Ray’s favorites, Jonny Kumpula. They had worked many cases together over the years. Ray respected his thoroughness and skills. Kumpula appreciated what Ray did with his evidence.

  “I need a time of death, Kump,” Ray said without preamble when he entered, heavy case in hand. Kumpula took one look at the body and then glanced back at Ray. They both cocked their heads when they heard the furnace kick in.

  “I’ll do what I can.” Kumpula, shrugged, knowing already that it would be a tough call. The detectives retreated.

  Over half of the finished basement was an entertainment room with a massive wide- screen TV dominating a collection of comfortable looking sofas and chairs. There was a bar but it wasn’t stocked. A small refrigerator held four bottles of beer and a half full bottle of white wine. The room smelled of Pledge and lemon oil. Ray lifted the corner of a magazine. No dust.

  “Cleaning service?” he asked the digital recorder.

  The rest of the basement was split between a well appointed laundry room, a bathroom, and a home gym. The appliances and exercise machine were new looking. There was a basement door at the back of the house, alarmed like the others—this one blinking red, with a heavy steel bar across it.

  Tony frowned. No one left this way.

  The second floor was considerably warmer. There were four doors visible down the wide carpeted hallway. Two were closed. Ray and Tony found one to be a boy’s room, evidenced by posters and trophies on the shelves. Two twin beds were made and un-mussed. The closet held a few clothes, mostly summer wear.

  “A son living away from home?” Ray asked the recorder.

  The other closed door hid a guest room. There was a queen sized bed, a dresser and mirror, some pictures on the wall and little else. Again the bed was made and undisturbed. The closet was empty except for some shoe boxes stacked on the shelf.

  A tiled bathroom was found behind door number three. There was a tub, a commode with the lid down, and a small vanity. Tony noted an empty waste can. The medicine cabinet held few toiletries and no prescription drugs. He sighed when he saw the aspirin bottle, reminded of the dull ache he’d almost shoved aside. He closed the medicine cabinet and went looking for Ray.

  The master suite was impressive. Again they found a made bed, no dust, and expensive, tasteful furnishings. There was another bath off the bedroom, this one showing signs of regular use. Tony called out to Ray from the bedroom.

  “We can definitely rule out robbery, boss.” When Ray joined him he pointed out a pair of diamond earrings on the dresser. “I’m thinking half carat each. The Fredrickson’s are doing all right.”

  Ray just nodded.

  There were sheers on the windows flanked by heavy brocade drapes. Tony noticed it was getting lighter outside. How long had they been in the house?

  “Time to talk to the husband.”

  Ray headed downstairs. At the front door he checked the deadbolts and alarm. The killer hadn’t gone this way either. It had all gone down in the kitchen.

  Tony lagged behind, upstairs. Standing in the master bedroom, he noticed the pale lightening of the sheers, heard the furnace whisper on again, barely disturbing the silence. He took in the neatness of the room, the ordinary-ness of everything. Nothing was disturbed. Nothing seemed out of place. He hustled down the stairs to join his partner.

  They cautiously stepped around the techs dusting for prints and looking for other minute traces of evidence. Kumpula looked up at them, brow furrowed, frowning.

  “Liver temp is 74.1, Ray, and I checked out the thermostat. It’s not a set-back model. It’s been 62 in here the whole time.”

  Ray needed a time of death to even think of getting started. “Get me close, Kump.”

  “Wish I could. You’re looking at 11pm night-before to 9 AM yesterday. Late Sunday night to early Monday morning. Best I can do for now.”

  Ray nodded.

  “Maybe the Doc can get you closer from the autopsy. Liver temp sucks when it�
�s been this long,” Kumpula said, trying to give him some hope and maybe something more exact to work with.

  “I know.”

  “So who’s the new victim…I mean partner?” Kumpula jerked a thumb in Tony’s direction.

  “Victim?”

  “Tony de Luca, meet Jonny Kumpula.”

  “I’d shake but it’s kinda’ insincere when we’re all wearing gloves,” Kumpula joked.

  “Nice to meet you, Jonny. Hey, just what did you mean by ‘victim’?” Ray was already out the door and Tony was anxious to follow.

  “Just kidding,” Kumpula called out behind him as the screen door closed. Tony could have sworn he heard him add ‘sorta’ just before it latched.

  Chapter 3

  Ray stood in the center of the paver driveway just outside the back door. He looked toward the radio car the husband was sitting in, glanced up at the lightening early morning sky, and finally towards a small gathering of people, neighbors shivering in housecoats and robes. One man pointed at the house. Two women were whispering to each other.

  Tony nudged Ray with his elbow. “Think anyone saw anything?” He nodded toward the gathering.

  “I’m sure someone saw something. Trouble is, right now we don’t know when whatever they saw has any bearing.”

  “Yesterday morning.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Early yesterday morning. The lady was dressed, ready to go to whatever CH/ Orient is.”

  Ray nodded and told him to go on.

  “The bowl and the coffee cup in the sink? Purse on the counter? She was wearing makeup and lipstick.”

  “Could have been going out the night before?” Ray added. “Or coming in.” He turned to look back up the drive toward the garage. A new looking Lexus sedan was parked in front of it.

  Tony pressed on. “Didn’t strike me as going out clothes, the outfit she had on…has on. Looked like office clothes…business clothes. Coffee mug in the sink. Morning.”

  “Just how long have you had a gold shield?” Ray looked into Tony’s eyes. Tony thought he was making fun of him, felt a little squirt of anger. Ray intended it as a compliment.

  “It’s what I think, Sergeant Bankston. That’s all.” It came out more pissed off than he really intended. Tony knew he was a rookie detective but he wasn’t a rookie cop with a rookie mind. He turned away so Ray wouldn’t see his expression.

  Ray thought about his reply for a minute. This was turning into one of those moments that can define a relationship, or at least affect it in a negative way for a while. Tony was a rookie detective, true, but Ray happened to think he was right—thought he was pretty observant. But they didn’t have a time of death and she might have had a business meeting the night before and been coming home. Too many mights. Still, Ray thought this one, de Luca, might actually have some instincts, some talent. So many other partners managed to disappointed him he was wary by default.

  This was not the time for a confrontation, though, so he decided to say, “We’re not in these people’s lives yet, Tony. You go over and talk to the neighbors. You’ve done that before, right? Keep an open mind. This thing’s just starting.”

  “You’re going to talk to the husband?”

  “Mm-Hm.”

  “Without me?” Still tense, Tony could see the logic even if he didn’t like it. He knew how to work a crowd of potential witnesses.

  “This time. We’ll be having more conversations with Mr. Fredrickson. And Tony?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be sure you ask them about Monday morning.” Bankston gave him a half-smile before he turned to the radio car.

  After borrowing a pad from one of the uniformed cops still there and taking the required abuse, Tony approached the small crowd clustered behind a slash of yellow tape. Their hushed conversations quieted further as he approached.

  Tony realized that at this moment he missed his uniform. He’d done this dozens, even hundreds of times. Ray’s comment about looking scruffy still stung. Tony knew that he cut an imposing figure in uniform. Six foot one and a muscular hundred and seventy five pounds of black haired, squared away, blue clad, no nonsense cop, with a creaking leather belt and a high riding Glock on his right hip—he got people’s attention right now. Well…most people.

  Now, he fumed, here he was in yesterday’s jeans with yesterday’s whiskers, undercover hair, probably smelling like he’d just boinked an assistant D.A, and with only one fucking sock he hoped would go unnoticed. Well, at least he had the gold shield hanging around his neck. He stepped up to the yellow tape.

  “Good morning. I’m Detective de Luca.”

  “What’s going on officer?”

  “Was somebody hurt?”

  “Who’s dead? I heard one of the cops talking about a body.”

  “Why’s there a coroner van over there.”

  “Where’s the ambulance?”

  “Is it Deanna?”

  “Is it Scotty?”

  “He’s living over by the U.”

  “What’s going on, officer?”

  They were ganging up on him. Tony was being stoned, pelted with questions he wasn’t sure he could answer or should answer. Even so, some things registered. The dead woman’s name was Deanna. He hadn’t known that and felt like he should have. He held up his hand, trying to quiet them, missing his uniform more and more.

  “Hang on folks!” He said it louder than he needed to but it had the desired effect. Most of them got quiet. “I’m Detective de Luca. I need to get your names. You all live around here, right? And I need to ask a couple of questions right now. I or another detective may contact you later today or tomorrow with more questions.”

  Tony ducked under the crime scene tape and started working the small crowd, asking things like have you noticed anything out of the ordinary at the Fredrickson’s the past couple of days? Any delivery trucks? Any strange vehicles? Have you seen any people that looked like they don’t belong here? When? Well, anytime the last couple of days. Monday morning?

  He noticed one man walking away from the group and called out after him, untangling himself from the housewives and retirees.

  “Hey! Hold on.” The man kept walking, looking back over his shoulder.

  “I said HOLD IT!” Tony’s street-cop voiced command froze the man. “What’s your name?”

  “Al Cooper. What? I live over there.” The man pointed to a small stucco house three doors down. Tony hurried over to him. In his uniform days anyone hustling away from the crowd of gawkers at a crime scene got special attention.

  “Where you going?”

  The man had an annoyed look on his face. “I gotta’ get ready for work. What?”

  “You see anything strange going on around here the last day or two? You heard my questions back there.” The man’s attitude wasn’t evasive but Tony thought he needed to keep pressing.

  Cooper shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatient. “Nah, I ain’t seen nothin’. Look, I gotta get to work.”

  “Where do you work, Mr. Cooper.”

  “The Ford plant. What’s all the questions for? My shift’s comin’ up.”

  Tony got his address and phone number and returned to the thinning crowd of neighbors. Others had wandered off while he was with Cooper.

  Great…just fuckin’ great.

  He went back and tried again, collected a few more names and numbers. The crowd was dwindling when he noticed one woman, an older lady clutching an overcoat closed over her nightclothes crying softly.

  “It’s Deanna, isn’t it?” Her cheeks were wet. The woman’s thin gray hair was still bed mussed and in the streetlight Tony saw her ears were reddening in the early morning chill.

  “Did you know her well?” Tony asked. The other gawkers had drifted off, gone back home for coffee and breakfast and worry about a murder on their quiet street.

  “I’ve lived next door to Scott and Deanna for twelve years. Right over there.” She pointed to the neat frame house closest to the Fredricks
on’s driveway.

  Tony wanted to say something to comfort her but he needed to start getting into their lives, as Ray put it. “Tell me about them.”

  “Scott’s a financial planner. He handles my accounts, now that Bud’s passed. Bud was my husband. Deanna, my god, Deanna…” the woman started crying again. “I’m cold. Would you like to come to the kitchen to talk? I’ll make coffee.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Tony saw the first of the news vans heading up the street. Jackals. Somebody must have used the radio instead of their cell phone. “Why don’t you go on ahead. I need a word with my partner.”

  Tony escorted her through the thinning ranks of uniformed officers, across the Fredrickson’s driveway, to her own back door. The two driveways ran parallel. He realized that the woman must have said hello to the dead woman, Deanna, almost every day. He sidled up next to his partner, saying nothing, listening to Ray and the husband, Scott Fredrickson, talk in low tones.

  “I know it sounds cliché, detective, but Deanna didn’t have an enemy in the world. Not one.”

  Tony observed the man, still sitting sideways in the back of the cruiser, hands still in his lap. The sky had lightened considerably and was hinting blue, nearly cloudless. Tony could see dark circles under the man’s red eyes. It looked like he’d been punched. He’d certainly been crying. He had coarse stubble on his cheeks. His suit was wrinkled, mussed as if he’d been living in it for a few days. His brownish gray hair was disheveled.

  “Maybe someone from work?”

  “Deanna didn’t work. Well, not at a job, work. She volunteered at Children’s, been helping out there for years. She was on a few boards, the food shelf and a woman’s shelter. She’s busier than I am some weeks but she loves it.”

  “You mentioned children. Was she on good terms with them?” Tony thought he could see a knife slash the man’s heart when Ray asked the question from the look of pain and utter despair that crossed his face.

  “Good terms? Best friends is more like it. Our daughter lives in Madison. She’s married. Pregnant.” Scott Fredrickson looked up at Ray. “My God. She’ll never…” It took him a minute to be able to speak again. Ray and Tony looked at each other. Ray looked sad and sympathetic. Tony looked angry.