December's Secrets (Larry Macklin Mysteries Book 2)

by A. E. Howe

  Pete watched Marcus and Shantel work for another couple of minutes. “Hold up, guys,” he said when they both lowered their cameras for a moment.

  Pete turned and shouted to the other deputies standing around, “Turn off all the headlights for a couple minutes!” It took a second for everyone to process what he’d said, but slowly two of them went to the cars and turned off the lights.

  “Take some pictures,” he told the vague shadows of Marcus and Shantel.

  It was very dark behind the store with the headlights off. Streetlights glowed in the distance, but that just seemed to amplify the darkness near the loading dock.

  After a minute Pete shouted, “Nichols, turn on your lights!” The headlights of a car parked fifty feet away came on, illuminating the bodies while casting stark shadows against the back wall of the building. Pete asked Marcus and Shantel for a few more pictures, then finally shouted for everyone to turn the lights back on.

  “Let’s go talk with Nichols,” he said to me.

  I followed him over to where Deputy Isaac Nichols leaned against his patrol car. First thing I noticed was that his holster was empty.

  “They already bagged it,” he said when he saw us looking at his holster.

  “Don’t think you have much to worry about,” Pete responded.

  “I know it’s standard procedure, just like the suspension. Still hard to take,” Nichols said mournfully. “I just wished I’d gotten here in time to save her. I damn sure don’t regret shooting him.”

  Pete held up his hand. “Careful what you say. Breathe deep.” I could see Nichols was still shaking from the adrenaline dump his system had received.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’m not going to give my formal statement for a couple days.”

  This was the advice we all received during our training. Memory is notoriously unreliable right after a traumatic event, and actually becomes more accurate a couple days later. If you make a detailed statement right after a shooting, you’re probably going to regret it. There will be details that don’t fit and that you know to be wrong, but if you change your story then the damage is done and you risk being grilled by attorneys on both sides of the aisle during a trial.

  “I don’t want details right now. Just give me the rough outline of what went down,” Pete requested.

  “When I drove back here, I heard a scream and I saw the guy on top of the woman. I didn’t know who he was. I got out and told him to get up. He didn’t. I ran over toward them and all of a sudden he turned and came at me. I saw a knife in his hand. Pulled my gun and fired twice.” There was a tremor in Nichols’s voice. His hands twisted and kneaded each other. “I never thought I’d be the guy that had to shoot someone.”

  “Why’d you drive back here?” Pete asked the question that had been upper-most in my mind.

  “My field training officer showed me this spot. I’ve caught prostitutes, people doing drugs… Once I caught some guy that was dumping a couple purses he’d stolen.” All of that could be checked easily.

  Pete patted him on the back. “We’ll get this cleared up. HR will set you up with someone to talk to.”

  “I don’t know,” Nichols said, answering some question that only he heard. “It’s been a crazy night.”

  Pete and I walked away, not talking until we were out of his hearing. “They found a knife?” Pete asked me.

  “I got here just a few minutes before you did. I didn’t see one, but maybe it’s under the body. Let’s go find out.”

  As we walked back toward the bodies, I saw Dad standing under a floodlight as he was interviewed by one of the news crews from Tallahassee. His voice was loud and deep. “I take full responsibility for any decision made by my office.”

  Dad could irritate the crap out of me, but I’d never doubted his integrity or dedication to his job. After my mother died, Dad was lost without her, so I’d encouraged him to run for sheriff as a way to redirect his attention. He’d been a deputy for half his life and I knew there was no one in the county who could do a better job. Being sheriff saved him and did a lot to improve the lives of the people of Adams County.

  I noticed the coroner’s van had been added to the growing number of random vehicles arranged like vultures flocking to fresh roadkill. Marcus and Shantel were standing back, filming the body of Jeffrey Ayers as Dr. Darzi examined it. I was surprised to see him. Normally, his participation was limited to the actual autopsy. Dad must have called him personally. With an officer’s career and Dad’s reelection in the balance, it was vital that the investigation be above reproach.

  Ayers’s body was probed, measured and handled with detached professionalism, leaving no doubt that he was now more a piece of evidence than a person.

  “Little help,” Dr. Darzi said to no one in particular. Marcus went over and gave him a hand turning the body onto its side. Sure enough, there was a six-inch-long folding knife, blade out, lying underneath. Darzi examined the corpse’s back. “Looks like one of the bullets went through him. The other probably broke up or is lodged against a bone or in an organ.” We would have to look for the bullet that went through the body.

  Shantel and Marcus moved in and emptied Ayers’s pockets, bagging and tagging everything. Finally the body was lifted onto a gurney and moved to the coroner’s van. Darzi then went over and began the same process with the woman’s body.

  “At least they found a knife,” Pete said to me in a low voice. He hated the press and they were still hovering around, though they had enough respect for the victims to stay back and keep their cameras off the scene. The South had changed a lot, for both good and ill, but most of us still had some respect for the dead. It was a mix of superstition and awe brought on by being in the presence of the ultimate mystery.

  “But did Ayers kill the woman?” I asked Pete.

  “Not with a knife,” Dr. Darzi answered. “There are no cuts on the body. She appears, only appears, mind you, to have been strangled.” He probed around her neck and revealed a rope that had been pulled so tight that it was hidden under the flesh of her throat.

  “I can’t decide whether this is good or bad,” Pete said. “Looks good for Nichols and bad for the sheriff.” Pete looked around. “Where is Ayers’s car?”

  We went on a hunt for it and found it parked in front of the store. “That’s odd. It’s not parked in a space,” I said.

  “Not like anyone’s going to complain.” Pete indicated the empty lot. “Pretty strange he’d park out here and drag her around back.”

  “Maybe he saw her walking toward the back and followed her.”

  We both shrugged. This early in the investigation, there were just too many questions.

  We walked back to the scene and Pete told Shantel where the car was and that they’d need to process it tonight. It would be towed back to our small impound lot, a quarter acre of asphalt behind the sheriff’s office with a ten-foot fence topped by concertina wire.

  “Okay now, if you’re going to start telling us how to do everything, you may as well have the B Team out here. You know you got the A Team, so let us do our thing.” Shantel was always ready to throw around the banter. That and the fact she and Marcus were the best forensics team in north Florida were the main reasons we all liked working with them.

  “I’d never think of telling you how to do your business,” Pete said with a smile.

  “You better not, big man, or you can get down here and crawl around on your hands and knees looking for God knows what,” Shantel said as she moved around the bodies with her headlamp focused six inches in front of her, looking for anything that might turn out to be important trace evidence.

  I turned to Pete. “We know how Ayers got here. It would help to know Angie Maitland’s movements.”

  “Let’s go tell Ayers’s family what’s happened. We’ve got time to figure out why Maitland was here,” Pete said, and we headed for his car.

  This was a different dynamic for us. Normally we’d split up and handle different tasks, t
hen come back together and compare notes. But I think neither of us wanted to take the risk of missing something in a case this complicated. With ten months to go until the election, Dad’s main opponent, Charles Maxwell, Calhoun’s chief of police, was already campaigning heavily. He and Dad had never gotten along and Chief Maxwell was sure to use this case as ammunition.

  No one likes to do notifications. There are a dozen different ways they can play out and few of them are good. I’ve known deputies that were attacked by family members and others that couldn’t leave because they were afraid a friend or relative might hurt themselves.

  Jeffrey Ayers had been in his mid-thirties, but still lived at home with his mother. Not that surprising these days. Hers was a one-story ranch-style house in a middle-class neighborhood north of Calhoun. All the windows were dark when we pulled into the driveway. Looking at my watch, it was almost one-thirty. I closed my door carefully when I got out of the car, so as not to disturb everyone in the neighborhood. But as soon as the door clicked shut, one dog after another started barking. What can you do?

  Pete walked heavily up to the door and rang the bell. It took two more tries before the porch light came on and a voice from inside asked who we were. We produced names and badges, then the door was opened by a surprisingly young-looking woman. She didn’t look a day over fifty, even after being woken in the middle of the night.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, holding the door open for us to come in. She was wearing a blue robe and kept smoothing her hair as though she wished that she could brush it. “Is Jeffrey all right?”

  “I’m sorry,” Pete said quietly.

  “Oh, my God. What?” She looked like she was going to collapse, so I put my hand on her arm and eased her down onto a wingback chair.

  “Mrs. Ayers, I’m sorry, but your son is dead,” I said, not wanting to drag it out. She knew something horrible had happened so what good would it do to delay the inevitable?

  “How?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to tell her, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself. “One of our deputies shot him.”

  “What? Why? Why did you kill my son?” She was pounding her fists on the arms of the chair so hard that it rocked back and forth. I knew that she really wanted to be hitting us.

  Pete seemed at a loss. “Our deputy reported that your son was assaulting a woman and, when he ordered him to stop, your son turned and charged. The deputy had to defend himself.”

  “Lies!” she screamed. “All of those lies you told about him. He never hurt anyone!” She stopped pounding the chair and brought her hands up in front of her.

  I knew what was going to happen a nanosecond before she flew out of the chair and started flailing at me.

  I just curled up and let her thump me with her fists. Pete tried to get in between us and deflect some of the blows.

  “Please stop now,” Pete said. “I’m investigating the shooting. If your son’s death wasn’t justified, I promise we’ll set the record straight.”

  Mrs. Ayers landed a few more blows, but her strength was fading. Finally she dropped back into the chair and began to sob.

  “Is there someone you could call?” I asked gently.

  “I have to tell Wayne,” she said and then began crying again. I vaguely remembered that Jeffrey Ayers had a brother.

  “Is that your other son?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to control her sobbing. “He didn’t do it. Jeffrey, he was here the night that girl was attacked. I know that.”

  During an interview regarding one of the rapes, she had told us that she’d heard Ayers come home and hadn’t heard him go out again. But she had also admitted it was possible she could have fallen asleep and not heard him go back out.

  “Where is he?” she asked. Tears still rolled down her face, but her breathing was coming under control.

  “We have to take his body to the… hospital for an autopsy. We want the truth as much as you do,” Pete told her.

  “I can’t think. Go. I don’t want you all here.”

  “Do you want us to call your son?” I asked.

  “No, just get out. I’ll call him. Go. You’ve done enough!” she shouted. We quietly made our escape.

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  Additional Books in the Series

  November’s Past

  A Larry Macklin Mystery–Book 1

  The job of criminal investigator in a rural Florida county is never easy, but it’s even harder when your father is the sheriff.

  When Larry Macklin investigates the murder of a mutilated stranger, the search for the victim’s identity intersects with an arson investigation. The common thread is a small group of people who were in high school together in the ’70s, including Larry’s own father. Before Larry can rule any of them out as the killer, one of them turns up dead.

  Why is the murderer targeting this particular group? What past secrets could be worth killing for now? Larry is running out of time and suspects, and his search for the truth may make him the next victim.

  Read it now: AMAZON AMAZON UK

  February’s Regrets

  A Larry Macklin Mystery–Book 4

  Following his resignation as an investigator with the Adams County Sheriff’s Office, Larry Macklin is working part time as a reserve deputy and trying to decide what to do with his life.

  He’s drawn back into investigating against his will when his friend, Shantel Williams, asks for his help to find her missing niece, Tonya. While Larry initially believes that there’s a reasonable explanation for Tonya’s lack of communication with her aunt, it quickly becomes obvious that her disappearance is part of something more serious. The Swamp Hacker, a serial killer who stalked Adams County fifteen years ago, has returned and is killing again.

  Unable to resist the hunt for a predator that eluded the sheriff so many years ago, Larry agrees to assist with the current investigation. It becomes a race against time as the murders become more brutal and more frequent. Will the killer escape justice a second time?

  Read it now: AMAZON AMAZON UK

  March’s Luck

  A Larry Macklin Mystery–Book 5

  Though happy to be back at his job as a criminal investigator, Larry Macklin is struggling to adapt to life with his new partner. But concerns about his work relationship quickly take a back seat to his personal life when his irrational ex-girlfriend, Marcy, returns to town.

  Larry soon has bigger problems when members of a prominent local family are killed off one by one. As he tries to find the murderer before anyone else in the family loses their life, Larry’s investigation intersects with a hare-brained search for stolen Nazi gold.

  Are the bumbling treasure hunters—Marcy among them—somehow responsible for the murders? Or is someone else picking off members of the family for financial gain? With a long list of suspects and a very short list of motives, Larry is going to need a lot of luck to solve this case.

  Read it now: AMAZON AMAZON UK

  April’s Desires

  A Larry Macklin Mystery–Book 6

  Coming March 2017!

  To be notified as soon as it is released, sign up here.

  About the Author

  A. E. Howe lives and writes on a farm in the wilds of north Florida with his wife, horses and more cats than he can count. He received a degree in English Education from the University of Georgia and is a produced screenwriter and playwright. His first published book was Broken State; the Larry Macklin Mysteries is his first series and he has plans for more. Howe is also the co-host of the “Guns of Hollywood” podcast, part of the Firearms Radio Network. When not writing or podcasting, Howe enjoys riding, competitive shooting and working on the farm.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my beta readers—Chuck Mitchell, Jan Lydon and especially Locke Haney, who discovered a small, yet significant, problem with the plot.

  I never would have had the courage to attempt self-publishing without the constant support and e
ncouragement of H. Y. Hanna. She has provided an endless supply of valuable lists, resources and advice. She was invaluable as a beta reader and developed a great cover design for the series. Words cannot express my appreciation for all her help.

  Good fortune smiled on me when I met a woman who could be my friend, my editor and my wife. Many things in my life, including this series, could not be accomplished without Melanie by my side.

  Copyright © 2016 by A. E. Howe

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, persons or animals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.