“Really? Why?” interrupted Samantha.
“I needed an elective,” replied Peter with a smile. “But I remember a lecture on how the Egyptians mummified the Pharaohs. It was a long, time-consuming process. Even with modern day equipment and methods, there’s no way to do it quickly.”
“Pull together a description of the doctor, and put out an APB. I want to talk to Dr. Hardwick,” ordered Samantha.
“Then what?”
“We’ll search the house, and head over to Dr. Hardwick’s office. I want a word with his receptionist.”
_______________
The sun had set hours before Samantha finally crossed the threshold of her townhouse. Tossing her keys on the table by the door, Samantha flicked on the light in the foyer and stood still for a moment, listening to the silence in her home. She heard nothing. With her hand resting on the grip of her holstered gun, Samantha tread softly into the kitchen and turned on the light. She glanced around the room, and found everything in its place. Down the hall, she did the same in the living room with identical results. She made her way through each room of the house, turning on the lights, and giving each space a cursory glance before feeling safe enough to lower her guard. A year ago, she would have followed this routine religiously every night. It had been at least three months since she had felt it necessary, but tonight, she felt an overwhelming urge. It made her feel safe. Cursing under her breath, Samantha realized that she had just undone what had taken a year of therapy to fix. It was just another habit that she had been fighting for the past two years.
Removing the leather holster from her hip, Samantha returned to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine from the open bottle that had been chilling in the refrigerator. She and her partner had searched Dr. Hardwick’s home, finding nothing to indicate the whereabouts of the missing physician. In fact, there had been nothing out of the ordinary in the home, apart from the two withered corpses. When they had left the Thirteenth Street townhouse, two attendants from the Medical Examiner’s office were loading the victims into their van, and the forensics team were busy “bagging and tagging” anything that remotely resembled evidence in the home.
Peter and Samantha had made their way across the city to Dr. Hardwick’s office on Walnut Street. Their interview with the receptionist had been short and uninformative. Nicole Greenwood had only been employed in the office for about four months, and was still getting to know all of the staff. She had stated that the doctor had last been seen the previous Thursday evening when he left the office. He had not been heard from since. She had made several attempts to call the doctor, both at home and on his mobile phone.
While Peter interviewed the doctor’s partner and the other members of the office staff, Samantha had made preliminary search of Dr. Hardwick’s office, finding little of interest. From all accounts, Hardwick had been a hardworking, well-respected fertility specialist. “No, he hadn’t been acting strangely,” “As far as I know, he loved his family,” and “I’m not aware of any patients that might have held a grudge against him” were the answers they received from everyone they spoke to in the doctor’s office. With nothing more than a list of Dr. Hardwick’s patients, Samantha and Peter headed back to their office, feeling no closer to finding the culprit of this latest string of deaths. When Samantha had left the office that evening, Peter had been still sitting at his desk, studying the doctor’s patient list.
“Don’t stay too late,” Samantha had said on her way out the door.
Sitting in her living room, Samantha sipped her wine and considered all that had happened over the past couple of weeks. None of it made any sense, and she had a creeping feeling that things were only going to get worse before she and Peter made any headway. With that final thought, she swallowed the rest of her wine in one gulp, set the glass on the coffee table, and headed to bed.
Chapter Eight
The tires of the dark blue Mercedes were perfectly aligned less than an inch from the curb, which Samantha found to be quite a feat to accomplish on the streets of Philadelphia. There were no scuffmarks on the tires themselves, so the driver was apparently very skilled at parallel parking on the city streets. Samantha was standing on a street in the prominent Society Hill neighborhood, which consisted of a long block of townhouses, all of which would have cost six times her annual salary. The brick buildings were a mix of old and new architectural styling. The more traditional townhouses clung to the styling that was common among many of the old colonial buildings in Philadelphia: large shutters for each symmetrically placed narrow window, lantern-styled porch lights, and a decorative trellis surrounding the front door. In between those were the more modern homes of brick, steel, and glass, looking as if they had forced their way into the neighborhood like some kind of rogue architectural experiment. The more modern style townhouses along Delancey Street were more appealing to Samantha, but she had to admit that they looked out of place with their large multi-floor bay windows, stylized brickwork, and double door entries.
She walked around the Mercedes, looking carefully at every aspect of the exterior of the automobile. Peter Thornton followed a few steps behind, taking notes in a small notebook. After rounding the vehicle twice, Samantha stopped on the sidewalk and shook her head. Two uniformed police officers were busy stretching yellow police tape from one light post to the other, cordoning off the street and sidewalk. The spring-like weather over the city meant that Samantha could soon expect more than the usual share of gawkers that Wednesday afternoon. There were those who would simply appear at the perimeter of a crime scene to watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of a body. She despised people like that. Samantha knew, with the nice weather, that they could add the curious walkers and joggers to the list of those showing up to stare, observe, and snap pictures with their smart phones.
The two detectives had received the call about the corpse shortly after they had finished lunch. On the drive over, Samantha was dreading what they would find in the parked car in the Society Hill section of the city. But the dread was caused by more than just for what they might find. She had spent far too much time in the area during the Society Hill Serial Killer investigation to ever want to return again, especially as part of another investigation. She had closed her eyes for a moment on the ride across town, and she could see the bloody message as clear as day in her mind. The words were always the first memory to return, and it was always the hardest.
Slipping a pair of latex gloves over her hands, Samantha said, “Let’s get this done and over with.”
She walked around to the driver side door, and lifted the handle. Peter did the same on the passenger side. A faint odor of cigar smoke wafted out as the doors opened. Samantha noted that the vehicle’s ashtray held the ash and the stub of a cigar, the plastic wrapper of which was resting amidst the ash. A smart phone was propped up in one of the cup holders between the two front seats, while a blue and silver striped tie lay in a ball on the passenger seat. The driver’s seat had been pushed back as far as it could go, and reclined to its full extent, placing its occupant into a partially supine position. The occupant of the driver’s seat was wearing a pinstripe suit, and white silk shirt, the top three buttons of which were undone. The egg-shaped head was topped with thinning white hair, and some matching tufts of chest hair peeked out from over the collar of a white t-shirt. Samantha gazed momentarily at the face before turning away. The skin, like that of the other victims, was dry and withered. His eyes were open, and stared forward with unblinking resolve. The lips formed an almost perfect circle, frozen in the state of a final scream.
Pointing to the large gold wedding band on one of the bony fingers, Samantha said, “He’s married.”
Peter, gesturing to the man’s undone trousers, added, “I’m guessing his wife didn’t do that.”
Samantha struggled, without success, to suppress a smile. She glanced out the front and back car windows to make sure no one had seen her smile, and th
en returned to the task at hand. She checked the ignition switch, and found the keys still hanging from it. Carefully, she pulled open the man’s suit jacket, and checked the inside pockets. Finding a leather wallet, she slid it from the pocket and flipped it open.
She read aloud the name on the driver’s license. “James P. Seymour.”
Gesturing toward the back seat, Peter added, “There’s a briefcase back there.”
Samantha pulled back the collar of the dead man’s shirt and looked at the neck. The hand-shaped pinpricks, which had become increasingly familiar, were faintly visible.
Looking across the car at her partner, Samantha whispered, “Hardwick’s handiwork?”
Peter shook his head and muttered, “Don’t know.”
While the forensics team began the meticulous process of combing the Mercedes and surrounding area for clues, Samantha and Peter opened the briefcase they found in the back seat. The case itself was made from expensive black leather, and had gold latches and locks. Not knowing the combination, Peter pulled a pocketknife from his pocket, and used the blade to pop open the latches. Inside, they found three stacks of papers, which Samantha recognized as legal briefs, bundled together with paper clips. Besides the papers, the briefcase also contained half a dozen pens, and a business card case. Peter opened the small gold case to find business cards with the dead man’s name emblazoned on them.
“I thought I recognized the name!” exclaimed Peter. “He’s a lawyer with an office downtown. Mostly works on wills, trusts, and stuff like that. They put together my parents’ will.”
“His address is just a couple blocks from here. If he wasn’t in the car with his wife then he was taking an awful risk. Any of his neighbors could have walked past and seen him. Hell, his wife could have walked by.”
“He could’ve been by himself. You know, shaking hands with the man downstairs?”
Samantha turned toward her partner and asked, “What?”
Embarrassed, Peter tried to explain. “You know . . . Um, slapping the weasel? Rubbing his genie?”
“If you’re asking me if I think he could have been sitting in his car masturbating, then my answer’s no. He didn’t give himself those marks on his neck. And he sure as hell didn’t dehydrate himself,” retorted Samantha.
Feeling a little chastised, Peter replied. “Sorry. It was a ridiculous theory. Shouldn’t have said anything.”
Samantha shook her head. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I’m just frustrated. Look, Peter. You and I both saw that security footage. And we’ve seen six other bodies just like this one. This whole thing is insane. People just don’t die like this.”
“Seven’s enough to call it a serial killer,” uttered Peter.
Serial Killer. The two words made Samantha cringe. Since she had joined the homicide department, there had only been one known serial killer in Philadelphia. It had been a long and grueling investigation, on which she had been the lead investigator. The Society Hill Serial Killer had killed eleven times over a span of five months before he was arrested. The killings had been brutal, the crime scenes had been horrific, and the press had been absolutely ruthless. Every officer who was involved had been stretched close to the breaking point, Samantha most of all. Although she had maintained a tough, callous exterior, the toll that the investigation had on her was immense. The nightmares had lasted for months, and she had only recently been able to start sleeping without her loaded firearm under her pillow. Of the eleven deaths, one had been particularly hard on Samantha, leaving her grief-stricken and guilt-ridden ever since. The thought of going through it all again, and especially with such a bizarre series of deaths, was something that filled her with utter dread.
“I sure as hell hope not,” she said. “What have we got? Two suspects, a video of one of the killings, and no other clues at the crime scenes. We can’t find either suspect. We’re spinning in circles and getting nowhere.”
“A good photo of her face would be helpful,” said Peter.
Samantha agreed with her partner. After three days with the security footage, the forensics team had reported that they had not been successful at finding a single clear image of the woman’s face. In every second of footage from outside the club, her face had been either turned away from the camera, or obscured from view.
The shrill ringing of her mobile phone interrupted Samantha’s train of thought, forcing her to frown as she extracted the device from her coat pocket. She placed it to her ear and answered with a gruff “hello”. As she listened, Samantha’s frown grew deeper, and she began to shake her head. Peter stood silently watching her expression turn from one of annoyance to disgust, and then finally anger.
When the call was over, she slid the phone back in her coat pocket, and said, “The feds are sending up a profiler from D.C., and two agents from the Philly office are on their way here right now.”
Peter grimaced at her news. “What do we do now?”
“We divide our resources and get out of here before they show up. Take one of the uniformed officers with you and go see the family. I’m going to go to Mr. Seymour’s office,” commanded Samantha.
_______________
The offices of Haskell, Seymour, and Meyers were on the twenty-fifth floor of the Independence Capital building in downtown Philadelphia. Samantha sat in the small conference room waiting for Fredrick Haskell, the senior partner for the firm. The oval table in the center of the room had a grey speckled granite top, and a dark wood pedestal underneath. The far wall contained a floor to ceiling window, which looked out over the city. A large screen television hung from the wall at the end of the table, and the ten chairs surrounding the table were covered in fine black leather. The secretary in the reception area had been hesitant at first to allow the detective to see Mr. Haskell without an appointment, but Samantha had found that her badge and the threat of arrest for obstruction was extremely persuasive. “Mr. Haskell is just finishing up with another client and will be with you shortly,” the receptionist had explained as she had pulled the conference room door closed.
Samantha spent the next ten minutes staring out the window at the building across the street. She had a clear view into some of the offices, and idly watched men and women come and go, oblivious to her observation. When the conference room door opened again, an elderly man, in his mid-sixties by Samantha’s judgment, entered slowly. He pushed the door closed with a gentle click and then, with deliberate steps, circled the table until he was standing on the opposite side from Samantha.
“My name is Fredrick Haskell. And you are?” he said slowly and precisely, as if ensuring that each and every syllable received equal time on his lips.
Samantha rose, and introduced herself. “Detective Ballard.”
The elderly man gestured Samantha to return to her seat, which she did. He was a tall, gaunt man with a balding head, lined along the sides with short white hair. His oversized ears protruded out from the sides of his thin narrow face. The crisp, blue eyes were closely spaced above a long, bony nose. His dark suit hung from his meager frame, and seemed almost a size too big.
“Detective Ballard, did you threaten to arrest my receptionist if she did not allow you to see me?” he asked.
Samantha smiled. “No, Mr. Haskell. I merely stated that obstructing a police officer in the pursuit of her duty was a misdemeanor offense, but one that still meant being handcuffed and taken into custody. Just a simple statement to keep your staff informed on police procedure.”
Haskell slowly lowered himself into a chair, and stared across the table at Samantha with his cold eyes. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was. You seem far too intelligent to bandy threats around the offices of a law firm.”
“Mr. Haskell, I needed to speak to you as quickly as possible. I’m sorry, but I have to inform you that James Seymour was found dead this morning. I’m investigating his murder.”
Fr
edrick Haskell’s cold eyes seemed to thaw rapidly, and the color in his face drained away. He looked down at the table and did not move for several moments. Samantha waited patiently as the shock from her words wore off. When Haskell finally returned his gaze to the detective, the eyes looked sad and tired.
“I’m the one who should apologize. You’re simply here to do your job. We’re not a law firm that practices criminal law, so we don’t deal with the police very often. The firm will, of course, cooperate in whatever way we can,” Haskell stated.
“Thank you. I’ll try not to be too invasive during the investigation.”
“That is appreciated. Are you permitted to give any details about his death?” Haskell inquired.
Samantha replied, “A little. He was found this morning in his car, parked a few blocks from his home in Society Hill.”
“Does his wife know?”
Nodding, Samantha stated, “My partner’s at his home now.”
Haskell shook his head. “Poor Elizabeth. She’ll be devastated.”
“Mr. Haskell, do you know if James Seymour had any enemies, or any clients that might hold a grudge?”
Haskell again shook his head. “No. We deal mostly with wills, trusts, and legal matters for small and mid-size businesses. Fairly boring stuff, in all honesty.”
“How long has he been a partner in the firm?”
“Eight years. But he’s worked here for almost twenty. He was one of our staff attorneys,” Haskell explained. “Well liked, and had done an admirable job with anything we assigned to him. James was a hard worker, and well versed in business law. Harvard graduate with top marks. He had impressed us for so many years that Andrew Meyer and I finally decided to make him a full partner.”
Sirens in the Night Page 7