by Roger Hayden
Victoria sat at her desk, typing away and confident that she’d finish her budget spreadsheet before their afternoon conference call. It was almost lunch time, and she hadn’t left her desk from the moment she had sat down. She had spent two hours just responding to emails. In addition to her spreadsheet, she also had to update a slide show for tomorrow’s meeting while ensuring that the latest batch of optical lenses went to the assembly floor.
Her coffee mug sat next to her keyboard, empty. Her small office and its bare walls had little furniture beyond her desk and a small filing cabinet. She had moved from her cubicle into the private office less than a month ago, following her recent promotion to Lead Project Analyst. For Victoria, it was an exciting time in her career.
She glanced at her office phone as an announcement came over the speaker about a car with its headlights on in the parking lot. Fortunately, it wasn’t hers. Time was moving fast, and her stress-level was gradually increasing. She’d be fine, she assumed, if interruptions were kept to a minimum.
Suddenly a receptionist named Carol, known for her curly red hair, entered her office carrying a vase of flowers.
“Knock, knock,” she said, tapping the door with her knuckles.
Victoria looked up with a blank expression.
“These came in for you,” she said, extending the vase with both hands to Victoria, who attempted to mask her surprise. “Someone’s got an admirer!”
Victoria examined the spring flowers ─ iris and lilacs and baby’s breath, more confused than ever. “What are you talking about?”
Carol set them down on Victoria’s desk, blocking her view. There was a small note affixed to a card holder. Victoria took the note and read the tiny letters typed across it, “To Victoria, With Love.
“Who gave these to you?” she asked Carol.
Carol turned around and looked out of the office while adjusting her glasses. “A delivery boy dropped them off at the front desk.”
Victoria flipped the note over and saw that the other side was blank. There was no indication that would tell her what florist had delivered them.
“Did he say where he was from?” Victoria asked.
“He couldn’t have been more than seventeen,” Carol said. “He had a red polo shirt with a logo and everything on it. Some delivery service. I can’t remember. I figured they were from your husband.”
Victoria rose from her desk and looked past her office door toward the cubicles beyond.
“Maybe he wanted to surprise you,” Carol continued.
“Thanks,” Victoria said.
“My pleasure,” Carol said, leaving the office.
Victoria followed her out and slowly shut the door behind her. She then turned around and approached the flowers, examining them . That it was Todd’s doing had already crossed her mind, but he had never sent her flowers beyond traditional occasions like their anniversary, her birthday, or Valentine’s Day. Maybe he had wanted to make up for his distance the past few days. Maybe after more than a decade of marriage, he still had some tricks up his sleeve. She wondered why he hadn’t added his name. Todd was never one for anonymity.
Victoria moved the flowers from her desk to her small filing cabinet. She down unable to stop looking at the floral arrangement. She glanced over her desk and outside her office window as co-workers walked past in both directions. The IT guy, Kevin, she thought. He always had kind of a thing for me, but would he be so bold? He knows I’m married.
She thought of one of the project managers, Norm McCall, who had asked her repeatedly if she wanted to get a drink after work, but he was married as well. She sat behind her monitor, absently aware of the squeaking sound of a trash can, wheeling past her office outside. Pushing it was Joel, the janitor, a quiet, polite man who said little more than hello or goodbye. Victoria watched as he glanced into her window; she could have sworn that he winked at her. But the thought of anyone from work sending her flowers was ridiculous. It had to be Todd.
It was already past noon and she still had a lot to complete before her two o’clock conference call. She began to type, returning to her work, and then stopped. She reached for her office phone and dialed Todd, waiting. After several rings, she was taken to his automated message. Frustrated, she hung up and went back to typing, only to stop again. The smell of the fresh flowers again tantalized her curiosity. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to know.
She rose and walked to her door, opening it. Outside, co-workers shuffled around the cubicle area conversing. A thought suddenly crossed her mind. The flowers could have been meant for another Victoria in the building. At that point, she decided to investigate.
She left her office and walked past a row of offices, pushing open the double doors at the end of the hall and into the front lobby. Carol sat behind the front desk, leaning back in her chair and talking into a headset. Victoria approached the desk and leaned against its hard surface, waiting.
“How can I help you, Victoria?” Carol asked with a smile as she hung up her call.
Victoria leaned in closer, almost as though she were speaking in confidence. “Hey, Carol. I was just thinking about those flowers. Did they address me directly? Maybe they were meant for another Victoria.”
Carol displayed a concerned expression as she thought to herself. “The delivery person said that they were a delivery for Victoria Owens. They left them here and left.”
“You didn’t have to sign for them or anything?” Victoria asked.
Carol thought to herself. “No. They just put them here and left.”
Victoria nodded. “Thanks, Coral.”
She turned and looked out the lobby windows on the slight chance that the delivery person was still there. But no one was there. She then waved to Carol and headed back to her office in a hurry.
By six o’clock that evening, Victoria lay on the living room couch with her shoes off and the evening news on mute. It had been a day of crammed deadlines, conference calls, and meetings—one thing piled upon the other, with only more of it to look forward to the next day. Todd wasn’t home yet, and Brooke was in her room with the door closed and music playing as usual.
Victoria brought her head back against the couch cushion and stared at the ceiling, closing her eyes as a familiar rustic engine rumbled outside and drove past her house. She moved from the couch immediately to look out the living room window.
Between the blinds, she saw the shadow of a car cruise past their house, the very same Oldsmobile she had seen earlier that morning. She watched as the car faded from view, curious as it sped away from her house. A new neighbor?
She went back to the couch and laid down, closing her eyes just as Brooke came out into the living room. “Mom?” she said, nudging Victoria’s arm. “Mom, wake up.”
“Yes,” she said with her eyes still closed.
“Mom. Can we get a dog please?” she said, shaking her.
Victoria opened her eyes and sat up. “A dog? What are you talking about?”
“All my friends have pets. Katie phoned me just now that she’s getting one. You and Dad have never let me get a pet before. You both told me to wait until I’m older. Well, I’m old enough now to handle a dog, don’t you think?”
Victoria hesitated and glanced at the TV, eyes widening as she grabbed the remote.
“Are you listening?” Brooke asked.
“Quiet,” Victoria said, turning up the volume.
Photos of a recently murdered local woman, Susan Shields, filled the screen, each picture of a happier time. The screen dissolved to news footage of the lake her body was found in, reportedly wrapped in a black plastic bag and sunk to the bottom with weights. Victoria considered few things more terrifying than the bleak prospects of a deep, watery grave. The reporter’s voice-over narration provided more details:
“The missing woman’s body was discovered by local fishermen who noticed it while on an early morning troll. The weights holding her down had apparently come loose, allowing part of the tarp holdi
ng her to rise to the surface.”
“Is this that missing woman they found?” Brooke asked, turning to face the TV.
“Yes, it is,” Victoria said, eyes locked forward and sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees propping her chin. “Now, let me listen to this.”
“Susan Shields, wife and mother of two, disappeared three weeks ago from her Clearwater home. A homemaker, her husband and children came home to find that she had inexplicably disappeared. A massive search followed and she was presumed missing until the tragic discovery of her body in the shallow reserve of Humphrey Lake, a favorite fishing spot for Clearwater residents and tourists alike.
“A candlelight vigil will be held tonight at 8p.m. at DuPont Park. Police are actively looking for a suspect and encourage anyone with information about Mrs. Shields, her abduction, or her murder to call the crime line where police are offering ten thousand dollars for information that leads to an arrest.”
Victoria rocked back with a sigh. The murderer was still at large. At that moment, a thought troubled her. “Oh no!”
“What is it?” Brooke said, confused and startled.
Victoria shook her head, thinking of the chain letter in her purse. She had forgotten to take it to the police station. Though she wasn’t sure that it would do any good. She grabbed the remote and shut off the TV, rising from the couch.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just forgot to run some errands after work.”
“So, have you decided on it yet?” Brooke asked with her hands behind her back and a smile on her face.
“On what?” Victoria said, her mind elsewhere.
“On my dog!” Brooke said with a heightened tone. “Can I get one or not?”
Victoria squeezed Brooke’s shoulder, trying to smile. “Someone has a birthday coming up. We’ll see.”
Brooke’s face beamed. “Are you serious?”
“We will see,” Victoria repeated.
Brooke jumped up, ecstatic. “Thanks, Mom!”
Victoria leaned forward with her hand out, urging calm. “Now, Brooke. We don’t even know what breed you want. And—”
Brooke spun around. “That’s easy, Mom. I want an Australian Shepherd. They’re cute as puppies, then they get all big and fluffy.”
“Okay, honey,” Victoria said, rubbing her head. “How about a little peace and quiet for your mother?” But Brooke was already halfway down the hall, singing to herself.
Victoria’s attention then went to the front of the house at the sound of Todd’s car pulling into the driveway, headlights shining through the windows. He was finally home. Now she could get to the bottom of everything.
Suspects
Leesburg, South Carolina
The smell of formaldehyde was inescapable throughout the cold, sterile room. Flat stainless steel counters with long, silver faucets lined the aqua and white tiled walls. Rows of metal freezer doors consumed the wall across from the sinks and somewhere in the middle, a long flat table with an overhead dome light connected to the ceiling with an arm.
Seventy-eight-year-old Andrea Bailey lay on the table with a blue blanket covering her stiffened body up to the neck. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was a straight line. The crack at the top of her skull was still exposed, but it had been cleaned.
A line of glimmering surgical tools rested atop a nearby wheeled table. Dr. James Galligan, Summerville County’s Chief Medical Examiner, stood over her body on one side of the table, while Detective Dobson stood on the other.
Dr. Galligan was dressed in his surgical robe, gloves, and face shield. Dobson wore a simple gown, hair cover, and gloves. Lying on the cold aluminum surface of the operating table, Mrs. Bailey finally looked at peace. Her color had shifted to a darker blue, the wrinkles on her face and body thick as leather.
Dr. Galligan had concluded that Mrs. Bailey had died from a broken neck and severe trauma to the skull. Her ribs had also been broken, along with multiple compound fractures.
Galligan moved his gloved hand up to her mouth and pulled at her top lip, exposing her gums and missing tooth. “Impressive that she still had her teeth. All but one.”
For a moment, they said nothing as Dobson looked upon Mrs. Bailey’s frail, sunken face and thin, curly gray hair.
Dr. Galligan slowly walked away from the table as the air conditioner hummed in the distance. “I can’t find any evidence of physical trauma beyond the fall,” he said, turning around. He looked at Dobson with his large eyes blinking from behind square-framed glasses. “It’s very strange.”
Dobson nodded and paced around the table. “Her entire mansion was left in shambles. Tables and chairs flipped. Broken lamps. Clothes and papers everywhere.”
Galligan walked to the nearest sink and pulled his latex gloves off, tossing them into a wastebasket. “You don’t say,” he said, washing his hands.
Dobson approached him and spoke quietly. “She was a harmless old woman. There was no reason for this.”
Galligan shut the faucet off and turned to Dobson as he dried his hands. “Maybe they didn’t want any witnesses. People can be thoughtlessly cruel. You know that.”
Dobson glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m due at the station.” He then sighed and turned away, ready to leave the examination room. “How long did you say that she had been dead?”
“Approximately thirty-six hours,” Galligan said, switching off the overhead light. “I’ll send you the death certificate later today.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Dobson said as he left the room. “Drinks on me next time.”
Galligan laughed. “That’ll be the day.”
Dobson waved and pushed the door open, walking down a dim hall to the nearest restroom. Once inside, he pulled off his gloves and hair cover, tossing them into a wastebasket. His hands rested on a sink as he looked at the small mirror above. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the stubble on his cheeks had grown darker, altering what was earlier only a five o’clock shadow. His short dark hair was graying on both sides and below his brown eyes he detected fine lines that were beginning to look like wrinkles. At forty-five, he wasn’t getting any younger.
By 4 p.m., Dobson was back at his desk typing his report on Mrs. Bailey. The walls to his office were empty except for a few framed awards for meritorious action in the line of duty. Across from his desk was a large wheeled bulletin board with several notes and photographs from previous cases, many of them still open. A framed photo of his wife, Rachel, and daughter, Penny, sat near his office phone, but he was focused on his report that glowed on the computer monitor screen.
Dr. Galligan had emailed the certificate, citing the time of her death at around 9 p.m., two nights prior. Her attacker or the culprits involved had chosen a relatively early evening time, when Mrs. Bailey could still have been awake. For two nights, she lay dead in her foyer, and for two nights, no one noticed.
Dobson’s office door was closed along with the blinds on his window. No one had bothered him yet, but the captain was expecting a five o’clock brief. Dobson’s routine phone check-ins with Forensics had produced little result. They did, however, find a jewelry box in her bedroom that looked as though it had been pilfered.
Dobson finished the first draft of his report and prepared to read it over when his phone rang, breaking his concentration. He pressed the speaker button on the second ring.
“Detective Dobson.”
“Dobson, it’s Fitzgerald. I need you to meet me at Holding Room C.”
“What’s going on?”
“Evelyn Bailey is here. She came straight from the airport.”
Dobson rose from his chair and grabbed his notebook. “I’m on my way.”
He quickly walked around his desk and exited his office. Down a gray-carpeted hall, he passed several offices and took a sharp left, avoiding Captain Nelson’s door along the way. He then flashed his key card across a sensor and opened the heavy door to the holding room block where he saw Fitzpatrick and a uniformed officer standing down the way. Dob
son rushed toward them, looking around for the niece, but didn’t see her anywhere.
“Relax,” Fitzgerald said, raising a hand. “We haven’t talked to her yet.” He paused and signaled toward the door. “She’s in there now, very upset, and I told her that we’d give her a minute.”
Dobson walked past them without a word and went straight to a nearby security desk, where a row of small screens displayed the grainy surveillance images of all five holding rooms. On one of the screens, he could see Evelyn Bailey sitting at a table alone and wiping tears from her eyes with Kleenex. She looked young and sophisticated in her expensive-looking black jacket, and the simplicity of her pinned-back hair showed to good effect the large diamond earrings, dangling from her ears.
Her fingers tapped nervously against the table as she bobbed her head, lips moving.
“Have you asked her any questions?” Dobson asked as Fitzpatrick approached. “Confirmed her alibi?”“
Fitzpatrick looked around and then stepped closer. “Let’s make a few things clear. Evelyn Bailey is not yet a suspect. She happens to head an organization that donates millions to police charities across the country, including our own. I hope that you can appreciate that.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dobson said, and quickly changed the subject. “Any word on that Suburban?”
Fitzpatrick glanced at him. “The Suburban?” he asked, and after a beat, quickly got back on track. “Nothing yet, unfortunately.”
Dobson checked his watch and then looked back at Fitzpatrick with an indifferent shrug. “Captain Nelson is expecting his brief soon. Better get this over with.”
His relationship with the homicide department’s fresh-faced new lieutenant had been rocky since Fitzpatrick’s arrival only two months prior. Straight from the academy, he was eager and sharp, but was also younger and less experienced. It seemed to constantly put him at odds with Dobson, who was nearing retirement.