by Roger Hayden
Sterling waved to everyone and said hello.
“Found anything?” Dobson asked. “Or did they bleach it to high heaven?”
Detective Riley nodded. “The bathroom was soaked in the stuff. Go in there and smell for yourself.”
Sally then walked over, her red hair tied back in a ponytail and swinging side-to-side with each step. “Not a drop of blood beyond the mess in her bed.”
Dobson turned to the kitchen with a sigh and saw two police outside the kitchen window, searching the backyard, with a K-9 sniffing the ground.
“She was decapitated,” he said. “There’s got to be more blood than that.”
“Not in the bathroom, kitchen, or garage,” Cross said. “And as far as prints, it doesn’t look like anyone else has been here in ages.”
“There has to be something,” Dobson said, walking toward the hallway. “What else did you see in the bedroom?”
“Ran the infrared scanner through the carpet and bed,” Sally said. “But it’s far from cleared.”
“We’ll be good,” he said, signaling to Sterling as he entered the hall. She followed him to the stuffy bedroom where sunlight shone onto the bed, its sheets tossed to the side and stained with blood where her headless body had been propped. Ever quiet, Dobson walked to the foot of the bed and then scanned the messy room, ceiling to floor, side-to-side on all four walls.
His eyes stopped at an open closet to the left. Beyond the full rack of hanging clothes were stacked boxes filling the entire closet. Some were marked by years. Other said “Fragile,” with no indication of what was packed inside.
Sterling stood beside Dobson and followed his gaze toward the closet. “What’s on your mind?”
For a moment, he didn’t respond. “Just a hunch. Nothing else.”
“Looks like she was kind of a pack rat,” Sterling added.
“Yeah,” Dobson responded, hands on his hips and scanning the room. He then moved toward the closet, taking a closer look inside. “Forty-two years old. Probably graduated at seventeen. That’s twenty-five years ago.” He scanned the boxes further, from top to bottom, and found what his hunch had told him to look for: a small moving box labeled “1991,” stacked with others in the closet labeled “1984” and “2005.”
“It’s a long shot,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. He turned his head to see Sterling standing right behind him. “Here. Give me some room.” She backed away as he stood on the tip of his toes, hands high and extended, and took the first box from the top shelf. “Here,” he said, handing it to Sterling. “Set this on the floor, but be careful.”
He then turned and pulled out the 1991 box and brought it to a nearby dresser, setting it down. Sterling approached him, as eager as he was.
He carefully opened the box, finding newspapers, folders, and albums all packed inside. He then looked at Sterling, hesitant. “There has to be something in here we can use. Ms. Wade knew that someone was coming for her, and it may have had something to do with this upcoming high school reunion.”
Sterling looked into the box. “Her yearbook would be a good start. If she kept one.”
“Exactly,” Dobson said. He meticulously pulled folders and old newspapers from the box and set them aside as Sterling watched quietly.
Out of the blue, she asked him, “What happened with that one case?”
Dobson stopped and looked at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. “What case?”
“Andrea Bailey and her niece. Where your lieutenant planted evidence. You busted him, right?”
His focus went back to the box as he continued removing items one by one, not interested in discussing the past. “That’s in the past.”
Sterling laughed. “It was only two months ago. I remember hearing about it on the news.”
Dobson paused and glanced at her, unamused. “I had a lot to prove at the time, but I’ve moved on.”
Though he assumed that she would probe further, she said nothing more. Moving a mess of papers aside, he came across a plush Winnie the Pooh and Tigger doll and set them to the side. Sterling then took both dolls and held them, smiling.
Having removed most of its contents, Dobson paused and stared into the box. At the bottom was a large, hardcover book with a spiral binding that said Summerville High School, 1991. His eyes lit up as he quickly grabbed it with both hands and held it like a priceless artifact.
“Wow…” Sterling said. “Who would have thought?”
“I had a hunch,” he said. “Let’s hope it leads to something.
The cover was a heavy, textured stock with a cream-colored background. Carefully, he turned it back. The pages inside were glossy white, the first one a dedication to the principal, Mr. Caleb Greene, a smiling, bespectacled man wearing a bow tie. The next page listed the class officers with their photos. He couldn’t help but begin to flip through it fast, glance at the photos from a time long past, and wonder how their lives were turning out. How innocent everyone looked.
Sterling looked back at the closet as Dobson remained invested in his find. “You know, if Ms. Wade was inclined to hold onto things, as it seems she was, there has to be a collection of letters somewhere from our killer. I hardly believe that he only sent her one.” She approached the closet and scanned the stack of boxes, moving some of Ms. Wade’s shirts to the side.
“You see a box marked for recent years?” Dobson asked, his eyes still on the yearbook.
Sterling hesitated and then jumped back with excitement as she saw something. “Yes. Believe it or not. Right here.” She pointed to the top shelf where 2016 was written across a shoebox in black magic marker.
Dobson glanced up at her. “Grab it.”
Sterling raised her hands high and reached for the box, her fingers barely touching its surface. She managed to nudge it off the shelf’s edge and carried it near to where Dobson was standing and set it on the floor, just as Dobson’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
Still in search of Betsy Wade’s senior picture, he kept his finger in place as a bookmark and reached for his phone. The number on the screen said Police Department, and he hoped it wasn’t Captain Nelson demanding an update. If so, he wasn’t sure what he was going to tell him.
“Detective Dobson,” he said, answering it.
“Sorry to bug you, Mike,” Nelson began.
Dobson closed his eyes, sighing on the inside.
“Yes sir…”
“You’re needed back at the station again. The victim’s mother is here.”
“She is?” he said, his eyes reaching Sterling’s as she perked up.
“That’s right. I don’t know what to tell her yet, but we can’t keep her waiting.”
“I understand, sir.” He paused and took a quick glance at his watch. “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.” He hung up and looked at Sterling, shaking his head. “That didn’t take long. Barbara Wade is at the station.” He paused, put his phone back in his pocket, and spoke with newfound urgency. “Let’s go.”
Sterling tilted the box for him to see inside. “It’s filled with letters. You want me to stay here?”
“No,” he said. “Bring it.” He turned and walked out of the room in a hurry, with the yearbook in hand.
Startled by the sudden change, Sterling closed the 2016 box and carried it out of the room, following Dobson.
“We’ve got to go to the station,” he announced to the other detectives. “But we’ll be back soon.”
“Where are you taking that?” Lieutenant Cross asked, pointing to the shoebox in Sterling’s hands.
“Back to the station,” Dobson answered.
“Yeah, but Mike…”
“It’s just a box of letters,” Dobson said, walking out of the house. “We need them.” As they continued along the walkway leading to the driveway, Detective Jones approached, crossing the lawn from the other side.
“What have you got there?” she said.
Dobson slowed his pace and stopped as Sterling tripped to a h
alt, barely avoiding a collision.
“A little bit of history,” he answered. “How’s the questioning going?”
Jones shook her head. “You’ve got Sergeant Schultz in each house so far. They know nothing.”
Dobson cracked a smile. “That’s unfortunate. Listen, we’ve got to run back to the station. Barbara Wade arrived, and I need to talk to her. Are you okay here?”
Jones shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s gotta do it.” Her shoulders were drooping, and her lips pressed together in a grimace. “I find it hard to believe there’s a cover-up, but you’d think it, talking to these residents.”
“Not sure why, but thanks, Gabby. You’re the best,” Dobson said.
She smiled and wished him luck as Dobson resumed his quick pace and rushed past the police talking in the driveway. He and Sterling got into the car and Dobson wasted no time, turning the ignition key and hitting the gas. As the Crown Victoria roared to life, he felt an excitement with the job he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe Sterling’s presence had something to do with it. To have someone watching him work, someone to mentor, was a motivation he hadn’t counted on. But there was little time to reflect on what was driving him and why it felt so good for a change.
Dobson put the car into reverse, turned around, and sped off in the opposite direction from which they’d come, leaving a floating cloud of dust in his wake.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” he muttered under his breath. To him, every homicide investigation was a test to see who was smarter, the investigator or the perpetrator. Though their killer had taken careful measures, Dobson was confident that they’d find something he hadn’t counted on. It was the best chance they had.
The Chain Continues
Dobson’s cell phone vibrated as they arrived at the station. This time it was his wife. He held the phone up, hesitant, as Sterling looked out the window. From above, a large cloud shielded the sun, providing some temporary shade. He opened the door and stepped out of the car, answering the phone.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“I saw the news,” Rachel said. “What happened? Did you catch him yet?”
Dobson stepped away from the car and looked around the parking lot full of vehicles. “We’re working on it.”
“Penny isn’t feeling well,” she said, changing the topic. “Might be one of those days. I’m holding off taking her to the hospital for now.”
“Keep me posted,” he asked, phone pressed against his ear.
Sterling was now outside the Crown Victoria, leaning against its side, her back to him and watching the police station ahead.
“Just keep monitoring her, and remember what I said. Keep the windows and doors locked.”
A brief pause and then she spoke. “Will you be home for dinner?”
Dobson thought to himself. “Hard to tell right now. There’s a lot going on.”
Rachel said nothing more beyond wishing him well. He turned back to the car, trying to clear his mind of any problems from home. He needed to concentrate. He felt a strange chill as he turned toward the police station. Sterling stood by his car, her shoulder-length hair blowing in the passing breeze, like it had before.
“Come on,” he said, waving her toward the station.
They walked between two parked police cruisers and through the parking lot, approaching the front entrance. The building’s familiar stucco pillars and bright flower boxes, courtesy of the Park’s Department, were clear reminders that they had been through its doors not long ago.
“What are we going to ask the victim’s mother?” Sterling asked.
Dobson approached the entrance door and opened it for her. “Everything she knows.”
They passed the front desk and down the hall to a keycard entry. Dobson waved a white card past the sensor, unlocking the door with a beep and flash of a tiny green light. They entered the Homicide unit where men and women sat at their desks, working the phones and computers in cubicles with acoustic padding. A few were on their feet and talking in small groups or walking fast, passing through.
“How many detectives work here in all?” Sterling asked, looking around.
“Six in homicide,” he said. “One officer, Captain Nelson, who you’ve met.”
“Lieutenant Fitzpatrick. That was his name,” she said.
Dobson suddenly halted and looked at her. “Pardon?”
“The lieutenant who planted the evidence in the Bailey murder. He tried to frame that one guy.”
“Randall Morris,” Dobson said curtly.
“Yeah. That was him. Why did your lieutenant do that?”
“I don’t know,” Dobson said, turning away and leaving her to catch up.
As they reached the captain’s office, he could see the blurry shape of someone sitting inside across from Nelson’s desk. Barbara Wade must have arrived quickly after hearing about her daughter, Betsy. He had heard that she was a widow and that Betsy was her only daughter, and he couldn’t think of a sadder turn of events to befall anyone.
He knocked on the door and entered after the captain told them to come in. Barbara turned and looked as they entered. She wore a red bandana over her gray hair and had a solemn expression on her face. She was thin and aged, wearing a checked button-down shirt with her sleeves rolled up. Her eyes looked swollen, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. In her hand, she clenched a hanky.
From his desk, Captain Nelson held out his arm and introduce the detectives. “Mrs. Wade, this is Detective Dobson, our lead investigator on this case, and his partner, Detective Sterling.”
Barbara rose, but Dobson urged her to sit, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he said.
She offered a tired half smile. “You’ll forgive me if I’m a little out of it. I had always feared for Betsy, but nothing like this.”
“We’re very sorry,” Dobson said. “And we’re determined to find out exactly what happened.”
He pulled out a chair and sat to one side of Barbara.
“I just don’t get who would hurt my baby,” Barbara said, clutching her handkerchief. When she spoke, there was clear sadness in her voice, but she was not hysterical.
Dobson leaned in closer. “You just mentioned that you feared for Betsy’s safety. Can you elaborate?”
Barbara wiped her eyes with a quiet sniffle. “She was never quite the same after her divorce with Alan. She was intent on driving everyone away.”
Dobson flipped through his notepad and looked up. “She made several calls to the police about her neighbors over the past months. Complaints about noise and harassment. Did she ever mention a name to you? Someone who was particularly bothersome?”
Barbara took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. Sterling suddenly took the her left hand and squeezed it, providing support and encouragement, and Barbara didn’t seem to mind.
“It’s okay,” Sterling said. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”
Arms crossed, Captain Nelson then interjected. “Take your time, Ma’am. Anything at all you can remember could prove quite valuable in the end.”
Dobson glanced at him with a nod and then turned back to Barbara. “When was the last time you talked to your daughter?”
Barbara brought her arms down into her lap, squeezing the moist handkerchief in both hands. “Last night…” she sobbed. “She said that someone was after her and that her life was in danger.”
“Did she say who?” Dobson asked.
“I was very skeptical,” Barbara said, sobbing. “I thought it was just another one of her episodes. She struggled with the pills. I’ve been trying to get her help, but she cut me off, just like she did everyone else.” Her hands went to her face as she leaned forward onto her knees, crying.
Sterling brought another hand to her shoulder and rubbed Barbara’s back as her cries filled the room.
“Did she tell you about her high school friend who had been murdered?” D
obson asked.
Barbara froze and opened her eyes. “She did.”
“And who was her friend?”
“I-I don’t know,” she said, looking around. “Like I said, I was very skeptical. She never said a name.”
Captain Nelson rose from his chair, rolling it back onto the carpet. “What friend?”
Dobson calmly looked to the captain and tried his best to quell the rising emotions in the room. “The letter I showed you, sir. Betsy believed that there was a connection with a certain high school friend.”
“And who is that?” Nelson asked with apparent frustration.
“Sergeant Cruz told me that Betsy had mentioned someone by the name of Victoria Owens,” Dobson said. He then leaned closer to Ms. Wade, speaking calmly. “What about her relationship with her ex-husband?”
Ms. Wade flopped her arms back down as though there was no good answer. “She resented Alan for leaving her. I tried to visit multiple times, but things between us were… complicated.” She then brought her hands to her face, crying. “I wish I could have done more. I failed my only child…”
“It’s okay, ma’am. It’s not your fault,” Sterling said with a compassionate tone that resonated with Dobson.
A quietness enveloped the office, broken only by Barbara’s sobs. A commercial played on a muted television mounted to the corner wall. The sky outside the office windows was quickly turning to an overcast gray, the weather as unpredictable that day as anything else.
“This can’t be really happening,” Barbara said, distraught.
Nelson signaled to Dobson and pointed to a box of tissues on his desk. Dobson took the box and pulled a few out, handing them to the grieving mother. She took the tissues, and began to wipe her face, trying to stop sniffling.
“I don’t think Alan did it. He moved on and remarried,” she finally conceded.
“Were they on good terms, if any?” Dobson asked.
“They weren’t speaking as far as I know,” she answered.
“And she wasn’t seeing anyone else?” Sterling asked, cutting in.