“Oh, yes.” Parker tsked. “They were walking two pudgy Lhasa Apsos ... or Shih Tzus. I can never tell the difference.” He shrugged. “Anyway, both dogs pooped, and the owners didn’t pick it up!” His voice rose, and he threw his hands up. “Just kept walking!” He folded his arms in front of his chest and seemed to be blushing. “Sorry.”
“Pet peeve?” I asked.
That’s me, a regular standup. I should try an open mic session at the Comedy Store.
“Nice one.” He grinned, then firmed up his face and returned to looking serious. At least he didn’t seem about to toss his cookies at us anymore.
“What about vehicles? See any? Hear any?”
“Hmm. I don’t recall hearing or seeing anything.” Ken Doll shrugged.
“And you, Mr. Parker?” Bernie asked.
“I wasn’t paying attention, if you want to know the truth.” He studied the commotion in the park. “I only remember the old people.”
“Was he”—Ken Doll pointed to the picnic area—“an important person?”
“They’re all important persons to us.” I glanced at Bernie. He took a note of their phone numbers. I’d forgotten to do it when I requested their addresses. He told them we would be in touch if we needed more information and handed them a business card.
After leaving the park, we arrived at Franklin’s home amidst a flurry of activity. Officers came to speak to Franklin’s wife, but nobody had answered the door. The judge’s car, an Escalade, was about to be winched onto the department’s impound tow truck. Departmental vehicles had parked along the street near the home. Crime scene tape fluttered around the yard and door. The rambling single-story house had a two-car garage in front. The driveway curved toward the back and a detached structure stood in the rear yard. The Forensic Unit techs were awaiting our arrival to give them the go-ahead. Officer Carmichael stood outside the front door.
We showed our shields, signed the log, pulled on fresh gloves and booties, and stepped through the open door onto a tile floor. The killer must’ve left the door open. A small cherry wood hall table had toppled onto its side. I stepped around the mess on the floor—shattered pieces of a porcelain cup and saucer. A dried brown liquid had splattered the cream-colored walls and floor. Coffee? Tea? I turned to look at the doorframe. No signs of forced entry. We walked through the great room. The carpet showed a trail of drag marks. They led into the enormous master suite. My entire apartment could’ve fitted into this suite. Bernie whistled, and flipped on the lights.
“Oh my God.” I scanned the room and pushed the back of my wrist against my nose. The room looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. My mouth tasted as if I’d been holding pennies in it.
“Scene of the crime.” Bernie’s gaze darted around the room. Blood spatter seemed to cover every surface. A dark stain, still wet, had soaked the carpet near the foot of the bed. It was the size of a plastic kiddie pool. The mattress was soaked, too.
“Okay. So, he was dragged in here and ... tortured?”
I examined the bathroom. Clean.
“None of the others had been tortured,” Bernie said. “It looks like this is where the killer spent the most time with him. Assuming most of this is Franklin’s blood.”
“Yeah, it looks that way.” I looked in the shower and sink. Both dry. “The killer would’ve been covered in blood.”
“Hmm. I wonder if the judge knew his killer.”
“Well, based on the broken crockery in the hall, I’d say the judge didn’t let them in willingly.” I moved to the doorway.
“Or maybe he let them in, but something happened, and he changed his mind.”
“Maybe. There are drag marks leading to the bedroom, but not from the house, in the front.” I looked through the door to the backyard.
“How did his body leave this room?” Bernie asked.
I shrugged. “With all this blood, I’m assuming he didn’t walk out on his own.”
Bernie studied the carpet. “He was dead. Had to be.”
“The French doors,” I said, nodding toward them. “They left through the French doors.”
“And around the corner to the other driveway. Nobody would see a car back there.” Bernie stepped outside. “Let’s take a look.” The motion detector floodlights flicked on.
“Yep. That’s how they got out.” There was blood in the grass. I aimed the flashlight at the concrete where the motion-activated lights didn’t reach. “Blood over there.”
Bernie headed to the front of the house. “Let’s check out the Escalade.”
“Why would someone take his car, then bring it back?”
“Unlikely, but can’t hurt to check.” Bernie flagged down the driver of the tow truck. “Maybe there was more than one assailant.”
“Hey, Bernie.” The driver leaned against the fender of his rig. “You guys caught this one?”
“Yeah. John, can we take a look?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
We circled the car, looking at its body. I directed the flashlight over the rear bumper. “There.” Grass clippings clung to it and a dark stain marred the paint.
Bernie found John. “We’re done. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“This is how he got to the park,” I said. “Wonder why he bothered to return it?”
“When we catch the sick asshole, we’ll ask him. Give you a ride home?” Bernie headed toward his car.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” For a moment, I’d forgotten mine was out of commission.
What is with my memory tonight?
Once in the car, I slumped into my seat, dead tired.
Apparently, I conked out on the way home. I recalled wanting to talk to Bernie about Khrystal, but the next thing I knew, he was shaking me awake outside my apartment. I wiped my mouth, checking for drool.
“Want me to come in and look around?” Bernie slid from his seat. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes ... and ears ... and hands. He stepped aside so I could unlock the door. We entered; I flipped on the light, and automatically turned to lock the door.
“I’ll start in the bedroom and work my way back here,” I said.
“And I’ll check out the kitchen and dining room.”
I turned on the hall light and peeked in the linen closet. Nothing. I could hear Bernie moving the blinds in the kitchen window, checking the window locks. I crept to the bedroom door and took a deep breath. Gun drawn, I switched on the light. The ceiling fan whirled, and its dim light shone. Wrong switch. I tried again. The room brightened. My heart raced as I shuffled further into my bedroom and checked under the bed and in the closet. In the bathroom, I pushed back the glass shower door and looked in the tub.
“Bedroom and master bath clear!” I entered the hall, sidestepped into the second bathroom, and pulled aside the shower curtain. “Hall bathroom’s clear!” I crept down the hall. “Bernie?” I couldn’t remember if I had looked in the linen closet, so I checked it.
“Bernie?” With my Sig Sauer at my side, I turned the corner and entered the living room. I opened the closet near the front door and heard the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass doors move. I crouched, swung my arm up, and aimed, two-handed. “Don’t move!”
“It’s me!”
Bernie pushed through the blinds and stepped into the dining area with his hands up.
“Damnit, Bernie! I could’ve shot you!” I dropped my gun hand to my side and relaxed the grip on my Sig, trying to calm myself. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No. I was outside.” He slid the door shut and locked it. “It was open a little.”
“What?” My heart began to race again. Adrenaline. I hurried toward the door and looked to see if it had been tampered with. It appeared untouched. “Did you turn on the light out there?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t look like the latch was messed with.” Bernie aimed his keyring’s flashlight at the latch. “Did you go out there before you left for work this morning?”
�
�Um, yes. I watered my container gardens.” I stepped onto the patio. All appeared to be okay—nothing toppled or missing.
“Do you want to get someone over here to check it out?” Bernie looked worried.
“No. Maybe I just forgot.”
“Do you keep any spare keys lying around?”
I pointed to a bunch of keys on a hook in the hall. “Over there.” I walked closer and took a look. “Nothing’s missing.”
“Doesn’t mean someone didn’t come in, take one and make a copy, then put it back.”
“I doubt it.” I gazed at him. “Was the sliding door open completely and unlatched or was it pushed closed and unlatched?”
“Neither. It was slightly ajar.” He checked the lock on a window “The latch was closed though.” He faced me. “I’m sleeping on your sofa, and I’m not taking no for an answer. In fact, it wasn’t even a question.”
“Hey, who’s arguing? Thanks, Bernie. You’re my hero.” I patted my chest and added a kooky smile but was only half kidding.
Although I considered myself to be brave in most situations I’ve encountered throughout my life and career, I wasn’t stupid. I marched to the closet and brought him some bedding and helped him make up the sofa bed. I set out extra toiletries in the hall bathroom, then returned to the living room.
“Bernie?”
“Yeah?” He had his back to me, as he pulled off his polo shirt.
“Thanks. I mean it.”
“No problem. Now let’s get some shut-eye. We have another murder to solve.”
“Night.”
“Goodnight, Syd. Don’t let the bedbugs—”
“Aw cut it out!”
He laughed.
I checked under the bed again, just in case. Then, I took a shower, taking care to avoid opening the barely-healed scabs, dropped into bed, and slept straight through the night.
I woke at six thirty the next morning, minutes before the alarm was due to go off. A dull headache stabbed behind my left eye, but I was ready to begin my day. I dressed before making my way to the living room, expecting to find Bernie still asleep. What a surprise it was to see the sofa bed tucked into its compartment, cushions in place. He’d folded the bed linens and placed the pillow on top. The only thing lacking was a chocolate on the pillow. Ghirardelli’s maybe. Instead, I found a note. He’d left at five thirty after checking the backyard patio and not finding anything out of the ordinary. He planned to be back to pick me up at seven. The clock on the wall gave me ten minutes to scarf down some breakfast.
Bernie arrived as I was finishing my oatmeal. He’d called the techs about my car, who told him it would be ready by the end of the day.
15
After completing our reports, we headed to the CSS offices. My phone rang on the way there and I took a message from Dispatch.
“What was that about?” Bernie asked.
“Remember the elderly couple from the park?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember talking to an elderly couple.”
I sighed. “The non-pooper scoopers from Morrison Park last night.”
“Okay, I got it. What about them? Are they dead, too?”
“No. Ken Doll ... I mean, uh ... Jamison saw them leaving Denny’s this morning and told them what had happened. Turns out, they saw a vehicle in the park.”
Bernie was smirking. “Ken Doll?”
“Oh, come on! Are you telling me you didn’t notice?”
“Well, yes I did, but you just called him Ken Doll like he’d introduced himself that way.”
I glared at him. “Stop talking.”
“Just don’t call him Ken Doll if we have to speak to him again.”
“I won’t.”
Hopefully.
“Do they have names?” Bernie was still smirking. “The elderly couple?”
“The Clyders. Marge and Bill.” I read the text message. “They’re not far from here.”
We reached the Clyders’ home within minutes. Bill answered the door.
“You’re the detectives, aren’t cha?” Mr. Clyder stood all of five feet tall. Pale and slim with fuzzy white hair and light blue eyes, he reminded me of a Q-tip.
“I’m Detective Valentine and this is Detective Bernard.”
“I knew it!” He rubbed his hands together, like a kid about to get a second slice of birthday cake.
“May we come in?” Bernie asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Where are my manners?” He stepped aside and grinned. “I always wanted to meet real detectives. I’m a bounty hunter, ya know.”
“You are?” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I couldn’t imagine this little man taking down a bail jumper.
“Yeah, I am. So’s Marge, my wife.”
“You don’t say,” Bernie said, with an admirably straight face. “May we sit?”
“Yeah. This way.” He led us into a living room filled with plastic-covered furniture. Wooden carvings and ceramic knick-knacks sitting on crocheted doilies covered every surface.
“Mr. Clyder, tell us what happened last night. What did you see?” I asked, flipping the switch on the recorder.
“Me and Marge were out walking our dogs, Jack and Jill.”
“Where? Please be specific,” Bernie said.
“We start out here, go down Jackson Street, then head to the park.”
“The time?” I asked.
Mr. Clyder glanced at his watch. “Getting close to noon.”
“Mr. Clyder, what time was it when you headed to the park?” I asked, trying not to sigh.
“Oh. Well, we wait ’til the sun goes down. It’s cooler. The time? I’m not sure, but it was almost dark.”
“Would your wife know the exact time?” Bernie asked.
As if on cue, the door opened and two chunky dogs, each wearing a bow on its head, waddled into the room.
“Marge, these are detectives asking about last night. They want to know what time we went for our walk.”
“Hello, Detectives. I think it was between seven thirty and eight o’clock. We’d finished watching an episode of Friends.”
“I understand you saw a vehicle?”
The Clyders exchanged glances, but Mrs. Clyders fielded Bernie’s question. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Where was it?” Bernie asked.
“In the park, by the playground,” she said. “I didn’t see the driver, though.”
“I didn’t either,” Mr. Clyder added. “The headlights weren’t on.”
“Yes, even though it was getting late,” Mrs. Clyder said.
“What type of vehicle was it?” Bernie asked.
“Truck,” Mr. Clyder answered.
“No, it was a van,” Mrs. Clyder said.
“What color was it?” I asked that one, keen to avoid an argument.
“White,” they said together.
Well, at least they could agree on that.
“Can you think of anything else you saw or heard?” Bernie asked.
“We saw two men sitting on a bench. Just sitting there talking,” Mr. Clyder offered. “They told us about the murder this morning.”
“Jack was whining, and we got scared,” Mrs. Clyder said.
“I weren’t.” Mr. Clyder threw his shoulders back, stood as tall as he could, and hitched up his pants.
She snorted. “Dear, stop with the bounty hunter stuff, will you?”
“Just saying ... I weren’t scared.”
She tsked and shook her head. “We have a bail bonds business, but he likes to tell folk we’re bounty hunters.” She chuckled. “Fact is, we hire young people to do that.”
Mr. Clyder grumbled and bent to pet one of the dogs.
“Do either of you recall anything else, however small or unimportant you may think it is?” I asked.
They both shook their heads.
“Okay. Call if you remember anything. Anything at all.” Bernie gave them a business card and we were ready to go.
Once outside, I said, “I’m not s
ure we learned much.”
“It’s a toss-up whether the vehicle they saw was the Escalade. If it was, shouldn’t it have been closer to the park bench?”
I couldn’t think of a reason to disagree.
Our next stop was County Social Services—to interview Barbara the guard and anyone else who was around that we’d like to speak to. I buckled up. “Why couldn’t she just let him have his bounty hunter dream?”
Bernie shook his head and cranked the ignition. “I wondered that, too. Did you see his face?”
“Like somebody popped a little boy’s birthday balloon. He wasn’t hurting anyone.” I picked at my cuticles and stared out the window. It had started to rain.
How appropriate.
“Maybe she’d been hearing it for years and had had her fill.” He shrugged. “She was telling the truth though.”
“Yeah, but ...”
“But, what? You okay?” Bernie engaged the wipers. They scraped over the windows, noisily, doing more smearing than clearing.
“She laughed. It reminded me of when I told my friends I wanted to be a cop.”
“They laughed?”
“Some did. That didn’t bother me as much as when I told my parents. I’d already applied and taken the written, psychological, and physical exams.”
“Your parents shot a hole in your dreams?”
“Big time. With a shotgun. Double-barreled.” I sighed. “It came back to me when I saw his face, and it sucked.”
“So, you did it anyway. You’re a good cop.” Bernie pulled onto the 60 West and merged into traffic.
“They couldn’t stop me, so they let it go. They still worry though, and they should, so that’s okay.” I turned in my seat. “Did your family care about you being a cop?”
“Hell yeah!” Bernie laughed. “I graduated from high school, went to college, then law school. But decided not to take the bar exam.”
“Holy crap! You never told me you went to law school. I bet they hated that you bailed on a career in law.”
“An understatement. Dad ripped me a new one. He even wanted me to pay them back for the college tuition.”
“You’re kidding.”
The Protector Page 10
