Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  27

  New DNA evidence may exonerate man for 1987 murder.

  * * *

  AUSTIN — (KXAV) A thirty-year-old murder case has been reopened due to the recovery of human remains. Last week, Austin police were notified of a near-complete skeleton found hidden at the recently sold, disused warehouse buildings at 1515 South Lamar Blvd. The forensics team believes the remains to be those of Juliana Lange, an Austin woman thought to have been murdered in September of 1987.

  * * *

  The body of Juliana Lange, who was age twenty-eight at the time of her death, was never found. The 1988 murder trial involved two suspects: Rance Epstein, Ms. Lange’s former lover, and Logan Weber, a man who was purportedly then seeing Ms. Lange. Forensic DNA testing was relatively new at the time, and the victim’s body had not been recovered for inspection. Based on testimony and circumstantial evidence, Logan Weber was sentenced to life in prison. Rance Epstein was acquitted.

  * * *

  On the evening of September 28th, 1987, Austin police responded to a distress call from Logan Weber, a 31-year-old man living in the Oak Hill community. Per reports, a hysterical and barely coherent Weber told officials that his girlfriend had just been murdered. According to Weber, Rance Epstein had murdered Ms. Lange in Weber’s own living room while he was at work but had then removed Ms. Lange’s body before Weber returned that evening. Investigations revealed large amounts of blood in Weber’s living room sufficient to result in death without medical attention. Also recovered were bloody clothing belonging to the victim, several strands of the victim’s hair, and part of a right index finger. Blood was also found on the floor and back door frame of the home, indicating the victim had been dragged. Authorities found nothing at the crime scene which could be linked to Epstein. An exhaustive search of Epstein’s home, belongings, and person also revealed no evidence connecting him to Ms. Lange’s murder.

  * * *

  Logan Weber was convicted of murder based primarily on circumstantial evidence. But according to Detective Jeffrey Spade of the Austin Police Department, with the DNA that has been collected from Ms. Lange’s remains, Weber’s previous conviction may be reversed. Spade told KXAV that, “Mr. Weber had been released on parole over a month ago. Since this evidence came to light, we’ve already obtained a DNA sample from him, and it doesn’t match the DNA found on Ms. Lange’s remains. We’ve since detained the new suspect, and the forensics lab is performing a comparative analysis.”

  * * *

  So, Logan may be off the hook, and Rance has already been arrested. Since being kidnapped and held at gunpoint, it’s hard to cheer for Logan’s victory against the wrongful conviction. I want him out of my life forever. But now that I’ve done my duty, I can’t stand waiting for the outcome any longer. There’s no way of knowing if Logan won’t hurt Trent anyway if only to spite me for refusing to speak to him and then breaking his nose. After spending thirty years in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, Logan was desperate enough to obtain my cooperation through violence. Additionally, he thinks the real murderer paid me to hide something for him. That’s too much reason for vengeance for comfort. Before delivering the packet, I tried calling Trent to warn him, but he didn’t answer. I also sent numerous texts explaining that because Nick may target him, Trent should be extra cautious until he hears from me, but he hasn’t returned those messages either. This means I haven’t heard from Trent since a week ago when I packed up and left. I call the Austin Police Academy and ask if he’s been in attendance, and I get confirmation that yes, he was present every day this week. So, he’s okay—probably just upset with me.

  On Friday evening, I decide to pay him a visit in Georgetown. When I pull into the gravel driveway, the sun is still up, and the western horizon is a dusty gold and blue. It rained yesterday. The temperature came down a little, bringing it into the lower eighties. Trent’s silver Chevy Colorado is parked in the driveway. But in front of the small, shotgun house is another car—a black Mercedes.

  “Oh God, no. No!” I scream at the windshield. I can’t tear my gaze from the vehicle—Nick broke his promise.

  My heart plunges to my feet as I mash the brakes and slam my Camry’s gearshift into park. After shutting off the engine, I fling open the door and don’t bother to shut it. I sprint across the gravel drive to the porch.

  With effort, I stop. I need to think this through, so I try to collect my thoughts before opening the door. My pulse races, and my stomach contracts into an iron knot, but that’s irrelevant. No matter how terrified I am, I have to make sure Trent is okay. I draw my pewter gray Sig Sauer from its holster and keep it aimed downward beside my leg. Today might be the day I use it. Maybe Logan hasn’t killed Trent yet. Maybe he’s still alive.

  Wrapping my fingers around the doorknob, I can almost hear my heartbeat keeping count of how many cowardly seconds I stand outside.

  One. Two…

  I stand here panting, trying to compose myself enough to do what needs to be done.

  Three. Four…

  I put my left shoulder against the siding next to the door frame.

  Five…

  I brace myself.

  ...Six. Seven…

  Twisting the knob, I find it unlocked. I shove the door open and thrust my body inside but keep the gun down. The tiny living room is empty, its air tinged with a sweet scent like tea.

  “Trent! Trent! Are you here?” My hand trembles as I clutch the grip of the .38 caliber. I conceal it behind my hamstring. I’m not going to cock and aim until I know what’s going on, or I could be the one going to jail for thirty years.

  “Aria?” It’s Trent’s voice, slightly muffled from behind either the bedroom or bathroom door. Bedroom seems more likely because it’s closer. In confirmation, the door swings open slowly, and Trent sticks his head out. He frowns. He cranes his neck like he’s not sure it’s me.

  I exhale, and some of the tension releases from my back. He’s here. He’s alive—still alive. “Trent. Is Lo— is Nick here? Do you need me to get help?”

  Trent opens the door the rest of the way and steps out. He’s barefoot and wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, his brown hair messy and unbrushed. “Is who here?”

  “Nick,” I say.

  Trent’s gaze alights on the right side of my body, where it’s evident I’m holding something behind my back. He rubs his chin, his gaze tracing over my face and body again. “No. He’s not here.”

  As I blink at him, the sinking feeling in my gut tells me that somehow, I’ve got this all wrong. Trent looks as though he’s been lying around watching TV in his room. I catch the sweet smell again. Trent isn’t a tea drinker.

  “I thought—I thought you might be in danger,” I say. I slowly bring my Sig into view and return it to the holster under my jeans.

  “You thought Nick was here?” Trent asks, the concern not leaving his face.

  “I did.” I sniff awkwardly. I don’t know where to put my hands, what else to say, or what to do. “I—I saw the car outside. I thought since he threatened me and since we were shot at—and since he drives a black Mercedes….” I bite my bottom lip.

  “It’s okay,” Trent says. “I’m fine. Thanks for coming to check on me.”

  But his tone tells me he isn’t fine. He doesn’t sound like he did the last time I saw him. I guess my harsh words before I left changed something. I used to come in without knocking, but maybe he’s not okay with that now.

  Another face appears in the bedroom doorway, and I start. My feet backstep almost involuntarily as I strain to process what I’m looking at. It’s a woman standing there—a slender woman with blonde hair, with a white piece of medical tape across her nose. A woman. A broken nose. My mind starts racing in circles. Naomi Sedgeworth rests her long fingers on the door frame and peers out at me with condescending blue eyes. The light, fruity scent swells. It’s ginger and tea rose—her perfume.

  All my adrenaline, fear, and nerves pivot and start rushing in a different direction as I
stand frozen now, glaring at her. The jealousy hits me first. It’s like a slap in the face, so poignantly painful it nearly knocks me to the floor. I’m not supposed to be jealous. Trent and I aren’t together—have never been. I even put some space between us for a time. Too bad these emotional things never work according to logic.

  “He’s fine,” Naomi says. “He’s well taken care of.” She gives me a tight, closed-mouth smile and slides her hand to the small of Trent’s back.

  I begin easing myself toward the front door.

  Trent pulls away from her. “Aria, it’s okay. I’m sorry if this is awkward. This must look bad. Naomi and I were just talking.”

  “You don’t owe her an apology,” Naomi says. “You can’t cheat on someone you’re not with.”

  Trent keeps his eyes on me, but he doesn’t rebut her statement, either. She’s pretty much right, after all.

  I back up a little farther. My mind goes blue screen of death. I can’t summon a witty comment to save my life, so I give a half-hearted wave in their direction. It’s an attempt at farewell without making a complete fool of myself, or at least no more than I have already. Without waiting for Trent or Naomi to reply, I open the door and let myself out. I rush into the dry, evening air, straight to my Camry with its driver’s side door wide open and the dome light on.

  My upper body shakes. My bottom lip trembles, and as I swing myself into the car and slam the door, a tear rolls down my cheek. No matter how much I grit my teeth, I can’t help it. The reality of Naomi appearing from Trent’s bedroom overwhelms my senses.

  The black Mercedes. There it is. The sleek luxury car parked on a gravel driveway in rural Georgetown. Its shiny tire treads are dusted with chalky, white powder from rolling across the dolostone. The vehicle’s new significance plugs in nicely to my current emotional state, and the mental gears start turning. As ridiculous as it seems, Naomi being the owner of a black Mercedes suddenly explains a lot. This is the “something” Trent wasn’t telling me about—the big something. And maybe he missed it too.

  “Looks like I’m not your biggest problem,” Logan told me. He said he didn’t shoot at me. That he didn’t attack me in the field.

  As I start the car and turn around to head for the road, the house door opens, and Naomi steps onto the porch. She locks her icy blue gaze on me, and I can’t help noticing how motionless she stands as she watches. But most of all, I observe the white medical tape across her nose. The assailant in the ski mask was Logan’s height and build, just a little taller than me. Was I really fighting with Naomi? Giving a sardonic snort, I recall jumping on the person and unloading everything I had, cracking my knuckles open on his—or her—teeth.

  I turn the wheel roughly, and the tires grind as I pull onto County Road 152. I head for Interstate 35 North. I’ll beeline for Round Rock, and when I get home, I’ll email Detective Spade with a full report. Then I’ll copy that report, and any earlier pertaining ones, to the Austin Police Academy.

  My vision blurs as I pass the multicolored sheep in the field next to Trent’s place. The animals roll by outside my car windows as blobs of fur clustered around the wire, sectional feeder. The small pond for the livestock breaks up the rocky terrain like a flat, black puddle.

  Wiping my wet face with my bare fingers, I try to think. I have no proof it was Naomi who shot at us from a black luxury car. I don’t even know if it was a Mercedes that time. But if it was her, she risked hitting Trent since we were walking side by side. I exhale hard and shake my head. Naomi’s dad is a cop, and the academy runs background checks on their enrollees. My new theories are pretty far-fetched. Maybe downright absurd.

  The narrow, country road straightens out after the turn by the pond. A short woodland, followed by another field, looms into view on my left, and on the right appears a pasture containing two brown horses and a large, red barn. When I glance in the rearview mirror, my breath catches in my throat. It’s hard to believe Naomi’s following me. But there’s her black sedan, and I’d be crazy to ignore it. She’s only about fifteen feet back, and she’s gaining on me with each passing second. After a heartbeat, I can no longer see her front bumper. The Mercedes’ engine revs as Naomi rams her car into the back of mine.

  28

  I whip forward. My forehead and nose smack the steering wheel. I grunt at the impact, and the sharp pain brings more tears to my eyes. I reflexively push down harder on the accelerator in the same moment, and my Camry surges forward. After turning the wheel sharply to the right, I keep driving half off the street. I can’t get over all the way because of the drainage ditch. My gaze darts to the rearview constantly as I try to increase my speed and stay ahead of her before she hits me again.

  Berry Springs Park comes up on the right, as I swear under my breath. I slow down and make a hairpin turn into its two-lane, divided entryway before the gate. I press the brakes. The car slides toward the bucolic scene ahead. Neatly mown fields of green grass stretch before me under rows of pecan trees. A few people gather in the park, but they’re far away near the weathered, gray historic buildings which once belonged to pioneer settlers. From here, I can just make out a cedar fence encircling the unpainted barn.

  I pull onto the grass, off the entryway pavement, so that I won’t block it. My tires skid to a halt. I grab my light jacket from the passenger’s seat and dry my face with it. I lick the salt from my lips. Then I glance in the rearview again, this time craning my neck. Naomi’s car is there. I also catch a glimpse of my red, puffy eyes. No matter how unpleasant it proves, I need to end this nonsense once and for all.

  Naomi slips her sedan right behind mine, parking it about an inch away from my dented rear bumper. She flings her door open and stands outside before I’ve even unbuckled my seat belt. I keep my motions steady and get out of the car slowly. I turn to face her.

  “Poor Aria,” Naomi says. “Have you been crying?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “What do you want?”

  She slams her car door but never takes her gaze from mine. For the first time today, I notice what she’s wearing besides the nose tape. Skinny jeans over her muscular legs, an army-green tank top, and shiny, black boots with thick tread. “I want you to stay away from Trent. Forever.”

  She doesn’t have the right to tell me to stay away from Trent. However, I should probably acquiesce until I can report her. I don’t want to, though. “I don’t take orders from you. If you want a mutually exclusive relationship with Trent, then talk to him about it. Otherwise, you can piss off.”

  “No, sweetie, it’s definitely you I need to talk to.” She takes a few steps toward me. “I want you out of his life permanently. But you won’t do it, at least not for long. Because you’re such a victim. Who could possibly compete with you?” Her voice takes on a mockingly sympathetic tone. “Aria Owen, the victim of a horrifying crime. It’s like a special talent you have. A talent for having the worst things happen to you, so people will feel sorry for you. So you’ll always have someone. Maybe Trent is fooled, but not me. You don’t care about him. You just need someone. And who better than the man who discovered you as you were dying?”

  Her words produce a strange twinge in my core. It’s more than her criticism—it’s something else, but whatever it is isn’t immediately clear to me. Naomi saunters closer, the gravel crunching beneath her black boots. My mind flashes back to the night someone attacked me in the hotel parking lot. The height of the man. His thin build.

  I blink at Naomi, this new truth sending shockwaves through my body. “It was you. You were the one—the guy in the ski mask. You chased me. You attacked me.”

  I shake my head, drawing connections between the events of the past weeks as I stare at this psychotic woman. Being assaulted by a “man” in a ski mask wasn’t the only thing that happened.

  “Very good,” Naomi says. She reaches into her back pocket and draws out a knife. It’s a black switchblade, not unlike the one I carry. She holds it close to her leg, out of view of the road.

&n
bsp; Nothing that happened was about Ayden at all. Somehow, I chuckle. It escapes me wearily because, in a grim sort of way, it’s kind of funny. All I need to do is pull my pistol. She called my bluff once, but if she comes at me with that knife in her hand, the law will be on my side when I fire. Ironically, though, I don’t want to kill her. I don’t even truly want to hurt her. My mouth twists into a wry smile, but my eyes must look sad. Because if anything is sad, it’s this.

  “I’m going home, Naomi. You should too. And while you’re at it, find yourself a life.”

  She rushes at me. I spring back, shielding my face and middle with my arms. As I stumble and almost trip, Naomi grabs my wrist and pulls me close to her, holding the knife at my abdomen.

  “I can’t go home,” she says. “Not while you’re still alive. Because as long as you are, Trent will always choose you. I don’t think any woman anywhere could compete with the special needs case you are. I’ve always hated people like you. You’re nothing but a victim, and you don’t deserve him.”

  I look into her cold, blue eyes that regard me like a piece of trash. Something inside me snaps. Somewhere between “special needs case” and “victim,” I lose it. Though she has the knife aimed at my gut, I take my palm and shove her in the face as hard as I can. She thrusts the blade forward but loses her balance and starts to tumble back. As she gets her footing, I clock her across the face with my fist. She drops the knife. It flies off somewhere between our vehicles. My adrenaline starts kicking in with a vengeance. She has the advantage, being trained in physical confrontation at the academy, but it’s doubtful she has my experience with pain. I can take a lot of pain.