HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by T. J. Brearton

  “We’ve identified no potential hazards, not at least in the immediate vicinity of the core area,” Alicia offered.

  Delaney nodded. “You called Clark?”

  Stanley Clark was the Deputy Coroner.

  Alicia nodded. “He’s on his way.”

  “Get Hai Takai here, too.”

  Brendan knew the name. Takai was an expert in footprint analysis.

  Brendan glanced at the mirror again. The face of the victim looked back. Her skin was smooth, her face was pretty though it was spattered with blood. He looked at her slightly open mouth. It was as though she had something to tell him.

  CHAPTER TWO / THURSDAY, 9:13 AM

  Brendan felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch made him jump, as if he’d received an electric shock. He turned and saw Delaney standing behind him. Delaney nodded toward the hallway.

  “Step into my office.”

  The hall was dark compared to the bright bedroom. It took a moment for Brendan’s eyes to adjust. Delaney’s round face loomed before him. The man was over six feet, and looked down at an angle at Brendan, who was five-foot-nine.

  “Let’s find Lawless, and talk to both him and Bostrom in a safe area.”

  “Okay.”

  “We can make the safe area in the grass beyond that dirt patch there, in the front. It’s already been trampled with our feet; I don’t want to contaminate it further. We want to find out what Bostrom did when he came in, where he looked, what he touched. Our deputies are pretty good, but when the heart is pumping adrenaline on a call, they come in, they don’t always think straight. They’re thinking about saving a life, maybe their own. They’re not thinking about lab tests and evidentiary value for the prosecution. I’m not throwing anybody under the bus, but it happens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to find out who owns this house. We may need a warrant. You never know who is going to balk about privacy and probable cause, or what defense attorney is gonna cry ‘fruit of the poisonous tree’. The victim is ostensibly the only resident, but that doesn’t mean she owns the house. She could rent.”

  Brendan looked away from Delaney and at their surroundings. The hallway was open on one side, blocked with a balustrade that overlooked the foyer, which was a clerestory room in itself. Brendan looked over Delaney’s shoulder, down the hallway, his eyes skipping from doorway to doorway. Brendan knew that somewhere in the opposite direction from the bedroom was the shower, where the victim had come from before calling about an intruder, and then apparently getting back in bed. Where had she made the call from? Right here, where they stood, looking over the hallway railing down into where she heard the disturbance? Did she call from her cell phone?

  Delaney continued Brendan’s thought aloud, “Though why anyone would rent a giant old farmhouse like this is beyond me. The heating cost alone in the winter would be enough to send you to the poor house. Taxes out here are higher than you’d think, too.”

  “Maybe it’s a summer residence,” said Brendan.

  Delaney’s eyes found Brendan’s in the dimly lit space. They searched Brendan, appealing for more. “What do you think?”

  Brendan took a breath. His pulse had slowed at last, and his heart was beating a good rhythm.

  “The bureau,” he said. He glanced back towards the bedroom. Through the door he saw Patnode moving around the foot of the bed. The rest of it was obscured from view. Patnode held the camera out in front of him and took another picture.

  “Only the bottom drawers were open,” Brendan continued. “When you’re robbing a place, and you know what you’re doing, and you’re looking for valuables, you open the bottom drawers first. Then the one above it, and so on, so that they end up all left open. If you go the other way, you’ve got to close each drawer behind you.” Brendan shrugged.

  “So we’re looking at an inexperienced robber.”

  “Or maybe not a robbery at all. We won’t know until we check the rest of the place.”

  Delaney nodded. “Like I said, let’s go see the deps first while my team documents the scene.”

  * * *

  They spoke with the two deputies in the front yard, beyond the dirt area, as Delaney had instructed. Since they’d been upstairs, two more deputies had arrived. Oneida County was on the big side in terms of geography, and on the small side for population. The Sheriff’s Department had six deputies on the payroll. The Sheriff was always lobbying for more.

  The other two deputies hung back where the vehicles, including Brendan’s, were starting to pile up in the dirt driveway near the shed. There was a line of elm trees running alongside the driveway, which was perhaps an eighth of a mile. Route 12 was in the distance. On the other side of it was a field of corn. The corn had trouble during the growing season, and the gossip was that the crop was bunk. The land on that side with the unhealthy corn was part of a different property – that was Brendan’s first guess. No one here grew crops. They may have once, but the place had clearly fallen to disrepair and there were no signs of a working farm. No tillers, no silo, no animals. The only equipment was the tractor in the barn. He needed to get a better look at it, but his gut suggested that it didn’t work. There was just no sense of an up-and-running agribusiness here.

  “Take me through exactly what you did when you got to the scene,” said Delaney to Deputy Bostrom.

  The deputy described almost exactly what Alicia, one CSI, had reported upstairs.

  “Touch anything?”

  “No.”

  Brendan thought that the deputy resented Delaney’s questioning. Delaney seemed affable enough, but there was no doubt he had a tendency to take the tough approach. It was also an unusually high-profile case. Likely only one or two of the older deputies in the department had been involved in a murder case before. They felt out of their element. They were used to domestic violence calls and evictions. Brendan knew the beat.

  “Have you ever had to draw your weapon before, officer?” he asked unexpectedly.

  Delaney and the deputies looked at him. While they all worked for the Sheriff’s Department, they rarely saw one another. And Brendan Healy had only been a detective with Oneida County for two months. He had done road patrol for three years in another department. It was possible there was some resentment because he was new, because he was young, and because he was not a native son.

  “Yes. Once.”

  The deputy then glanced at Delaney. Delaney’s eyes lingered on Brendan, who could feel the senior investigator’s glare.

  A vehicle appeared on the road, and turned down the dirt driveway. It came toward them churning up a cloud of dust. The day grew hotter.

  “That’s Clark now,” said Delaney. “There’s going to be people here. Next of kin, reporters, rubberneckers. I want them back. Back by the road; put them in that corn if you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bostrom. He was blond with a good build, probably approaching forty. Deputy Lawless was dark-haired, about the same age, overweight. Delaney looked at him. “Where were you?”

  Lawless opened his eyes wider. “I was at the back of the house.”

  “When we arrived? You were at the back of the house?”

  “Covering the back door.”

  Delaney seemed to accept this. He then turned to Brendan. “Okay. Call the district attorney’s office. Let’s get that warrant and keep our asses covered, homicide or not. Let’s close off this whole site. The house, the outbuildings. Nobody else parks in that driveway. We’ve already lost any tire tracks. How close is the nearest neighbor? That’s the Folwell Farm across the way.” Delaney put his hand to his forehead, like a visor, and scanned the horizon. “His house is, what, down there?”

  “The Folwell farmhouse is about half a mile south, yes, sir,” said Bostrom.

  Delaney turned back to Brendan. “You’re on eye witnesses. Anybody that saw a vehicle just prior to eight fifteen this morning. Anything unusual. Find out how big this property is, where the boundaries are. Who the neighbors are on th
is side of the road, that side of the road.”

  Brendan swallowed. Despite his initial anxiety, he was disappointed that he wasn’t going to work the crime scene. “Okay,” he said.

  “Find out who the house belongs to. Find out everything you can about the girl in there, Heilshorn. If she’s married, got a boyfriend, we’re going to look at them. We’re going to look down their throats and up their asses. It’s someone who knows the victim, nine times out of ten.”

  With that, Delaney turned on his heel and started walking towards the coroner, Clark, who was getting out of his vehicle. Clark had grey hair and wore blue jeans and a white button-down shirt.

  Brendan looked at the two deputies. They met his gaze for a moment. Bostrom turned and walked away. Lawless gave a short nod to Brendan. “Good luck,” he said, and he followed after the other deputy.

  Brendan watched them go. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and dialed the district attorney’s office. He put the phone to his ear as the call began to connect. He stood looking at the property. They were five miles outside of Remsen, the nearest small village. Upstate, New York was a combination of resort towns, impoverished villages, and long swathes of farm country. The front yard of the grounds was overgrown. The crickets sang in the high grass; the air seemed to buzz with life. On the phone, a ringing began as the call went through.

  Suddenly, there was a loud boom. Everybody jumped, including Brendan, whose nerves had just finally settled. A group of birds erupted from the corn field across the street. The cornfield was the source of the noise, which rolled across the land like thunder.

  It was a gunshot.

  Brendan went into a crouch. All of the other men on the property did the same, and several ran for cover behind the vehicles.

  “Jesus Christ!” someone shouted.

  The startled birds took to the air in a spiral pattern, rising up into the pale blue sky. Brendan realized something none of them had considered: the killer could still be at the scene.

  A voice on the other end of the call broke in. “District Attorney’s office. Hello?”

  CHAPTER THREE / THURSDAY, 9:56 AM

  In the middle of all the turmoil, a motorcycle came tearing down Route 12.

  Brendan saw it from his position crouched behind his vehicle. The police had scattered after the single report of gun fire. Now they were headed toward the cornfield.

  Brendan left the cover of the vehicle and started down the driveway toward the road, crouching down as he moved along. He watched as the motorcyclist down-shifted rapidly through the gears, getting the sense that the rider was surprised and distracted by all the activity. As the rider attempted to turn onto the driveway, his front tire caught in the soft dirt and the bike tipped over.

  Instantly the rider dropped the handlebars and jumped away. The dirt plumed up in a cloud. Brendan took off in a jog toward the crash. He heard the bike engine still running. And as the cloud dispersed in a hot breeze, he saw that the back tire of the bike was turning, the chain pulling.

  After taking a moment to collect himself, the rider hopped back alongside the bike and hit the kill switch. The engine died, and the dust started to settle.

  “You all right?” Brendan asked. He slowed his jog to a walk, closing the gap between them. He shifted his gaze to look across the road, where the other officers were talking to someone hidden in the corn. Judging by their body-language, their concerns had eased some.

  “Yeah,” the rider called back. His voice was muffled by his helmet. “Fine.”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  The two of them got their weight under the bike and grunting with the effort, got it standing again. Brendan looked down and saw a knick on the black gas tank, plus a scrape along the chrome exhaust pipe. It was a nice bike. A Harley Davidson Sportster. Fairly expensive.

  “Shit,” the rider said.

  Brendan kept hold as the motorcyclist walked around and pushed down the kick stand with the tip of his boot. With the bike stable, he stepped back and took off his helmet.

  “Don’t try to start it up right away,” Brendan said. “It’s probably flooded. The carburetor needs to dry out.”

  “I know,” said the motorcyclist irritably. He tucked his helmet under his arm. He had a bright mop of blond hair and bright blue eyes. He looked around twenty-five.

  Once more Brendan shifted focus to the scene along the corn field. Deputy Bostrom and Investigator Delaney stood along the shoulder of the pavement. A moment later, an old man emerged from the corn in a red-checked shirt, torn off at the sleeves. He was holding a rifle or a shotgun – hard to tell at a distance. The three men spoke, and then Delaney turned towards Brendan, and the other deputies spread out over the property. Delaney raised a hand in an “all’s well” gesture.

  The motorcyclist was looking at them, too.

  “That’s Mr. Folwell,” he said, referring to the old man. “Probably chasing some woodchuck.”

  The motorcyclist then turned around to look at the house. Brendan stayed close beside him. He was very aware of what the young man’s presence here could mean. He wanted to see how it played out before he said or did anything.

  The two men watched another deputy who was setting up pole barriers and stretching the nylon belts out which read “Crime Scene Do Not Cross” in between them, cordoning off the front yard all the way to the shed. There were vehicles everywhere. Three Sheriff’s Department SUVs, two unmarked sedans, the coroner’s car, and an Audi – the car they were presuming belonged to the victim.

  Bostrom and Delaney crossed the road back to the crime scene side. Brendan glanced over and saw them coming. They were followed by a third deputy – a heavyset man named Watts. No doubt they had all taken an interest in the newcomer now that the cornfield shooting was settled.

  Brendan realized that the entire situation was taking a few moments for the motorcyclist to process. First, there had been the commotion in the front yard and along the edge of the corn field which had diverted his attention. He had lost control of the bike in the soft driveway. Then, Brendan helping him to get the bike upright again. Now the motorcyclist looked like it was all starting to hit home.

  Brendan knew what it was like. Your nerves began to disconnect from one another. Like your body, your soul, were fastened together by buttons, the fabric of its being pulled too tight, and the buttons were popping.

  The motorcyclist started to take steps back, away from the deputy, the bike, the house.

  “Sir, are you, uh, do you know what’s happened here?” It was Bostrom calling over, closing in fast, with Delaney at his heels.

  Brendan felt like he knew what was going to happen next before it did. He reached out with one of his hands.

  In the next instant, the motorcyclist’s legs gave out. Brendan gripped the man’s leather jacket, but it wasn’t enough. The motorcyclist sat down hard in the dirt, his butt and spine hitting the earth like a dropped rock.

  Bostrom was there a second later, his hand on his holstered firearm.

  “Sir,” Bostrom was saying. “Who are you, sir? What are you doing here?”

  The deputy then stepped in between Brendan and the motorcyclist, effectively closing Brendan out. He crouched down in front of the man.

  The motorcyclist wore a bewildered expression. He turned and looked over to the house. Brendan watched as his eyes wandered up to the second story, the two windows which were the victim’s bedroom.

  Brendan looked over at Delaney, who stood looking down at the motorcyclist like he was witnessing something unpleasant, or undignified. “I’ll call the bus back,” Brendan said to the senior investigator. “They can’t have left ten minutes ago. He took a spill on his bike here. He could be in shock.”

  “Who is he?” Delaney demanded.

  “I don’t know,” said Brendan. “He just showed up. Did the coroner call the next of kin?”

  “Clark? I don’t think so. Not yet. The on-call service isn’t here either.”

  Bostro
m was still trying to get the motorcyclist to respond. He clapped his hands in front of the young man’s face. The motorcyclist didn’t blink. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

  Brendan understood the state of shock. He’d known that inability to move, or to speak. Right now, the young man’s mouth didn’t want to work. His mind didn’t know how to form words. He kept looking at the window. He wanted to get in there. He was the victim’s boyfriend, maybe. Or, Brendan thought – her sibling. There was some family resemblance.

  The motorcyclist pressed his palms into the earth and pushed. He got himself up into a standing position. Brendan stepped forward, brushing past Bostrom, and hooked a hand under the motorcyclist’s armpit. The deputy got the hint and moved around to other side of him and braced him, too.

  But the motorcyclist quickly slipped out of their grip and started walking away, walking fast. Now his legs were listening to the commands of his brain, Brendan thought. He wanted to get inside. He needed to get inside. To see, to know; he was going to stop at nothing to get in that house, up into that bedroom, to lay his own eyes on the dead girl in there.

  “Sir – sir!” Bostrom called after him, walking briskly behind. The deputy reached out and grabbed the motorcyclist’s shoulder but he shrugged it off. He started jogging.

  The deputy who was putting out the nylon belts, forming the barricade around the front of the house got in front of the man running towards him. Brendan was sure that Deputy Lawless wasn’t going to let the kid inside to see the gory mess upstairs. Lawless would protect the core scene.

  Lawless spread his arms out and got between the oncoming man in the motorcycle jacket and the doorway to the house. The motorcyclist reached him a second later, not even looking at Lawless, but past him. Lawless threw his arms around the young man, and got him in a gentle, but firm bear hug.

  The man started screaming. “Rebecca! Rebecca!”