Done to Death

by Charles Atkins

  ‘You might want to turn off the ringer,’ Melanie suggested. ‘And I’d recommend keeping your cell number just for family, and for me and Barry, of course. And trust me, after this week we’ll be like family. So, let’s look at some pictures.’

  Lil, whose family did go back generations, and Bernice, who had intimate knowledge of most of the antique dealers, helped whittle Melanie’s pile down.

  Bernice was in her element as she picked up picture after picture, dropping tantalizing bits of small-town gossip. ‘Ugh. You don’t want this one,’ she said, holding the résumé of one of the higher end dealers in town.

  ‘Why?’ Lil asked, having known the man for decades.

  ‘I don’t like to speak bad about people … big lush.’

  ‘Don’t need that,’ Melanie said. ‘How about this one?’ holding up a photo of a handsome man with thick blond hair and an angular face. She read the name off the résumé she’d clipped to the back. ‘Harrison Baker.’

  ‘He must be new,’ Bernice said. ‘Does it say where his shop is?’

  ‘Four two two Main Street.’

  ‘The Brixton Building,’ Bernice said. ‘There’s three shops in there, and one’s a multi-dealer. He’s probably in that.’

  ‘He’s cute,’ Aaron said.

  Bernice looked at Ada’s grandson. She shook her head.

  Ada chuckled. ‘Yes, Bernice, everyone is gay.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rose said.

  ‘I am,’ offered Melanie.

  Bernice looked at the attractive young woman with her short hair and tattooed arms. ‘I didn’t say a thing.’

  ‘No,’ Ada said, ‘but you thought it.’

  ‘So how many of these do you think you’re going to get?’ Aaron asked, trying to step in between his grandmother and Bernice.

  ‘Thousands,’ Melanie said, putting the photo and résumé of Harrison Baker into the small stack of possibles. ‘And normally it’s not something the producers, or assistant producers, get into. LPP has on-staff casting agents for this. But since we’re moving at warp speed to get something taped, today I am a casting agent. I do have the credential, so if anyone wants to make a stink, we’re covered.’

  ‘But there aren’t nearly that many dealers in town,’ Ada said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Melanie said. ‘I can tell you that back at the hotel there’s probably three hundred more of these on the fax. It’ll be over a thousand by the morning. Half of them from people who don’t even come close to what we’re looking for. They’ll all think that we’re going to make an exception because they’re so special, and we just need to give them a shot. The reality … they go straight into the trash.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ Aaron said.

  ‘It’s a harsh business, Aaron.’ Melanie said. ‘It still amazes me how brutal it gets. End of the day, it’s a waste of precious time returning their calls.’

  ‘You OK?’ Ada asked her. ‘You must be ready to drop.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Melanie said, pulling photo after photo and dropping them into the discard pile as she kept a running commentary. ‘Too old; too weird-looking; who the hell thought this was a good picture?’

  By midnight Melanie’s stack was down to less than two dozen, all Grenville dealers. ‘Ladies,’ and, looking across at Aaron, ‘and gentleman, I think we’re done.’

  ‘And we’ll get to the other few hundred in the morning?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘Goddess, no,’ she said.

  ‘What happens to them?’ Lil asked.

  ‘We hold on to them until we’re sure we’ve got what we need, and then we dump ’em.’

  ‘But what if there’s someone better in that stack?’ Bernice asked.

  Before Melanie could answer, her cell buzzed. ‘It’s Barry.’ She took the call.

  ‘You sitting down?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh crap,’ she said. ‘They pulled the plug. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Melanie. Listen. Richard Parks is dead. They’ve taken Rachel into custody.’

  ‘Oh, God! What? How?’ She stared at Ada and then at the others. ‘This is horrible! So, we’re done then.’

  Barry paused. ‘No. Go ahead with the auditions. We’ve come this far. If someone wants to pull the plug, they’re going to have to come down here and do it themselves.’

  FOURTEEN

  Rachel stared at her hands, and then at the clock sunk into the cinderblock wall of her cell. It was two a.m. ‘This is a police station,’ she said aloud, the reality of her voice the only thing keeping her from completely losing it. ‘This is not a hospital.’ Because if this were a hospital, she reasoned, I’d be in a gown and not an orange jumpsuit. She looked at the dome camera overhead. Maybe it is a hospital. It was impossible to focus. ‘Someone needs to call my brother,’ she shouted, knowing that was the thing to do. She screamed, ‘Call my brother!’ She rattled off his cell from memory. They had to call Richard; he’d figure this out. ‘How much did you drink?’ But you didn’t … you’re not drinking. Why is that? You like to drink … maybe that’s what happened. But pregnant women don’t drink, don’t smoke. Where’s Richard?

  ‘I want my brother!’ she screamed at the tiny wire-laced window in the steel door. ‘I want Richard!’

  She heard a door open. Richard would come, and he’d take care of this. It was what he did. Maybe because she’d been such a bitch to him he’d keep her waiting. She deserved that. Her thoughts touched something dangerous. She stared at her hands. Why are my nails clipped so short? The edges of her fingers felt raw; someone had clipped her nails, and the pads were sticky.

  Voices were coming closer.

  ‘Richard?’

  She heard a woman on the other side, and a man. She couldn’t make out their words. ‘Please,’ she cried out, ‘get Richard!’

  The door opened.

  Rachel looked up to see a short woman with tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair; like a poodle, she thought. Behind her stood a tall woman, her reddish-gold hair in a ponytail, and next to her a pudgy man with sparse blond hair and a shiny pink scalp. They were staring at her.

  ‘Where’s Richard? Have you called him?’ She smiled. ‘Whatever I did, he’ll fix it.’ Why are they staring?

  The woman with the poodle hair came in. She settled next to Rachel on the edge of the platform bed. ‘Ms Parks, my name is Detective Perez. I’m with the state’s major crime division. That’s my partner, Detective Jamie Plank. You don’t have to say anything, Rachel. Your lawyer will be here soon.’

  She remembered someone reciting the Miranda Warning. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it.

  ‘Why did they cut my nails?’ she asked, looking into poodle woman’s dark eyes. ‘What’s happening? Why can’t I remember?’

  The woman looked skeptical. She shook her head and turned back to the two standing in the door. ‘Chief Simpson, I’d strongly recommend placing someone outside her door.’

  ‘We’ve got her on video,’ the heavyset man replied.

  ‘Don’t risk it.’

  ‘You think she’ll hurt herself?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not suicidal,’ Rachel said. ‘Not right now.’ Maybe that’s what this was about. It looks like a jail but maybe it is a hospital and they just want me to say that I won’t hurt myself, and they’ll let me go. And why isn’t Richard here? Is he that mad at me? I’ll make it up to him. I shouldn’t have told him like that. What is wrong with me? Why do I always fuck things up? ‘Have you called my brother?’ she asked. ‘Do you need his number?’

  ‘Rachel.’ The poodle-haired woman was speaking.

  Why is she looking at me that way? She’s going to say something bad. I won’t listen. I can’t hear this.

  ‘Rachel,’ she repeated. ‘Your brother is dead. You called nine one one a little after eleven p.m. Do you remember that? Do you remember calling? On the phone you told the operator it was your fault. Do you remember?’

  I can’t hear this. I won’t listen. I’ll go away. Like a turtle int
o its shell, she drew a wall around herself. Richard called it her armor; no one and nothing could get through. Dr Ebert said it was a dissociative state. He said she was good at it, the best he’d ever seen. Not her mother’s criticism, or the paralyzing fear that now surrounded her, could pierce her shell. The poodle lady was gone and there was only fuzz. She closed her eyes. Richard will come, she told herself. He always does.

  Detective Mattie Perez stared at Rachel Parks. The girl was shutting down in a way she’d seen before with rape victims and others who’d been through severe trauma. And Mattie hadn’t missed the scars on the undersides of Rachel’s wrists.

  Yet facts were facts: the girl had been found with her brother Richard, his blood on her hands, and there was a small caliber pistol, quite possibly the same one used to kill Lenore Parks, in the dead man’s bedroom. As with Lenore, it had been a single bullet, but this time at close range from the front. He’d been shot in the heart.

  There was ample motive and means. It could be a slam dunk. Not to mention the possible nine one one confession: ‘My brother’s been shot! It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’ Unless … she stared at the blonde, her hair like a curtain over her face, her body curled tight. Was this the opening salvo in a not-guilty-by-reason-of-mental-defect defense? From what little she knew of Rachel Parks − wealthy, privileged, disturbed and a first year pre-law student − she didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The girl had brains, and if you want to off your mother and brother and do a minimum of time … Is she that good an actress? Maybe not a slam dunk.

  She’d been paged at home, the Middletown dispatcher unaware of Detective Perez’s history with Grenville. ‘Kevin.’ She looked at Chief Simpson, remembering how she’d first met him. It was something of a surprise to find he’d replaced the prior police chief, Hank Morgan, who was eminently qualified and unfortunately corrupt, in that small-town ‘it’s just how we do business’ kind of way. She thought of something Hank once said about Kevin: In the valley of the blind man, the one-eyed man is king. ‘Kevin, you need someone to sit with her. She’s very high risk.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, not offended by the reminder. ‘I’ll make sure of it. You going to the house?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She got off the bed and, away from Rachel, whispered, ‘I need to see the body before they move it.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there,’ he said and, before she could say it again, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll get a sitter.’

  The ride north of Grenville to the Parks’ estate in Shiloh took eight minutes. It was a clear night with a half moon and a country sky bright with stars. Jamie drove while Mattie accessed the case file for Lenore’s murder. ‘No weapon was recovered,’ she said.

  ‘So what does that mean for jurisdiction if the one used on Richard Parks turns out to be the same gun?’

  ‘Good question. Answer is, it depends.’

  ‘On?’ the young detective asked.

  ‘Whether Rachel confesses. That would be easiest. Just take our time, make sure all the proper psych evaluations take place and see if she tries for an insanity plea.’

  ‘It’s a tough standard,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Yes and no, but she’s doing a good job so far. No attempt to conceal anything. Acting nuttier than a fruitcake. If she keeps it up …’

  ‘Interesting,’ Jamie said, as she turned down the private road to the Parks Mansion. ‘So on the surface it’s text book. She schizophrenic or something?’ She slowed as they approached a quaint two story red-brick building close to the road and next to an open security gate. The lights were on. ‘This can’t be it …’

  ‘No,’ Mattie said. ‘It’s some sort of guest house, maybe for the help. And no to Rachel being schizo, at least not likely. It’s something else. At the very least, she’s a cutter.’

  ‘You got to wonder what’s wrong with these people. With that kind of money, you’d think they’d be happy.’

  ‘You never know,’ Mattie said as they rounded a curve and got their first look at Lenore’s imposing weathered-brick mansion, four stories high with white-mullioned windows and copper gutters. Shaped like a U with two large wings, it reminded the detective of something out of Masterpiece Theatre. This wasn’t a house for real people … at least not for any she knew. The surrounding trees were artfully illuminated and edged by walls of pruned azaleas, their peach and purple blooms muddied like bruises in the artificial light.

  The road ended in a circular drive where two of the state’s crime scene vans were parked by a tiered marble fountain. Behind them was the Medical Examiner’s Bronco and three Grenville cruisers.

  ‘What do you think a place like this goes for?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Millions, no idea how many.’

  ‘And this is just one of her houses.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In The Post they said Lenore’s estate is close to a billion dollars. So if the son is dead and the daughter goes to jail, or gets locked up in Whiting Forensic, who gets the money?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Excellent question,’ Mattie said. ‘Always keep your eye on the cash.’

  Jamie pulled in behind a Grenville cruiser and the two got out.

  Mattie cringed as a familiar male voice called to her. ‘Detective Perez, we really must stop meeting like this.’

  ‘Hello Arvin,’ Mattie said.

  The short, fat and balding Medical Examiner stamped out his cigarette and headed toward them. ‘If it isn’t the two loveliest detectives in the state of Connecticut.’

  ‘You know that could be considered sexual harassment,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Only if you object and tell me to stop,’ he said.

  ‘I object, please stop,’ Mattie said.

  ‘Naah.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘You want to look at a dead body?’

  Mattie chuckled. Arvin was a lech, but over the years he’d been helpful and never crossed the line into being truly creepy. ‘It’s why we’re here.’

  ‘We have so much in common.’ He led them up the broad stone steps. ‘If only you could see beyond my ageing exterior to my inner beauty.’

  Mattie ignored his prattle as she took in her surroundings. The house, she realized, was something of a fraud. Her prior outings to Grenville, where the antiques industry was king, had educated her. The built-to-impress Georgian-style mansion was a reproduction, likely built by some wealthy Manhattanite at the turn of the twentieth century.

  The front door was wide open. Mattie, Jamie and Arvin paused on the threshold and put paper booties over their shoes.

  ‘Holy crap!’ Jamie said, as they took in the grand hall with its sweeping double staircase and thirty foot coffered ceilings. In front of the stairs was a massive marble table, its surface a Pompeian mosaic of semi-precious stones.

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ Arvin said, unfazed by the extravagant house. At the second floor landing he led them past a photographer who was documenting blood spatter in the carpet. ‘This way,’ and he brought them into a sitting room that could have been featured in L magazine if it hadn’t been for the dead man lying curled on the floor in nothing but a pair of baby blue boxers. ‘He was shot a single time.’ Arvin knelt beside Richard Parks’ muscular body and pulled a pair of blue polypropylene gloves from his back pocket. ‘This,’ pointing to an area of dried blood between the man’s shoulder blades, ‘is your exit wound. And this …’ he pulled out a small LED flashlight and handed it to Jamie. ‘Hold that,’ and he repositioned himself on the front side of the body. ‘See, right there? Just right of the sternum is a powder burn, so very close range. I’d say no more than three feet.’

  ‘But the blood in the hall?’ Mattie asked, letting her senses drink in the scene. She wondered how much had already been altered by the crime scene team. She inhaled deeply. She’d smelled this before. Right, Rachel’s perfume. She looked toward an open door at the back of the room. It led to a bedroom. Without touching anything she peered through. The four poster bed was unmade, the bedding rumpled and pillows mashed. Someone was having fun.
‘He wasn’t shot here.’

  ‘No, he took a long walk.’ Arvin said.

  ‘Show me.’

  Arvin got up and led them back through the house. Mattie’s gaze took in the lavish surroundings, like walking through an antique store where everything was well beyond her detective’s salary. She noted the work that the crime scene team had already done. The trail of blood droplets protected by small white cones. They led from the suite where Richard was found to a second, almost identical set of rooms in the opposite wing.

  Arvin led them back, through a sitting room with leather chairs and couches, to the bedroom. ‘There,’ he said, indicating a ragged circle of blood on the white linen. It was roughly half a foot in diameter; the center was still moist and there was a pucker where the bullet had pierced the bedding.

  ‘He was shot in bed,’ Mattie said, picturing it. ‘Kind of early. You’d think a guy his age would still be up.’ She looked over the surface of the mattress, past the blood. ‘No obvious indentation on the other side. I’d say he was alone.’ There was a tablet computer on the bedside table, a phone in a charger, a set of keys and a black alligator wallet. ‘Was the light on or off?’ she asked.

  ‘Off,’ Arvin said.

  ‘This has all been photographed?’

  ‘Yes, but not dusted.’

  Mattie nodded, and let the tips of her gloved fingers peek into Richard’s wallet. Credit cards and several crisp hundred dollar bills. The bedroom windows were closed, the curtains open. She looked out on to the backyard. Like the front, several of the taller trees were illuminated, and she caught the glitter of moonlight on a body of water in the distance. There was a French door with a lever handle. She noted two sets of contact sensors, one for the security system and the other needed by building code for any door that opened into an area with a swimming pool. She stood and watched for the red light on the latter; it didn’t come on. No surprise, as most people disconnected the battery to avoid the jarring siren.

  She pressed down on the door handle. ‘Has this been unlocked?’ she asked.