Spilled Blood

by Michael R. Davidson

  Through a mouthful of burger Strachey asked, “So, what did you find out?”

  “Our client is a character, a very unlikable and uncooperative character who bears a striking resemblance to Ebenezer Scrooge. And according to your aunt he had strong motives to murder his brother, both personal and financial.” She went on to relate the tale of Padruig Nessmith’s betrayal at the altar.

  The Charlotte Mecklenburg Police are headquartered in an unimaginative but utilitarian, white concrete building across the street from a small green park in a pristine section of the city called Government Plaza crowded with modern buildings with a lot of straight lines and angles. They left the car in a parking lot at the rear and walked around to the columned main entrance. She’d never been there before, but as soon as they entered the building she was in familiar territory. The utilitarian interior with its uniformed occupants felt and smelled like home. Not for the first time she wondered if she’d made the right decision to leave Arlington. She still felt like a cop. It was all she had known her entire adult life.

  An officer directed them to the Homicide/ADW Unit where they found Captain Abel Curry waiting to greet them. Curry was a big man of considerable bulk with a shiny, shaved pate and dark five o’clock shadow. He was probably in his mid-fifties, but the shaved head made it difficult to judge. “Come on into my office,” he said, his tone formal, and gestured them through a door with frosted glass panels and the Captain’s name in neat, black letters. The faint aroma of tobacco greeted them, and Krystal noticed an open window suggesting that Captain Curry regularly abused the no smoking rule. This inclined her positively toward the man. There was a large, wooden desk with neatly stacked papers, a flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite the desk, and a scarred wooden conference table that bore a multitude of rings from coffee cups and glasses, as well as cigarette burns across its surface. Incongruously, a large vase with a flower arrangement occupied its center. They were begonias, and Krystal suspected they were from Curry’s garden. The floor was covered in green, industrial grade carpeting.

  A uniformed cop with sergeant’s stripes rose from the couch and raked them with policeman’s eyes set deeply in a narrow face. In contrast to Curry, he was bone thin with closely cropped blond hair. “This is Sergeant Archie Wolf, my Chief of Staff,” said Curry with a careless wave in the man’s direction.

  Strachey introduced them and, the amenities observed, they took seats around the table.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Captain Curry,” began Strachey. “We’re grateful for the time. The reason we’re here is …”

  “I know why you’re here,” interrupted Curry. “It’s the so-called picnic murders, and you’ve been hired by Padruig Nessmith.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Strachey.

  Curry continued as though Strachey had not spoken. “Frankly, I don’t see there is much you can do that isn’t already being done. We have an experienced and capable homicide unit here, and we’re leaving no stone unturned in this case. As a matter of fact, I’m heading up the investigation myself and have formed a task force of a half-dozen of my best detectives under the supervision of Sergeant Wolf here.”

  Krystal instinctively liked Curry. Strachey was good, but he didn’t know cops like she did. “We understand,” she said with a glance at Strachey that said, ‘let me handle this.’ “I was a cop, the head of a homicide unit, and I know where you’re coming from. We have no intention of stepping on any toes or interfering with your investigation. All we ask is that you share with us whatever you reasonably can about the case. All we know is what’s in the news, but you can’t trust those bozos.” She was counting on cops’ universally shared antipathy toward the press. “Our client insists he had nothing to do with the murders. If we find anything to the contrary, we’ll share it with you. We want to stay well in the background.”

  Curry could not suppress a slight grin at her opinion of the press, and Wolf raised his eyebrows when she said she had been a cop.

  “You were a cop? Whereabouts?” asked Curry.

  “Arlington County Police just outside of Washington.” She had no doubt that Curry would check her bona fides.

  “The only reason I agreed to this meeting was because the Chief ordered it,” said Curry with a squinty-eyed glance at Strachey. “Mr. Strachey’s uncle carries a lot of weight in this town, and he golfs with the Chief. I can give you the basic information, but I won’t be sharing any confidential details of our investigation.”

  “Understood,” nodded Strachey. The reference to his uncle Lyle grated on him. “So, why don’t you tell us everything you can, and we’ll get out of your way?”

  A long, audible sigh escaped from Curry. Sergeant Wolf had yet to utter a word as he studied them with Arctic blue eyes. “You know we’re looking into three murders. As best we can piece it together, based on the scene, Jaidon and Christanna Nessmith were enjoying a picnic lunch with their daughter when they were accosted and shot point blank in the head. It appears that they had no chance to escape their killer. The third victim was riding his bicycle through the Greenway when he came upon the scene, and the killer went after him. He had two wounds, one in the back, and another through the head, poor bastard. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Any witnesses?” asked Krystal. “The daughter survived. Did she see anything?”

  “The child is only eleven years old. Apparently, when the shooting started, her mother threw herself on top of her. The poor kid lay there under her dead mother until she was rescued. She can’t tell us anything, and she’s in shock, still under a doctor’s care. There was a pick-up softball game at one of the fields there, but they were a long way away. The park is big, over 120 acres. They heard the shots, but by the time anyone got to the scene the perp had disappeared.”

  “That’s terrible. What about the weapon?” asked Krystal

  “Forensics say it was probably a .38 Special,” replied Curry.

  “Did the killer take anything? The Nessmiths were wealthy.”

  “Nothing,” replied Curry. “It could have been a robbery gone wrong, and the killer didn’t have time to take anything, of course. He had to get out of there before anyone showed up. He must have known someone would hear the shots.”

  “Strange. Why didn’t he just hold the Nessmiths at gunpoint and rob them? Why fire the gun and attract attention?”

  “And that suggests,” smiled Curry, “that there may have been a motive other than robbery.”

  “What’s known about the third victim, the bike rider?” asked Krystal.

  “Not much there. Name was Gregory Davis, an accountant at H.P.S National Bank downtown, married, no known enemies. Bike riding enthusiast. He’d only moved to Charlotte a little over a year ago. Other than that, there’s not much to know.”

  *****

  They drove south from police headquarters to the scene of the murders, one of Charlotte’s many ‘greenways,’ swaths of natural woodlands and water preserved for public recreation. Strachey asked, “Any thoughts?”

  She wrinkled her brow. “Nothing worth saying out loud. You know the old 48-hour rule about solving a murder. We’re beyond that now, and every day that passes puts it farther from a resolution. I have a feeling nothing about this is going to be easy. It’s just weird.”

  “What do you think about what Curry said - the Nessmiths were shot at close range, once to the head each, but the guy on the bike was hit twice?

  “He was probably trying to get away like Curry said.”

  He nodded, concentrating on his driving. “If I had to guess, I’d say the police have nothing more to go on than we at this point.”

  It was another warm, cloudless day which made for a pleasant drive along Park Road to the scene of the crime, just south of Tyvolia Road. They pulled onto the access drive and parked in a large tarmacked area next to a pond. There were only two other cars in the lot, and the park looked otherwise deserted.

  “It’s a week-d
ay,” said Krystal. “Just like the day of the killings.”

  “Yeah, hardly anyone here. Must have been the same then.”

  They spent a half-hour strolling around the park. There were basketball courts, baseball fields, playgrounds and picnic shelters. There was another parking lot on the other side of the pond, and yet another near the baseball fields. There were still shreds of yellow crime scene tape on the east bank of the pond, not far from the lot where they left their car.

  “This isn’t far from the exit,” noted Strachey. “The killer could have been in his car and out of the park in a few minutes.”

  Jaidon and Christanna Nessmith had chosen a shaded spot beside the water for their picnic. “Lots of cover,” said Krystal pointing at the trees and shrubbery between the parking lot and the path around the pond. The shooter could have walked from the parking lot through the trees without the victims ever seeing him. He took them completely by surprise.”

  “And the bike rider had the misfortune of coming along the path at the time of the shooting.”

  “Looks that way, yeah.”

  They studied the site, Krystal searching instinctively for clues, spent shell casings, anything. But there was nothing. “Curry’s guys went over the site well,” she said. “He said they found no shell casings, so the weapon was most likely a revolver like he said. I don’t think the shooter would have stayed around picking up brass.”

  “He must be a damn good shot,” said Strachey. “One shot each for the Nessmiths and two for the bike rider who must have tried to escape.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s pretty close range. The shooter would only have to be reasonably skillful.”

  Strachey chewed this over. “Maybe. The bastard made a clean getaway. Do you think it would be useful to interview the softball team?”

  “The ones who were practicing here? I dunno. Curry said they saw nothing.”

  “They heard the shots. Maybe that would tell us something.”

  “It was a .38 special according to Curry. Pretty common gun.”

  He frowned. “Damn little to go on. Best thing is to start interviewing people who knew the victims.”

  “We’ll just be repeating what Curry’s investigators are doing. You know, this still could have been just a mugging gone wrong by some thug who didn’t even know his victims.”

  Krystal scanned the area again considering the possibilities. “Maybe, but when you consider the location, the setting, the short distance to the parking lot and the cover, we might be looking at a well-planned ambush.”

  “So, premeditated murder,” said Strachey in a low tone. “It’s certainly a possibility when you look at it that way. And that means someone who knew the victims, someone with a motive strong enough to justify murder.”

  “Curry’s guys would not have missed the possibility,” said Krystal. “You can bet they’re knocking on doors.”

  “With the Nessmith family involved, you can bet those are high society doors.”

  “And so far, the only person we know of who had a strong motive is Padruig, and the story your aunt told me must be very well known among Charlotte’s old families.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was late afternoon and a light summer rain splattered against the office windows making little shushing sounds before trickling in squiggly ranks down the glass. Krystal had spent another fruitless morning interviewing people who obviously could have no direct knowledge of the murders of Jaidon and Christanna Nessmith but nevertheless felt obliged to share their conviction that it only could have been Padruig whose years of silent simmering rage finally had boiled over with deadly consequences in the best traditions of the Southern Gothic novel. The murders and press speculation had rejuvenated the tale of Christanna abandoning Padruig at the altar to run away with his younger brother and bolstered the idea of a modern Cain and Abel story right here in Billy Graham’s hometown.

  She was preparing to write a report that would provide exactly zero useful information when the phone rang. It was Abel Curry calling from his office at police HQS. “Hello, Miss Murphy, I thought I should give you a heads up.”

  Her immediate thought was that there had been a break in the case, and she was not mistaken. “We’re bringing Padruig Nessmith in as we speak. Suspicion of murder.”

  There was evident satisfaction in his voice.

  She sat up straight. The police had held off until now because of lack of evidence. Suspicion alone was enough to justify further investigation but not an arrest. Something had changed. “What have you found out?” she asked.

  Curry didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t say over the phone, but if you want to come over here, I’ll fill you in as a courtesy to a former cop.”

  Strachey was out with a client and she didn’t want to disturb him. Best if she had some real information to report before talking to him. “OK, Captain, I’m on my way. And thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  A bond of sorts, a cops’ bond, existed between her and the shiny-pated Abel Curry. She knew how the game was played, and the Captain appreciated the fact. She and Strachey had been careful not to step on official toes and to keep Curry abreast of what they were doing. It was paying off.

  Curry was waiting for her with a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of donuts. They sat at his conference table, and the Captain got straight to business. “I’m doing this as a courtesy to you and Strachey,” he began, “but the information is confidential, and I want you to promise not to share it with anyone but Strachey.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I promise.”

  He inspected her with a pro’s eyes and apparently was satisfied with what he saw. “I never believed Padruig’s claim that he was home alone on the day of the murders. So, I assigned a man to check traffic cam footage. We have quite a few cameras around the city covering the main intersections and heavy traffic areas. It took a few days, but he finally spotted Padruig in his car heading out of town just after the murders took place.” His lips shaped themselves into a grim smile. “They should be booking him about now.”

  The information was unwelcome, but not unexpected. Krystal had doubted Padruig was telling the truth, too, and the man’s uncooperative attitude reinforced the impression. He didn’t even seem to be trying … or he just did not care.

  “Do you think he’ll get bail?”

  Curry selected a frosted cruller from the plate, chewed for a few seconds, followed it with a swig of black coffee and then shook his head. “I don’t know. Depends on the judge. There won’t be an arraignment until tomorrow morning, so he’ll spend at least the night in a cell.”

  “Have you ever met him? Talked to him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t expect much.”

  “I understand he’s a truculent sort.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So,” he asked around another mouthful of cruller, “what will you and Strachey do now?”

  She frowned. “Dunno. I gotta talk with him about it.”

  “Think you’ll drop your client?”

  Good question. “That’ll be up to Strachey. We’ll let you know. Is it possible to talk to Padruig?”

  “That’s a question for his lawyer. You’ll have to talk to him.”

  She drove slowly back to the office wondering if it was quite right for her to be neither surprised nor concerned about Padruig Nessmith’s arrest. She’d found no common ground nor the slightest possibility of empathy with him. Other people got over heartbreak without shutting themselves off from the world. Other people permitted their friends to sympathize and help.

  But Padruig Nessmith had allowed himself to become an unlikable little troglodyte whose emotions were as fenced in as North Korea. He distrusted everything and everyone even, as Curry’s new evidence showed, to the point of not sharing the truth with people trying to help him. But now he would need all the help she and Strachey could give him, providing he was indeed innocent, and she was
having some doubts about that. He had lied not only to them, but also to the police, and that lie was enough to provoke his arrest. She could not help but speculate about why he had lied. Curry had said Nessmith had been seen on the street shortly after the killings. It was only a few minutes’ drive from the murder scene to the intersection where he had been caught on the traffic camera according to Curry. She had no idea how Strachey would receive the news. There were still some things to straighten out before she would be satisfied that she had left no stone unturned.

  She didn’t have long to wait before Strachey returned to the office. He was whistling a little tune until he saw her. “Uh-oh,” he said, “Something’s up, and from the look on your face it isn’t good. Spill it.”

  “Padruig’s been arrested. He’s been booked and is sitting in the county lock-up by now.”

  “They arrested him? On what evidence?”

  She told him about the traffic camera.

  “Damn!” He sat behind his desk and rummaged in a drawer for a box of cigars. She sat silently as he went through the ritual of lighting up. “Why in hell didn’t he tell us he’d been out of the house?” he said. “What an idiot. He’s treating us as if we were enemies.”

  “I don’t think he trusts anyone, with the possible exception of his sister.”

  “You think you should have a chat with her?”

  Krystal chewed the inside of her cheek. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. She hardly said a word when I was at the house.”

  “Can we see Padruig, maybe get some more information out of him now he’s in jail?”

  “Curry said we would have to go through his lawyer, and not until after the arraignment tomorrow morning in any case.”

  “Maybe they’ll let him out on bail.”

  “I dunno. It’s a high-profile case. I can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow morning.”

  “They’ll skewer the old boy, that’s for sure.”

  “And the news will be received with glee by certain segments of Charlotte’s upper crust. They’ve already convicted him in their minds.”