The Silent Child Boxset

by Roger Hayden

  Harris stood up and stroked his dark mustache. “Trying to figure it out ourselves. Damn wrecking ball went through this place.” The sleeves on his light-blue dress shirt were rolled up. His red tie swayed along with the ID hanging around his neck on a lanyard. He and Dobson nearly matched, both wearing black slacks with their pistols holstered at their waists.

  “Who called it in?” Dobson asked.

  “Mrs. Bailey’s niece,” Harris said. “She lives here sometimes with her aunt.”

  “Sometimes?” Dobson said, curious.

  Lieutenant Fitzpatrick suddenly stood up and joined the conversation. “Between here and New York. She looks after her aunt, but hadn’t heard from her in two days. That’s when she called the station, concerned, and asked that we do a courtesy check.”

  He paused and pointed at Mrs. Wade’s covered body. “Sergeant Peterson did so and found her dead on the floor here.”

  Dobson pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on as he kneeled next to Mrs. Bailey’s body. He lifted the sheet and saw that she was lying on her side with her arms splayed out in front of her, a crack on the back of her skull. Her curly gray hair was covered in dried, crusty blood. “Do we have any idea how long she’s been like this?”

  “At least a day or two,” Harris said. “Judging by her discoloration.”

  Dobson turned his head to follow a thin trail of blood that led to the last step of the staircase as Lieutenant Fitzpatrick stood over him and spoke.

  “We have a break-in and what looks like a murder. The only question is why.”

  “Was anything stolen?” Dobson said, pulling the sheet back over her.

  “Hard to say at this point,” Harris interjected.

  “But I’m sure we’ll find a fair amount of property theft,” the lieutenant added.

  Dobson’s knees cracked as he stood up. “We should start with monitoring her accounts. See if any money had been withdrawn.” He walked toward the entranceway to the right, which led to an expansive dining hall. “I heard that her security system was disarmed. That’s a red flag right there.”

  “Her niece said that sometimes Mrs. Bailey would forget to set it,” Fitzpatrick said, following him. “It was a big concern of hers whenever she left her.”

  Dobson stopped and turned. “Where is she?”

  “Back in New York,” Harris said, walking beside him. “On business for the week.”

  Dobson nodded, thinking to himself. “Someone must have been watching the place, perhaps waiting for the niece to leave.”

  “All this money and they didn’t hire a caretaker?” Harris asked. “Or at least a security guard?”

  “Strange,” Dobson said. He then looked past the spacious dining hall to his right and saw the entrance to a kitchen where pots and pans covered the floor. He walked over and could hear Harris following behind.

  “What do you think, Mike?”

  “Whoever was in here had a lot of time on their hands,” Dobson said. They entered the kitchen where cabinets had been opened, drawers pulled out, and pots and pans scattered across the floor. Sergeant Jimenez, a short, stocky officer with a crew cut, turned from the nearby stove and greeted them, digital camera in hand.

  “Morning, Detectives.”

  “Morning, Sergeant,” Dobson said, surveying the scene. “One heck of a mess.”

  The overhead lights illuminated the white cabinets and granite countertops. A nearby open pantry door revealed several shelves that had been emptied, with canned goods and boxes spilled on the floor, as though no stone had been left unturned in what appeared to be a search.

  Sergeant Jimenez nodded. “Trashed about every room in the place.”

  “Wonder if they found whatever it was they were looking for,” Harris said.

  Dobson stepped over some pots and broken plates and approached a wide porcelain sink where a stack of dirty dishes rested. “Did Mrs. Bailey employ help? I imagine a place like this has its share of upkeep.”

  “We’re looking into it,” Harris said.

  Dobson paused as he looked up and scanned the entire kitchen. Its large stainless steel refrigerator hummed in the corner. Curtains were drawn on a window across from him. “Where was the point of entry?”

  “In the back,” Harris began. He then pointed outside the kitchen and into the dining area. “The back door was busted wide open.”

  “Is that the only breached point of entry so far?” Dobson asked.

  “Looks like it,” Harris said. “Gate was wide open too. What do you make of that?”

  Dobson stuck his hands in his pocket and looked around the kitchen. “Carelessness.”

  “You said it,” Harris said.

  “So, no one else lives here besides the niece?” Dobson asked.

  “Not to our knowledge,” Harris said. “Lots of room for two people.”

  Dobson shrugged. “Kind of sad, really.”

  They looked around the kitchen some more and then returned to the foyer where Mrs. Bailey lay on the ground. There was still an entire upstairs to be searched, and Dobson felt overwhelmed with all the area yet to be covered.

  From the front entrance, two young male paramedics walked inside, guiding a wheeled gurney with a black body bag on top. They looked around at the elegant chandeliers and paintings on the walls around them. One of them whistled.

  “Morning,” Harris said as they neared.

  “Morning,” they answered back.

  They stopped at Mrs. Bailey’s body, where one of them knelt next to a dried puddle of blood on the floor and pointed to her covered body. “Bailey. Is this her?”

  “Yes,” Dobson answered. “But don’t touch her yet. Not until Forensics arrives.”

  The paramedics looked at each other with a sigh.

  Dobson turned and approached the staircase, placing his hands on the railing and looking up. There were blood spots covered every step. He kept to the side, avoiding the yellow numbered placards, and began walking up, only to be called back down by Fitzpatrick as he entered the room.

  “Gentlemen, I have some important news,” he announced.

  Dobson turned from the stairs as the police officers on the scene gathered.

  “You too, Detective,” Fitzpatrick said, pointing at Dobson.

  Dobson walked back down as Fitzpatrick continued. “I’ve received word of a suspect seen driving in the area the other night in a gray four-door Chevy Suburban.”

  “Do we have a license plate?” Harris asked, scribbling into his pocket notebook.

  Fitzpatrick stopped. “If we did, I don’t think we’d be standing around here talking about it. Do you?”

  “I suppose not,” Harris said. “Who saw the van?”

  “Several eyewitnesses in the area,” Fitzpatrick said. “Now, we need to put out an APB for this vehicle. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. In the meantime, Forensics is on the way.”

  “Where’s the niece?” Dobson asked.

  “She’s flying back today to talk to us at the station,” Fitzpatrick said.

  Dobson pointed upstairs. “Where did Mrs. Bailey sleep?”

  Fitzpatrick looked to Harris and then back at Dobson. “I think Detective Harris can help you with that.”

  “Upstairs,” Harris said, patting his shoulder. “Follow me.”

  “That’s where I was head,” Dobson muttered.

  “Be careful. Don’t touch anything,” Fitzpatrick called out as they walked past him.

  Dobson and Harris soon reached the top of the stairs where a table and lamp had been turned over. There were long hallways on both sides with a dozen or so rooms. Harris took the hall to the right as they passed several rooms equally ransacked. Portraits hung along the wall, along with family photos that seemed to date back generations.

  Harris stopped at the last room on their right and held his arm out for Dobson to enter. “This was Mrs. Bailey’s master bedroom.”

  Dobson walked inside, observant. Under the expensive-looking dome l
ights, the room was filled with elaborately carved furniture and dressers, gold-framed mirrors, and vanity sets. Clothes from open drawers and a nearby, open walk-in closet were strewn across the plush beige carpeting. He slowly approached a queen-sized bed with an exquisite silk curtain and canopy around it.

  The curtain was open, the blankets dragged to the floor, with several gold-laced pillows tossed aside. In addition to the reckless mess of the otherwise opulent room, he noticed something unusual. There were bullet holes in the bed’s headboard, directly near where someone would have been sleeping. Dobson circled the bed to get a closer look and could see shells on the ground, each one numbered with a yellow placard.

  Dobson knelt next to the bed and retrieved one of the shells, holding it up. “Nine millimeter…”

  “Yep,” Harris said, entering the room. “Looks like the dumbass fired three shots and missed.”

  Dobson got up and walked over to where the blankets had been yanked off to the left. On the ground with the sheets lay some hair curlers, a slipper, and an earring.

  “Strange assortment of things left behind,” Harris continued. He then crouched closer to the floor, pointing. He walked toward a vanity set filled with all kinds of creams and powders and pointed to the shattered mirror with a hole in the middle of it. “Here’s where he fired another round and missed.”

  Dobson drew closer and saw yet another shell casing on the floor with a yellow placard next to it. He continued to follow Harris outside the room where he pointed to another hole in the wall next to a painting of a ballerina. “Another shot right here,” he said. “But we can’t find the casing for that one.”

  He continued back down the hall, talking along the way. “Mrs. Bailey ran from her bed and miraculously avoided multiple gunshots.” He halted, pointing at the ground where another sandal lay. “She lost this here and kept going, most likely headed downstairs.”

  He pointed to some broken pearls, a gold necklace, and some earrings as he continued walking. “There’s more jewelry here. At this point, she probably thought that she was going to make it. But then…” He stopped at the staircase where there were more hair curlers scattered about, a shawl and a silk robe just lying there.

  Dobson paused and examined the banister closely, lightly touching the smeared makeup. His eyes traveled down to the hardwood floor where he saw a toothpick lying near a baseboard below the railing. “This is interesting,” he said, gripping it between two gloved fingers. He then placed the toothpick in a small Ziploc bag.

  Harris leaned closer. “What do you have there?”

  “Toothpick,” Dobson said. “Seems odd that it’s just lying here.”

  “Takes a real son of bitch to murder an elderly woman like this,” Harris said.

  Dobson stood up and leaned against the railing, looking downstairs at the marble foyer. “Whether she was pushed or fell, this is some sloppy work.”

  “You said it,” Harris added. A brief silence followed when he slapped Dobson on the back and descended the stairs. “We’ll convene later. I’m out of here.”

  Dobson stood at the railing, confused. “Who’s writing this one up?”

  “The report?” Harris asked.

  Dobson knew that he was playing dumb. “Yes, the report!”

  Harris reached the bottom of the stairs and kept walking. “Sorry, my nine hours are up. I was supposed to be home a while ago.” He then walked out the door with a parting wave.

  “Hey, thanks a lot!” Dobson called out as his voice echoed throughout the mansion. But Harris was already gone.

  Dobson folded his arms over the railing and looked down. The questions surrounding Mrs. Bailey’s murder were endless. He was confident that they’d find fingerprints, tire tracks, or footprints, something that could help lead them to a suspect.

  Secret Admirer

  Clearwater, Maine

  Victoria woke the next morning, uncertain if her discovery about Liz murdered had been a dream or not. The chain letter rested on the nightstand next to her. She couldn’t remember taking it out of the drawer in the kitchen, but she must have. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom and looked at her alarm clock to see that it was five past seven. She needed to drop Brooke off at school and be at work by nine; a manageable feat all depending on how quickly she got ready.

  She stepped out of bed and stretched as sunlight glowed from behind the closed curtains of the bedroom windows. Todd’s briefcase sat on a nearby desk with his papers and cell phone resting on top. Its screen flashed, and she managed to catch a glimpse of the message before it went away.

  It said, call me ASAP, under a number she didn’t recognize. The bathroom door opened and Todd stepped out with a towel around his waist and steam trailing behind him. He looked at Victoria, startled.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said. “All done in there?”

  “It’s all yours,” he said, moving aside.

  Victoria walked past him and went into the bathroom, stopping before she reached the bath rug. “Someone just sent you a text message.”

  Todd glanced at his phone. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  He walked to the desk and quickly reached for his phone, Victoria shut the bathroom door. She wiped some of the fog from the mirror and examined her tired face. The puffy bags under her bluish-green eyes troubled her as much as the lines forming along her cheeks. Her bangs needed trimming along with the split-ends at her shoulders. Someday, when she had time, she’d go to a salon and get a facial and haircut.

  She moved away from the mirror and pulled her nightgown off, stepping inside the shower. She turned on the faucet and moved aside. Once warm, she leaned into the water’s flow and felt the soothing rush against her body while soaping her face. Eyes closed, all she could see was the image of Liz from the news article. The same wide, innocent smile from when they were kids.

  At the breakfast table, Victoria told Todd about her findings, only to see his face buried in the day’s newspaper, barely listening to her. She pulled a bagel from the toaster and turned around. “Did you hear me? My high school friend is dead. She was murdered two weeks ago.”

  “Are you sure you looked up the right person?” Todd asked, glancing at his wristwatch. He appeared to be in a hurry with his slicked-back hair and blue and white pinstripe shirt and red tie.

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said, walking over with her bagel and coffee mug. “The woman they were talking about was Liz from high school. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  She sat down, saddened. “It’s strange to realize that you may never see someone again.”

  “Yeah,” Todd said, lowering the paper. He then handed her his empty coffee mug. “Honey, would you mind?”

  Victoria took the mug and slammed it against the table, startling him. “Listen to me!”

  He looked at her, startled. “Okay. I’m sorry. How was she murdered?”

  “Who was murdered?” Brooke asked, entering the kitchen, wearing a striped long-sleeve shirt and jean shorts, her hair pinned back in a bun.

  “You look nice today,” Victoria said as Brooke went to the refrigerator and pulled out some milk.

  “Thanks,” she said. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “An old friend of mine,” Victoria said. “Something your father doesn’t think is a big issue.”

  “It’s tragic,” Todd said defensively. “What else can I say?”

  Victoria turned to him and leaned in closer with an answer. “How about how strange it is that I got a letter in the mail two weeks after she’s already dead.”

  Todd shrugged. “I’d expect nothing less from our postal service.”

  Brooke made herself a bowl of cereal and joined them at the table. “How’d she die, Mom?”

  Victoria looked at Brooke, reserved. “She was stabbed. I’m not going to go into details.” She then tapped Todd’s leg with her foot. “Some people just want to dismiss the whole thing.”

  Todd suddenly
stood up, glancing at his watch again. “Look, honey. I’ve got to go.”

  He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll call you later.” After a quick kiss on Brooke’s cheek, he was out of the kitchen with his coat and briefcase.

  “What’s his rush?” Brooke asked as Todd rushed out of the house.

  “He has a busy day ahead of him,” Victoria said, glancing down at the newspaper he left behind. “We all do.” She then looked at Brooke. “Are you almost ready to leave?”

  “Yeah,” Brooke said, taking a bite of cereal. She then paused and leaned closer. “Can you tell me what happened to your dead friend now?”

  Victoria sighed as she rose and pushed her chair out. “That’s enough. Now, finish your cereal, and let’s go.”

  Brooke looked down and ate a few more mushy bites before pushing the bowl away completely. Victoria walked toward the sink and placed her hands on the counter in thought. She considered taking the chain letter to the police. Its sender had been murdered. The letter itself was cryptic and vague, and perhaps they could make a connection.

  “Ten minutes,” she said to Brooke as she walked past her and out of the kitchen.

  Victoria returned to her room and checked her appearance in a nearby wall mirror, pulling at her light purple dress-shirt, which was neatly tucked into gray wool trousers. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was neatly brushed to the side, and her light makeup covered some unwanted morning blemishes. She froze in front of the mirror as her mind returned to memories of Liz. They had always discussed the kind of man they would marry, how exciting their weddings were going to be, and how they were going to be friends forever.

  Elizabeth was divorced. The article stated that her ex-husband had been cleared of the murder as he lived out of state. It was someone else. Victoria grabbed her purse and returned to the kitchen where Brooke was putting her shoes on.

  “Ready?”