The Serenity Murder (A Luca Mystery Book 3)

by Dan Petrosini

  “The question is why? Was it just a harmless argument? Why wouldn’t he just say so?”

  “It could’ve been about the money he was sucking out of her and he wanted to keep that quiet.”

  “Probably was, but it’s a big leap going from blackmail to murder. It doesn’t normally happen.”

  “Nothing about this case is normal.”

  “I’m not going to let this case be added to the two-hundred-thousand unsolved murders over the past sixty years.”

  ***

  For the first time in months, a nightmare featuring the Barrow case woke me, crushing another of my hopeful expectations. What did I expect? A kid killed himself because I didn’t stop the effort to railroad him. Being green wasn’t an excuse. I’d have to learn to live with it, like Vargas said. I knew she was right and swung my legs off the bed. The clock read 5:12, and my throat was bothering me. I went to the bathroom, and while waiting for the pee to flow, thought over the Boggs case. After relieving myself, I decided to make a cup of tea and read the entire case file.

  After cutting a lemon and squeezing a half into my tea, I grabbed the six-inch Boggs file and sat down. The first document in it was the forensics report from the crime scene: a long list, identifying the what and where of a collection of hairs, fibers, latent prints, one shoe imprint, and the blood, all of which came from the victim.

  The identities of the hair samples and prints were not surprising. Besides the victim, most of the hairs and fingerprints belonged to Gideon Brighthouse, John Barnet, and three housekeepers. I remembered my initial interest in an identified hair, but testing tied it to a man who delivered the flower arrangements each week.

  The fiber report was a long list but nothing unusual stood out. If we had a firm suspect, we’d hopefully use it to tie his presence to the scene. It wouldn’t be a clincher, just supporting evidence.

  Drinking the last of my tea, I turned to the physical evidence collected at the scene: the empty wine glass and a nearly empty bottle of Kistler Pinot Noir. Who had drunk the wine? It was still undetermined. The only thing interesting about the Omega Juicer was Gideon’s intention to use it as the delivery system for the mushroom poison.

  The most important physical evidence we had was the knife used to kill Marilyn Boggs. The report said it was made by Zwilling of Germany, and not surprisingly, expensive. Its black, wood handle had been wiped of prints, and its serrated edge was fourteen inches long. No wonder it went straight through the poor woman. The blood found on the knife belonged to Marilyn Boggs. I unclipped the photo of the knife and pleaded with it to speak to me.

  Clipping the photo back, it hit me. I popped out of my seat and went to the counter where my lemon and knife lay. Sure enough, there was a drop of lemon juice that had slid off the knife onto the counter. I grabbed the case file and flipped back to the forensics report.

  No drops of blood were found anywhere, including where the knife was found. The killer either had wiped it down or was wearing gloves. The blade was left untouched. He or she didn’t rinse it either, as no traces of blood were found in the sink.

  I checked the time; it was only 6:18. Damn, there were two full hours before I could scratch my itch.

  Chapter 51

  Luca

  Medical Examiner Shields looked up from his monitor and shook his head.

  “I don’t have time, Frank.”

  “This will be quick, I promise.”

  “You know, you always say that, and it never is.”

  “It’s important, Doc.”

  Looking at his watch, he said, “You’ve got five.”

  “Thanks. Serrated knives have all those little edges, so if one was used to stab someone, when they pull it out, would it take blood with it?”

  “There are many factors, starting with the arc used to stab. If the victim was on the ground or significantly reclined, gravity would play a role.”

  “Okay. How about a normal, smooth blade versus a serrated one when used in a stabbing? What’s the blood-drip difference?”

  “Standing, sitting? Deep puncture or not?”

  “Standing. The attacker is taller than the victim, and it’s as deep a wound as could be made, straight through the chest, like in the Boggs case.”

  “A long, serrated blade was used in that. Are we talking about that killing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m generalizing, Frank, as even the clothing the victim wears has a role—”

  “But she had a light blouse on; you saw it.”

  He nodded. “It was somewhat unusual that no blood drippings were found at the crime scene. A flat knife would tend to have the blood on the blade run off, generating a larger, blob-like drip. A serrated edge has many points of contact. It actually has less contact area than a smooth blade, and the contact points are finer, meaning less blood would collect on each contact point.”

  “What about any dripping?”

  “There is a tendency to produce smaller droplets of blood.”

  “And where would theses droplets fall?”

  “This is an inexact science, Frank. The force and speed of the thrust and removal would play a large role in where the blood, if any, would fall. And we haven’t mentioned the angle of the stabbing.”

  “Can you stand, Doc?”

  “What?”

  “Humor me a second and come around.”

  As Shields came around his desk, I grabbed a pencil off it.

  “Doc, you’re a bit taller than me, so take this pencil and pretend it’s a serrated knife. Now, Marilyn Boggs was stabbed right about here, severing her aorta. I would think that would generate a lot of blood.”

  “Naturally.”

  I bent my knees a little. “Hold the pencil near the eraser.”

  Grabbing the pencil, I guided his hand to where Marilyn had been stabbed.

  “Okay, now envision pulling the blade out and do it with the pencil.”

  The coroner pulled the make-believe blade back sharply, and when it was by his ear I said, “Hold it! See where you are?”

  The coroner relaxed and let his hand fall to his side. “Now, you want to know where a drop of blood could have gone? Assuming there was one.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, there wasn’t any evidence of blood on the floor or cabinetry. It is possible that when the knife was yanked out,” he put his fist by his ear, “a drop or drops of blood flew off the knife and onto the attacker.”

  “On his shirt?”

  “No, I don’t think so. As he pulled the knife out and toward him, during that arc, if something was falling off the knife, gravity would play a role. I think if it did happen at all, and it’s a long shot, it would end up on his pants, or leg if he was wearing shorts.”

  “Thanks, Doc, you’re a lifesaver.”

  “When you say that, do you mean again?”

  As soon as I hit the parking lot, a text from Vargas came in. She had gone to see Sanchez, offering him a deal on the burglary charges if he could give us something tangible against either Barnet or Brighthouse. The setup was good but It didn’t pan out, as Sanchez denied ever meeting Barnet and said he never spoke with Gideon other than a hello. Vargas believed him. There wasn’t a connection, and out went the conspiracy theory.

  ***

  Sheriff Morgan was grumbling as Vargas and I entered his office, making me thankful she was with me.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” Vargas said.

  “Ma’am, Luca. You got something to brighten my day?”

  I said, “We’re exploring a way to bring the Boggs case to a conclusion, sir.”

  “It’s about time.” Beckoning with his hand, he said, “Tell me about it and make it quick. I’ve got some PR thing at Barron High School.”

  I said, “The crime scene had no blood besides what was on the floor beneath the victim and on the murder weapon itself. That’s fairly unusual.”

  “You’re just realizing this
now?”

  “No, no. It’s not that it’s unusual, but we need to explore the possibility that blood may have fallen onto the killer’s clothes.”

  “And you don’t think he discarded them?”

  Vargas said, “It’s possible, Sheriff, but the knife had a serrated edge, and they tend to produce tiny droplets of blood. Maybe the killer didn’t even notice a tiny drop of blood got on him.”

  Morgan ran a hand over his flattop. “So, we’re hanging our hat on, one, that a drop of blood fell on the attacker, and two, he or she didn’t realize it? Sounds wishy-washy to me.”

  “It may be a long shot, but the coroner believes it’s not only possible but likely.”

  Morgan rested an elbow on his desk. “Shields said that?”

  I said, “Yes.” And then walked it back a baby step. “In fact, we reenacted the stabbing multiple times, and he’s of the opinion it’s well within the realm of possibilities.”

  “So, you came here to seek a subpoena?”

  Vargas said, “Yes, we’d like to request three.”

  “Three? That sounds a little greedy.”

  “We don’t think so, sir. We have three possible suspects: John Barnet, he was there the day of the killing; Raul Sanchez, the jewelry thief, who’s in custody; and Gideon Brighthouse.”

  “If I agree, what’s the scope going to be?”

  I said, “We’re going to ask for all articles of clothing be taken and tested.”

  “You’re going leave Mr. Brighthouse with nothing to wear, not even his underpants?”

  “Vargas said, “Sir, we’d limit it to outer garments: shirts and pants.”

  “What are they going to wear while you test?”

  Vargas said, “Detective Luca and I discussed this at length, sir. Our plan is to take luminol with us when we execute the subpoena, that is, if you agree. Then, we’ll spray five or six sets of clothing, and if they come up clean we’ll leave them behind. After that, we’d move quickly to process the balance of clothing.”

  “I appreciate your consideration, Mary Ann, but did it occur to either one of you that someone like Gideon Brighthouse probably owns more clothing than the three of us put together? How are you going to process that volume of clothing, not to mention the others, quickly?”

  I said, “We can work through Mr. Brighthouse’s apparel first.”

  “You’re going have Gerey all over me. Who knows, they may even go to the press with some nonsense we took all his clothes. There’s got to be another way we can do this. Try the other two and see if you get a hit, make Brighthouse last.”

  “We considered that, but we’re afraid if Brighthouse gets word of the testing, he’ll destroy any evidence.”

  Morgan said, “That’s if he hasn’t already.”

  “We can put a blockade around Keewaydin, you know, check everything that goes in and out, make sure there are no fires on the island—”

  “God damn it, Luca, you think this is Venezuela or something?”

  Throwing a crazy idea always makes the alternative look better. “Sorry, sir, but there’s no easy way to do this.”

  Vargas said, “I’m afraid Detective Luca is right, sir. We’re sorry to put you in a tight spot, but we feel it’s a necessary course of action that can help us close the case quickly.”

  Morgan leaned back in his chair and put a cowboy boot on the edge of his desk. “I’ve got to roll this one around.”

  Chapter 52

  Luca

  No one on the team was in uniform. We had just stepped off the boat when I saw Gideon rise off a chaise. He looked in our direction and ran into the pool house.

  “Let’s move it! I don’t want to give him a chance to destroy any evidence.”

  The six of us jogged toward the pool house. Pulling a slider open, we swarmed into the building like a SWAT team. Gideon wasn’t on the ground floor. I took the stairs two by two and quickly knocked on a door before throwing it open.

  Gideon was under the covers of his bed. Eyes closed, he was taking deep breaths, pushing his head into the pillow while inhaling and bending his head forward as he exhaled. Vargas squeezed into the doorframe saying, “It’s okay, Mr. Brighthouse. Take it easy. No one is going to hurt you. You don’t even have to answer any questions today.”

  We walked to his bedside. Gideon opened his eyes, looked at us, and clamped them shut. Scattered on the nightstand were three prescription bottles, caps off, and a glass of water. I picked them up: Valium, Xanax, and Ativan. Holding them out for Vargas to see, I motioned for her to speak.

  “Gideon, how much medicine did you take?”

  He kept breathing deeply, a good sign, as these drugs screw with your respiratory system.

  “Do I need to call a doctor?”

  He lay there, inhaling and exhaling like a Buddhist.

  “If you don’t tell me what you took, I’m going to have to take you to a hospital to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Leave me alone, I’m trying to meditate.”

  “Did you take more than you’re supposed to?”

  “Why can’t you just . . . leave me alone?”

  “How many pills did you take?”

  As he held out two fingers, I instructed the rest of the crew to search the lower level for any clothing.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “What do you want with me?”

  I gave the subpoena to Vargas, who said, “We have a court order to examine your clothes.”

  He opened his eyes. “My . . . my clothes? Why?”

  Vargas sat on the bed and explained what was going on and I went into the closet. It was like walking into the Wonderful World of Pastels. Almost everything this guy owned was in a pastel color. It was bizarre.

  Spreading my arms as far apart as they could go, I pushed into a hanging section, grabbed a bunch of clothes and headed down the stairs. No way I was going get Gideon involved in choosing what he was going to wear.

  I told the forensics guys to test the clothes. They opened their luminol kits, and I took the two other officers with me to the main house. I reminded them to leave all jackets and suits behind and to pack what qualified into black plastic bags.

  It took only forty-five minutes for forensics to clear the first batch of clothes I had brought down. I asked them to keep testing until we were ready to depart.

  An hour later, we left the island with less than I expected. Gideon may have been the king of pastels, but he was no clothes horse. In fact, he owned more pairs of shorts than pants and was curiously light on socks.

  ***

  Once we hit the mainland, the forensics guys took the bags from Keewaydin. Vargas and I, and the two officers sped off for Barnet’s place. A call came in right before we pulled up to the high-rise Barnet lived in; the group that had gone to Sanchez’s had already finished inventorying what they took from his place.

  Sitting on Gulf Shore Drive, the building had a good address, but it wasn’t quite first class. Barnet was renting a two-bedroom on the second floor. We went into the lobby flashing our badges, explaining to the doorman why we were there. Vargas showed him the subpoena and he made a call to his boss. The doorman unlocked a drawer and fished out a set of keys. He tried to hand them over, but I asked him to accompany us as a witness.

  We took the stairs, and when the doorman opened the door I headed straight for the master bedroom. Breezing past an unmade bed and a pair of underwear, I went to the closet. It was a walk-in. Scanning the half-filled closet, I looked for the blue pants and white shirt Gideon had remembered Barnet wearing. There were several that could be matches. I pulled a few out and looked them over but no dead ringers. I rehung them and surveyed the rest, a majority of the garments a form of linen. I checked some labels: “made in China” was printed on all of them. I’d have taken a bet right then that there wasn’t an expensive one from Capri in the entire closet.

  Before leaving the master suite, I went into the
bathroom, where a fraying towel hung over the bathtub. A hairbrush and toothpaste tube were all that was on the counter. I pulled the vanity draw open, and among the paraphernalia was a bottle of Just for Men. Finding it made me feel good.

  The place had a lot of windows but no view, unless you liked looking straight into a mangrove hedge. I had wanted to look up a listing in the building but forgot. I wished I knew what a place like this traded for. The main room had a stylish-looking couch that screamed uncomfortable. A Lucite coffee table had a bowl of seashells on it and a coaster with a vine image. There was only one end table, and its lower half was stacked with copies of the Wine Spectator.

  A half wall separated a dining area, where a black lacquer table supported a large bottle of wine. It was bigger than a magnum, empty, and had been signed by a bunch of people.

  The galley kitchen had a sink with a couple of days’ worth of plates in it. Sitting on the counter was a wine glass that looked the same as the one found in the Boggs home. I took a shot of it with my phone.

  Looking around, I couldn’t find any wine storage other than a small, under-the-counter job that was sitting in a closet. I don’t know why, but I opened it and pulled two bottles out before I realized I didn’t know what I was looking at. The doorman shadowed me, tapping away at his phone.

  As the officers loaded the bags up, I went into the second bedroom. It was a mess. I knew that when you had no garage you needed somewhere to store your stuff, but this was ridiculous. Moving a couple of boxes out of the way, I got to the closet. Nothing in there but more boxes. Would he have put a blood-stained pair of pants in one of these boxes?

  We’d be within our rights to search them, but the thought of going through all these boxes made me cringe. I wiped a finger across a couple of the boxes and came up with a dirty fingertip each time. Still uncertain what to do, I asked Vargas, and she agreed it didn’t make sense.

  I circled the apartment one more time before we left with three bags of clothing.