Reproducing crime scenes wasn't hard. Hollywood did it all the time, and there were photos of other scenes everywhere from forensic journals to true-crime novels. Spatter and spray would be easy to reproduce—plant misters, set just right, would mimic the early parts of spray, and something with a bit of kick would be able to reproduce the way that blood spurted from an artery.
There'd be mistakes, but who would look for them? Especially in an overwhelming and fairly obvious scene.
Too much blood wasn't enough for Foreno to reopen the case—it was a closed murder trial, after all. But the blood evidence, coupled with the young man I'd seen, was enough to get Foreno working it again, on the side, in his spare time.
First, he had a crime-scene friend reexamine the photos, not explaining anything about the case.
Second, he looked in the Moorhead family background.
Third, he searched for the waiter.
And those three things came together into something both expected and unexpected. The tech said the scene might've been tampered with. Impossible to know now, although the blood was suspicious. Maybe someone else died.
The Moorheads traveled. They were running from debt in Michigan and used charm as well as the cosignature of an old friend to secure the house, which then got them credit cards and a new future.
Until the bank was ready to foreclose. Until the credit-card companies had cut them off.
And the cosigner? The same man who had waited tables that night. The one who had watched the court case. He was living under an alias, one he'd established twenty years before after he had embezzled fifty thousand dollars from a bank in the Midwest.
The bank where his brother had once worked.
The waiter wouldn't talk to the police—hiring a lawyer immediately—but his presence was enough to get those carpet samples tested.
Still refrigerated, still intact after all these years. Sometimes laziness was its own reward.
And that, Foreno said when he came to my office in May, was when it got interesting. The blood was all the same type—O positive—but that was all it had in common. DNA testing proved that the blood came from dozens of sources, none of them related to the so-called victims.
Just the blood on the wall came from the family and, judging by the overlap in one of the bedrooms, had been applied just like I mentioned, with a sprayer and a lot of determination.
"Why?” I asked. “Why not just disappear? These people were smart enough to create new identities once before."
And that was when he showed me the police files. He'd actually made copies for me so that I could look at them.
Pages and pages and pages of complaints filed by the family about the neighbors, about the young people in the house at the foot of the hill, about the parties and the goings-on, about the fears of devil worship and a possible cult.
Foreno shook his head. “Looks to me like pure old-fashioned hatred."
"For their neighbors?"
"Their young, unusual, and loud neighbors,” Foreno said.
"They set these kids up?” I asked, and felt a shock at myself. I was willing to believe that a cult could kill an entire family; I was not willing to believe that a family would set up innocent people in a way that might send them to jail for life.
"Looks like it,” he said. “We've got work to do. They've got ten years and a lot of thinking on us."
"But you'll find them,” I said.
"I hope so,” he said. “But in life, there are no guarantees."
* * * *
Except one.
The story leaked, and the leak coincided with the release of the annual budget. The party, the plans for the museum, and the cost to the taxpayer made page one of our usually sleepy rag.
For a while, it looked like Louise might implode because of the scandal. Then she hit on the right note: The case wouldn't be reopened—innocent people wouldn't be getting out of jail—if she hadn't been interested in the house in the first place.
She had a point, one I didn't care to think about.
Then one afternoon shortly after Halloween I had to go to the Moorhead house for the final time.
* * * *
I went with various attorneys—the D.A., several assistants, and defense attorneys for a variety of clients from the waiter to the cult. Someone had found the youngest son in Miami, but he hadn't given up the rest of his family. His very presence—alive—in another state was enough to place doubt on the entire cult-killings story.
He wasn't represented by an attorney, so far as I knew, but I didn't ask a lot of questions.
Instead, I answered them, explaining what chemicals I had used, defending myself and why I hadn't noticed the irregularities in the spatter, the extra blood, the lack of footprints.
Over and over again, I said simply that it wasn't my job.
And it wasn't. I was supposed to clean, not think. I was supposed to make the place livable again, and I had.
I had done everything I'd contracted to do.
Maybe that was why the house had haunted me so. Why I had dreamed of it, why the blood kept reappearing on the walls—not as if it couldn't be buried, but as if there was too much of it to contain.
My subconscious had known.
My conscious mind had refused to accept anything but what it had been told: A family had been murdered by their neighbors, a murderous cult, and the bodies hidden.
Differing interpretations of the same evidence, evidence not examined closely by any of us.
Except the brother, who had made two mistakes. First, he had come to the trial—nervously and obsessively worrying—to see if anyone had found the planted evidence. Or maybe he was stunned and appalled that a case with no bodies generated enough evidence for a conviction. Maybe the family had merely meant to harass the cult, not destroy their lives.
Then he had come back to the house, deliberately getting hired, just so he could see the site of his—and his family's—triumph. Or maybe he had still been worried, still afraid that he would get caught. Maybe he was guarding the place, hoping that no one figured it out.
Or maybe he simply couldn't stay away.
Like I couldn't.
I take evidence of a hideous event and make it vanish. I call that healing, but really, it's just masking. The event remains. It is history; it has happened. I allow people to pretend everything is all right.
What happened in the Moorhead house that day was the opposite of what I do. That family had used a masking technique to get revenge on people they hated, and in the process, managed to disappear with no consequences at all. They left debts, and dozens of families in ruins.
They left a chair pushed out, and knew that we would assume the worst.
We prosecuted based on that assumption, and received a conviction. And I cleaned up the mess so thoroughly that we have to use photographs and cut pieces of rug, miraculously saved. We can't revisit the scene with Luminol, trying to see what had happened before, because I smeared it trying to make the home safe, trying to make it—and us—forget.
We'll never know for certain what happened in that house. Just like we'll never know why another neighbor down the street finished his pie last Thanksgiving and then took his own life.
Just like I'll never know how long my mother lay on the floor of her kitchen, conscious and hoping someone would find her.
We can clean the mess, but the uncertainties remain.
There are Christmas lights around the Moorhead house this year, but there will be no party. It's not in the budget. Once the appeals are over, once the trials have ended, the house will become a museum, just like Louise dreamed.
But people aren't going to go inside to look at one of the city's first houses, thinking about old Josiah Moorhead and the power he had because he had the foresight to build ferries that crossed the river. People will go into his house to see if they can find that one piece of evidence, that one spot of blood, that one thing I might have missed in my thorough cleaning, hoping to see if t
hey can solve the case that nearly cost a group of rowdy and unconventional young people their lives.
I won't go back. I'm not going into any damaged houses anymore. I'm strictly management now—assigning teams, paying bills. I can't look at interiors filled with the leftovers of other people's lives and worry that something important has been missed.
I don't want that responsibility.
My imagination is too strong, my memories too fresh.
I don't need any more ghosts.
I have enough already.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: A GATEWAY TO HEAVEN by Edward D. Hoch
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
The protagonist of this new story, Susan Holt, is a seldom seen Hoch character. But last year “A Convergence of Clerics” (December 2006), a tale featuring the amateur sleuth, placed third in EQMM's annual Readers Award competition, inspiring the author to bring the crime-solver back for another case.
* * * *
It had been a long time since Susan Holt had thought of Mike Brentnor, who used to work with her in the promotions section of Mayfield's Department Store. Susan was director of promotions now and Mike had fallen off her radar years ago. That was why it was such a surprise hearing his voice on the phone that balmy May evening.
"Susan? How are you? It's Mike."
She hesitated, thumbing through the index of her memory before asking, “Mike who?"
"Mike Brentnor! Don't tell me you've forgotten me!"
"Of course not, Mike. But it's been a lot of years. What are you doing now?"
"This and that. Right now I'm promoting the new racetrack they're building near the Catskills. I was wondering if I could buy you a drink."
There was a time when they'd been friends, but that was long over. “I don't think that would be a good idea, Mike. I'm pretty tired after a day at work."
"It's nothing personal. I want to talk about a business deal."
"Mike—"
"How about lunch tomorrow? At that place across from Mayfield's?"
She smiled into the phone. “You've been away too long, Mike. That place, Sandra's, is long gone. It's a drugstore now."
"Where do you eat lunch?"
"Most days I skip it, or send out for a sandwich."
"You're missing a good opportunity, Susan."
For what? she wondered. A roll in the hay? But she relented and said, “I could meet you for a quick drink tomorrow after work, but I'd have to leave by six-thirty."
"Fine! Whereabouts?"
"Nathan's is as good as any place. Five-thirty?"
"Swell! I'll see you then."
The following day was filled with the usual Wednesday staff meetings, plus a brief office party for one of Susan's assistants who was leaving. By the time five o'clock rolled around she still hadn't caught up with the work she'd planned. For a moment she considered skipping the drink with Mike Brentnor, but then decided she had to show up. She was not one to break her promises.
Nathan's was crowded with the usual five-o'clock faces and she noticed a couple of young administrative assistants looking surprised to see her there. She almost regretted her choice of meeting places, but then she spotted Mike holding down a booth in the far corner. It took her an instant to recognize his face behind the dark moustache and neatly trimmed beard, but the familiar lopsided grin was still there.
"What's with all the hair?” she asked, giving him a formal handshake in greeting.
"It's my new, more mature self. How've you been, Susan?"
"Fine. I had a nice cruise on the Dawn Neptune awhile back. We opened a Mayfield's branch on board."
"Hey, I read about that!” He signaled to the waitress. “What are you drinking?"
"Just a Corona for me. It's a bit early in the evening."
He ordered the same, and when the beers arrived he ceased the casual chatter and came to the point. “It's about this new racetrack near the Catskills. It's going to be a really class place, with the Gateway resort hotel and casino already open. They were forever trying to get state approval. You know how those things are, owned by Native Americans but operated by professionals.” He took a sip of beer, collecting foam on his moustache. “I have two things I wanted to ask you about. First, might Mayfield's be interested in opening a branch in the hotel? They're developing a little street of luxury shops."
Susan smiled and shook her head. “That's out of my hands. New branches are a top management decision. It took them months of meetings to approve the Dawn Neptune branch."
"All right,” he said. “It was worth a try. Here's the second thing. I don't know how you're fixed financially, but there's a great opportunity for new investors in this place."
She simply stared at him. “You're asking me to invest my money in it?"
"Look, Susan, you've got a top job at Mayfield's now, earning big bucks. You get in on the ground floor here and you'll be set for life."
"Sorry, Mike, I can't do it."
He lowered his voice a notch. “I've got the inside dope on this track. I can't go into detail, but once this place is up and running it'll be a gold mine for bettors with the right information."
"And when will that be?"
"The hotel is open now, and they're putting the finishing touches on the track and grandstand. We hope to have racing by the end of next month. The track itself was designed by a Chinese expert, Lam Kow Loon. He's done a number of tracks in China and one in Hong Kong."
Somehow the entire thing struck her as funny. He wasn't trying to seduce her after all, just persuade her to invest in a racetrack. Susan downed the rest of her beer. “I'm sorry, Mike, but I'm not the person you want. I've no loose change for investments of that sort."
He wasn't quite ready to give up. “Look, the Memorial Day weekend is coming. Can I drive you up there to look the place over? We could stay at the new hotel.... Separate rooms, of course."
Then she had to laugh. “I can't. You're a nice guy, but I guess we're on different wavelengths. Have a good holiday."
"Susan—"
"I have to get going now.” She stood up. “Thanks for the beer. Good seeing you again, Mike."
* * * *
The Memorial Day weekend started out on the cool side, but Susan didn't care. Her closest friend was out of town and she looked forward to just relaxing. She went for a run in Central Park on Saturday morning and returned to her apartment invigorated just after noon. The phone was ringing as she walked in the door. She recognized Mike Brentnor's voice at once.
"Susan, I need help! I'm in big trouble up here.” She could hear noise in the background, perhaps a television.
"What's going on? Where are you?"
"I'm with some people. They left me alone for a minute so I'm taking a chance and calling you. They're dangerous. They've got guns."
"You should call the police instead of me."
"No! Listen, Susan, you have to come up here today."
"I can't—"
"Please, I'm begging you. I have no one else to ask. I'm staying at the Big Bear Inn near Middletown on route 86, but I'm not there now."
"What do you want of me, Mike?” she asked.
"It's that racetrack thing I was telling you about. These people need some plans that I have. I want you to get them for me."
"Mike, this is crazy. I'm calling the police."
"If you do that, they might kill me. Listen, all you have to do is go to the Big Bear Inn and pick up a portfolio being held for me at the front desk."
"Why can't you do it yourself?"
"They won't let me go. I'll explain later, but right now I need your help. You can drive up here in a couple of hours and it'll all be over."
For anyone else it would have been an easy decision to hang up the phone and call the police. Or else simply forget the whole thing. If Mike Brentnor had gotten himself into a jam he'd have to get himself out or suffer the consequences. She couldn't imagine why he would reappear in her life now, with
this crazy story about a racetrack.
And then something clicked in her memory. Mike knew that she'd been involved in several crime investigations in the past, and thought of herself as something of a detective. Maybe that's why he'd turned to her for help.
"All right,” she heard herself say. “I'll do it. I'll just ask for your portfolio at the desk?"
"That's right. I'll call them and describe you, tell them it's all right."
"Look, Mike, why couldn't one of these people you're involved with do the same thing?"
"I can't let them get the portfolio. It's the only evidence I have against them."
"If I get this thing, where'll I bring it?"
"I'm at One Twenty-four Summit Street, but keep the portfolio hidden after you get it. Someone at the hotel can give you directions here. I'm hoping they'll let me go without having the portfolio, but I'll trade it for my life if I have to."
"All right,” she told him, hoping she wouldn't regret her decision. “I can start out in about a half-hour."
"They're coming back!” he said quickly, breaking the connection.
* * * *
Susan expected the traffic to be fierce on Saturday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend, but most travelers must have gotten a Friday head start. Once she crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge things moved right along and she found the Big Bear Inn along the new route 86 without difficulty. The room clerk was an attractive brunette woman with pale skin and a nametag that read Rita.
"I'm here to pick up a portfolio for Mike Brentnor,” she said.
"What's your name?"
"Susan Holt."
Rita nodded. “He called to say you'd be coming by.” Reaching under the desk she produced a brown leatherette case of the sort artists or architects might carry.
"Thanks,” Susan said. “Can you give me directions to Summit Street?"
"Turn right at the next stoplight. That's Summit."
She put the portfolio in the trunk of her car, under a blanket, and tried calling Mike, but there was no answer. The address was easy to find, a gray two-story house in need of repair. She pulled in the driveway and rang the doorbell. From somewhere inside she heard Mike yelling. She tried the door and it was unlocked. Carefully opening it, she found a sparsely furnished living room. Mike was seated on the floor, handcuffed to a radiator pipe.
EQMM, January 2008 Page 16
