Ted Welling’s parents, Judge Welling and his wife Juliana, were out of town that weekend, vacationing at a golf resort. But Judge Welling told police he had no reason to doubt his son’s claims.
“I stand by the statement I made to the police, that Teddy is a boy of integrity,” Judge Welling told the Sweet Elm Examiner. “The two boys are such close friends. They often spend time together at the cabin, hunting and fishing. It sounds to me like those two rascals were too caught up in enjoying some good, old-fashioned boyish fun to have gotten mixed up in something like this business with Sylvester.”
Sergeant Beene stated, “We are still actively pursuing all leads, and the investigation is ongoing.”
The final article that Ms. Pruitt had faxed over almost seemed like an afterthought.
MURDER WEAPON FOUND
An extensive search of the home of Edmund Sylvester, the Sweet Elm High School English teacher who was recently murdered, uncovered what police believe to have been the murder weapon. Sergeant Bradford Beene of the Ardmore County Homicide Squad said that on Wednesday, police discovered traces of blood that matched Sylvester’s on a book they found in his study.
According to Sergeant Beene, police determined that a large, heavy book, The Plays of William Shakespeare, had blood on the left corner, and that the cover was dented. “Forensics matched the blood to that of Mr. Sylvester,” Sergeant Beene said. “No fingerprints belonging to Mr. Sylvester or any other person were found on the book, which leads us to believe that either the weapon was wiped clean of prints or that the perp wore gloves.”
Although no one has been charged at this time, Sergeant Beene said the investigation is ongoing.
As I read the final words of the last article, I felt completely drained. From what I could tell, Edmund Sylvester’s murder had never been solved. Yet it was possible—maybe even likely—that Chester Montgomery, a.k.a. Chess LaMont, had been responsible.
Even I could see that his alibi was weak. A close friend—and I could only imagine how close—had come forth and claimed that Chess had been with him the entire weekend. Yet from what I could tell, no one had actually seen them together.
The likelihood of intrigue springing from a love triangle between Chess, Ted Welling, and Mr. Sylvester was impossible to ignore. And it would have been so easy for Ted Welling to lie. The boy who’d provided Chess with an alibi was the son of a judge, a man whom the residents of Sweet Elm undoubtedly respected. The idea of the police or anyone else calling his son a liar was probably unthinkable.
Then there was Ms. Pruitt’s take on the whole thing. From her attitude, it was clear she thought Chess was guilty. Of course, she could have simply been expressing antigay sentiments. But another possibility was that, as someone who knew the town of Sweet Elm well, someone who had watched Chess grow up and had access to town gossip, she was simply forming a knowledgeable opinion.
“There you are!” The cheerful sound of Suzanne’s voice as she came bustling into the room pulled me out of my ruminations. “Shelley just told me you were back here, reading a fax. Did you find what you were looking for?”
The look on my face must have given her the answer.
“My God, Jessie! You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
“Not a ghost,” I said hoarsely. “But very possibly a murderer.”
Late that afternoon, as I staggered toward the guesthouse with Max and Lou romping beside me, I felt like a zombie in a 1950s horror movie. I was still shocked by what I’d learned about Chess, and the dull pain that had lodged itself in the pit of my stomach as I’d read the newspaper articles showed no signs of budging.
I was convinced he had murdered Barnett. There was simply too much evidence that pointed to him to ignore. His recent argument with Barnett at the Sand Bar, which had escalated into violence, the unsolved murder of a man who’d been his close friend and very possibly his lover, his feigned surprise over “discovering” a box of cash on Barnett’s side of the closet . . .
“Should I go to the police?” I muttered, thinking aloud as I neared the front door. Max and Lou had already raced ahead, and for some reason were barking furiously. “If I presented all the facts to Falcone, would he believe me? Or would he think I—”
I stopped in my tracks abruptly, focusing on the dark mass a few feet ahead of me. It took me a few seconds to make sense of what I was seeing. As soon as I did, I let out a cry, instantly understanding what my dogs were so upset about.
Another dead animal lay on the front steps.
“Quiet!” I commanded, feeling my stomach wrench as I grabbed my dogs’ collars. This time, there was no doubt in my mind that the unfortunate animal had been left there for my benefit. This was no random rodent or wild animal that had been killed for the sheer joy of the hunt. The black mass of fur carefully positioned in the center of my front porch was Lucifer, the feral cat who had made Shawn’s property his own.
“No!” I cried, my voice reduced to a whimper. Leaning forward, I saw that his throat had been slit. The horror of what had been done to this poor, unfortunate animal, an innocent kitty who had simply been trying to survive, washed over me. I’d treated animals that had been the victims of atrocious accidents or reprehensible owners. But this was an animal I’d known...
And then another thought occurred to me. One that suddenly made it difficult to breathe.
This harmless feline had been slaughtered and placed in that spot to send me a message, loud and clear.
First the mouse, then the rat, then the cat . . .
First the mouse, then the rat, then the cat...
I rushed into the guesthouse, leading my hysterical canines around the poor homeless feline that had been forced to live in the shadows as he fought for his own survival. As soon as I opened the door, I was assaulted by The Who, the volume of the CD player turned up enough to make the walls vibrate. Nick stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a huge pot with a wooden spoon. He was dressed in a baggy Hawaiian shirt and tie-dyed boxer shorts featuring every color of the rainbow, his hips gyrating and his bare feet slapping against the tile floor in time to the music.
“Oh, Nick!” I cried, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his shoulder. I vaguely remembered that we were in the middle of an argument—and that we weren’t even speaking. None of that mattered as I struggled to grasp the horror of that poor cat with his throat cut.
Fortunately, it didn’t seem to matter to Nick, either. He dropped the spoon into the pot and hugged me tightly. “Jess, are you okay?”
I nodded. As I pulled away, I noticed that my two dogs were gazing up at me with the same concerned look in their eyes.
“What happened?” Nick demanded.
“There’s a dead animal on the porch,” I began in a choked voice. “It’s not the first time. First, it was a mouse. Then, a rat.”
He frowned. “Are you sure they didn’t just get caught by that scraggly cat I’ve seen hanging around?”
“That’s what I thought, too. At least, at first. But I just found him. The cat, Lucifer. With his...with his throat cut.” I took a deep breath. “Somebody’s been sending me warnings.”
Nick closed his eyes and breathed in sharply, as if he were trying to maintain control. “You should have told me, Jess. For God’s sake, you should have told the police!”
“Maybe.” I swallowed hard. “But I guess I thought I could handle it on my own. And I was afraid it would complicate things between us. I know you haven’t exactly been crazy about me investigating this murder.”
“Look, I think we should file a report,” Nick insisted. “Maybe the East Brompton Police won’t get excited enough to launch a full-scale investigation, but this should be on the record. I’ll make the call, if you want.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Nick. I’d better call Kara Liebling, too. I ran into her today, and she invited me over for a drink this evening. I’ll let her know I’m not coming—”
“Go, Jess,” Nick urged. “Look, I can see h
ow upset you are. If you’ve got something to do tonight, something to take your mind off all this, why don’t you go ahead with your plans? I can deal with the East Brompton Police myself.”
I realized that at this point, it really was a good idea to involve the police. My foray into the intriguing world of murder investigations was escalating, and even I had to admit that things were getting out of control. Yet I knew in my gut that a few dead animals weren’t going to do much to get Sergeant Bangs excited.
Which was precisely why it was time to go one step further.
The headquarters for the Norfolk County Police Department were less than half an hour’s drive from East Brompton. I drove as fast as I dared, keeping one eye on the clock. Five o’clock was drawing dangerously close, and I didn’t want to rush into Lieutenant Falcone’s office only to discover that he’d already left for the day. In fact, I’d taken Nick’s car, knowing I’d make better time in a Maxima than in my van.
Police Headquarters was located within a complex of undistinguished office buildings just south of the Long Island Expressway, all of them housing county offices and agencies. The gigantic gray brick boxes stood against a stark, treeless horizon, as if they’d suddenly sprung up amid vacant fields that were once used for farming.
By the time I pulled into the tremendous parking lot that surrounded the complex on three sides, it was two minutes after five. It looked as if most employees had already left for the day, leaving behind only a sparse patchwork of cars. I scanned the buildings until I spotted one labeled “Norfolk County Police Headquarters,” with the county’s logo right below. After pulling Nick’s car into the closest parking space, I scurried inside.
A burly police officer sat behind an elevated counter, looking about as friendly as Cerberus, the mythical three-headed dog guarding the gateway to Hades. I squared my shoulders and strode over, no doubt looking as determined as I felt.
“I’d like to see Lieutenant Falcone,” I told the desk sergeant.
He eyed me warily. “And you are? . . .”
“Jessica Popper. Dr. Jessica Popper.”
“He expecting you?”
“No.”
“You don’t have an appointment?”
“No.” I held his gaze, unwilling to let him stare me down.
Finally, he picked up the phone, his deliberate movements indicating that it was so heavy he could barely lift it. After punching in a few numbers, he drawled, “Hey, Joe. I got a Jessica Popper—a Dr. Jessica Popper—who wants to see Lieutenant Falcone. No, I’m not pullin’ your leg. Dr. Popper. Not Pepper, Popper. Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Thanks, Joe. Later.”
As he hung up, he returned his attention to me. “He’s in a meeting. You’re gonna have to make an appointment. Here, I’ll write down the number—”
“I already have the number,” I interrupted. “Listen, this is really important. I have to talk to him now.”
“Look, lady, I can’t help you.”
“But you don’t understand! Somebody’s been killing animals! First a mouse, then a rat, now a cat—”
“You want Animal Control, not Homicide. The lieutenant can’t help you with that.”
“But there’s more to it! Whoever is killing these animals is sending me a warning! A threat! And it was probably because he was the person who murdered Devon Barnett!”
The desk sergeant sighed tiredly. “Look, I don’t care if the guy whose buggin’ you killed Jimmy Hoffa. You still gotta make an appointment.”
“If I had time, I’d be happy to—”
“’Night, Lieutenant,” I heard somebody behind me say. “Have a good one.”
I whirled around in time to see a short man with the posture of a four-star general ease out of the building through the revolving door. The arrogant way he carried himself, combined with his slick black hair and the equally slick fabric of his blazer, told me I’d struck gold.
“Lieutenant Falcone!” I cried, running after him.
By the time I made it through the revolving door, he was halfway across the parking lot. He was pretty fast, for such a little guy. I dashed after him, almost catching up with him as he neared a dark blue Crown Victoria parked in the back corner of the lot.
I was about to call out his name, when he turned sharply and reached beneath the fabric of his double-breasted jacket. As he did, I caught sight of the leather shoulder holster he wore underneath.
“Don’t shoot me!” I cried instinctively, holding out both hands. “I just want to talk to you!”
“Instinct,” he returned, looking me over before dropping his hand. Both his facial expression and his body posture relaxed. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on somebody like that—especially somebody with a gun?”
“Sorry,” I said with an apologetic shrug.
He peered at me suspiciously through narrowed eyes. Up close, I could see they were as dark and shiny as two black olives. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Jessica Popper. Dr. Jessica Popper.”
He didn’t react, a sign that he’d never been told about the phone message I’d left earlier. Either that or he had a very short memory.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” I continued. “I have something important to discuss.”
“Call my office,” he returned gruffly. “Make an appointment.”
He turned and strode toward the four-door sedan. I darted after him.
“I’ve already tried calling your office,” I countered. “They blew me off.” I paused a moment for dramatic effect, then added, “For a Homicide Department, they don’t seem very interested in the fact that someone’s been murdered.”
He stopped short next to the driver’s side of his Ford. Eyeing me skeptically, he repeated, “ ‘Murdered’?”
“That’s right.” I stood up a little straighter, encouraged by having finally gotten his attention. I was surprised to discover that I towered at least three inches above him. “Devon Barnett? The photographer who was killed on the East End?”
“His death was determined to be accidental.”
“I have evidence that proves otherwise.”
The word “evidence” worked like magic. “What evidence?” Glancing at his watch, he added, “And this better be good. I got a press conference in twenty minutes. ABC is supposed to be there!”
I took a deep breath. “The man who installed the ice sculpture that fell on Barnett, Gary Frye, swears he strung wires behind it to hold it in place. The Tuesday after the murder, I searched the crime scene and found a piece of wire hidden in the grass, which corroborates his claim. Look, the simple fact is that the only way that block of ice could have fallen was if someone deliberately cut the wires and gave it a shove.”
Lieutenant Falcone’s tiny eyes narrowed into slits again. “Go on.”
“And it just so happens that I’m an eyewitness.”
“To a murder? You saw it?”
“Well...not exactly.” I steadied myself, having just noticed that I was squirming. “Actually, what I saw was somebody lurking in the gazebo where the ice sculpture had been set up, right before it fell on Barnett and killed him. Nobody was supposed to be in there. It was pretty dark, and—”
“Let me make sure I got this right,” Lieutenant Falcone interrupted. His sarcastic tone told me I wasn’t going to like whatever came next. “First of all, you got a guy who’s probably about to get sued up the—up the kazoo,swearing on his life that it wasn’t his fault that a ton of ice fell on Barnett and killed him. And you’re sure he’s telling the truth because the next day—two days later what, twenty-four, thirty-six hours after—you go to the crime scene and there just happens to be a piece of wire, right where you can find it. Then I got you, my ‘eyewitness,’ telling me that you’re sure it was murder because you saw somebody standing next to the food table?”
“You’re twisting the meaning of my words,” I countered. But while I did my best to sound forceful, I could see where this was leading.
&nbs
p; To a dead end.
I decided to forge ahead anyway. “There’s something else. I’ve been poking around a little bit, asking questions, to see if I could find out who’s responsible for Devon Barnett’s murder. And somebody’s been trying to scare me off the case.”
“Yeah? Like how?”
“Like leaving dead animals for me to find, animals that had their throats cut. First a mouse, then a rat . . .” I paused to catch my breath. “And just a while ago, I found a feral cat that’s been prowling around the neighborhood, dead on my doorstep.”
His dark eyes cut through me like daggers. “A couple of dead rodents? That’s why you’re convinced the person you saw sneaking a couple of crackers murdered Barnett?”
“And a dead cat,” I persisted.
“Have you talked to the local police about this...theory of yours?” Falcone asked.
I hesitated. “They weren’t very interested.”
Falcone opened the car door with an angry jerking motion. “I got no patience with people who waste my time,” he said curtly. “As far as your claim that Barnett was murdered, all I can say is that the East Brompton Police know what they’re doing. So does the medical examiner. These guys know the difference between a murder and an accident. The Barnett case is closed.”
He slammed his car door, turned his key in the ignition, and rolled down the window a couple of inches. “Like I said, Dr. Popper, if you come up with anything solid—about this murder or any other murder—just call my office.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, then handed it to me through the window. “If you ever get to that point, I’ll be happy to listen.”
I watched him drive off, standing alone in the parking lot and clutching his card in my hand. At least he remembered my name, I thought morosely.
It didn’t make me feel any better. While Lieutenant Falcone now knew who Dr. Jessica Popper was, he was convinced she was a total flake.
Chapter 14
“Our perfect companions never have fewer than four feet.”
Putting on the Dog Page 24
