Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  Weyler smiled at Jane’s retort as he drove down Milwaukee and wound around the one-way streets until heading straight on University. “The Lawrence house is about four miles from your place.” Jane remained quiet, staring out the window. “Oh, I have something for you.” Weyler removed a small envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Jane. “Ron Dickson from the evidence lab asked me to give that to you.”

  Jane examined the outside of the envelope. It looked like Ron’s wife’s curly-cue handwriting where it said “Detective Jane Perry.”

  Stamped across the sealed flap was the word “D.A.R.E.” in bold red letters. Inside, Jane found a folded note. It was a short, cheery note from Ron’s wife, Sarah, reminding Jane of her regular contribution to the D.A.R.E. program. A self-addressed envelope was tucked around the note. Jane marveled to herself at the fact that Ron’s wife was so diligent in helping her husband take care of his charity obligations. What a sweet, sheltered life they had, she thought. Jane dug through her leather satchel for her checkbook.

  “I didn’t tell Chris about bringing you to the house today,” Weyler offered.

  “Why not?”

  “As lead on the case, he’s a bit possessive of it. I’ll let him know about our visit after the fact. I think he’d like to solve it by next week but that’s not going to happen.”

  “What about the Stover murder?” Jane brought a cigarette out from her satchel. “You’re not turning that over to cold case, are you?”

  “I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t smoke in the car.”

  Jane stuffed the cigarette back into the pack. “Don’t toss it to cold case, boss.”

  “Let’s focus on the Lawrence murder right now.”

  Jane jotted out a check for fifty dollars to D.A.R.E., put the check in the envelope and handed it to Weyler. “Did anybody follow up on the protection money trail?”

  “How’s that?”

  “With Bill Stover. Did anyone flush out all of the other businesses that give protection money to the Texas mob?”

  “I’d have to check on that. Why?”

  Jane wanted to make the idea sound like her own but was having a difficult time formulating it. “I just wonder if there’s a lead buried somewhere in that. It’s a needle in a haystack, but it’s worth considering.”

  “I’ll check into it.” Jane looked outside as Weyler turned down Exposition. “You know, Emily Lawrence hasn’t stopped talking about you. You made a tight connection with that child.”

  “I just talked to her. No big deal.”

  Weyler observed Jane’s obvious withdrawal. “I’m sure it’ll pain you to know that Emily’s interest in you is driving Martha Durrett crazy.” Weyler stole a glance at Jane.

  “Humph!” Jane enjoyed the image in her mind. “So, how’s the kid doing?”

  “Alright, I guess, considering. Apparently, she’s still extremely disconnected from the event, mentally and emotionally. No tears, Martha reports, even after you informed her of her parents’ death.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. When you can’t feel...you can’t feel.”

  “I don’t think I told you that the DA asked us to put Emily under hypnosis to see if her subconscious mind could tell us anything about that night.”

  “Great,” Jane said sarcastically. “She hasn’t been traumatized enough—”

  “She wouldn’t cooperate. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get her to go under.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “From what I hear, Emily has disassociated from the murders and what she witnessed. She’s acting distant and disinterested in the whole thing. Martha says it’s normal behavior, even though it makes the child come off as rather cold and detached.”

  Jane listened to Weyler but wondered why he was reporting the details of Emily’s emotional response to the murder to her. It wasn’t Jane’s case. She didn’t want to come off sounding interested in Emily so she put on a casual tone. “What’s going to happen to the kid?”

  “In what way?”

  “Family. Does she have family nearby to take her in?”

  “She has an aunt and uncle up in Cheyenne.”

  “Cheyenne?” Jane said under her voice as Weyler turned onto Franklin. “The kid’s going from Washington Park to Cheyenne, Wyoming? That’s gotta suck.”

  “You almost sound worried about the child.”

  “Worried? Please. Just making conversation, boss. Look at this neighborhood.” Jane motioned outside of the car. “It’s great. It’s comfortable. Cheyenne, Wyoming is like going to Mars. It’s not that I care! It’s just an observation.”

  Weyler pulled up in front of the Lawrence crime scene and parked the car. “Me thinks thou doth protest too much, Detective.” Weyler motioned around the house. “I want to take you around the perimeter first.”

  The Lawrence house stood in the middle of the tree-lined block, facing Smith Lake. It was the kind of neighborhood that reeked of solid, middle-class comfort. The Washington Park area of Denver was an enigma to Jane. If you snapped a photograph of the streets in summertime and asked someone to guess the location, she figured that Colorado would be low on their list. It was a secret pocket in the Mile High City that felt more like a West coast retreat. Of course, now with the bright yellow police tape surrounding the Lawrence house, the neighborhood vibe had taken a downward turn. Vicious double murders just didn’t happen in Washington Park.

  Jane looked across the street to an unmarked police car. “What’s up?”

  “We put a 24-hour watch on the house,” Weyler said, picking up a large envelope marked “Crime Scene Photos” from the backseat of his car.

  “Chris’ idea?”

  “No, just an insurance policy.”

  “You think the killers are coming back to grab a souvenir?”

  “It’s more to appease the neighbors. These people are like one big family. They have block parties and babysit for each other’s kids. This tragedy has turned the whole place upside down. Come around this way. I’ll show you the backyard first.”

  The two-story Lawrence house stood fifty feet from the sidewalk. The entry walk was lined with neatly trimmed juniper bushes and colorful flowers. The house was built mostly of brick except for the upstairs addition that was trimmed in dark wood. It was deceiving in size. From the road, it looked like a little saltbox, no more than 1,500 square feet. But as Weyler and Jane walked up the spotless driveway on the right side of the house, it was evident that the house stretched farther back than it appeared.

  Weyler unlatched the side wooden gate and waved Jane into the backyard. A deep green carpet of manicured grass filled the space, along with a large Sycamore that grew against the back of the house and tickled the rain gutter with its strong branches.

  “There’s a back door here,” Weyler said, pointing to an entrance to the right rear of the house. “But we don’t believe the suspect or suspects entered that way because it was locked from the inside. All the action took place in the living room, as far as we can determine. Over there,” Weyler said, directing Jane’s attention to the rear, “is the back gate that leads into the alley. The alley was clean. No fresh tire tracks or prints. We feel the perps entered through the front door.”

  Jane looked up at the second floor. “That’s a small second story.”

  “It’s just got one room and a separate bathroom that belong to Emily.”

  Jane stood back and noticed what looked like scuff marks and footprints on the sloping roof that jetted away from the window. “Are those footprints up there?”

  “Yes. They belong to Emily.”

  “She ran out on the roof that night?”

  “No, neighbors say she liked crawling outside her window and watching the stars at night. The child has quite a fixation on planets and such.”

  “Her parents let her walk out on that roof? She’s nine years old! That’s dangerous. There’s nothing to catch her fall except that damn Sycamore.”

  “Apparently, it wasn’t an i
ssue for them.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid.” Jane mumbled to herself as she focused on the top story. Whenever she visited a crime scene where a homicide took place, she could always feel the vibration of the death. The Lawrence house was no exception. It was as though a thick cloud descended upon the dwelling that only Jane could sense. She had an uncanny ability to dissect a crime scene. Jane used hard-and-fast procedures like everyone else, but then she took it a step further, letting her psyche connect with the murderous energy still swirling at the scene. Somehow, she was able to tune into a hidden energy field that permeated the walls, ceiling, floors and every last piece of minutia of that space. Years ago, when she first experienced the sensation, she chalked it up to just another bad booze reaction. But the feeling continued and what was both amazing and disturbing was that her heightened perception always proved to lead her to the answer. Weyler—the only soul Jane shared this odd phenomenon with—called it a gift. But to Jane, it was just another curse.

  Jane and Weyler walked up the three steps that lead to the rear door and entered the small kitchen. The narrow room was lined with floor to ceiling cabinets. A wooden farm table sat in the center of the room with four heavy chairs encircling it. There was the stainless steel refrigerator with the obligatory notepad attached to it with a magnet. The words “Pick up Brie” were scrawled across the pad. An assortment of family photographs filled the right side of the unit. As Jane stood back and observed the room, she felt she was looking at a page from the Pottery Barn catalog.

  “They were out of Brie,” Jane said, pointing to the note.

  “Is that a clue, Detective?”

  “No. They were people who ate Brie, not Velveeta. Just an observation.” Jane glanced over to the photos on the refrigerator. Most of them were of Emily. There was Emily in her ballerina Halloween costume, Emily with Santa, Emily in the park and Emily holding a doll. There was only one photo of Emily with her parents. It looked like it was snapped at the park across the street from the house. Jane took the photo off the refrigerator and turned it over. The imprinted development date was May 2, three and a half weeks old. Emily was sandwiched between her parents wearing a half-smile. Jane couldn’t help noticing that Patricia had a strained look on her face and David looked preoccupied. Jane mused it was an odd family photo choice to display on a refrigerator. But then again, she figured, most people were not as observant as she was.

  “This door leads into the living room,” Weyler said, pointing to an adjacent door. “But if you go down that corridor and turn right, you’ll come upon the entry hall and stairway. There was no trace of an intruder in this area.” Weyler lead Jane down the short corridor and stopped at the staircase. Jane looked over and noticed an old desk standing several inches away from the side of the stairs, in a direct line with the front door. She stopped momentarily and scanned the desk with her eyes as Weyler started up the stairs. “Stay there for a second,” he said.

  Weyler ascended the staircase that was conspicuously missing patches of carpeting. He stopped on the darkened landing in front of Emily’s bedroom door and awkwardly lowered his 6’4” frame. “If I hunch myself down so I’m about Emily’s height, it’s conceivable that she could have stood here in this shadowy area and witnessed the murder. The bodies were found approximately twelve feet behind you where that carpet section has been cut out.” Jane turned around to face the cozy living room, filled with several overstuffed chairs, a comfortable dark green sofa, cherry wood coffee table, central fireplace and a handsome liquor cabinet. The plush carpeting where the bodies fell had been cut away and taken to evidence, exposing a twenty-five foot square section of dark wooden flooring. “Back up ten feet,” Weyler instructed. Jane complied. “Now, look up here. Can you see me?”

  “No, boss.”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s a possibility right there.” Jane raised her eyebrows slightly as she entertained the idea of Emily standing in the dark recesses and watching her parents being butchered to death. “Come on up.” Jane reluctantly joined Weyler upstairs. “The child’s bedroom door was open when police arrived.” Jane followed Weyler into the bedroom. He flicked on the light switch. They were greeted by plush ever-so-pink carpeting that complemented both the pale pink walls and rose print comforter edged with ivory lace. A curved section of carpeting was removed that trailed from the outside landing and into the closet. A trio of windows graced the wall in front of them. Jane couldn’t help but notice that the center window had shoe scuff marks and a few scratches on the bottom section, telltale signs of Emily’s nocturnal visits onto the roof. Sundry toys and dolls dotted the floor. A cream colored nightstand sat next to the bed. Upon it sat a small lamp with a lampshade that had cutouts of stars encircling it. Jane walked over to the lamp and turned it on while at the same time, turning off the light switch on the wall. Thanks to the innovative lampshade, a band of star shapes projected their illuminated bodies across the wall and ceiling.

  “I guess this brings the stars inside,” Jane said.

  “That’s nothing. The kid’s got this projector called Starlight Starbright. They found her with it in the closet. It was turned off but when you put it on, these ethereal sounds come out of the speakers and it projects a revolving display of stars across the walls and ceiling. It’s quite impressive.” Weyler smiled. “Emily’s very covetous of it. She carries it around in a little navy blue case.”

  Suddenly, a swath of dark blue flashed in front of Jane’s eyes. It was the exact fragment of navy blue she’d seen before in the staccato blast of images. But this time she could clearly make out the outline of a carrying case. Jane closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

  Weyler observed Jane. “What’s wrong?”

  Jane kept her eyes closed, realizing that a fragmented connection had been made; a connection between a split-second of color and the accompanying image it belonged to. Jane felt her heart beat faster. At that moment, she was certain she was slipping out of her body and into a precarious dark hole where one questions their sanity. She opened her eyes, still feeling as if she were balancing between two realities. “It’s nothing,” Jane uttered, flicking on the bedroom light and turning to a side door. “That’s the closet?”

  “Yes.” Weyler opened the closet door to reveal a single row of tightly packed clothing on one side, a neat line of shoes underneath and a bevy of oversized bed pillows scattered on the floor. “The door was slightly cracked. Emily was found completely buried in the center of the pillows. The patrol officer who came on scene didn’t see her at first. He had his gun drawn as he searched the house. When he opened the closet, he had to look twice before he saw Emily staring straight at him with, what he called, a poker face. No emotion at all on her part. A box of coloring pencils were strewn across the floor right here.” Weyler pointed to the front of the bedside table. We believe the perps caused that to happen when they bumped against it. If you go into that closet and hunker down and crack the door just exactly like it was when they found her, it’s possible to assume she had clear line of sight on their faces.” Weyler directed Jane’s attention to a three-inch square of pink carpeting in front of the table that had been removed. “Right here is where we found drops of blood that fell off one of the knives. We theorize the perp was standing still when the blood dropped from the knife tip. In other words, there could have been a good ten, fifteen, maybe twenty seconds of him standing in one spot in direct line with where Emily was hiding. Enough time for her to clearly see the perp.”

  “That’s just wishful conjecture,” Jane replied in a dismissive tone.

  “It’s a possibility, Jane.”

  Jane felt herself thankfully slide back into her body. She could now be all business again. “From what you said, the individual or individuals did not leave a trace of their presence, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “So that means they probably covered their shoes to hide footprints, wore gloves and most likely covered their face wi
th something to prevent us from finding sweat and hair and getting a DNA sample.”

  “That’s what we’re thinking up to this point.”

  “Okay, then you have to assume that certain things follow. First, they are professionals. They know the drill. They know what cops are gonna look for at a scene. Second, the killer or killers knew Emily existed or why would they bother to come upstairs? Oh, and by the way, Chris really fucked up when he told the media that Emily was in this house during the murder! That’s the kind of information the perps don’t need to know! That’s also the kind of info that’ll keep that kid in protective custody for a lot longer!”

  “Point noted, Detective,” Weyler said wearily.

  “So the killer or killers come up to this room. But Emily’s not in her bed like she should be and it doesn’t follow to them that she’d be anywhere else in this room. They figure the kid’s not here. She’s at a friend’s house. End of story. They’re hyped up. They just killed two people downstairs. They’re flying a million miles an hour. Neither one of them is going to stand still after all that and contemplate what he just did, even if he thinks he’s alone. They want out of here! But let’s just say for the sake of argument that the killer or killers did stop for five or ten seconds. And, as luck would have it, they just happened to stand still right in line with Emily’s point of view. So what? They’re wearing masks! They could have stood in front of this door for hours and it still wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference because she couldn’t see their faces anyway. In my opinion, I think the whole thing is far too speculative.”

  “It’s only speculative if you’re not willing to think outside the box. Remember, Detective, Emily’s prints are on the staircase. And her bloody footprints trailed blood from the head of her mother’s dead body, up those stairs and into this closet.” Weyler waited for a response but was greeted with stony silence. He leaned closer to Jane. “She stood in their blood, Jane!”

  “She saw her parents! That doesn’t mean she saw the killers! Those two pieces of information don’t fit together!”