“Where was she found?” I asked.
“State trooper found her after investigating an abandoned car on the shoulder of a county road. She was in the driver’s seat, still buckled in.”
“Was the weapon still there, too?” I asked.
“A 9 millimeter was found by her feet,” he noted. “The bullet extracted from the body matched the gun.”
“Prints?”
“Hers,” Ryan confirmed. “We lifted a separate print off the cartridge, but nothing came back.”
“Did her family know anything about the gun?” I asked.
“Nothing. And they were adamant about it. They never kept guns in the house, so they had no idea where it might have come from.”
“Anything else in the car?”
“It was pretty clean. No wrappers or trash.”
“I mean other prints or DNA,” I sighed with annoyance.
Ryan flashed me what I’m sure he thought was a charming smile. “I know. The car was clean. No fibers, prints, or blood that shouldn’t have been there.”
“And yet you still think it was homicide?” I challenged.
“Didn’t find a suicide note,” he reasoned. “Her parents say she was quite the writer—seems like something a writer would do if she wanted to off herself.”
I curled my lip at the casualness with which he spoke about another human life. But he wasn’t the first cop to act that way and he wouldn’t be the last.
“I need you to sign off on this request.” I didn’t frame my statement as an actual request, although technically I needed permission from someone in Homicide to do anything with evidence that wasn’t mine. “We’re hoping to get an analysis on the bullet from our cold case and compare it to the one retrieved from Kennedy Petersik,” I explained. “I’ve got the old bullet in our materials, but I need access to the active file.”
“Sure. Knock yourself out,” Ryan breezed. He grabbed the written request form I held in my hand and scribbled his name at the bottom. “I’m sure you don’t have much else to do in Cold Case; might as well keep yourself busy.”
Stanley was alone in the Cold Case office when I returned from upstairs. The evidence boxes and case files we’d retrieved from the Freezer related to the death of Michael Bloom were spread out on one of the large work tables.
I briefly scanned the items that Stanley had pulled out of the evidence boxes. Numerous paper files and small cassette tapes filled with witness testimonies, I suspected. The work table was littered with blown up images of the scene of the crime—a grassy field a few yards from a massive house—and photographs of our teenaged victim.
“Did you get the bullet from the Petersik case?” Stanley asked.
I held up the plastic baggie that contained the irreplaceable evidence. “Got it,” I confirmed. “Some guy in Homicide really made me work for it though. Cops are such pricks.”
Beyond our estranged supervisor, I was the only badge in our Division. My weak attempt at a joke didn’t register with Stanley, however.
“So, fill me in on this cold case,” I prodded. “A high school graduation party, right? And Kennedy was there?”
Stanley nodded. “I never got the chance to ask her about it though. By the time it was handed off to Cold Case, she was already gone to college.”
“What happened?”
“Every year, the seniors rent a big house on a lake after graduation. It’s a tradition at Pius that predates even me. Some of the parents put up the money for the house to make sure the kids aren’t drinking and driving.”
“Do they put up money for the booze, too?” I questioned.
Stanley’s fair skin flushed. “Uh, well …”
“It doesn’t matter,” I dismissed. “Continue. Please.”
“I didn’t actually go the year I graduated, so I don’t know much else,” he admitted. “I didn’t have a lot in common with the kids that went to those kinds of things. And there was probably an X-Files marathon on that night that I didn’t want to miss.”
Despite talking about an unsolved death, I smiled at the mental imagery of Stanley in high school. I wondered if he’d had the long beard yet. I imagined he probably had a bit of a baby face without the facial hair and kept it to look older.
“What do you know about the victim?” I asked.
“Michael Bloom. 18 years old. He was an academic scholarship kid like Kennedy. And me,” he added.
“But he, apparently, went to his post-graduation party.” I picked up one of the photographs of the victim. Michael Bloom’s eyes were closed. His dark hair was slicked back away from his youthful face. A large blood stain spread across the front of his t-shirt.
I squinted my eyes as if to see the wound better. “Shot in the stomach, too?” I guessed.
“Uh huh,” Stanley confirmed. “But the wound variations are different. Kennedy was shot at close range. Michael was shot from a distance, maybe thirty feet or more. Both from a similar handgun though.”
“You really think there could be a connection between their deaths?”
“Maybe I’m seeing connections where there are none,” Stanley conceded, “But two deaths from the same small, graduating class and in the same way? That seems like too much of a coincidence. Plus, they never found the gun at the graduation party. Police found a bunch of hunting rifles at the house, all locked up, but nothing matching the caliber from Michael Bloom’s gun wound.”
“What about gunpowder residue?”
Stanley shook his head. “The first responders didn’t think to test any of the kids for residue. It was a bit of a screw up.”
“Sounds like a mega screw up,” I remarked. I dropped the photograph back onto the table. “And I’m sure these kids’ parents’ money had nothing to do with the case going cold, either.”
Stanley looked uncomfortable for a second time. I knew I was being critical of a school—an institution—that continued to play a large role in his life. But I also knew that wasn’t exactly his world.
“I’m sure there was pressure on Homicide for this to go away,” he acknowledged. “Their parents probably framed it as high school graduates with their whole lives ahead of them, only a few months away from going off to college. Why ruin their lives over one random accident?”
“Except for Michael Bloom’s parents,” I gravely observed. “Do you think it’s worthwhile talking to them yet?”
“I would hold off for now,” Stanley said, “at least until we know if the bullets match. Otherwise we might get their hopes up for no reason.”
“So we wait,” I sighed.
Stanley made a good point, but I was anxious to have something tangible to do—something to get me out of the office. Patience was a big element to this job. Being a beat cop could be monotonous, patrolling the same city streets day after day, but at least I constantly had something to do. Most days I reported directly to the basement and sat behind a computer screen. The only variety came in the form of what donuts were available in the breakroom upstairs.
“Hey, uh, if you’re free this weekend, I mean if you’re not doing anything else,” Stanley verbally stumbled, “the Petersiks are having a memorial service for Kennedy. There won’t be a body—she’s still at the morgue until Homicide decides to call it homicide or suicide—but the family needs some kind of ceremony for closure. Which I totally get; it seems to me like a memorial service is even more important when you have a situation like this.”
My lips curved up at Stanley’s bumbling. He’d been so withdrawn since seeing Kennedy Petersik’s obituary in the newspaper, it was nice to see him beginning to act like his awkward self again. “Is there a question in there, Stanley?”
He loudly exhaled. “Yeah. Yes. Do you want to go to the memorial with me? As a friend,” he hastily added, “not a date.”
My stomach twisted. I was free that weekend, but no one actually volunteered to go to a funeral—body or not—if they could help it. And yet from his bumbled request, it was clear that Stanley didn’t have
a lot of people in his life who could support him and attend that kind of event with him.
I didn’t want to go, but I needed to. For Stanley.
“Sure thing,” I agreed with a gentle smile. “Not a date.”
CHAPTER THREE
Stanley said he knew the way, so he volunteered to drive. I knew the neighborhood, but only by reputation. Single-family homes and duplexes. Small yards, but mature trees. The residents were predominantly white and working class. The driveways were long and narrow, wide enough for only one compact car. Oversized pickup trucks straddled the paved driveway with two wheels on the grass and two on blacktop.
Neither Stanley nor I were religious, so we’d skipped the church service earlier in the day. The Petersiks had invited folks over to their house for a post-funeral lunch. I wasn’t going to know a single person there, so I stuck close to Stanley.
Before we did anything else, Stanley first offered his condolences to Kennedy Petersik’s parents. They were both respectfully dressed in black, Mr. Petersik in a suit and tie and his wife in a dress and shawl that covered her shoulders. They spoke in hushed tones while I hovered in the background, wanting to give them some privacy for their conversation but also feeling out of place.
While I waited for Stanley to make his rounds around the living room, I studied family portraits set atop an upright piano. Three smiling faces stared back at me from behind their various picture frames. A family vacation to Disney World. First communion. High school graduation. Kennedy Petersik was positioned at the center of each photograph—the epicenter of her parents’ world.
Stanley returned after a while. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starved,” I confirmed.
The spread on the white tablecloth nearly brought tears to my eyes. Casserole dishes as far as the eye could see. Tater tot hotdish, crockpots filled with steaming Swedish meatballs, hot ham and rolls, green Jell-O salad with shredded carrot suspended in time and space. The unwillingness to talk about grief or other hard emotions manifested itself in an outpouring of potluck dishes. Midwesterners don’t know how to discuss trauma, but we sure know how to make comfort food.
Stanley grabbed a Styrofoam plate from a stack and handed it to me. “Eat,” he told me.
After piling our plates high with potluck supper food, Stanley and I moved to one corner of the living room. We ate standing up, balancing our plates and plastic utensils. I hadn’t spoken to anyone besides my colleague since arriving, so I felt a little guilty to be eating their food.
“Do you know a lot of people here?” I asked.
Stanley made a noise as he took a large bite of a cold noodle salad. “Mostly teachers from Pius,” he said around the mouthful. “Some members of the Board of Trustees.”
“Board of Trustees?”
“Pius has a Board of Trustees instead of a School Board.”
“Geez, Stanley,” I quietly chuckled. “You private school kids are way too fancy for me.”
A slender man in a dark suit appeared at my hip. He held a small notebook, flipped open to a blank page. “How did you know the deceased?”
His question caused me to draw back.
“Who wants to know?” I bristled.
“Detective Jason Ryan, MPD.” It was then I realized I knew the man in the finely tailored suit. He was the homicide detective who’d been so obstinate a few days before.
“Dude, that’s tacky,” I admonished. “You shouldn’t be taking statements at a funeral.”
Detective Ryan snapped shut his notebook and tucked it into a hidden inner pocket in his suit jacket. “Who are you, the etiquette police?”
“No. I’m police, too. We’ve met, remember? Cassidy Miller. Cold Case.”
“Cold Case. That’s right.” His eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “You look different with your hair down.”
I absently touched my fingers to my head. I typically wore my hair in a bun at work. I didn’t have an expansive wardrobe, so I’d worn the same dark suit I’d worn to Geoff Reilly’s funeral.
“What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Still trying to steal my case?”
“No. I’m here to support my friend,” I said, gesturing to Stanley. I turned the question back on Detective Ryan. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you—taking statements. People are more talkative in a setting like this than at a police station. Plus, it’s a well-known fact that murderers get a perverse thrill out of attending the funeral of the people they killed.”
“It’s still tacky,” I opined.
“Whatever,” Ryan sniffed. “Just don’t get in my way.” He stiffly buttoned up his suit jacket and stalked away.
I turned to Stanley who had remained silent during my interaction with Jason Ryan. “Do you know that guy? He apparently works in Homicide.”
Stanley carefully nibbled on a wavy carrot stick. It looked like a crinkle fry, but in vegetable form. “We don’t play well with Homicide.”
“Aren’t we on the same team?” As soon as the words slipped out, I recognized my own naivety.
“Cold Case only exists because Homicide can’t close cases,” he reminded me. “We’re like a physical manifestation of their failures. And it makes them look even worse when we clear a case they were unable to.”
I nodded distractedly while I observed Detective Ryan continue to work the Petersiks’ living room. With that dumb little notebook in hand, he approached individuals just as they were mid-bite. He had the timing of a restaurant server checking on a table to make sure everything was all right with their meal.
One by one, polite Midwesterners put their grief on pause to address the man with the badge. He asked what were, no doubt, intrusive questions, and they patiently humored him. The longer I stared, the angrier I became. Inconsiderate, tactless, narcissists like Jason Ryan added on to the mountain of reasons to not like police.
“I gotta pee,” I abruptly announced.
Stanley gave my pronouncement a curious look. “It’s probably down that hallway,” he guessed.
I escaped the front living room down the long hallway to which Stanley had motioned. Not knowing the layout of the ranch-style house, I peered experimentally into each room I passed, on the lookout for a toilet. I didn’t actually have to use the bathroom, but I needed a distraction; I didn’t trust myself to not go off on Detective Jason Ryan in a house full of mourning strangers.
I stuck my head into one room and paused. Sunlight shone brightly through the single window into a decidedly feminine-presenting bedroom. A light pink comforter covered a twin-sized mattress. The headboard was stacked high with stuffed animals. I would have mistaken the room as belonging to a child if not for the plaques and ribbons that adorned the pink walls. A dark blue graduation cap with a yellow tassel hung from a bulletin board. Next to it hung a gold medal attached to a dark blue ribbon.
The voice directly behind me was unexpected: “Last person in the world to have committed suicide if you ask me.”
I tensed at the unanticipated voice, but I thankfully didn’t let loose any number of profanities that danced on the tip of my tongue.
The voice and the wistful statement about Kennedy Petersik belonged to an older woman. Permed dirty blonde hair. Heavy eye makeup. Fake tan. Her black dress hung on a shapeless body.
“Are you a friend from school?” she asked me.
“Oh, uh, no, ma’am,” I stumbled. “I came to support my friend Stanley Harris. He knew Kennedy. They both went to Pius.”
She looked bored before I’d even finished my explanation. “Kennedy was such a good girl,” she clucked. “So bright. Maybe too bright. All those brains, all that thinking. It can’t be good to do so much thinking.”
She held out a limp wrist and pressed her hand into mine. “I’m her Aunt Jo. It’s short for Josephine.”
“So you don’t think Kennedy killed herself?” I pressed. I didn’t want to turn into Jason Ryan, but I couldn’t help my question.
“Seemed to me the girl h
ad too much to live for. But I suppose we never truly know what’s going on in a person’s mind,” she philosophized.
I nodded at her words. “I should, uh, get back to my friend.” I hadn’t intended to linger in the deceased girl’s childhood bedroom, and even though he knew people at the gathering, I regretted leaving Stanley on his own.
A sharp shout, coming from the direction of the living room, interrupted my thoughts. Instinct kicked in, and I rushed past Kennedy Petersik’s aunt in the direction of the loud voices. A crowd of onlookers had gathered to form a tight circle around the source of the shouting. I had to restrain myself from barging through bodies to get to the epicenter of the circle. Instead, I stood on my tiptoes to peer past the heads that obstructed my view.
Two young men stood center stage in the living room, like boxers in the ring. They looked to be about the same age, height, and build. Both wore suits, one ill-fitting and the other obviously tailored.
“Better watch yourself.” The young man in the fitted suit pushed at the other boy’s chest. The second man stumbled back several feet, too many, I thought, for a simple push. He nearly collided with the upright piano I’d been hovering around earlier.
The boy in the more expensive suit waved his hand in front of his nose and made a face. “You should lay off the booze, man. Wouldn’t want you injuring your other knee.”
The young man in the loose suit steadied himself and scowled. “Wouldn’t want you injuring that pretty face,” he countered.
“Landon, honey, I think it’s time for you to go home.” Kennedy’s mom appeared from among the crowd of bystanders. She rested her hand on the young man’s shoulder. He twitched, ready for a fight, until he recognized to whom the gesture belonged.
He didn’t offer up a verbal response; his eyes shut and his head drooped forward.
I watched the man wade unsteadily through the crowd that had gathered in the living room. He was clearly having a hard time walking in a straight line. No one spoke to him on his way out the front door. Only the slam of the screen door announced his swift departure.
One Little Secret Page 4
