Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2

by Duncan Whitehead

  “Help!” shouted Cindy. “Somebody please help!”

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge rushed into the den, stumbling as he tripped over the step that stood at the entrance between the kitchen and the room where his wife lay. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was sleeping soundly on the sofa.

  “Veronica,” he said as he walked towards her.

  As he approached his wife from the rear and then stood in front of where she lay, he put his hand to his mouth. She was dead. Her eyes open and fixed in terror. Doug Partridge stepped backwards. As he did, he stepped on the shattered glass on the floor, the remnants of his wife’s wine glass. He touched his wife’s face. She was still warm. Whoever had done this was close. He looked at the screen door. It was partially ajar. He rushed over and pulled it fully open and entered the back yard, but he saw no one. His eyes momentarily glanced at the mound of earth that filled his wife’s flower bed. Bern’s grave, which his wife had dug a few weeks earlier. Suddenly he heard a noise, coming from deeper inside the house.

  Katie. Oh my God, he thought, Katie.

  Doug ran back into the house and rushed into his daughter’s bedroom. Katie opened her eyes and smiled, “Daddy — you’re home.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Stefan Derepaska sat in his easy chair. He had done what he had needed to do. Obtained the revenge he had craved. They had all been punished. He stood and walked over to his mantelpiece and retrieved a photograph of his son. He kissed it.

  “For you, Vladimir; you can rest in peace at last.” He then returned to the mantelpiece, collected all his photographs, the pictures of his parents, his grandchildren, his dead wife and placed them around the easy chair, he then collected every other photograph he had brought with him from Kiev, and did the same. He returned to the easy chair and sat. He stared at the faces on the images laid out in front of him, his family, his loved ones, all innocents.

  He reached for the Glock 19, which sat, with one bullet in its chamber, on the table next to his chair. He placed the gun against his forehead. He had one final regret. He had found the woman in the park extremely attractive. Heidi, that had been her name, had reminded him of his dead wife. Maybe, if things had been different, he would have asked her out for dinner, maybe they could have become friends. He shrugged, pushed the gun harder against his left temple and pulled the trigger.

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge clutched the letter he had received a month previously; the envelope had been postmarked as being mailed from Savannah. The note had been to the point and brief. The sender had been Ignatius Jackson, the old black man who he had seen often walking his dog in the park. The old man who lived in the house by the park, the large house with the turret. It had simply said, “You and your family are in danger. I know who you are. Leave Savannah, then come back and get your family. Someone is coming. Ignatius Jackson, your Director.”

  He had told Katie to wait in her room, told her that they were going on a trip, and he was now busy packing a bag for her. She had asked him if mommy would be going too, on their adventure. He had told her yes, but later, mommy was sleeping and would join them soon. Katie needed to be quiet, so as not to wake her. The last thing he wanted was for Katie to see her mother’s body. They had to leave, and they had to leave now. Whoever had killed Veronica was close. Doug Partridge’s only priority now was to protect his child.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  “Jesus Christ, what happened here?’ said Police Chief Sam Taylor as he exited his unmarked police vehicle. The scene was simply unbelievable. It was as if every police officer and squad car available to the Savannah Police Department had descended on Gordonston. The quaint and usually quiet neighborhood streets were swarming with police officers, TV news crews, fire fighters and medical first responders.

  “It’s like a bomb has gone off or something. Can someone please explain to me what is happening?” he yelled again, and this time a Sergeant finally answered him.

  “Sir, well, I am not sure where to begin. Last night we had reports of shots being fired in this vicinity, two to be exact. However, they weren’t shots, it was some old car backfiring. Anyway, we investigated and found nothing. This morning, Detective Morgan arrived at a house on Kinzie Avenue. He had some questions for the occupant, a Mrs. Veronica Partridge. Well, it seems the door had been forced open, so he entered. He found her dead on her sofa. It looks as if she had been strangled.”

  Chief Taylor scratched his head.

  “Anyway, the forensic guys are in there now.” The officer flipped open his notebook. “She had recently reported her husband, Doug Partridge, as a missing person. The thing is, it isn’t just a homicide; she had a two year old child and she is missing. As soon as we get some prints I will update you.”

  Taylor shook his head. “Oh my God — and what the hell happened on Henry Street? What is going on over there?”

  “Someone reported hearing a shot, and initially it was suspected it was another car backfiring. After Morgan discovered the victim in the house on Kinzie, we sent some guys over to the vicinity, Henry Street. They found a house with its door ajar and proceeded to enter. We are trying to identify the victim.” The Sergeant swallowed. “Looks like a suicide; self-inflicted gunshot wound to the forehead. Apparently there is nothing identifying him. Old guy. Morgan is over there now. Apparently the crime scene guys didn’t want him hanging around the other murder scene. You know, he is a bit of a klutz, so they told him to leave.”

  Chief Taylor once again shook his head then scratched it. That was probably a good idea. The last thing they needed was Jeff Morgan contaminating another crime scene.

  “Other murder scene?” asked Taylor. “You mean there is more?” Suddenly picking up on the Sergeant’s previous comments.

  “Yes, this morning at around eight am we received a 911 call from a Cindy Mopper. Said she found her friend dead on her kitchen floor. The victim is a woman by the name of Zipp. Carla Zipp. This one is even stranger. She, Mopper, claims she found her last night, Zipp that is, but she, Mopper, said she couldn’t bring herself to call us. No solid explanation as to why. Claims she collapsed in shock, woke up this morning and called us and reported her friend dead. The Mopper woman is claiming she had taken a sleeping pill and a Xanax, so that’s why she didn’t call sooner. Said she was disorientated. Anyway, it looks like a clear case of poison. The tech guys found a computer with multiple internet search histories on it — poison, hit men — looks like this had been planned for a while. They are questioning her now at the station.”

  “This is unbelievable. Anything else, Sergeant Fuller?”

  The veteran Sergeant shook his head. “Funny, I know this area. My old high school teacher lives here, had to once tell him that his wife had died in a car accident. You may remember the case, that TJ Robertson debacle. Remember him, disappeared a few months after the accident?”

  Taylor nodded, indicating that he did indeed recall TJ Robertson, a nasty piece of work. He had not shed any tears when he had heard he had vanished.

  Taylor reviewed the scene around him. The once quiet neighborhood of Gordonston was swarming with activity.

  “Okay — this is a mess, so let me get this straight, two murders, one suicide, one missing child, anything else?” he asked Sergeant Fuller.

  “Just one more thing. A woman was found sitting in her car laughing hysterically. She has been sent to Memorial hospital. She is under observation. She is incoherent, babbling about justice and then falling into fits of giggles. She isn’t a suspect, but funnily enough did witness a horrific car accident yesterday involving her neighbor, who, coincidentally is, I mean was, Mopper’s nephew.”

  “Remind me who Mopper is again?”

  “The woman who poisoned her friend. Apparently.”

  Taylor once again shook his head. “Call Morgan, tell him I am on my way to Henry Street, to the suicide scene.”

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Jeff Morgan hated suicides. Really, what was there to in
vestigate? Why couldn’t he be the one investigating the murder of Veronica Partridge. He had been the one who had found her after all? Maybe that’s why the Chief was on his way over right now. To put his best man on the job.

  “Well,” said the Chief as he entered Derepaska’s home, “who is he?”

  “Not sure,” replied Morgan. “No driving license, nothing, can’t even find a passport. Apparently he only just moved in, according to the neighbor. Anyway, we are waiting for someone to get back to us regarding whose name is on the deeds. Seems he is renting this place, so maybe the owner knows who he is. Not a scrap of paper identifying him. Just three empty suitcases, some boxes and a few old photos. And of course the gun.”

  Morgan indicated a pile of photographs. “Looks like they were taken abroad. I haven’t looked at them all yet, but none of these places seem to be in America.” He began sifting through the framed images and continued to speak. “You know the victim on Kinzie? I saw her this week; she was reporting her husband as missing, which was odd, as he had been missing for a month, and it took her over three weeks to make the report. Maybe you want me over there. Maybe he did it, the husband? Came back and killed her and took the kid. You know, so he and his boyfriend could live as a family.”

  Taylor look puzzled. “What on earth are you talking about?” he asked Morgan.

  Morgan, while still examining the photographs, explained to his Chief about the two missing person’s cases he had ‘successfully’ solved. How it was obvious that Tom Hudd and Doug Partridge had been secret lovers and had run away together. His new theory now included murder. Maybe Partridge had returned, killed his wife and kidnapped his daughter.

  “You are kidding me?” said Chief Taylor. “That is your theory. Have you not seen what is happening here? How many coincidences does it take? Look, get that Glock over to ballistics – and stop looking at those damn photographs. And no, I don’t want you going over to the murder scene on Kinzie. I want you here, so keep searching. There must be something that can identify him in this house.

  Morgan did not reply. In fact, he did not even hear his superior’s voice, nor listen to his instructions. He was too busy staring in disbelief at the framed photograph he now held in his hand.

  “What is it?” asked Taylor, noticing his detective’s sudden silence.

  Morgan rose from where he knelt and handed Taylor the photograph that had left him speechless.

  “Oh my God,” said Taylor, “is that who I think it is?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yep, it’s this guy,” he said pointing to the corpse with the left side of his head blown off, “and Vladimir Derepaska. I should know, I spent yesterday meticulously going through the file. I could recognize him anywhere.”

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Elliott Miller sat at the picnic table that was usually the domain of The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club. He looked disheveled, tired and worried. Chief Taylor sat opposite him.

  “Some neighborhood you have here,” said Taylor. Elliott didn’t speak, just shook his head. “Well, I do have some good news,” continued the Chief of police, “a lead on the Derepaska case. Looks like we may have a connection. The old fellow who blew his brains out could be his father. Looks like he was here looking for revenge. The weapon he used to shoot himself is with ballistics. We also found a rope; the forensics boys have it. I am not a gambling man, but I have feeling it is going to contain DNA traces that match Veronica Partridge. We also took his prints and sent them to the FBI and Interpol. I am pretty sure we are going to find matching prints all over Veronica Partridge’s house. Which of course leaves us still with more questions than answers.”

  Elliott sighed heavily. What the hell was happening? How could this be? Gordonston was a quiet, almost perfect neighborhood. Two murders, a suicide? All in the same night? “Any sign of the child? Or possibly even Doug Partridge?” asked Elliott.

  Taylor shook his head. “And that’s where things get even more interesting. We ran his name through the FBI computer — nothing came back. And I mean nothing. The man is a ghost, doesn’t exist. Next thing you know I get a call from the Feds, asked me why I had even entered his name into the computer. I mean, Elliott, not just the Feds, but the CIA were on my case. Told me he is linked to something big. Bigger than all of this. I am not sure how, but this is bigger than Savannah, definitely bigger than Gordonston. I am not sure what the hell is going on, but I have feeling that maybe some of this is linked. Look over there.”

  Elliott looked towards where the Chief was pointing. Three black vans had appeared along Edgewood Road. Six men wearing dark suits and sunglasses, with communication pieces attached to their ears, stood by the vans, apparently waiting for instructions.

  “Something about National Security, and they have already flashed badges and credentials at my boys. They have told Morgan to leave Derepaska’s house; confiscated everything. Sealed the place off. Looks like they are waiting to swarm over to Kinzie. Wouldn’t surprise me if they did the same there. The Georgia Bureau of Investigation is also on their way over.”

  “And Cindy Mopper?” asked Elliott, the concern in his voice apparent. “I know the woman; I have known her for years. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. For God’s sake, her nephew was killed yesterday in a traffic accident. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s like something from an over complicated novel. It is madness. She and Carla Zipp were firm friends; there is no way I can believe she killed her. It just doesn’t add up. ”

  Taylor didn’t respond immediately but stared off into the park.

  “Those your dogs?”

  Elliott didn’t looked up. “Yes. Biscuits and Grits. They were my late wife’s poodles, my poodles now.”

  “And the others. The other dogs?” asked Taylor.

  Elliott looked up and followed Taylor’s gaze towards the far corner of the park. Biscuit and Grits had been joined by Paddy and Walter and what appeared to be a white Cairn terrier. All three dogs seemed to be digging frantically.

  “Oh no. I forgot about the dogs. Cindy and Carla had dogs. They must have gotten out of her house, or she let them out. They had this little club, my wife’s idea originally. They called themselves The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club, and there were three of them, Cindy, Carla, and my next door neighbor Heidi. I am actually surprised she isn’t out here; she is a bit of a nosy old crone; completely harmless, but loves to gossip. They all did. I guess we need to get them and call the pound. Poor dogs. That little white one, I believe he belongs to the old guy who lives in the house with the turret. He must have slipped through the railings and gotten out.

  Elliott and Chief Taylor stood up from the picnic table and headed towards the dogs. Elliott had Biscuit and Grits' leashes with him. They could tie them to the picnic table before they called the pound.

  As they approached the dogs, both men saw that they had indeed been digging. Each dog stood with its tail wagging, each with a bone in its mouth, as if boasting to each other who had the biggest.

  “What the hell is that?” exclaimed Chief Taylor as he approached Paddy. The Irish terrier had a large bone in his mouth. He tried to grab it from Paddy, but a game of tug war ensued, between man and beast, the dog refusing to give up his recent find.

  “Let go of it, there’s a good boy,” cajoled the police Chief, trying to negotiate with the animal. “Jesus Christ,” shouted Elliott, causing Chief Taylor to loosen his grip on the bone he had been fighting Paddy for, resulting in Paddy speeding away to find a secluded corner where he could chew.

  “Look down there. It’s a skull; there is a body down there! They are playing with human bones!” shouted Elliott.

  Elliott covered his mouth, not just in shock, but because he thought he was about to vomit. Chief Taylor reached for his radio, not before wiping his hands on his uniform.

  “I need all available officers to the park immediately. Now,” he screamed.

  Chalky, Ignatius Jackson’s Cairn terrier was the second dog to bolt. With a bone the size of a hum
an shin bone in his mouth, with remnants of lime green cloth attached to it, he ran towards the wrought iron fence that separated the park from his home.

  Just as Chalky bolted with Tom Hudd’s shin bone his prize, firmly gripped in his mouth, Detective Jeff Morgan entered the park.

  “Catch that dog,” screamed Taylor to Morgan. “I think we just found Tom Hudd!”

  Morgan, initially confused, and wondering why his boss was playing fetch with a group of dogs, especially on a morning like this, sprang into action. With his weight and general fitness impeding his chances of reaching Chalky, he still gave chase, but he was seconds too late to stop Chalky shimming through the iron railings and entering his back yard before running through the open door of his home.

  Morgan turned towards his boss and shrugged. Panting and out of breath, he bent over and placed his hands on his knees.

  “Climb over the fence, you moron!” shouted Chief Taylor, who was preoccupied with cornering Walter, who appeared to have another bone belonging to Tom Hudd in his mouth.

  Morgan shrugged, and stared at the posts separating the park from Ignatius Jackson’s back yard. Climbing over the railings, he thought, was going to be easier said than done. He placed his chubby hands on two spiked railings and heaved his hefty body upwards; he only rose an inch. He tried again, and this time he managed to scale the barrier, but only after tearing his trousers. Chalky was in the yard, gnawing on the bone. As soon as he spotted Morgan, he turned, bone in mouth, and ran through the empty door into his home.

  Morgan gave chase again, his torn slacks revealing that he wore blue underpants. As he entered the home of Ignatius Jackson the smell immediately hit him. He wretched, and then vomited all over Ignatius’s kitchen floor. He delved into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he used to cover his mouth. He caught a glimpse of Chalky as he disappeared up the stairs, and the detective followed, trying desperately not to vomit again as the smell of rotting and decaying flesh grew stronger.