by John Foxjohn
With a groan, the porch sagged when they stepped onto it. David stopped and looked at the front door with a broken lock and a clear footprint. He frowned, holding his size nine shoe beside the print on the door.
“About a size eleven,” Henry said.
“Yep. Did the crime scene boys get a picture?”
Henry got a you-got-to-be-kidding-me look on his face. “Of course they did. I wouldn’t overlook that.”
“Did they use a standard when they took the picture?”
“A what?”
“A standard.”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, I’ll ask Joe.”
David’s gaze shifted from the doorjamb to the print. What he saw didn’t match the story Henry told him.
Henry crossed his arms. “You’re getting that look on your face. This one’s cut and dried.”
David adjusted his tie, reaching for his pocket for a cigarette, but not finding one. No homicide fell into the easy category—each unique in its own way, and told a story.
The house looked a lot better on the inside, but crowded. Furniture scraped the hardwood floor as officers moved it. Some dusted for fingerprints, and others took pictures. One team measured distances from the front door to the other rooms, the hallway’s length, and room sizes. Another group listed the house contents. Fingerprint powder almost made David sneeze.
Joe Hughes approached. “We’re almost finished here. Anything you want us to do in particular?”
“Joe, when you took the picture of the footprint on the front door, did you use a standard?”
Joe cocked his head and looked at David for a moment. “How’d you know about standards? This is a brand new technique. It came across my desk yesterday. I haven’t looked at it yet.”
A satisfied grin materialized on David’s face. “I like to study new techniques.”
“We’ll do it, but you’re going to have to tell me whatcha want.”
“It’s simple. Take several pictures with someone holding a ruler beside the print. Make sure the ruler’s even with the heel, and they hold the ruler on the side so their fingers don’t cover the numbers. Also, get a close-up picture so the ruler shows the print’s exact size.”
He nodded. “No problem with that.”
David held up one finger. “One other thing. After you take the pictures, take the door into evidence.”
Joe’s eyes widened. “Entire door?”
David nodded empathically. The entire door.”
David, unlike a lot of officers, studied techniques on crime scene investigations and subscribed to Scientific American, a magazine featuring articles on crime scene investigations, polygraphs, and interrogations. Also, he received a monthly flier from Scotland Yard. His passions, fingerprinting, and identification, originated in England, and England was light years ahead of the United States.
“Since you two know about this new standard, how about filling me in?” Henry asked.
Joe shrugged.
“The technique occurred because of a murder case in California,” David said. “They found a footprint, too, but on the floor. They took the normal pictures, made an arrest, and the prosecutor took it to trial. They presented other evidence besides the print, but they introduced the print first.
“Investigators had taken pictures and recorded a size ten print in their report. When the defense attorney cross-examined the investigator, he testified he’d put his foot beside the print and estimated the size. It turned out the person arrested had a size 10 1/2 shoe.”
“Uh oh,” Henry said.
“Investigators lost credibility with the jury after that.”
Henry and David strode past a spotless kitchen and down a narrow hallway lined with pictures. David could tell they were getting close to where the bodies were. Nauseating odors filled the hallway and David choked back the gorge rising in his throat. Dead bodies repulsed him. He wondered sometimes why he ever became a homicide detective.
An older man, perhaps in his sixties, lay on his back on the bed. His lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, his chest matted with blood. David sometimes dreamed about victims’ eyes. He always gazed into them, looking for a sparkle, but he never found one.
He remembered the old joke about the light being on, but no one being home. In a perverse way, murder victims’ eyes reminded him of that joke—open, but no one lived in them. He shuddered.
At the end of the bed, a grey-haired female with large, ragged shoulder wound lay on her stomach. It appeared to be an exit wound. Her grey hair in the back had a large circular burn. Her killer held the gun tight against her head when he fired the shot. Powder from the blast tattooed her scalp. First shot hit her in the shoulder. She rolled to the floor, dragging herself through a blood pool. When the killer walked around the bed, he stepped in the blood, leaving a footprint.
David’s skin crawled, and hairs stood on the back of his neck. Ghosts floated around the room while the medical examiner bent to look at the man on the bed.
“What’s it look like, Doc?” David asked.
“I haven’t looked at the woman. It appears this one took two in the chest.”
“Everyone’s grumpy this morning,” Henry said, almost under his breath.
“Do you have an estimate on the caliber?” David asked.
“Can’t tell for sure until I do the autopsy. It looks to be a smaller caliber. Maybe a .38, but don’t hold me to it.”
“Let’s go talk to the son,” David said, glad to get away.
As he took in a deep breath, the aroma of fresh-cut grass brought a relief from the stench inside the house.
Lieutenant Spinks, who arrived after David and Henry had gone inside, stopped them. “Whatcha got?”
“An older white male and female, shot to death. Looks like a burglary gone bad,” Henry said.
David turned and stared at Henry in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that stuff. Where has he been? He needs to get his head out of his rear.
They approached the squad car where the son sat, door open and legs extended outside with his right foot crossed over his left ankle, showing the bottom and toe of his right boot.
David introduced himself and flashed his badge. “This is Detective Henry Carrington. Lieutenant Spinks.”
Several uniformed officers strolled up. David laughed to himself. He’d done this himself when on patrol. “Tell us what happened this morning.”
The son related the same story he’d told Henry. David nodded when he finished and turned to one of the uniformed officers. “Would you cuff him and take him to the station for us?”
Chapter 4
Everyone stared open-mouthed at David.
“I’m under arrest?” the son shouted.
Spinks glared at David but spoke to the kid. “No, you aren’t under arrest. Hold on a minute.”
He sprang to his feet, screaming, “What’re you charging me with?”
“Two counts of capital murder,” David said.
Two uniformed officers marched forward, whirled him, and placed his hands on the car.
“I haven’t done anything. You stupid idiot. You can’t arrest me.”
He continued to yell and protest when the lieutenant motioned for David and Henry to follow him. They trooped after him until out of hearing range.
“Okay, Mason. What are you doing?”
David rubbed his mouth. He wasn’t in the mood to put up with the lieutenant. “I’m arresting a murderer. What does it look like?”
“You aren’t arresting this guy. You’ve no evidence.”
“Lieutenant. Are you taking charge of this crime scene?”
“Heck, no, but you don’t have any reason to arrest him.”
David put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Sir, if you aren’t taking charge of this crime scene, I’m the ranking officer here. I’ll decide who’s arrested and who isn’t.”
Spinks spun on his heel with
out saying another word and churned away. Little dust clouds puffed up with every step.
His Firebird accelerated away, kicking up gravel and dirt.
Lieutenant Merle Spinks, supervisor of the homicide division, had transferred to the section three months before. He hated Mason the moment he met him.
Mason had the qualities Spinks desired: talent and respect. Most people liked Mason, but even the ones who didn’t, valued his opinions and asked his advice. Besides, women fell all over him.
His car rushed through the morning traffic. “That sorry little jerk,” he bellowed. “I’ve forgotten more about police work than that little idiot will ever know.” He slammed his open hand on the steering wheel.
If the inspector didn’t protect him, I’d have run him out of homicide a long time ago. That poor guy hasn’t done anything. He walks in and finds his parents shot to death and Mason arrests him on a whim.
He’s going to get his butt in a crack on this one and I’ll enjoy it. I’m tired of hearing Mason this. Mason that. There’s nothing special about him. Big deal if he has the highest clearance rate. He’s a jerk.
***
David and Henry watched as Spinks stormed away. One of the uniforms approached and asked what to do with the prisoner. David’s head snapped around. “Carry his butt to jail.”
Mumbling under his breath, the officer turned away.
David kicked dirt with his toe. He shouldn’t take Spinks’ crap out on others. “Hey. Wait up.” When the patrolman turned, hands on his hips, David wiped his hand across his mouth. “Listen. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Spinks ticked me off and I took his stuff out on you.”
He nodded. “No problem. We’ll get him in for you.”
When the bone wagon backed up to the front, two attendants unloaded the gurney and rolled through the doorless front entrance.
Henry let out a long breath. “Spinks has it in for you.”
David adjusted his suit coat with a snap. “What’s his problem?”
Henry rubbed his hands over his chin. “I don’t know. I’d be careful around him.”
“Lieutenant’s had it in for me from the moment we met.”
“You don’t need to antagonize him.”
David shrugged “What am I supposed to do?”
Henry dropped his eyes and tugged at his windbreaker. “Well, you could’ve told him why you’re arresting the suspect.”
Taking a deep breath, David nodded. “You’re right.”
“This may seem unimportant, but you might tell me why you arrested him.”
He rolled his eyes. “Henry. No one forced entry into that house.”
“Your eyes are better than mine. I saw the kicked-in door.”
“Did you take a close look at that print?”
Henry frowned. “I showed it to you.”
David’s mouth twisted in a grimace. He wished his partner would snap. “Boot print’s there because the killer stepped in the woman’s blood.”
“Okay.”
David scratched his cheek with his finger. “Henry, Parker entered the house without breaking in, shot his parents, and walked out. He locked the door and kicked it in to make it look forced after he killed them. That is the only way blood could get on the door.”
Attendants rolled out the first gurney, its burden covered with a white sheet. They strained with the weight in the high grass.
“What makes you believe he did it?” Henry asked, watching the attendants load the gurney.
“Burglars slink around. Kicking in someone’s front door when they’re home ain’t what I’d call sneaking. Besides, no one surprised a burglar. The son shot the man while he slept, which woke the mother up. She moved, and that’s the reason he missed. She fell off the bed and dragged herself. He walked around the bed and shot her, stepping in the blood when he shot her the last time.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you suspect the son.”
David dropped his chin to his chest. Henry sure was dense this morning. “He has blood on the bottom of his right boot.”
“Dang. How’d I miss that?”
“He had his right foot crossed over his left when we first approached him. His boot sole showed.”
“Have you thought he might’ve stepped in the blood when he found them?”
David pursed his lips. “Yep. It won’t work. There’s one print in the blood. Besides, he said he didn’t approach the bodies. He ran out and called the police.”
As the bone wagon sped off with the second body loaded, the patrol sergeant got back in his vehicle and left. All that remained were the crime scene unit, David and Henry.
“Henry, if you walk into your parents’ house and find them shot, what’re you going to do?”
Henry cocked his head. “Hmm, see if they’re alive.”
“Anyone else would, too. He didn’t have to check. He knew.”
Henry popped his forehead with his palm. “I got it.”
“I’m fixin’ to go to the station. You coming?”
“Yeah. I’m going,” Henry said.
***
One-way mirrors revealed an interrogation room containing an oak table with three chairs, two facing the mirror and another on the opposite side. Emily Carter and two male officers carried Parker kicking and screaming into the room.
As they forced the screaming prisoner into a chair, he kicked the table with his bare foot, expelling a loud screech.
Carter snapped a handcuff on his left wrist and the other to the chair arm. They strolled out while the prisoner cussed them and screamed he’d get their badges.
Henry twisted his face, imitating someone. “What’re we waiting for?”
“You know what the hardest part of an interrogation is for the suspect, Henry?” “Trying to answer the questions without being caught in a lie?”
“Nope. It’s waiting for it to begin. Their minds play tricks on them. He’s sitting there wondering what questions we’re fixin’ to ask. How much we know. How he’ll explain things.”
While they talked, Parker rose from the chair and attempted to walk, pulling the chair with him. He tripped, sprawling on the concrete floor with the chair on top. One male officer entered the room and helped him up. He pointed to a steel hook embedded in the floor and told the prisoner they used the hook to make sure prisoners remained seated. Parker stared at the floor, but this time he stayed sitting.
Emily Carter, with sparkling black hair and dark eyes atop her well-endowed figure, sashayed up while David and Henry talked. Without glancing at Henry, and with a smile, she stepped close to David, reached up, and adjusted his tie. When she stepped back, she told them their prisoner had to run out of steam soon. He’d yelled and kicked all the way from the holding tank.
David smiled.
Henry stood, his eyes swung from one to the other. “Why don’t you two get a room?”
With an extra swish, she glided away, turning to make sure David watched. He didn’t disappoint her.
“How long are we going to let him stew in there?” Henry asked.
David chuckled. “We’ll wait a few more minutes. Let’s get a cup of coffee first.”
“You drink too much coffee.”
They sauntered to the break room located four doors down from the interrogation rooms. It contained a large coffee pot, which dispensed a steady stream. Soda and candy machines lined one side, and a phone hung on another wall. Several café style tables and chairs took up the center. Both officers picked out a crème-filled donut from a box on the tables. Every morning, a day old bakery sent the detectives four boxes.
When they strolled back to the interrogation room, they glanced through the mirror. Parker sat with his back to them, his head lying on the table.
“Okay, he’s cooked,” David said.
David picked up a recorder, and the two detectives entered the room. They situated themselves across from Parker, and David positioned the recorder on the table and inserted a tape. Henry sat with his arms crossed,
staring at the suspect.
They played this routine often. Not the good cop, bad cop routine, but a variation. David took the lead and Henry antagonized the suspect, getting him agitated before David began. David had told Henry angry or irritated suspects let their guard down, unlike the ones who sat calm and calculating.
Despite the air-conditioned room, sweat beads popped out on Parker’s forehead. He slammed his hand on the table. “What’re you staring at?”
“A sorry lowlife who murdered his own parents,” Henry said.
“You can’t prove that.”
Quiet settled over the room. David, shuffling papers, created the only noise in the room. Because the room had a microphone, officers on the outside heard what went on, but external noises didn’t penetrate the soundproof room.
David turned the recorder on, and Henry read Parker his rights.
Parker smirked. “Even if I did kill my parents, you two idiots messed this up. You didn’t read me my rights. I’ll walk either way.”
David sat back in his seat and smiled. “Your attorney will tell you this, but to save him some time, you’ve watched too much TV. We’re only required to read you your rights when we question you. Not when we make an arrest. We did that a moment ago. Don’t go thinking you’re getting out.”
Parker slapped his uncuffed hand on the table. Vibrations from the impact thundered in the quiet room. “I don’t need no lawyer ’cause I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I’m grieving over my parents, and a killer’s out on the street loose and you’re in here hasslin’ me.”
David pursed his lips. “Parker, you’re going to need a lawyer. I’ve charged you with two counts of capital murder. If convicted, you’ll get the death penalty.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
David shrugged. “Your choice.”
“You’ve got nothing on me,” he spat the words out.
David smiled. “Let’s see here, your legal name’s Michael Eugene Parker, is that correct?”
“Yeah. You don’t have nothing on me,” he repeated for the umpteenth time.
David scratched his head and adjusted himself in his chair. He’d get this one. As Henry stood and crept behind Parker, the prisoner turned his head, watching Henry’s every move. Henry did that well—diverting Parker’s attention away from David and the questions.
