The Donut Shop Murder

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Okay,” she said. “There’s a lot of talk in school about her husband.”

  “Tell me about it later,” he said, putting his finger up to quiet her. “Here she comes.”

  Watching her walk down the hall, it had never occurred to him until Margaret Pelham had mentioned it that Faith Cooper dressed like an heiress. There was nothing particularly attractive about her, at least that he’d noticed before, but now that Miss Pelham had pointed out that quality of the garments Faith wore, he saw that she looked like a model, that the expense hadn’t been wasted on her. Glancing at the floor as she approached, attraction for her stirred him, and he didn’t know how obvious it might be to her.

  “Come on in to my office,” he said when she arrived. “Candy’s going to take notes.”

  Faith looked between the secretary and Adam. “I’m counting on you both to keep this confidential. I’m warning you that I am going to contact my attorney and the police if he feels it’s necessary.”

  That comment stopped Adam in his tracks.

  “Should we have your lawyer present now?”

  “No, what I have to say to you only concerns my responsibility as far as a student goes. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings, or even hints of impropriety.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Faith,” Candy said. “I’ve heard it all and haven’t repeated a word.”

  Not so sure about that, Faith didn’t respond to her, but gave her a look. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Adam held the door to his office open for both women to pass through, looking down the hall before he shut it.

  “Have a seat,” he said pointing to chairs.

  He sat next to Faith rather than behind his desk, avoiding having to look face to face. Sitting down with her folder, her purse in her arms, she wasn’t going to be there long enough to get comfortable. Faith started talking without being prompted.

  “Friday night, I was at a restaurant with my husband. When we were finished, we got up to leave and walked out together. I didn’t know Chris Burns was in the parking lot. I’m not sure why he was there; he might have been stalking me.”

  “Has it been an issue?” Adam asked, shocked.

  “Not that I know of, not yet,” she answered. “While we were in the parking lot, my husband raised his voice and Chris left his car. He approached us. I asked him to please leave and he returned to his car, but not before exchanging words with my husband. It was a stupid exchange, I can’t remember exactly what was said, but something along the lines that he wasn’t going to tolerate seeing a ‘fine woman like me’ mistreated.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Adam thought about what she had said. It wasn’t anything that he had to act on, so there must be something more. He waited.

  “Today after class he approached me and mentioned the incident. I asked him to be quiet, but not before he admitted that he had been following my husband. That just resonated with me, and I wanted you to know it.”

  “Had he confronted your husband before?” Adam asked.

  “Not that I know of. If he did, my husband didn’t mention it to me, but that’s not unusual. He might have wanted to spare me.”

  Looking down at his hands, Adam thought about what she was telling him. A student had witnessed a confrontation between this teacher and her husband and had tried to intervene. It wasn’t something completely out of the ordinary, but it was an uncomfortable situation, especially now that he’d approached her again.

  “Let me ask you,” he said. “Do you feel unsafe around him? I mean, did he threaten you in anyway?”

  “No, not exactly,” she said. “But I do feel like he’s crossed a line with me. If anything else happens, you needed to know that. I’m not encouraging him.”

  “What’s your relationship like with him normally?” he asked.

  “Friendly. He needs a little extra help, and I’ve given it to him in the classroom. I’ve never met with him outside of school. Outside of the classroom, even. Not even in the library.”

  “Do you feel like you can continue teaching him?”

  “I do,” she said. “But if he approaches me again, I need to know you’ll get involved.”

  “If he approaches you again, send him down here,” he said. “That’s the way to handle it.”

  Standing up, she turned to leave. “As I said, I expect complete confidentiality. It’s hard enough to teach in this school without my personal business being discussed among the staff.”

  Adam knew what she meant and didn’t insult her by insinuating that he didn’t.

  “You have my word that I will not discuss this with anyone in school. I need to call the superintendent, however. For your own safety, he should know what’s going on.”

  Nodding at him, Faith left the office and crossed the hall, leaving school. As she walked to her car, she was alert to her surroundings. This after all, was Detroit, and not the safest neighborhood. It was freezing out, the sun almost down, but she was sweating and didn’t put her jacket on.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, she didn’t notice the older Mustang parked down the street, its occupant down in the seat, watching through the steering wheel.

  Chapter 3

  The New Delhi Donut was a hold out from the exodus in that neighborhood. It wasn’t the only donut shop in the city, but it was the one closest to the where the victim had been found. The New Delhi was the go to place for the local precinct, but at that time the lot was empty except for a newer, blue sedan parked to the left of the entrance, toward the end of the lot. Decked out in all the latest crime prevention gear, the building had roll-down metal shades that were currently in the up position and strategically placed surveillance cameras.

  Albert pulled into the parking lot, the broken concrete littered with crushed coffee cups, smashed donuts, cigarette butts, and the debris of an inner city restaurant.

  “They need to get out here and clean up this mess,” he said, his lips curled in distaste. “I’m glad we’re in Greektown and not Midtown.”

  “It’ll all be covered with snow soon,” Jill said. “Thank God.”

  “I’m not ready for snow,” he replied. “Let’s get through the holidays, please. Snow free.”

  A chirp alarmed on Albert’s phone. Taking it out of his coat, he looked at a picture of the decedent. “Here’s your girl,” he said.

  “Oh, jeez, she’s a lot younger than I thought she’d be. Do they have an ID yet?”

  Thumbing through messages, he shook his head. “Not yet, estimated age, twenty-five.”

  “I thought she was in her mid-thirties because of her clothes,” Jill said. “The expense. I’ll be interested to find out what she did for a living.”

  Nodding, he continued reading. “‘Exsanguination. Fatal bullet wound to the cranium. Time of death, approximately twelve to eighteen hours ago. Please tell Detective Zannos I’ll text before the autopsy.’”

  She’d died sometime Sunday evening.

  Nodding toward the store, they opened their doors simultaneously.

  “After you,” Albert said, letting her take the lead.

  The man behind the counter saw the detectives pull up, noting they were not regulars, and dreading having to talk to them. Wiping his hands off on a damp towel he’d been using to clean up, he took a deep breath, hoping they were just coming in for coffee.

  “Afternoon,” Jill said. “Small black coffee, please.”

  “Make that two,” Albert said.

  They waited while the man poured their coffee and pushed it across the counter.

  “On the house,” he said, watching Jill.

  Albert got out his phone and scrolled to the photo of the dead girl. “You recognize this girl?” he asked. “She might have come in here yesterday.”

  The man looked at the picture. “No, I never saw her before.”

  “Those cameras out there,” Jill said, pointing over her shoulder. “Are they wireless?�
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  Hesitating, he stretched over the counter to look where she was pointing, like he had to remind himself he had security cameras. “Yes,” he answered. “Wireless.”

  “Do you have a monitor on site?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said.

  “Can we take a look?” Albert asked.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No warrant,” Albert replied. “But we can get one fast. This young woman may have been a customer here, and as you can see from the photo, she’s not doing too good now.”

  Watching the man, Jill’s inner voice said, “O’oh.”

  “Look, unless you murdered her, you don’t have anything to worry about,” she said. “You’ll make my job a lot easier if you just let us look at the video.”

  Stunned, Albert tried not to smirk, letting Jill do the talking. He fully expected the man to vault over the counter and run away, his guilt was palpable.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said. “You can look at the video.”

  “Was she in here?” Jill asked.

  “Yes. Look at the video.”

  “Why lie to us?” Albert asked.

  “I’m running on an expired license here,” he said.

  “We don’t work for the Food Safety Unit,” Jill said.

  He waved them to come in back, holding a counter door up.

  “It’s in back,” he said.

  They followed him to the back of the storeroom, a clean, albeit cluttered area with a desk holding a computer and bank of monitors.

  Pointing to the computer, Albert motioned for him to sit down. “You want to drive?”

  “You’d better,” the man answered. “If a customer comes in…”

  “Gotcha,” he said, and pulled a chair out.

  The man moved the mouse around, showing Albert where the portals to each of the camera storage areas could be accessed. The door buzzer sounded, and he left to wait on a customer as Albert and Jill took turns fast reversing through the video of the interior camera mounted behind the counter, aimed at the front door. The range of view was a straight shot from the cash register to the entrance. Within half an hour, they found what they were looking for; their victim, wearing the expensive velvet jacket, walking into the coffee shop.

  “Slow it down, can you?” Jill asked pointing. “That’s her. Look at the hair, shoulder length, curly.”

  “I can see her sneakers, too,” Albert said. “That’s our girl.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  Craning their necks forward, they watched her, still unidentified, looking around the shop, pausing instead of advancing to the counter. Others walked around her and lined up to make their coffee purchase.

  “She’s looking for someone,” Jill said.

  In seconds, recognition, or at least acknowledgment evident in her posture, as another woman approached her. They didn’t shake hands, or embrace. They spoke and then together, went to the counter and ordered. The woman who had been waiting for the victim shook her head and handed a credit card to the clerk.

  “Bingo!” Albert shouted, writing down the time stamp on the video in his notes. “Sunday at three PM. First prize goes to Sam for TOD.”

  “I’ll ask for a warrant,” Jill said.

  “Yes, go for it,” Albert replied. “I’ll ask our buddy here for the credit card information.”

  Standing, she walked away from the desk to make her call to the assistant district attorney, who’d go through the legalities of acquiring a search warrant so they could take the computer, and Albert went out to the front of the store to ask about the credit card.

  “It’ll take me a while to find it,” the man said. “I still use paper receipts.”

  While he looked for the receipt, Albert would go back to the video and search the parking lot surveillance.

  “How’d she get here?” Jill asked. “That blue sedan could be her car out there.”

  “Ask Sam if he ran the prints yet,” Albert said. “I’m feeling like everything is going to hit at once and we’ll miss something.”

  “Yes,” she said, sending the ME a text. “We might be at the crime scene. I’m going to tell Don Short.”

  Glancing up at her, Albert could sense her rising concern, so pulled out the chair. “Sit. Let’s look at the parking lot video first.”

  There were three cameras outside. One was positioned so any car entering the single driveway off John R or exiting onto Mack could clearly be seen. The second camera mounted on a pole near the curb swept the front of the store. The third was mounted on the back of the building and had a wide angle view from north to south, from the trash dumpster to about half way down the driveway. However, none of the cameras was fixed, so the video changed location as the camera moved. As they viewed the video from an exterior camera, Jill’s phone beeped.

  “We have our warrants,” she said. “An officer will drop them by.”

  He nodded, fast forwarding the video to the same time stamp as the interior video had when the victim entered.

  “I’m taking a look outside,” Jill said.

  Albert turned to her, understanding what her motive was. “Do you want me to come along?” he asked.

  “No. Stay at this,” she replied, pointing to the monitors. “I want to be alone.”

  The back door of the shop led directly out to a large, crumbling concrete slab. To the left, the lid to a dumpster was closed tight; a strong smell of bleach greeted her as she moved away from the door, an obvious attempt made to sweep the concrete. No trash littered the ground here, in contrast to the mess out in front.

  A driveway along the right side of the building allowed for customers to drive up to a window to buy coffee and donuts. She walked to the right, counting steps as she did so, and glanced to the front parking lot. It was early afternoon, past the time of the rush for coffee, and there was no one in line at the drive up window. Litter covered this area to the side of the building like it did in the front.

  Shivering, Jill pulled the collar of her shirt up to her chin, snow, and the smell of death thick in the air. Thanksgiving was in four days, time flying by, a family missing their daughter sitting around the dinner table.

  Walking back to the donut shop door, she moved toward the dumpster now, counting steps along this path, as well. Pulling a clean pair of blue exam gloves from her pockets, she donned them before touching the dumpster. Lifting the lid, she noted that it was empty. Later, she’d make a point of checking the trash cans inside the shop.

  Recounting her steps back to the door, she examined the concrete. It was worn, the top surface contained loose gravel and sand. She kicked it with her boots, moving it back and forth along the route. When she reached the door, she stood with her back to it and looked up. There was a vacant lot behind the shop, but that too had been maintained. The area close to the donut shop parking lot recently raked, it appeared free of trash which was unusual in this part of town.

  Looking down, Jill examined the concrete again as she slowly walked out from the door toward the vacant lot and back again, back and forth, foot by foot, she examined the entire concrete slab from the building to the grass and the dumpster to the drive thru area. Squatting down from time to time when something caught her eye; a colored pebble or something shiny, usually balled up foil gum wrappers or a piece of plastic.

  Then something took her breath away; the sun peeked out from a cloud and swept the shadows away for just long enough that she spotted the shining brass of a bullet casing lurking almost under the dumpster. One more inch and she would have missed it. With gloves, she scooped it up and bagged it and put it in her pocket. It might just be a coincidence.

  I have a bullet casing, she texted Albert and Don Short.

  The bleach smell was stronger at the end of the concrete where the ground began, stronger than at the shop side. The area of weeds and grass which appeared to have been recently raked grabbed her attention. Crouching down at that place where the edg
e of the concrete slab met the grassy area, she noted the crumbling concrete and the dirt, segueing to weeds. The bleach smell choked her, and the dirt appeared to be wet. Surveying the immediate area, she looked for a stick or something she could dig with. Picking a stone, she used it to dig at the black dirt. Scooping a bit up, she held it in the palm of her hand. Sniffing it, it was a combination of pungent, familiar smells; earthy dirt, bleach and something else, something coppery, like blood. Standing up, she smashed the earth into her palm and rubbed it against the blue of the glove and was sure she saw a brown substance like that of old blood. Taking the gloves off, she sent Don Short and Albert a text again.

  There’s blood in the backyard of the coffee shop.

  Chapter 4

  Ken Cooper stood at the kitchen counter of the Birmingham condominium that he shared with his wife, Faith, waiting for her to return from work. A rare occurrence to arrive home before she did, he knew how angry she was with him, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if she didn’t show up at all, although he really hoped she would. As much as he was capable of loving someone other than himself, Ken loved Faith. A pretty, smart, shy girl, Faith would have gone on living with him in quiet ignorance except for a chance encounter she’d had at a movie theater the week before, exposing his hidden life.

  Slipping up at an office dinner on a summer night in June, Allison Blumenthal was just another staff member as far as he was concerned until that night. Faith had intended on accompanying him to the dinner, but that morning, her mother had asked her to come by the house and sit with her father for the evening.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Faith had said to Ken. “Mother was invited to one of those decorating parties and asked me if I’d sit with Dad. He can’t be left alone since the stroke. I honestly forgot about your dinner tonight.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll eat and come right home. There’s a game tonight I want to see anyway.”

  Sincerely thinking that was what he’d do, he underestimated the combination of tequila and a twenty-five year old girl. The dinner was at one of the last lavish restaurants in the city before its revival. The perfect set up on a balmy night, the warm breeze off the river invited lingering over drinks long after the meal, and as luck would have it, he was sitting next to Allison. The sounds of the night; in the marina, the sailboats halyards clanging, a saxophone playing in a neighboring bar echoing its sultry sound over the water, the effect of the tequila on his brain.