Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery

by Harry James Krebs

  After setting up nightlights in the upstairs hall and the great room, Maggie made up the sofa.

  I tapped lightly on Nora’s door. “Nora?” I asked softly. “Are you okay?”

  The door opened. She had changed into her nightgown and was watching the news coverage on TV. “I’m fine, Benji. Really.”

  I gazed past her to see what looked like a .38 caliber snub nose revolver resting on her nightstand. I raised my eyebrows. “Does Maggie know you have that?”

  She smiled. “My little Magpie doesn’t need to know everything, does she?”

  “No, I guess not.” I winked at her, and bid her good night.

  Continuing on my rounds, I went upstairs to check one last time on the girls. I put my ear to Julie’s bedroom door and listened, not wanting to knock or open the door and wake them. I was just about to turn around and leave when I heard a small, muffled sound. I slowly opened the door and crept inside, standing in the inky black shadows, straining to hear. The sound was my daughter quietly crying alone in the dark.

  I went to the side of the bed and picked Amanda Jane up and carried her to one of the two matching daybeds in Julie’s sitting room. She was limp in my arms, and I lay down and just held her close to me until she cried herself to sleep. An hour or so later, when I finally slipped out from beside her and covered her with a quilt, I realized there were tears on my face as well.

  As I quietly opened the bedroom door to leave, Julie whispered softly in the dark. “I’ll take care of her, Ben.” I tucked Julie in and kissed her cheek, my heart overwhelmed with love for my sweet, compassionate, tender-hearted step-daughter.

  Maggie read my face when I came back downstairs and got up and put her arms around me, gently rubbing my back to try and comfort me. I could feel her shared anguish and was again overcome with emotion.

  She watched me pull the chair to the foot of the stairs. “You’re not really going to sleep in that chair are you?” she asked.

  “I slept on worse before I met you.”

  “But it looks so uncomfortable,” she said.

  “You’re right.” I slid the ottoman over to the chair. “There, that’s better.”

  Soon, the house was quiet, but I couldn’t sleep. Too many things were running through my head. I kept thinking about Jennifer and the horror she must have experienced before she died. And I felt terrible about the mean things I had said about her. I couldn’t get her face out of my mind, remembering the way she used to smile at me when we were first married.

  And then I thought about Christine’s disappearance, and the day she was found—her body dismembered and placed in a large duffle.

  Roberta’s door opened upstairs, followed by her light footsteps. She was checking on the girls, and Oscar let out a single squeak. I looked up the stairs.

  She was standing at the top and saw the gun sitting in my lap—her eyes met mine. She nodded in agreement and went back to bed.

  CHAPTER 17

  At the breakfast table, the entire family was somber and withdrawn. The girls came down at seven o’clock for breakfast, but neither of them said much, and they just picked at their eggs and buttered English muffins.

  I grabbed a quick cup of coffee and chose not to have breakfast. Roberta protested, but I wanted to be early to the task force meeting to learn anything I could. I found the keys to the Cadillac Escalade and left. The two police cruisers had now been replaced by a different pair, and the new officers nodded to me as I rolled out onto Meadow Rue Drive.

  At fifteen minutes past eight, I pulled into the Cary municipal parking lot and took my usual spot. It was still drizzling as I made a dash for the building. Lieutenant Netter and Detective Cox were in the hallway talking, and they looked at me in astonishment when they saw me come in.

  “Tucker,” Netter said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I ran my hand through my wet hair. “It’s Friday,” I said. “I’m here for the meeting.”

  He gestured toward the conference room. “I can’t let you go in there,” he said. “You’re the ex-husband of last night’s victim.”

  “What?” I was stunned.

  Detective Cox piped in. “For Christ’s sake, Tucker, we haven’t even cleared you as a suspect. We can’t have you on this task force. How the hell would that look?”

  “A suspect? That’s ridiculous! C’mon, Frank! You know me.”

  He became irritated. “Don’t Frank me, dammit! It’s Detective Cox to you. And do I know you, Tucker? Do I really? All I know is that you seemed like a nice guy when you interviewed us for your book. Who knows what internal demons you’re dealing with?”

  I was shocked. “I can’t believe this! I need to be part of this task force.” I looked at Netter. “Lieutenant?”

  “Sorry, Tucker. You’re out!” There was an awkward pause. “But we need to talk to you, so wait out in the lobby, and I’ll come and get you after the meeting.”

  I was so pissed off, I wanted to choke them both. I stormed past them into the conference room.

  Cox yelled at me. “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  I glared at him. “I skipped breakfast, so I’m stealing one your precious fuckin’ donuts!” I held out my wrists. “Cuff me, copper!”

  Lainie had already sat down at the table. She’d heard most of the exchange, and the look on her face told me she felt bad for me.

  Just to irritate Cox, I grabbed two donuts and left.

  I called Maggie from the lobby and told her about this latest development. She listened patiently as I ranted and raved and said maybe they would clear things up quickly and put me back on the task force. I was so flippin’ angry I didn’t even know if I wanted to be on the task force anymore—yes I did.

  I waited almost two hours, but I put the time to good use by first calling to check on my car. The undercarriage was okay, but all four tires and one wheel needed to be replaced. Estimated cost was thirty-five hundred bucks—almost a quarter of the cost of my old Corolla when it was new. My highfalutin Jag would be ready late Saturday afternoon.

  Then I called my brother Tommy in Illinois and broke the news about Jennifer’s death and the potential threat to Amanda Jane and the rest of us. He was devastated—and furious. He wanted to catch the next flight to Raleigh along with our other brother George, but I talked him out of it. I was afraid they would only be additional targets for Plum.

  Netter finally showed up and escorted me to an interrogation room. Inside, there was a table with six chairs around it. Seated were Detective Cox, Agent MacKenzie, and Bob Dunwood from the SBI. A young female officer entered and handed Netter a file folder.

  “This just came in,” she said, and left.

  I sat opposite them, facing a two-way mirror on the wall. “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  Netter sat next to me and began. “We need to clear you of this crime.” He informed me of my rights and asked if I wanted an attorney present.

  I declined.

  “I need to tell you this is being recorded.”

  “Whatever,” I huffed.

  “According to the M.E.,” he said, “Jennifer died between 5:45 p.m. and 6:15 p.m. yesterday evening. What were you doing during that time?”

  “Probably eating dinner,” I said. “I picked up a Quarter Pounder from the drive-thru at the McDonald’s on Kildaire Farm Road. I ate in the car.”

  “The one by High Meadows or the one by Ten-Ten?” Cox asked.

  “High Meadows.”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you pay cash, ATM, or credit?” Netter asked.

  “Cash.

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “No.”

  “What were you doing before that?” he asked.

  “I was at home reviewing the photos I’d taken at the Clancy crime scene.”

  “Can anyone verify this?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  “What time did you arrive here yesterda
y evening?” Cox asked.

  “It was about six fifteen.”

  “Nobody remembers seeing you before six thirty-five,” Netter said.

  He totally irritated me. “Has it escaped you that this is a damn police station?” I said. “There are surveillance cameras all over this place. Look at yesterday’s video!”

  Netter opened the file folder he was holding and began reviewing the contents. Immediately, he started shaking his head but kept silent.

  Bob Dunwood began timelining a scenario starring me as Jennifer’s killer. “According to Mrs. Ralston, the music teacher, Mrs. Tucker dropped your daughter off early … at about five thirty in the afternoon. Then she left. You could have been waiting for her, killed her, and then come here to man the tip hotline.”

  “There’s not enough time,” I said. “It must be a half-hour drive from the estate to Jennifer’s house and another fifteen minutes from her house to here.”

  “Eighteen minutes from your place to the Bradford house,” Cox said. “I drove it this morning.”

  “Yeah? When,” I sneered, “at six this morning? When there’s no traffic? Try it again at six tonight. Besides, this is all ludicrous! If I had killed Jennifer in the manner described last night, I’d have been covered with blood. When and how was I supposed to have cleaned up?”

  Cox replied. “You could’ve worn something like one of those bunny suits the CSI guys use, then put it in a trash bag and disposed of it on your way here.”

  I almost laughed at him. “You’ve been watchin’ too much TV.”

  Dunwood opened a file folder and looked at me. “Ben, do you have a history with a—” he looked down at the report in the file, “Mrs. Golda Lucinski?”

  “Good grief! You mean like a romantic history? She must be seventy-five years old.”

  “No. I mean a confrontational history,” Dunwood said.

  “I guess you could say that,” I said. “We got into it a few times about her dog shittin’ in my yard. I mean, I really didn’t mind it that much—after all, he’s just a dog. But at least have the common decency to come back and pick up after him. Why are you asking about her, anyway?”

  Dunwood answered. “We have a written statement from her saying she saw you on the sidewalk in front of 237 West Bradford at about 5:45 yesterday afternoon.”

  I shook my head. “Well, she’s mistaken. I hadn’t been by that house since I dropped Amanda Jane off after our visit a week ago last Sunday.”

  “Do you think she held a grudge and purposely pointed a finger at you?” Netter asked.

  “Nah! She wouldn’t do that; things weren’t that antagonistic between us. She’s just an old lady who let her dog shit in my yard. She’s just confused.”

  “She was positive it was yesterday because she saw you while she was bringing in her garbage can,” Cox said. “What day is the garbage picked up in that neighborhood?”

  “It used to be on Thursday when I lived there.”

  “Yesterday was Thursday, Ben,” Netter said.

  I shrugged. “What can I tell ya? She’s confused.”

  Cox leaned forward. “Where were you on March 19 between the hours of three o’clock in the afternoon and seven o’clock in the evening?”

  I shrugged again. “Christ, I don’t know! That was three weeks ago. Where the hell were you?”

  “I’m asking the questions here. What about on April 2 between six o’clock and eight o’clock in the evening?”

  I was exasperated. “Again, I don’t know … no wait. I was in the guesthouse doing laundry. I was just finishing when they broke the news about the Knudsen murder.”

  Cox raised his eyebrows. “You were doing laundry?”

  “Yes, Detective Cox, some men actually do laundry.”

  “Can anyone substantiate this?”

  “Just my dog, Oscar,” I said. “Why don’t you go over and ask him?”

  I shifted in my chair, frustrated. “Look, why are we even talking about any of this? You should have a recording of Plum’s phone call to the tip hotline. We know the call came from Jennifer’s house, and we know I was here when I took the call. I couldn’t be in two places at the same time.” I slowly shook my head. “I’m good, Detective Cox, but not that good.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Tucker.” Cox pointed his finger at me. “You could very well be Jack Plum, and you could’ve paid someone to make that call from the West Bradford house. We don’t know where you were at the time of the other two murders either. They could’ve been a diversion for the main event last night! You have an excellent motive—you went through a highly contentious divorce.”

  I laughed. “Hell, so have you!”

  “But my ex-wife hasn’t been murdered,” Cox said. “And just the other day, on Monday I believe, you said you wished Plum would pay Jennifer a visit and do you a favor.”

  I rolled my eyes. “C’mon! That was a joke. Do ya think I’d be stupid enough to say something like that and then follow through with it?”

  “Stupid? Or brilliant? You’re the renowned crime novelist here. You could have easily come up with a plan to get rid of Jennifer and then made that statement, so it would look too obvious to us. We know she was suing you for half of your book royalties.”

  “Jesus, guys!” I said. “What you say is true. But have you forgotten I’m married to an extremely wealthy woman? If I asked Maggie for a million dollars, she’d give it to me. I wouldn’t need to kill my ex-wife over a few thousand bucks. Yeah, it pissed me off! But I don’t need the money. I really don’t.”

  I glanced at Netter’s reflection in the two-way mirror. “Has Huffman connected Jennifer’s death to the others?” I asked.

  “This crime is very different from the first two murders,” Netter said. “For one thing, Jennifer was decapitated while she was still alive. The body was fully clothed, and there were no signs of sexual assault, as is often the case when the victim is a spouse or an ex-spouse of the perpetrator. The front door lock was broken, and the door was forced open.

  “The victim’s body was found in the master bedroom, but it was on the floor—not staged on the bed like Clancy and Knudsen, and there was no Bible at the scene. Finally, Jennifer’s physical characteristics, mainly her hair style and color, were very different from the first two victims. If we have the same perpetrator in all three crimes, why do you think he changed his M.O. on this one?”

  I thought for a moment and then shrugged. “How the hell would I know?” I looked at Lainie. She said nothing.

  “All right,” Netter said, “let’s get the surveillance video from the lobby and a warrant for Tucker’s computer.”

  “Hell, you don’t need a warrant! Just come over and get it from the guesthouse. I’ll get a new one.”

  “We’ll get a warrant anyway … just to cover ourselves. Then I’ll have the county computer forensic specialist stop by this afternoon and pick it up,” Cox said. “Netter, tell your people at the Marshak estate that no one’s to enter that guesthouse building until our specialist arrives.” He refocused on me. “We’d also like to bring someone in here with a swab kit if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, knock yourself out. So are we through?”

  “No,” Netter said. “There’s something else you need to explain.” He slid a photograph over to me. “Christina Morgan.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I swallowed hard and looked down at the picture of my former girlfriend. “What about her?”

  “Did you know her?” Netter asked.

  “Of course, she was my high school girlfriend.” I slowly turned my head toward him. “She was murdered on my eighteenth birthday.” The others gasped.

  “According to this report,” Netter said, “Ms. Morgan was raped, murdered, and dismembered.”

  Cox reached over and yanked the report from Netter’s hand. “Let me see that!” There was a short pause while Cox swiftly read the report.

  “Christ, it says here that this Detective Eldridge had you pegged as th
e prime suspect,” Cox added. He then looked at Netter. “It’s still an open case. It’s never been solved.”

  “Eldridge was an idiot,” I said. “He had his mind set on me, and he couldn’t see anything else. As I said, it was my eighteenth birthday. Christine and I were supposed to meet at the Dairy Queen at six o’clock. But my baseball practice ran longer than expected, and I was about a half hour late. I wasn’t concerned at the time. After all,” I looked back down at the photo with tears in my eyes, “what’s the worst that could happen?” I sighed deeply. “Anyway, at least twenty of my team members swore that I didn’t leave the field until six fifteen.”

  Netter piped in. “You should’ve told us about this.”

  “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

  Cox pointed at the report. “This says you were committed to a mental institution.”

  I half grinned. “That sounds like I was in an insane asylum. It was really a psychiatric hospital … for two weeks of observation. It was all voluntary. My parents and therapist were concerned that I was exhibiting self-destructive behavior. Eldridge thought it was driven by guilt.”

  All four of them said nothing as I slid the photograph back to Netter.

  “I was a kid,” I said. “My girlfriend had been murdered … and I’d never been exposed to death before—not even a pet or a grandparent. I was pretty screwed up. But I’m completely past it now.”

  I leaned back and crossed my legs. “So are you going to tell me what happened in the meeting?”

  “No.” Cox said bluntly.

  Netter was watching me. “What’s that look on your face, Tucker?”

  “I was just thinking, but it has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Enlighten us … please.”

  I looked at Netter in the two-way mirror and said, “When I wrote Deception, and I was describing the police investigators, I forgot to say what a bunch of clueless, dick-sucking assholes you guys are. And if you want to talk any more about Christine, I want an attorney.”

  Netter got up in disgust. “We’re through here,” he said. “I need a cigar.” He walked out.