by Blake Pierce
DeMarco nodded and allowed Kate to continue.
“The victim was from a small town, a well-to-do little suburb called Ashton,” Kate said. “It’s the sort of town that draws in visitors for its pretentious antique stores, overpriced dining, and immaculate real estate.”
“And that’s the thing I don’t get about it,” DeMarco said. “A place like that, people tend to gossip, right? You’d think someone would have known something or heard rumors about who the killer was. But there’s nothing in these files.” She said this last bit as she thumped her fingers against the folder.
“That always unnerved me,” Kate said. “Ashton is an upscale place. But outside of that, it’s also a very tight community. Everyone knows each other. For the most part, everyone was polite to one another. Neighbors helping neighbors, big turn-outs for school bake sales, the whole nine yards. The place is squeaky clean.”
“No motives for the killer?” DeMarco asked.
“None that I ever knew about. Ashton has a population of just over three thousand. And sure, while it does attract its fair amount of people from New York City and other outlying areas, it has an incredibly small crime rate. So even though the murder didn’t actually occur in Ashton, it’s why the Nobilini murder was such a big deal eight years ago.”
“And there were never any other murders like this one?”
“Nope. Not until today, apparently. My theory is that the killer noted the FBI presence and got spooked. In a town that size, it would be easy to notice the presence of the FBI.” Kate paused here and took the file folder from DeMarco. “How much did Duran tell you?”
“Not much. He said we were in a rush and asked that I read over the case files.”
“Did you see what sort of gun was used for the murder?” Kate asked.
“I did. A Ruger Hunter Mark IV. Seemed weird. Seemed professional. That’s an expensive gun for some random murder with no apparent motive.”
“I agree. The bullet and the casing we found made it an easy one to recognize. And despite the expensive and very nice gun that was used, the fact that it was used at all told us all we needed to know: it was someone that knew jack shit about killing people.”
“How’s that?”
“Anyone that knew what they were doing would know that the Ruger Hunter Mark IV would leave behind a casing. Which makes it a terrible choice.”
“I assume this latest man was killed by a similar weapon?” DeMarco asked.
“According to Duran, it’s the exact same weapon.”
“So this killer decided to do it again eight years later. Weird.”
“Well, we’ll have to wait and see about that,” Kate said. “All Duran told me was that the victim looked as if he had been set up like a prop. And that the weapon used to kill him was the same kind that killed Frank Nobilini.”
“Yeah, and this one is in Midtown in New York City. I wonder if this latest victim is also connected to Ashton.”
Kate only shrugged as the plane experienced a bit of turbulence. It had done her a great deal of good to go through the case details. It had essentially knocked the cobwebs off of the case and made it feel new again. And maybe, Kate figured, eight years of space between her and the original case might allow her to look at it with fresh eyes.
***
It had been a while since Kate had been to New York. She and Michael, her late husband, had come here for a weekend getaway not long before he died. The congestion and absolute busyness of the place never ceased to awe her. It made the gridlock of Washington, DC, seem trivial by comparison. The fact that it was nearing nine o’clock on a Friday night was not helping matters.
They arrived at the scene of the crime at 8:42 p.m. Kate parked their rental car as close to the crime scene tape as she could. The scene was in a back alley located on 43rd Street, the hustle and bustle of Grand Central Station a few blocks over. There were two police cars parked nose to nose in front of the alley, not blocking the yellow crime scene tape or the alley itself, but making it known to anyone who wanted a peek at what was going on that there would be repercussions for their curiosity.
As Kate and DeMarco reached the alleyway, a bulky policeman stopped them at the crime scene tape. But when Kate showed her badge, he shrugged his shoulders and lifted the tape for them. She noted that he made no real attempt to check out DeMarco when she bent down to go under the tape. She wondered idly if DeMarco, an openly homosexual woman, took offense when a man checked her out or if she considered it a compliment.
“Feds,” the officer said with a huff. “I heard they called you in. Seems a bit much to me. Pretty open and shut case from the looks of it.”
“Just checking on something,” Kate said as she and DeMarco walked into the dark alley.
The police cars at the mouth of the alley had been parked at a light angle to allow the headlights to shine into the darkness. Kate’s and DeMarco’s elongated shadows added an air of eeriness to the scene.
At the back of the alleyway—which dead-ended along a brick wall—there were two policemen and a plainclothes detective standing in a small semicircle. There was a slight lump against the wall in front of them. The victim, Kate presumed. She approached the three men and introduced herself and DeMarco as they again showed their ID.
“Nice to meet you,” one of the officers said. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t quite know why the FBI was so insistent on getting someone out here.”
“Ah, Jesus,” the plainclothes detective said. He looked to be in his forties and a bit grungy. Long dark hair, five o’clock shadow, and a pair of glasses that reminded Kate of every picture she’d ever seen of Buddy Holly.
“We’ve been through this,” the detective said. He looked at Kate, rolled his eyes, and said: “If it’s a crime that’s older than a week or so, NYPD doesn’t want to touch it. It blows their minds that anyone would want to dig back up an unsolved murder case from eight years ago. I was actually the one that called the bureau. I know they were hot and heavy on the Nobilini case when it was active. Some sort of friendship with someone in Congress, right?”
“That’s right,” Kate said. “And I was the lead agent on that case.”
“Oh. Good to meet you. I’m Detective Luke Pritchard. I sort of have an obsession with cold cases. This one pinged my interest because of the weapon that seems to have been used as well as the fact that it was carried out execution style. If you look closely, you can see scuff marks on the forehead where the killer apparently had him lean against the brick wall right here.” He placed his hand on the side of the building to their right where there was dried blood splattered everywhere.
“May we?” Kate asked.
The two policemen shrugged and stepped back. “By all means,” one said. “With a detective and the bureau on this, we’ll happily leave you to it.”
“Have fun,” the other cop said as they turned away and headed back to the mouth of the alleyway.
Kate and DeMarco crowded in around the body. Pritchard stepped back to allow them some extra room, but kept close.
“Well,” DeMarco said, “I’d say the immediate cause of death is pretty clear.”
This was true. There was a single bullet hole in the back of the man’s head, the hole rather clean but the rim of it charred and gory—just like Frank Nobilini’s. It was a man, in his late thirties or early forties if Kate had to venture a guess. He was wearing high-end athletic wear, a thin zip-up hoodie, and nice jogging pants. The laces of his expensive running shoes were tied perfectly and the Apple ear buds he had been listening to sat neatly to his side, as if placed there intentionally.
“We have an ID yet?” Kate asked.
“Yeah,” Pritchard said. “Jack Tucker. The ID in his wallet places his residence in the town of Ashton. Which, to me, was an even stronger connection to the Nobilini case.”
“Are you familiar with Ashton, Detective?” Kate asked.
“Not very. Been through there a few times, but it’s not my kind of place. Too per
fect, too quaint and sickeningly sweet.”
She knew what he meant. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was going to feel like, having to return to Ashton.
“When was the body discovered?” DeMarco asked.
“Four thirty this afternoon. I arrived on the scene at a quarter after five and made all those connections. I had to beg them not to move the body until you guys got here. I figure you’d need to see the scene, body and all.”
“I bet that made you popular,” Kate commented.
“Oh, I’m used to it. I wish I was joking when I tell you that a lot of the cops around here call me Cold Case Pritchard.”
“Well, I think on this one, you made the right call,” Kate said. “Even if it turns out not to be connected, there’s still someone out there that shot this man—someone that we need to find just in case this isn’t an isolated incident.”
“Yeah, no clue on my end,” Pritchard said. “I have a few voice memos with my observations if you’d like to check them out.”
“That could be helpful. I assume forensics has already snapped pictures?”
“Yeah. The digitals are probably already available.”
With that, Kate got to her feet, her eyes still on Jack Tucker’s body. His head was tilted to the right, as if he were staring longingly at the earbuds that had been so carefully placed by his side.
“Has the family been notified?” DeMarco asked.
“No. And I fear that because I asked the PD to hold off on moving the body and getting the case moved along, they’re going to task me with it.”
“If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to do it,” Kate said. “The fewer channels the details are being processed through, the better.”
“If that’s what you want.”
Kate finally looked away from the body of Jack Tucker and then to the mouth of the alley where the two cops were congregating with the cop who had lifted the tape. She had delivered such devastating news more times than she cared to count and it was never easy. In fact, somehow, it seemed to get harder and harder.
But she had also learned that strangely enough, it was in the sharp and agonizing throes of grief that those suffering loss seemed to be able to remember the most minute of details.
Kate hoped it would hold true in this case.
And if so, maybe an unsuspecting new widow could help her close a case that had haunted her for nearly a decade.
CHAPTER THREE
It was only a twenty-minute drive from midtown to Ashton. It was 9:20 when they left the crime scene and the Friday night traffic remained stubborn and grueling. As they came out of the worst of the traffic and onto the freeway, Kate noticed that DeMarco was unusually quiet. She was in the passenger’s seat, staring almost defiantly out the window at the passing cityscape.
“You okay over there?” Kate asked.
Without turning toward Kate, DeMarco answered right away, making it clear that something had been on her mind since leaving the crime scene.
“I know you’ve been at this awhile and know the ropes, but I’ve only ever had to break the news of a dead family member one time before. I hated it. It made me feel awful. And I really wish you had checked with me before volunteering us for it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that. But it is part of the job in some cases. At the risk of sounding cold, it’s best to start getting used to it right off the bat. Besides…if we’re running the case, what’s the point in delegating this miserable task to that poor detective?”
“Still…how about a little heads-up on things like that in the future?”
The tone in her voice was one of anger, something she had not heard from DeMarco before—not directed toward her, anyway. “Yeah,” she said, and left it at that.
They drove the rest of the way into Ashton in silence. Kate had worked enough cases where she had to break the news of a death to know that any tension between partners was going to make the matter so much worse. But she also knew that DeMarco wasn’t the type who was going to listen to any lessons she had to deliver while she was pissed off. So maybe this one, Kate thought, would be something she could simply learn by living it out.
They arrived at the Tucker residence at 9:42. Kate was not at all surprised to see that the porch light, as well as just about every other light in the house, was on. From the looks of Jack Tucker’s attire, he had been out for a morning jog. The question of why his body had been in the city, though, presented many questions. All of those questions presumably led to one very concerned wife.
A concerned wife who is about to find out she’s now a widow, Kate thought. My God, I hope they don’t have kids.
Kate parked in front of the house and got out of the car. DeMarco followed suit, only slower, as if to make sure to let Kate know that she was not at all happy about this particular detail. They walked up the flagstone walk toward the steps and Kate watched as the front door opened before they even made it to the porch.
The woman at the door saw them and froze. It looked as if she were working very hard to come up with what words she wanted to speak. In the end, all she could muster was: “Who are you?”
Kate slowly reached into her jacket pocket for her ID. Before she could even fully show it or give her name, the wife already knew. It showed in her eyes and the way her face slowly started to crumple. And as Kate and DeMarco finally reached the porch steps, Jack Tucker’s wife went to her knees in the doorway and began to wail.
***
As it turned out, the Tuckers did have kids. Three of them, in fact, ages seven, ten, and thirteen. They were all still awake, lingering in the living room while Kate did her best to get the wife—Missy, she managed to introduce herself through her wailing and sobs—inside and sitting down. The thirteen-year-old came rushing to her mother’s side while DeMarco did her best to keep the others away while their mother came to terms with the devastating news that she had just been handed.
In a way, Kate realized that maybe she had jumped the gun on DeMarco. The first twenty minutes she spent in the Tucker home that night were gut-wrenching. She could only think of one other moment in her career that was as heartbreaking. She looked over at DeMarco, both during and after she had tried to corral the kids, and saw the defiance and anger there. Kate figured this might be something that DeMarco held against her for a very long time.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, Missy Tucker realized that she was going to have to find someone to sit with her kids if she was going to try to be of any help to Kate and DeMarco. Through thin wails, she called her brother-in-law, having to break the news to him as well. They also lived in Ashton and his wife left almost immediately to come sit with the kids.
In an effort to give Missy and the Tucker children some privacy to deal with their grief, Kate got Missy’s permission to look around the house for any signs of what might have occurred to have resulted in someone wanting to murder her husband. They started in the master bedroom, searching through the Tuckers’ bedside tables and private items to the sound of a sobbing family downstairs.
“This really sucks,” DeMarco said.
“It does. I’m sorry, DeMarco. I really am. I just thought it would be easier for everyone involved.”
“Is that really what it is?” DeMarco asked. “I know I don’t know you all that well yet, but one of the things I do know about you is you have a tendency to go out of your way to put as much pressure on yourself as you can. It’s why you can’t figure out the rather simple struggle of balancing your time with the bureau with the time for your family.”
“Excuse me?” Kate asked, feeling a flare of anger.
DeMarco shrugged. “Sorry. But it’s true. Local cops could have done this and we could have probably already been elsewhere, digging into this case.”
“With no witnesses, the wife is the best bet,” Kate said. “It just so happens she’s also having to deal with the death of her husband. It sucks for everyone involved. But you have to get over your own discomfort. In the g
rand scheme of things, who is more uncomfortable right now? You or the freshly grieving widow downstairs?”
Kate wasn’t aware of her loud and irritated tone until the last few words were out of her mouth. DeMarco stared her down for a moment before shaking her head like some spoiled teenager with no rebuttal, and left the room.
When Kate also left the room, she saw that DeMarco was looking through an office and miniature library just down the hallway. Kate left her to it, opting to head outside to look for any clues. She wasn’t expecting to find anything as she skirted around the house but knew it would be irresponsible not to go through the routine.
Back inside, she saw that Jack Tucker’s brother and wife had come. The brother and Missy were in a trembling embrace while the wife knelt by the kids and gave them all a hug. Kate saw that the thirteen-year-old—a girl who looked very much like her father—had a blank look on her face. Seeing it, she didn’t fault DeMarco for being pissed at her.
“Agent Wise?”
Kate turned as she was about to head back up the stairs and saw Missy coming down the hallway toward her. “Yes?”
“If we’re going to talk, let’s do it now. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it together.” Already, she was starting to let out little whines and moans again. Being that the news of her husband’s death was barely one hour old, Kate admired her for her strength.
Missy said nothing else, but walked up the stairs with a quick glance back toward the living room where her kids and relatives were gathered. DeMarco joined them from where she was checking the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom and the three of them went into the master bedroom—the bedroom Kate and DeMarco had already checked.
Missy sat on the edge of the bed like a woman waking up from a very bad dream, only to realize the dream was still taking place.
“You asked me earlier why he was in New York City,” she said. “Jack worked as a senior accountant for a pretty big firm—Adler and Johnson. They’ve been working night and day on this big overhaul for a nuclear decommissioning company in South Carolina. On the really late nights, he’s just been staying in the city.”
