Dead as a Door Knocker

by Diane Kelly

  The officers remained by the flower bed, speaking softly and glancing around as if looking for evidence.

  A few minutes later, a van pulled to the curb behind the cruiser. Like the patrol car, it was white with the blue and gold stripes. The side was emblazoned with the words CRIME SCENE UNIT. As the driver and passenger climbed out, the side door slid open to reveal a third technician. The techs stood next to the van, donning their specialized gear—booties, gloves, and white coveralls—before ducking under the cordon tape with their plastic toolboxes in their hands. They hurriedly erected a makeshift curtain around the bed to shield the body from view. Thank goodness. At least I could no longer see the poor person lying there, half covered in dirt.

  A plain white sedan pulled up behind the van. It resembled the one I’d seen parked down the block weeks ago. With the van blocking my vision, I couldn’t see the driver from where I stood at the curb, but a moment later he emerged from behind the vehicle. He was dark haired and stood around five feet eight inches, which meant we were nearly eye-to-eye—my blue eyes to his green—when he walked over and stopped in front of me. He wore navy blue pants and a heavily starched light blue button-down shirt under a nylon police-issue windbreaker. A light morning breeze brushed past, carrying his scent to my nose. He smelled woodsy, like cedar. Must be his soap.

  “Are you the one who found the body?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  He held out a hand. “Detective Collin Flynn.”

  I took his hand, which was warm and alive, much nicer than the last hand I’d held, the cold, dead one I’d pulled from the dirt. “I’m Whitney Whitaker.”

  He turned to address the uniformed cops, who were heading our way. “Good morning, Officers.”

  The two returned his greeting and came up next to us.

  Officer Hogarty cocked her head. “You working homicides now, Flynn?”

  “I am,” he replied. “Just got promoted this week.”

  “Wow.” She rocked back on her heels. “Seems like only yesterday I was your training officer, teaching you the ropes. You moved up the ranks faster than anyone I ever heard of. Congratulations.”

  With a humble nod, he accepted both the compliment and the hearty pat on the back she gave him.

  “This is a big step,” the woman added. “Dead bodies and such.” She cocked her head and eyed him. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  His jaw flexed, almost imperceptibly. “No doubt in my mind,” he assured her, punctuating his words with a confident nod this time.

  “All righty, then.”

  Hogarty and her partner set off to opposite ends of the sidewalk to control the gathering crowd of neighbors who’d come out to gawk. Detective Flynn whipped a pen and notepad out of the breast pocket of his jacket and returned his attention to me. “You up to talking now, Miss Whitaker?”

  I glanced over at Sawdust again and bit my lip. All I really wanted to do at the moment was round up my cat and go home and have a good cry while I downed a gallon or so of rocky road ice cream, my go-to happy feel-good food. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to do everything I could to help the police figure out how Rick Dunaway had ended up in my garden. I turned back to the detective and forced out a soft, “Yes. I can talk.”

  The detective angled his head to indicate the flower bed, where two of the crime scene techs were hunkered down behind the plastic drape, only the tops of their heads visible. “Any idea who that is lying in the flower bed and how the person got there?”

  I gulped down the lump of emotion in my throat. “I don’t know how he ended up in the flower bed,” I replied. “I didn’t see it happen.” He’d have to consult the door knocker for that information. Surely those dark, deep eyes had seen what transpired. “But I’m pretty sure it’s Rick Dunaway.”

  His brows drew inward in question. “Only ‘pretty’ sure?”

  “I can’t be certain. His head was buried when we found him. Still was when we called you.”

  “I see.” He jotted a note on his pad and looked back up at me. “Who is Rick Dunaway?”

  “He runs a real estate investment company. I work for another company called Home and Hearth. We manage his residential properties.”

  The detective gestured to the house. “Is this one of Mr. Dunaway’s properties?”

  “It was. He sold it to me a week ago.”

  “So you live here?”

  “No,” I said. “The house needs work. My cousins and I planned to fix it up and put it on the market soon.”

  “Flip it, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  He made another note on his pad. “When did you find the body?”

  “About half an hour ago. I was working in the flower bed and my cat dug something up and started playing with it. I thought it was a leftover root from some bushes I’d removed. I was working in the other end of the bed and didn’t take a close look until my neighbor came over and noticed the root was actually a finger.”

  Flynn looked around the area. “Which neighbor?”

  “Patty.” She’d come off her porch and huddled two yards over with a group of older folks from up and down the street. I pointed her out to the detective. “She’s the one with the curly orange hair.”

  “Did either of you touch the body?”

  “Yes. If there was any chance the person might still be alive, I wanted to help. I lifted up the arm and checked for a pulse.” Thinking back to the cold, rubbery feel of Dunaway’s skin caused me to shudder involuntarily.

  The detective took in my reaction before glancing over at the bed, where one of the crime scene techs was standing behind the drape with a camera in hand, snapping photos of the body below. Turning back to me, he said, “What makes you think it’s Rick Dunaway?”

  “He’s wearing a gold Rolex watch. Mr. Dunaway has one like it.” I pointed to the Mercedes at the curb. “I think that might be his car, too. It was here last night when I left around nine. Mr. Dunaway was supposed to come by at six o’clock and bring me some paperwork but he never knocked on the door. As I was leaving, I tried to figure out if the car was his, but he wasn’t in it and there was no way for me to tell for sure. I know he drives a Mercedes that looks like that, but I don’t know his plate number.”

  Flynn’s gaze swept over the car and swung to the techs before returning to me. “Wait here.”

  He ducked under the cordon tape and carefully made his way a few steps forward before summoning one of the crime scene techs. When the man stepped over, Flynn turned his back to me and ducked his head, talking too low for me to overhear. After a few seconds, they broke apart and the tech disappeared behind the screen. A moment later, the Mercedes came to life, its headlights flashing as the doors unlocked with a bleep-bleep.

  They must’ve found Mr. Dunaway’s keys. They were probably still in his pocket.

  Flynn ducked back under the tape and retrieved two pairs of paper booties from the crime scene van. He slid one pair on over his shoes and held the other out to me. “Put these on. We need you to make a positive ID.”

  The blood in my veins went ice-cold. “You mean you want me to look at the body? At his face?”

  “Yes.”

  Fear gripped my gut, spreading its cold, clammy fingers up to my heart. I’d already never get the image of that finger out of my mind. I didn’t need a face to go with it. Hoping to preempt the issue, I said, “His wallet should be in his pocket, right? Can’t you identify him by his driver’s license photo?”

  Flynn offered a soft, sympathetic shake of his head. “We need someone who’s familiar with him to identify the body. I know it’s not going to be easy, but it would be very helpful if you would do it for us. Otherwise, we’ll have to call a family member. You don’t want one of his loved ones to have to go through that, do you?”

  I didn’t. As hard as identifying a dead Mr. Dunaway would be for me, it would be infinitely more difficult for his estranged wife or one of his children. I closed my eyes and took a deep
breath to steel myself. Forcing my eyes open again, I slid the booties over my steel-toed boots and followed the detective under the tape. He led me past my mewling cat over to the curtain. The female tech was crouched next to the body on the other side. A white sheet had been draped over his corpse and face. The woman took the edge of the sheet in her hand. “You ready?”

  As ready as I’ll ever be. “Yes,” I croaked.

  Apparently, I’d lied. As she began to pull the sheet back, my hands reflexively went back to cover my face again.

  “Ms. Whitaker?” came the woman’s voice. “You’re going to have to move your hands. You can make it quick if you need to.”

  I most definitely need to make it quick.

  I took another deep breath and opened my hands and eyes for a split second before closing them again, as if I were playing a sick game of peekaboo. But in that split second I’d played peekaboo with Rick Dunaway. He’d had a thin seam of soil running across his lips and in the lines around his vacant, unseeing eyes.

  I stepped backward, out of range of the visage. “It’s him,” I squeaked. “It’s Rick Dunaway.”

  The detective pointed back to the tape, indicating I could return to the sidewalk. As I made my way past my cat, the little thing mewed helplessly again. He was confused and scared and had no idea what was going on. He only knew I wasn’t comforting him like I was supposed to. I hoped he’d forgive me. I bent down to look into his cage. “Not too much longer, baby,” I told him, hoping it would be true.

  “What’s his name?” Flynn asked when I stood.

  “Sawdust,” I said.

  “Because of his color?”

  “That, plus the fact that he was covered in the stuff when I found him in my uncle’s barn.”

  Once we’d circled back under the tape and stood again on the walkway, the detective resumed his interrogation. “You said you didn’t see Mr. Dunaway last night. When was the last time you saw him in person?”

  I thought back. “Monday.”

  “Here?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “At his office downtown.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  Accusing him of ripping me off, of knowingly selling me a house with an outdated, dangerous electrical system. I felt a little guilty about that now, even if it was almost certainly true. “I was talking to him about the house. It caught on fire right after we bought it. The very same day, in fact.”

  Detective Flynn ran his gaze over the house. “The house looks fine to me. Must have been a small fire.”

  “Actually,” I replied, “it was a pretty big one. The entire roof over the back bedroom was gone.”

  “Really?” He glanced at the house again. “How did you manage to get it fixed so quickly?”

  “I’m a part-time carpenter so I know a lot of contractors. My cousin and I did the framing ourselves. I found roofers who were able to get the repairs done right away.”

  “So roofers were on-site this week?” he asked.

  “Yes. Electricians, too.”

  “Electricians? What were they doing?”

  “Rewiring the house. They’re not quite finished yet.”

  “Any other contractors?”

  “No. My cousins and I planned to handle the repairs to the drywall and flooring ourselves.”

  Flynn asked for the names and contact information for the contractors and jotted the information down on his pad. His note complete, he made a circular motion in the air with his pen. “Let’s go back to your visit to Dunaway’s office. You said you went there to talk to him about the house. If you owned the house when it burned, how would he be involved?”

  It would be wrong to speak ill of the dead, wouldn’t it? But it would also be wrong to lie to a detective. I decided to temper my language. “As it turned out, the house had an old style of wiring, a knob-and-tube system that can be dangerous. My cousin and I didn’t know about it when we bought the place. I wanted to find out if Mr. Dunaway was aware of it. I was in the house when it caught fire. My cat was, too.” I pointed to Sawdust, whose impatience had apparently overcome his fear. He watched us from behind the metal bars, sticking a paw through and pulling on the bars as if trying to open the cage himself. “My cat ran and hid when the smoke alarms went off. We barely made it out.”

  The detective nodded solemnly. “What did Dunaway tell you when you questioned him?” he asked. “Did he know about the wiring?”

  “He said he didn’t know of any problems with the electrical system.”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Did you believe him? Did you think he was being honest with you?”

  I raised my shoulders. “I’m not sure. I wanted to. I mean, I hate to think he’d have knowingly put lives at risk, the tenants’ and then mine. But…” I didn’t finish the sentence, but had nonetheless made my point. Despite Dunaway’s claims of innocence, I hadn’t been convinced he knew nothing about the wiring.

  “I see,” the detective said. “Did you have an inspection when you purchased the house?”

  “I did. The inspector didn’t put anything in his report about the electrical system. He says he didn’t notice that there was any knob-and-tube wiring because the kitchen, the bathroom, and the garage all had more modern wiring and he’d assumed it extended throughout the house. But only part of the house had been updated. The living room and bedrooms still had the old wiring.”

  He mulled things over for a moment, twirling the pen in his fingers. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be very upset to find out the house I’d bought had a defect, especially if that defect caused a fire and could have killed me and my pet. You were upset, weren’t you?”

  Though his voice was casual, a muscle in his jaw flexed, telling me the question wasn’t nearly as innocent as it sounded. But surely he didn’t consider me a suspect. The mere thought was ridiculous!

  “Who wouldn’t be disappointed to see their investment go up in smoke?” I said in my defense. “But mostly I was angry with my inspector. He’s done a lot of work for my employer over the years, so I thought I could trust him to inspect this house for me, too. He’s supposed to be on the buyers’ side, looking out for us.”

  “Did you confront the inspector after the fire?”

  “Of course. We spoke the next morning right after the fire investigator left. I think he felt guilty. He didn’t admit anything outright, but he left me with the distinct impression that Rick Dunaway had bribed him not to mention the wiring in the report.”

  Flynn’s brows arched in interest. “A bribe, huh? Who was your inspector?”

  “A guy named Bobby Palmer.”

  “Got his contact information? I may want to talk to him.”

  I took my phone from the pocket of my coveralls and pulled up Bobby’s name in my contacts list. I held up the screen so Detective Flynn could jot down the information.

  After he finished writing on his pad, he gave me a pointed look. “Do you think this Bobby Palmer is capable of murder?”

  “Bobby? A killer?” A month ago I would have laughed at the suggestion, but now that I’d learned Bobby had a gambling problem and suspected he’d taken a payoff, I realized I hardly knew the man at all. I’d underestimated Rick Dunaway’s heartlessness, too. Looked like I was an extremely poor judge of character. I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know what to tell you. He always seemed like a friendly, upstanding guy, but I don’t know him personally. We’ve only interacted on the inspections. I think he may have a gambling problem, though. I overheard him talking on the phone with someone that might have been his bookie. He mentioned several sports teams and also told whoever he was speaking with ‘I’m good for it.’ He also said something like ‘I always come through. I’d hate to find out what might happen if I didn’t.’ I took that to mean he owed the person money and also that he was a little afraid.”

  His pen went to his pad to make another note. “Did Bobby know Mr. Dunaway planned to come by here last night?”

  “Yes, he knew. When I was worried abo
ut having the funds to cover my insurance deductible, Bobby suggested I ask Mr. Dunaway for the money. I did and he agreed to pay it. I phoned Bobby afterward to tell him, and I mentioned that Mr. Dunaway planned to bring the check by Friday night. I also told him that Home and Hearth wouldn’t be using him for inspections anymore. Bobby got pretty angry about that. He’s averaged at least one inspection a week for us for years. It’ll be a significant financial hit for him.”

  Flynn made another entry on his pad. “What about other suspects? Do you know anyone else who might have had reason to want to cause Rick Dunaway harm? To be angry with him for any reason?”

  Heck, I was just getting started. “I recently evicted three college boys who were tenants here. They hadn’t paid their rent and they’d trashed the place. One of them told me I’d be sorry I forced them out. His name is Jackson Pharr. I don’t know that he’d be angry enough to kill someone, but when I pulled up this morning, there were broken eggs on the door and the yard sign. Someone had thrown them at the house. A juvenile prank like that seems the kind of thing a boy like him would do.”

  Flynn glanced around. “I don’t see any evidence of eggs.”

  “Before I started working on the flower bed, I used the hose to wash down the door and the sign, and I crumbled up the shells in the soil. They’re good for plants.” Crumbling up the shells and mixing them in the dirt might have sullied any fingerprints the crime scene team would have been able to get from the eggs. I’d had no idea at the time that they could be important pieces of evidence.

  When Sawdust issued a particularly pitiful cry, I cast a glance at him. He looked back at me, his eyes big as he opened his mouth in a silent cry this time.

  Flynn drew my attention back. “Got contact information for Jackson?”

  “I only have a phone number. He never provided a forwarding address after he moved out. I had to send the final bill for unpaid rent and damages to his parents’ house. I’ve got his mother’s number, too, though. If you can’t get a hold of Jackson, his mother should be able to tell you where he’s living now.”

  I pulled up Jackson’s number on my contacts list and rattled it off for the detective. When he finished writing it down and looked back up at me, I added, “I believe Jackson might also be responsible for a threat that was scribbled on the door shortly after the eviction. It said ‘Watch your back,’ followed by the B-word.”