Resort to Murder

by Glenys O'Connell

  ****

  Brad had bought her flowers from a petrol station for their “12 hour anniversary” the morning she’d found Roberta Collins’ body. Following her hunch, Ellie called the attendant over and showed him a picture of Brad.

  “Sure, he was here—let’s see, a couple of days ago. Driving a big fancy sports car—I’d like to have had a crack at that baby!”

  A few crisp questions and Ellie pinned the time frame down to the morning of the murder. She pulled another photograph from her briefcase—Jack Goodfellow, a younger version taken from the Sunshine Slasher files.

  “Yeah, I’d say he was here, too. Later that same day, him and an older bloke. I remember because—“ His words were cut off as a red-faced man hurried around the side of the building.

  “Ronnie! Just how many times have I got to tell you to burn the damned trash? The bin out there is just overflowing—we’ll have rats and God knows what else before you’re finished if you don’t shape up!”

  “Sorry, Bill, but we’ve been busy.” The young man appeared unfazed by the older man’s anger.

  “And another thing—there’s all kinds of stuff in there that shouldn’t be—I’ve told you to watch that folks don’t start dumping their rubbish in there. They take any chance they get—and it’s not just tourists.” The man looked over at Ellie.

  “Once had a settee and two chairs dumped in there overnight. Anything to avoid paying to get rid of their garbage, though why they think I can afford to do it for them, I’ll never know!”

  “Yeah, I was just telling the lady.” The attendant turned back to Ellie. “The older guy who came in with the second fella you asked about, wanted to know if we still burned the trash around the back. I said yeah, like, sometimes. Then while he was paying for the petrol I saw the younger one go toward the bathroom with a parcel under his arm. Damn me if that package wasn’t there, after he’d taken off, tucked down among the trash in top of the old oil drum!”

  This was it. Intuition set alarm bells ringing in her brain as excitement rushed through her. “Did you notice what was in the package?” she asked urgently.

  “Oh, that’s the thing, see—it was some real expensive looking clothes, slacks and one of them shirts with alligator on—I’d have taken them for me dad, but when I looked they’d all these ugly brown stains, like someone’d spilled wine or something, so I threw ‘em back.”

  “Are they still there?” Ellie flashed her warrant card.

  “Well, yeah, I think so—“ the boy said, but the man broke in.

  “If you’re interested, you’d better run, lass—I lit the fire before I came round to give young Ronnie here a talking-to.”

  Around the back of the building, Ellie swore as she saw the smoldering trash in an old oil drum. She grabbed an old rake that was lying nearby and dragged a plastic shopping bag from the smoking trash. The plastic had begun to melt and Ellie risked burned fingers as she pulled it open to reveal clothes in a style she recognized as Brad’s. And the stains that had put young Ronnie off looked, to Ellie, like dried blood.

  She scribbled out a receipt for the station manager, careful to keep the chain of evidence as intact as possible. She fished in her leather tote bag for the big plastic garbage bag she kept there and shrugged the partly charred clothing inside. There would be contamination, odds and ends from other objects in the trash and the ground where the smoldering bag had lain. But it would still be possible to prove if the clothes belonged to Brad. Depending upon the lab reports on the brown stains, Bradley Scott Anderson could have some fancy footwork to do to explain how his expensive clothes came to be in a trash can behind the local garage - and why Jack Goodfellow had put them there.

  ****

  Jack Goodfellow’s pale face showed no trace of his usual cockiness as he lay against the pillows of the hospital bed, hooked up to an IV that slowly dripped fluid into his veins.

  “He’s sedated, and it’s going to be a while before you can talk to him,” Dr. Betty Kilroy insisted, unintimidated by the glowering, high-ranking police officer before her.

  “Even if he was able to speak right now, you’d get no sense out of him. This man was about that close from going to meet his Maker.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.

  “And it was the carbon monoxide…”

  “Yes, he was almost sucking on the pipe from the exhaust. But there’s also a nasty bruise on his forehead that must have occurred a very short time before he got into the car. He hit his head real hard on something—probably hard enough to knock himself out.” Reilly exchanged glances with his sergeant, but the doctor’s beeper sounded and she excused herself quickly before they could ask any more questions.

  “So, he falls and hits his head, has an epiphany when he wakes up about the wicked deed he’s done, decides to end it all?” Reilly’s voice was laced with doubt.

  “But there’s the note…” Jane said.

  “Ah, yes, the note. His confession.”

  ****

  “Inspector Fitzpatrick’s been trying to reach you, sir—she says it’s urgent,” the desk sergeant told Reilly as he and Jane returned to the office. He waited until he reached the privacy of his office before dialing her number. She answered on the first ring, and as always he thrilled to the sound of her voice.

  “Ellie, Jack Goodfellow has been rushed to hospital—attempted suicide by car exhaust. They found him in time, with a note confessing to the Roberta Collins murder.” Reilly’s voice filled her car.

  A guilty wave of relief washed over Ellie. If Jack had confessed, Brad was innocent. “I was just about to call you. I’ve a bundle of clothes with what look like bloodstains on them—and the attendant has identified Jack Goodfellow as the man who left them here.”

  Anger, bright and unreasonable, shot through him. He acknowledged it was woven through with anxiety for her even as he snapped back. “What in hell are you doing, Fitzpatrick? Who gave you this assignment, when you’re supposed to be on time off? There are reasons this is called a special team - teams work together. One of the reasons for that is that it’s safer—both from the point of view of chain-of-evidence integrity, and from the point of view of officers’ lives. Dammit, Ellie, no one knew you were out asking questions. What if something had happened to you? Are you willing to put your own life at risk to save Anderson’s neck?”

  Ellie knew he was right, but his anger made her respond tightly, “Since when did you become such a team player yourself?” She bit her lip, drawing in a long breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—I want this over, Reilly. Listen—these clothes, I’m fairly sure they belong to Brad. And there’s blood on them. Jack may have stolen them to frame Brad. I don’t know why. This whole thing makes less and less sense.”

  Reilly’s voice was quieter, too. “We’ll know more when the lab has had a look. I want you to take them there, now. Then I want you to go home and stay there until further notice.”

  “You’re taking me off the case?”

  “I don’t know, Ellie. Right now we have a lot of answers at our fingertips, and I can’t risk having an officer going off on her own investigation. It’s important that things are coordinated now, or we could miss something vital. Besides, you are supposed to be resting after last night…” His words trailed off and Ellie heard a confusion of noise and voices in the background. “Look, I have to go, there’s someone here. Get the stuff to the lab and go home. I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”

  She wanted to protest that without her work that afternoon they wouldn’t have the clothing or the information about Brad and Jack. But he was gone, leaving her staring at the phone in her hand and biting her lip to fight back her anger.

  ****

  Reilly sighed as he dropped the phone back into its cradle. He needed to talk to Ellie. But it would have to wait till the case was over.

  He looked up at the man who had just burst into his office. Larry Darnley’s face was pale but his gaze didn’t waver as he looked direct
ly into Reilly’s eyes. Reilly indicated a chair with a wave of his hand. “Sit down, Mr. Darnley. This is about your step-brother, I take it?”

  “He didn’t do it. What they’re saying. He didn’t do it.”

  “And you have evidence of this?” Reilly’s calm words didn’t betray the pounding of adrenalin in his pulse as instinct told him that here was the truth he’d been seeking.

  Larry took a deep breath. “Look, Jack’s always been a wild kid, in trouble as a juvenile and everything. But he was trying to get his life together, with the rock band and with Susie. When she was killed, well, he almost came off the rails again. I was glad when he went to work in the States. “

  “But he came back, Mr. Darnley, when the book by B. S. Anderson was published. And almost within hours another woman was murdered.”

  “Jack’s innocent, I tell you!” Larry got up and paced the room, his fisted hands shoved deep in his pockets. “He’s full of anger about Susie’s death, and the book stirred it all up again. I think he’d have killed the murdering bastard, if he could have got his hands on him, but not an innocent woman. Jack wouldn’t do that.”

  Reilly sighed. If he had a pound for every time he’d heard someone insist that his or her neighbor or friend or relative couldn’t have committed a crime, he’d be a rich man.

  “We need proof, Mr. Darnley, and right now we have a note from Jack confessing to murder. That’s pretty convincing stuff.” Reilly deliberately didn’t mention the bruise on Jack’s head.

  “It’s also pretty convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Larry unconsciously echoed Reilly’s own thoughts. “Jack wasn’t out the night that poor woman was murdered. We sat up talking until the small hours, and he was pretty drunk. I helped him up to bed and tucked him in myself. I couldn’t sleep so I worked in the café office until opening time—Jack couldn’t have snuck out past me even if he’d been capable.

  “You remember the party for Jack? You came with Ellie—Inspector Fitzpatrick? After she’d found the body? Well, Jack got totally pissed then, too, and we had an argument. He went storming off, but he woke me up in the wee hours of the morning, and said I had to help him.” Larry was silent for a moment, trying to find the words.

  “He’d rented a little car, nothing fancy but all he could afford, when he came back from the States. After the fight with me he went out and drove around for a bit—and got a flat tire. He’d had to get out and fix it in the pouring rain. He was afraid if he simply stayed in the car until the rain stopped some copper would come along and nab him for drunk driving.” Larry flashed a strained smile at Reilly, who remained silent.

  “When he opened the trunk there was a package there—he thought it was something the previous rental customer had left behind. But he opened it up and found a bundle of clothes. Even in the flashlight he could tell there was blood on them. A lot of blood.” Larry was silent for a moment, and Reilly had to control his impatience.

  “He swore to me he knew nothing about the clothes, or how they got there. He believed—and I think he’s right—that someone was trying to frame him. We drove out to a petrol station where they burn the rubbish out back, and we went along and dumped the bundle there. We weren’t thinking straight. Hindsight is always 20-20—I realize now we should have trusted the police and brought the clothes in. My step-brother is innocent,” Larry insisted.

  “What about the note, the one confessing to the Collins murder?” Reilly tossed a photocopy of the note across the desk. Larry picked it up and scrutinized, his eyebrows rising. Then he tossed it back across the desk. “That’s not Jack’s handwriting,” he said, brushing a big hand through his thinning dark hair. “I’d know his writing anywhere. It’s a scrawl. He’s left-handed, and his writing’s a scrawl because of a teacher in school who tried to force him to write with his right hand.”

  ****

  Ellie knuckled the tears away and started her car. If Jack Goodfellow had killed Roberta Collins, then Brad was innocent. She refused to think about the bag of bloodstained clothing in her car trunk. Even when the evidence had mounted against Brad, her heart had refused to believe he could be guilty of such a terrible, sadistic crime. So why did doubt creep in now? Why would handsome, wealthy Brad need to resort to murder to get a woman? Brad traveled extensively and, had she thought of it at all, she would have been surprised if he were celibate. Looking back, she realized that her very indifference should have told her something about her own feelings.

  Weary now, she turned her car toward Leeds.

  Resort to Murder

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ellie sat miserably alone in the briefing room at the station. Defying Reilly, she’d taken the bloodstained clothing to the lab, then returned to the task force offices demanding another assignment. He had replied with a curt message that she was to go home. Was she off the case? Or was this just a reminder that she wasn’t to go it alone? She stubbornly sat and waited for a chance to see her superior officer.

  Reilly had dispatched two officers to bring Brad Anderson in to help police with enquiries and they’d found him packing suitcases into the trunk of his car. Not exactly a good sign, as Reilly had pointed out. Hee’d curtly refused Ellie’s request to sit in on the interview as “inappropriate.”

  “Any news?” she asked desperately when Jane Corby hurried by. She caught the glimmer of sympathy in the other woman’s eyes as Corby paused.

  “Your boyfriend’s in one of the interview rooms, but so far they’ve got nothing out of him. Reilly questioned him about the bloodstained clothes, and he clammed up and asked for legal representation. The Big Boss is putting the pressure on because Anderson’s a celebrity, and Reilly’s growling like a constipated tiger.”

  “So there’s not enough to charge either man yet?” Ellie asked.

  “Not that would stand up in court. Even Goodfellow’s ‘confession’ is suspect since his brother gave him an alibi. Besides, there’s that bump on the head. Reilly doesn’t think he did that to himself. The poor guy’s been unconscious from the carbon monoxide and the sedatives, but we’re hoping to get a shot at him soon, once we can get past that dragon of a doctor.”

  “Listen, Jane, I’ve an idea. Do you think Reilly would see me?” Ellie hated having to ask, but she trusted the other woman’s judgment about the mood of her superior officer.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Ellie? The man would walk on hot coals for you, and you keep screwing him around. Of course he’ll see you. He might growl a bit, but I doubt he’d do much worse—unless you got lucky!” And with a wink, the sergeant walked away, leaving Ellie stunned. Was it all so obvious?

  “Reilly?” she spoke tentatively from the doorway. He was just replacing the telephone receiver and didn’t even look up from his notes.

  “What is it?” Not exactly a growl, but close. Ellie took a deep breath. “You say I’m not a team player. Right. I know that. But there are times when only one person can do something. You understand that because you’ve not always played by the rules yourself.”

  Reilly sighed. This woman tore him in so many different directions, and he needed his wits about him to deal with this case before another woman died. “Come in, Ellie, spit out what you have to say, then go and get yourself a coffee and see…”

  “No! I won’t be palmed off like that, Liam Reilly!” Ellie’s temper woke up. Reilly looked taken aback, and then amused. He handed her the newspaper clipping with the photograph of her and Brad that he’d found in the Slasher files. “We agreed there had to be a link, Ellie. I think you’re it.”

  Jane walked into the room, ignoring them both, sat at her desk and began to go through a thick file. Ellie looked at the clipping and sat down quickly as her legs went weak. She’d been totally unaware of him at the time, but in the photograph Brad Anderson was looking down at her as if they were….intimate! He stood right next to her—and she had no memory of the man. How had she not noticed him—or that longing look on his face?

  “My God,” she murmured. “So
all this time…”

  “Looks that way. We’re making inquiries about a few things, including if we can find out just how coincidental his buying the cottage next to yours was.”

  Ellie swallowed, casting her mind back over the time she’d known Brad. All the little things, like his lack of curiosity about her past, suddenly seemed significant. Why did he need to be curious? He already knew the answers...

  “But this doesn’t necessarily make him a killer.” Ellie’s voice was hoarse.

  “No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t. But even you must admit it stretches coincidence too far.”

  “If our ideas are correct, and I’m the link in all this, and assuming Brad’s guilt, I’m likely to be his next victim. If everything is as Dr. Stimms said it is, then I think,” she hesitated over the words, then looked Reilly directly in the eye. “I think he would still want me, anyway he could get me.”

  “That’s probably correct. Do you want congratulations or a medal or something?” Reilly’s sarcasm was heavy and Jane shot a startled glance at him.

  “Stuff it, Reilly. Just forget about your own high and mighty self for a moment, and listen to me,” Ellie snapped, “If Brad is going to come after me I want to be where he can find me!”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

  Ellie couldn’t believe her ears. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I won’t let you go on making a fool of yourself, or me, or this force. Of course Anderson still wants you—but I am damned if I am going to let him have you!” The double meaning echoed through the room, and Reilly reddened as he realized what he had said.

  “I, er, I beg your pardon, sir?” Jane intervened, her voice serious but Ellie, still smarting from Reilly’s outburst, saw the sergeant was struggling not to laugh.

  “What is it, Corby?” Reilly roared.

  “I think Inspector Fitzpatrick has a point, sir.”

  Reilly rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was another incipient headache there, and he had a sudden impulse to leave the room, get in his car, and just drive, far away from this insanity. Instead, he said, “You know, some days I can understand why the top brass are so down on having women rise above constable.”