In a Split Second
Timothy Glass
Contents
Frontispiece
Acknowledgments
Quote
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
A Message from Tim
Other Books by Timothy
About the Author
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This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity or resemblance to any person, living or deceased, names, places, or incidents is purely coincidental. The work is from the author’s imagination.
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means such as electronic, photocopying, recording, or scanning without written permission from the publisher and copyright owner.
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In a Spilt Second
Written by Timothy Glass
Copyright (C) 2018
Cover art by Timothy Glass
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Library of Congress Control Number 2018955675
ISBN number 978-0-9984121-9-1
Dedication
To my mentor, director/producer Paul Gray. I was both fortunate and blessed that our paths crossed. Your direction, education, and friendship in my career and in my life are so appreciated. Thank you until we meet again.
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Also, to one of the most prolific businessmen of our times, Dan Valente: You were an inspiration to me and to others. You will be dearly missed.
Acknowledgments
As always, thank you to my wife, Cathy, for putting up with the countless hours I spent clicking away on the keyboard and for your support and understanding of what I do.
To my wonderful fans, who encourage me to keep going when things get tough and who always look forward to what I have coming out next.
To all the men and women who spend countless hours putting their lives on the line. In many situations, it is a thankless job.
To my favorite Starbucks team at store #47714 for providing me with the fuel to keep going and for your wonderful service. Thank you.
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
~Harriet Beecher Stowe
Introduction
A red glow from the gun’s laser sight danced across the pillow, casting an eerie image and creating a stark contrast to the dark, moonless night. With precision, the red laser dot stopped and zeroed in on the forehead of Bud Hampton as he lay peaceful and still, sleeping in his bed. For a split second, the laser dot held a steady position. The intruder never wavered or had a second thought. Long before this night, he had made up his mind about what he would do. He carefully squeezed the trigger and felt the first recoil of the Glock 9mm. Another deep breath steadied his aim and he squeezed off a second round. The gun’s silencer created two muffled sounds in quick succession. These were followed by a woman’s scream, which echoed in the darkness.
As planned, he quickly left the room. He was out the back door and into the darkness without another thought about the victim who now lay dead. He was glad he had shot out the streetlight several hours earlier. Dressed entirely in black, he knew no one would be able to detect his movements. He sprinted over a fence and into the neighbor’s yard, then out into the street. He continued running two streets down to his parked car. With the dome light off, he opened the door and entered the vehicle, then removed the ski mask, the black gloves, and, lastly, the paper booties he had worn over his shoes. He smiled, remembering how he had thought to spray paint the shoe covers black weeks before. That way, not even a footprint would be left behind in the house or outside it.
He inserted the key in the ignition. As the engine came to life, he pulled away from the curb. Once he reached the intersection one block west, he turned on the headlights. He looked in the rearview mirror, his emotions as blank as the road he left behind.
Chapter 1
Lakewood was a suburb of the big city of Petersburg, thirty minutes north of Tuckersville. Nestled below the mountains, the town was located in a valley rich in farmland and hardworking families.
As daylight gave way to night, darkness rolled through Lakewood like a tsunami. Porch lights pierced the darkness. The evening air was filled with the aroma of home-cooked dinners and fireplace smoke. The hands of time ticked on. In the moonless night, window curtains were pulled shut, signaling the end of the day as people retired to their bedrooms. Windows that had radiated warm lamplight were now darkened as the night grew cooler and stillness settled over the town.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My…boyfriend, ah…he’s been shot!”
“May I have your name?”
“Ellie…Ellie Peters.”
Ellie was still stunned as the tan telephone cord shook in the air. No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop her hands – much less the rest of her body – from shaking. Her mind was still trying to process what had just happened.
“Give me your address, please,” the dispatcher requested.
“Ah…7 Woodlark Road.”
“Is your boyfriend still breathing?”
“No…no, he’s been shot.”
“Yes, I know, but is he breathing?
“No, he’s gone…he’s dead.”
“Is the person who shot your boyfriend still in the house now?”
“No, I saw him running out the back door.”
“Do you know the person who shot your boyfriend?”
“No…all I could see was his back. All his clothes were black.”
“You said him, he, and his, so you know the person was a male?”
“No…but it looked like a male. He was tall, about six feet.”
“I’ve dispatched officers to the house. Stay on the phone with me. I won’t hang up until the officers get there. Is anyone else in the house with you?”
“My daughter.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, we’re both in the living room right now.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kim…Peters.”
In the distance, Ellie heard a police siren. She hoped – no, prayed – the cops would get there soon.
“Ms. Peters, talk to me so I know you’re alright.”
“I’m okay. I can hear the sirens.”
“The officers should be there in about three minutes or so.”
Chapter 2
Detective Connor Maxwell’s phone rang just after 3 a.m. Reaching across his partner for his phone on the nightstand, he knew the only one calling at this hour had to be the dispatcher with the Lakewood Police Department.
Connor Maxwell was the envy of the department. Not because he had made detective; no, it was because of his partner, a snappy, petite redhead.
She was bright and could outrun almost any of the cops, including Connor. Unlike any other partner with whom Connor had toured, she knew her job well and took it seriously. She never tried to pull rank or grandstand like some of the cops with whom Connor had worked during his ten years with the department. His partner’s name was Sundae, and she had a sweet disposition to match her unique personality.
Sundae and Connor had lived together for a little over five years. Their relationship was still as strong and trusting as it had been when they first met. One might say that Sundae had a nose for solving crime. Everyone said she had a wiggle when she walked, which attracted stares when she and Connor walked into the police department. Together, they made a great partnership. Sundae did stick her nose into things, though most of the time this trait helped them solve the crimes they investigated. Other times, Sundae got herself into messes. Then again, that was par for the course, even for a seasoned officer like Sundae. The fact was, Sundae was a canine – a 13-inch beagle, to be exact.
Chapter 3
Deputy David Smith of the Natick Sheriff’s Department drove slowly eastward on the old two-lane highway leading toward the outskirts of Lakewood. David blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes from the well-lit streets of Lakewood to the solitary reflection of the white and yellow lines that ran down the center of the road on the outskirts of town. This stretch of State Highway 10 was in dire need of re-paving, or at least resurfacing, he thought to himself. Nonetheless, this being a state highway, that decision was up to the state, not the town.
About five minutes after his unit rolled down State Highway 10, David saw what looked like fresh skid marks leading off the highway.
The tracks entered the dense brush and trees; whatever made them had crushed the leaves, branches, and bushes in its path. ‘What was it?’ David thought as he hit the brakes, maneuvering a U-turn back to the skid marks. With his spotlight, he scanned the marks and beyond to the brush and trees, but saw nothing. It was Christmas break and the kids were out of school. Had someone been going too fast and not seen the yellow sign warning them about a curve in the highway ahead? Worse, could one of the kids on break have had a few drinks?
David pulled over his police unit. “21, SO I’ll be 10-6 at mile marker 12 on State Highway 10.”
He reached for the door handle. However, before he could get out of the patrol car, David saw, in his rearview mirror, a shadowy figure step out from behind a bush on the side of the highway opposite the skid marks.
David turned the spotlight toward the figure approaching his patrol car and stepped out. He could see that this was no teenager; it was a young man in his late twenties or early thirties.
David trained his flashlight on the man’s face just as another Sheriff’s Department unit rolled up behind him. It was Officer Dan Keller.
“I missed the curve.” The young man pointed toward the skid marks.
“I can see that,” David said.
Keeping his flashlight on the man, David looked over his body. The young man’s eyes weren’t bloodshot. David made a mental note that no blood or scratches were apparent on the man’s body. He noted that the man wore blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and slip-on shoes.
“You okay?” Deputy Smith inquired.
“Yeah, I’m fine. A little shook up, that’s all.”
“I need to see your driver’s license, insurance card, and registration, please,” David said.
The young man pulled out his wallet and handed his license to David, who looked it over as the other deputy stood at his side.
“Wait here,” David said as he left the deputy and the young man where they stood. After returning to his patrol car, he entered the man’s ID in the NCIC database. There were no outstanding warrants. David exited his patrol car.
“I was telling the officer that my registration and insurance card are in the glove box. I’ll go get them.” The young man quickly turned.
“We’ll go down there with you.” The brush was well over their heads
in some areas as the three men descended, weaving their way toward the disabled car. Once they reached it, David saw that the car wasn’t drivable.
Keller unclipped his mic. “29 SO, I need a wrecker on State Highway 10. We’re about a mile outside Lakewood.”
The young man quickly reached inside the glove box for his insurance card and registration. David handed the documents to Dan, who radioed the Sheriff’s Department dispatcher and asked that she run a check on the car. Then the three men walked back up to the highway.
“Any alcohol this evening?” David asked, looking again at the young man’s eyes.
“No, nothing at all.”
David noted that the man’s breath didn’t smell of alcohol. When he had briefly looked over the car, he had seen neither bottles nor drug paraphernalia. Once back at his patrol car, David gave the man a field sobriety test, which he passed.
“I told you, I just missed the curve. I usually don’t drive this stretch of road but it was late and this was a shortcut.”
“Do you have anyone we could call to pick you up?”
“No. Would you please call me a cab to take me home?”
David wrote a few notes, then looked up. “Just one more thing. Your car was on the east side of the road. Why, then, did you approach my car from the west side of the highway?”
“I had to take a leak…I was afraid to stay too close to the car in case the gas tank burst into flames.”
Chapter 4
The still hours between midnight and 4 a.m. were dark, damp, and cold. The month of December had been unseasonably frigid that year. From the open window, Connor felt dampness on the stubble of his left cheek as he slowly drove several streets down from the crime scene. He hadn’t bothered to shave when he got the call; he just put on his jeans, a V-neck sweater, a sport coat, and his boots – or as his co-workers called them, his Oki-Air’s. He had run his comb through his unruly, thick, dark brown hair.
Most neighborhoods even he wouldn’t go into at this hour, but in his profession, one had no choice. Connor felt the pressure on his lower back from the Glock 9mm inside the pancake holster on his belt. This was a nice neighborhood; still, he listened for dogs barking or any odd noise. Glancing from side to side, he watched for a person who fit the description that dispatch had given him. Driving several streets down and around the crime scene was a habit of his, one that gave him a feel for the neighborhood. It was a habit for which some of his co-workers criticized him behind his back. Get to the crime scene as soon as possible, with sirens blaring – that was their approach. Connor knew the uniformed officers on duty that night were seasoned, well-trained officers who would separate any witnesses and secure the crime scene.
He made mental notes as he drove through the streets. Middle-class neighborhood, well-kept yards. The type of neighborhood where dreams of owning a home and raising a family were made reality. Nothing stood out, no one yelling or screaming. No doors slamming and no one under a streetlight making a drug connection, even at this hour of the early morning. In some neighborhoods on the edge of Lakewood, this type of behavior was common. However, this neighborhood wasn’t one of those places. Why, then, Connor thought to himself, would a young man sleeping in his own bed be murdered?
Sundae put her front paws on the window, peering out of the unit. Connor rolled to a stop at 7 Woodlark Road. Sundae knew she was to stay in the car until Connor commanded her to jump out or until she felt his life was in danger; then she would leave to protect him. Grabbing a pair of latex gloves and paper shoe covers from the glove box, Connor walked toward the uniformed officer.
“The vic is dead, sir. No pulse,” McHenry said to Connor. “Dispatch has already called the ME. The vic’s name is Bud Hampton, according to the girlfriend and his driver’s license. Thirty-five years old.”
“Thanks.” Connor quickly walked toward the front door. McHenry ran up to his side.
“Detective, the girlfriend said there was a black backpack on th
e den floor that doesn’t belong to the vic, her, or her daughter.”
“Thanks. I’ll have the CI team check it out.”
Connor entered, then turned back to McHenry.
“Where are the girlfriend and her daughter?”
“Transported by separate units to the PD. Detective Stroup will meet them there. They left a few minutes before you got here, sir. PD will put them into separate holding rooms until you get there.”
Once inside, Connor looked around the living room. Nothing really looked out of place. A cordless phone was off the charger, lying on the couch. Connor thought to himself that it had probably been left there after the girlfriend called 911.
In the master bedroom, everything seemed to be in its proper place, like something out of Good Housekeeping magazine...if only a body wasn’t lying dead in the bed, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.
Conner knew every crime had a story. He stood beside the victim and looked down at him. What could have led up to someone wanting this man dead? Was the girlfriend mad because she’d found him with another woman? If only the dead could talk. If only Connor had a nickel for every time he’d wished that; he would be retired now and living on the beach in Hawaii.
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