Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  Push it too far and he might let on he wasn’t in the area to hand out tickets.

  The check on Erik Olson came back empty.

  Brandon handed the registration and license back.

  “You’re lucky. I got somewhere to be,” Brandon said.

  Olson’s gaze caught on Brandon’s nametag again.

  “There something about my name?”

  “No,” he said.

  Brandon sensed a faint quiver beneath the young man’s faux bravado. Given time, he was sure he could puncture a hole in Erik Olson’s tough-guy act and find out what was behind his reaction to Brandon’s name.

  But Jackson was waiting for him.

  He slapped the side of the truck. “I’ll be seeing you around, Erik.”

  Brandon parked off the gravel lane that led up to Mary Dunn’s property. The driveway led through a pasture to a ranch house set back against the forest to the left. Brandon knew the property well. Old Mr. Dunn had been popular with the neighborhood boys, thanks to his exaggerated hunting tales and impromptu bear-tracking lessons.

  Across the lane from the house, out in the middle of the pasture, there sat a 1940s Ford pickup that had been there as long as Brandon could remember. In happier days, before Mr. Dunn had passed, the truck’s hood had been removed, revealing an engine compartment that featured a small flower garden. Now brambles and weeds enveloped the old Ford, it’s rusty red exterior barely visible.

  Past the 1970s rambler where Mrs. Dunn lived, the driveway continued on up a hill through a prairie where it ended about a hundred feet later at the farmhouse where, Brandon knew, the original Dunn family had been some of the earliest settlers to the area. He guessed the Dunn property covered about ten acres.

  Two of the department’s cruisers and an ambulance were parked in front of the rambler.

  Jackson came out to meet him.

  “Glad you could make it,” Jackson said.

  “All right,” Brandon said, ignoring the jab. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sending the medics off. They pronounced her dead.”

  “Who called it in?” Brandon asked.

  “Nephew. He lives in a camping trailer around back.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Back of the cruiser,” she said.

  “You suspect him?”

  “Not sure yet, but he’s freaking out. Kept going back into the house. Right now, it’s just to contain him.”

  Brandon nodded. “Let’s take a look.”

  There was a faded orange and black Trick or Treat sign tacked to the front door. A cornstalk scarecrow with big round eyes and a half-circle smile leaned against the door jamb. Brandon couldn’t imagine many kids made it this far out from town Halloween night nowadays. Back in his day, though, Mrs. Dunn had been known for her willingness to toss one or two handfuls of the bite-sized candy bars into the bag of any kid brave enough to walk up the dark country lane to the Dunn house.

  The stench that hit him as he stepped across the threshold wasn’t the one he expected. It wasn’t death he smelled, but urine and crap.

  “It’s a freaking litter box in here,” Jackson said. The front room was barely large enough to contain the couch, recliner, and two side tables. Brandon counted four cats.

  “There’s more,” Jackson said.

  “I don’t remember Mrs. Dunn being a cat person,” Brandon said.

  “You knew her?”

  “Long time ago. We used to ride our bikes up and down every road outside Forks. Her husband let us help train his hunting dogs.”

  Brandon perused the dozens of pictures framed on the faux wood-paneled walls. He pointed to one of Mr. Dunn in his forties holding up two pheasants.

  “Bird dogs,” Brandon said. “And Mrs. Dunn, she’d invite us in for sandwiches. Peanut butter and mint jelly.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Yeah, weird. But nice. Neighbors aren’t like that now days.”

  “It’s the get-off-my-lawn approach,” Jackson said.

  “Right,” Brandon said, pulling himself out of the reverie of simpler times. “Where is she?”

  Jackson motioned for him to follow.

  Mrs. Dunn lay face down on the kitchen floor. Blood pooled around her head. The most obvious cause of death was the two-inch gash on the back of her skull.

  Officer Josiah Trent stood in one corner of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Dunn’s body. It looked as though he was doing his best to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling all over the crime scene. Brandon’s youngest officer had been with the department longer than Jackson, but lacked her experience. Brandon relied on Jackson to show Josiah the ropes, especially now that Brandon’s focus had turned to solving Eli’s case.

  “There’s at least two injuries,” Jackson said, pointing to a smaller cut an inch to the left. Blood matted her permed hair. She had to be over seventy yet still dyed it blonde. Next to her body, a tabby cat mewed loudly, its head swiveling as it tracked the flies swirling around Mrs. Dunn. Suddenly, the cat pounced, swatting at one of the flies. The unfortunate insect landed unconscious next to Mrs. Dunn. The cat landed in the pool of blood, then stepped away gingerly, leaving red paw prints across the kitchen floor.

  The feline paused, then winced as it sniffed its own paws.

  “Get these damn cats out of here,” Brandon said.

  “I’ll call animal control,” Josiah said. He picked up the tabby cat and headed for the living room, careful to keep the cat’s bloody paws away from his body.

  Brandon surveyed the scene. “You call the techs yet?”

  “On their way.”

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket to match the ones she already wore.

  He took them. “These won’t fit me.”

  “I got your size,” she said.

  “You don’t miss a beat.”

  “Taking control of the situation,” she said. “Story of my life.”

  He wasn’t sure if the comment was meant to be a jab at his initial reluctance at rushing to the scene. He trusted Jackson. Maybe she’d misread that as sloughing off his duties onto her. He made a mental note to bring it up later.

  Brandon slipped on the gloves. His eyes landed on a hammer on the floor between Mrs. Dunn and the back door.

  “That’s our weapon,” Jackson said.

  “Any shoe prints?” Brandon asked.

  “Someone wiped the floor in a hurry. But not everything.”

  Blood splatter stained the stove and counter tops. A few flecks of blood flared stark on white cabinets.

  “She stood there,” Brandon said, pointing at the stove, “probably with her back to the door. Hammer blows caused the splatter…”

  “And they wiped up any shoe prints from stepping through the mess,” Jackson said.

  “The rest of the blood is from her bleeding out,” Brandon said. “By then the killer had fled.”

  “What did they wipe up the blood with?” Brandon asked.

  Jackson pointed to the door under the sink. It was open, revealing a bin stuffed with blood-stained paper towels.

  It wasn’t unusual for a murderer to attempt to clean up after committing the act. It could indicate the murderer knew the victim. Covering up the body or removing evidence of the violence of the act was a way of denying what they’d done.

  “Forced entry?” he asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “But there’s old bills and papers everywhere. It’ll be hard to tell what’s missing, if anything.”

  “What’s the nephew say?” Brandon asked.

  “Nothing, yet,” she said. “Let’s go find out.”

  Todd Dunn was thirty years old but didn’t appear a day younger than forty.

  “We’re sorry about your aunt,” Brandon said.

  Todd wiped his mouth with a shaky hand. Black stubble peppered his otherwise pallid complexion, all the more striking in comparison to his dark eyes. Todd wasn’t the type to spend much time outside.

  “I do
n’t know what happened,” Todd said.

  “You found her?” Brandon asked.

  “There were some things she wanted me to do. At the Airbnb.” He motioned toward the farmhouse up the hill.

  “She’s running an Airbnb?” Jackson asked.

  “For a year now.”

  “We’ll need to check the house,” Brandon said.

  “You don’t have to. I mean, I can do it. I have keys,” Todd said.

  Brandon noted the nephew’s reluctance to have them visit the farmhouse.

  “You found your aunt on the floor?” he asked.

  “I came in the back door. It’s usually unlocked.”

  “What were you up to before you found her?” Brandon asked.

  “Sleeping in my trailer.”

  “Was there anything missing from the house?” Brandon asked.

  “She didn’t have a purse, if that’s what you mean,” Todd said.

  Brandon searched Todd’s eyes. Was he telling the truth?

  “I mean, I know that’s what you’re looking for,” Todd said.

  Another citizen who knew what cops wanted because of what they’d viewed on “true crime” television.

  “And you live in a trailer on the property?” Brandon asked.

  “Just for now. I’ve been helping her out with the place. I’m waiting for a claim I have in with the fire department.”

  “For?”

  “I was a volunteer fire fighter a ways back. We got called out to a trailer on fire. One just like mine. Caused me PTSD. I should be on disability.”

  “Did anyone die?” Jackson asked.

  “No one was inside.”

  “So where does the PTSD come in?” Brandon asked.

  “I could have gotten hurt bad.”

  “You been on many calls?”

  “That was the only one,” Todd said.

  “And were you in danger?”

  “That’s not the point,” Todd said, an edge to his tone.

  Brandon hoped to push him a little further, test his response to frustration. Was he the sort of person to respond with violence?

  “You were hoping to mooch off the system—”

  “Not true!”

  “The truth is, you were freeloading off your aunt,” Brandon said. “Isn’t that right, Todd?”

  Jackson shifted her stance. Brandon could tell she wasn’t comfortable with this tactic. They’d had disagreements about their respective approaches in the past.

  “You know what?” Todd said. “Just…forget it.” He reached into his back pocket but came back empty handed. “Where are my cigarettes?”

  Jackson looked to Brandon as if to ask if she could move the conversation on. He nodded.

  “Did your aunt have any children?” Jackson asked.

  Brandon already knew the answer, but let Todd respond. “No. Just me these last few years.”

  “Okay. That’s good for now,” Jackson said. “Anything else, Chief?”

  “You’re a handyman?” Brandon said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not missing a hammer, are you?”

  Todd searched his memory, eyes darting wildly like one of the flies in Mrs. Dunn’s kitchen.

  “I…I can look.”

  They followed Todd to a mid-nineties Subaru parked in the driveway. He opened the hatch and pulled out a toolbox. Among the assorted tools, Brandon spotted a hammer.

  Most contractors owned more than one hammer. Brandon had at least three himself, seeing as how he was always losing them.

  Brandon studied Todd. “We’re checking the one in the kitchen for prints. If yours are on there…”

  “Okay. It’s mine.”

  “The one next to your aunt’s body?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t know how it got there,” he said.

  “Anyone else have access to your car?” Brandon asked.

  “I don’t lock it.”

  A handyman who didn’t lock a vehicle with hundreds or thousands of dollars’ worth of tools inside?

  “Wait,” Todd said. “I remember now. I forgot it inside the house after fixing the shelf above the washing machine. I left it on the dryer.”

  “Which is where?” Brandon asked.

  “In the alcove by the back door.”

  Brandon didn’t believe Todd. It would be foolish to trust anyone this early in an investigation. Unlike the court system, a detective had to consider everyone guilty until proven innocent. The perpetrator could have entered the back door, spotted the hammer, and wielded it as a weapon.

  “We’ll need those keys to the farmhouse,” Brandon said.

  “I’ll take you up,” Todd said, the edge gone from his voice now. He tugged on the extendible key chain attached to his belt.

  Brandon got Josiah’s attention. He was guarding the front door, shooing the occasional cat away. Josiah held his cell phone up. “On hold with animal control.”

  “Grab the crime scene log,” Brandon said. “No one goes in unless it’s the crime scene techs.”

  “Will do.”

  Brandon remembered the farmhouse up the hill as the dilapidated home where Mr. Dunn’s parents lived. The older couple rarely stepped out of their front door. Once, Brandon and his friends snuck up to the ancient house, hoping to peek inside. Mrs. Dunn had called them back, though, tempting them with homemade chocolate cake and root beer. Brandon’s buddies had traded theories about the senior Dunns, the most popular being that the couple practiced witchcraft or was part of some secret cult. Brandon chuckled at the memory now.

  The old house had been revived, the peeling paint scraped clean and replaced by a fresh coat of white with blue trim, casting a welcoming glow upon visitors. The covered front porch now featured a pair of wicker chairs. Stylish black iron lanterns hung from the columns.

  Nothing like the dire, dingy home he’d remembered.

  The stairs creaked beneath them as they waited for Todd to let them in. Inside, a quick sweep of the rental revealed no signs of foul play. The lower rooms had a farmhouse chic theme, shiplap walls and oversized inspirational quotes. Upstairs, the rooms had more of a Victorian vibe, like walking through an antique store.

  Throughout the house, the scent of lemon cleaner hung in the air.

  “Did Mrs. Dunn do the cleaning?” Jackson asked Todd.

  “No, that’s Sabina. The maid.”

  “Does Sabina work for a service?”

  “She’s, ah, independent,” Todd said.

  His gaze fell.

  “No one is staying here?” she asked.

  “A young couple checked out yesterday. I think. Adults only.”

  “Why only adults?” Brandon asked.

  “Kids are messy,” Todd said.

  “Isn’t that why you hire a maid?” Jackson asked.

  Todd shrugged the question away. “I don’t make the rules.”

  “If they checked out this morning, then Sabina’s already been here,” Brandon said.

  Todd shrugged his shoulders. “I guess.”

  “You have her contact information?”

  “Sure.”

  Todd gave Jackson the maid’s name and phone number. Sabina Brown lived in Forks. After one more check of the house, Brandon decided the crime scene was isolated to Mrs. Dunn’s rambler.

  “You’re free to return to your trailer,” Brandon told Todd. “No one goes near the house. Not you, not Sabina, no one.”

  “How long?” Todd asked.

  “Until we say so,” Brandon said.

  When Todd had gone, Brandon turned to Jackson.

  “Do your write up and we’ll talk more. Check the nephew’s background. Sabina Brown, too.”

  Jackson pulled a notebook out of her back pocket and scribbled a note. “I’ll see what else I can get out of Todd when I take him to the station. He’s agreed to let us print him.”

  An emaciated dark gray cat appeared at Brandon’s feet. He rubbed his head against Brandon’s shin, purring.

  “Aw, he likes yo
u,” Jackson said.

  Brandon shook his leg, motioning the cat away. “Get!”

  “Don’t you think Emma would like one?” Jackson asked.

  “No. And no, don’t even think about trying to pawn off one of these…feral beasts on me.”

  Jackson shook her head in disapproval. “We’ll do background checks, see what we can find out. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m the chief. I have plenty to do.”

  “You uncover anything about Eli’s case from your trip to the sawmill?”

  He wished he hadn’t discussed his search for Eli’s killer with Jackson. Better to keep her out of the case, including any ramifications resulting from his off-duty activities around the investigation.

  “Possibly. But don’t worry about that.”

  Just then, the coroner’s van pulled into the driveway.

  Lisa Shipley, the county coroner, hopped out of the passenger seat.

  Her snug winter coat and form-fitting jeans caught Brandon’s attention. He forced his gaze to her smile.

  “Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” she asked, pecking him on the lips. He drew back, aware of Jackson’s gawking. He was all for physical affection, something they’d had scant time for since they’d started dating. But not in front of his officers.

  “What did you do to your hair?” he asked.

  There had been a purple stripe down one side of her blonde locks. “Figured I was getting too old for crazy colors. Want to be more mature, all that good stuff.”

  “I liked it,” Brandon said truthfully.

  She cast him a wry smile, as if she didn’t believe him. Lisa turned to Jackson. “Hey, Isabel. How’s life?”

  “Same as always,” Jackson answered. “Kids, husband, work, and then there’s this guy,” she said, pointing a thumb at Brandon.

  “Tell me about it,” Lisa said, resting her hand on his back.

  “Okay. This is work,” he reminded her.

  “Sorry,” Lisa said. “Boundaries.” She grinned at Jackson. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “Right. Men want boundaries,” Jackson said. “Until they don’t.”

  “Enough,” Brandon said, waving his hand at them.