Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Radhauser slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and studied the hand. It was much larger than the one belonging to Marsha Parsons. More hair on the fingers and much shorter nails. This, along with the fact the drawing was a male, made Radhauser believe this was a man’s hand. A faint white line banded the ring finger. Had the perp stolen his ring? Or was the man recently divorced? Did he stop wearing his wedding ring for another reason? The fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. No indication that he’d put up a struggle. Radhauser carefully picked it up and turned it over. There were no calluses on his palms or fingers. This was a fastidious man who probably made his living working in an office rather than doing manual labor.

  He picked up a sprinkling of the pine needles that had covered the severed hand and sniffed them. They held a slight scent of sage—like someone had smudged the area with incense the way they do in Catholic churches. Radhauser remembered the same smell coming from the bag in which Sully had placed Marsha Parsons' hand. Did the killer hold some kind of religious ceremony—some cleansing of the offending hand?

  Radhauser turned to Heron. “You okay if I try to get some prints, just to hurry the process?”

  “Be my guest.”

  After removing his crime scene kit from his backpack, Radhauser carefully cleaned, then inked and printed each finger and thumb. When he'd finished, he placed the hand in an evidence bag. He gave the print card to Corbin. "Take these prints back to the station and run them through the system. Call me if you find anything. Notify McBride and have her organize a search of the sports park. She knows who to call, along with area emergency rooms and urgent care clinics. And don't waste any time getting on it. If the search here yields nothing, tell McBride to move outward."

  He remembered what Heron had told him about the possibility the arteries in the wrist might spasm and cut off the flow of blood. Radhauser turned to the ME. “Can you tell if the arteries spasmed by looking at the hand?”

  “Not without microscopic study.”

  “Do you think there’s any possibility he’s still alive?”

  * * *

  Radhauser was headed to the ME’s office when the call came in from Officer Corbin. “His prints were in the system. Seems we got a domestic disturbance call from his wife, Evelyn Baker, back in late September. Name is Bradford Baker and he spent a night in jail for spousal abuse. Works in Security at the Medford Airport. Our records indicate he lives over on Winburn Way. Number 798.”

  Was this the same man who’d led the anti-Islamic protest? The man who headed the Christians for a Safer America group? Baker was a pretty common name. But what were the chances two Bradford Bakers resided in Ashland? Both of them arrested on domestic disturbance charges?

  “I’ll head over there now,” Radhauser said. “How’s the search going?”

  “McBride has mobilized Search and Rescue, volunteer firefighters, the state police and anyone else she can find. They’re canvassing the park and the woods behind Thomas Flannigan Sports Park now. We’ll expand out from there. I’ll get back with you immediately if we find anything.”

  “If the murderer followed the same modus operandi, we may find him tied to a chair at his home, like the first victim. I’ll let you know as soon as I get there.”

  He drove into town and parked near the curb in front of number 798 Winburn. The house was a new construction modeled after the traditional Craftsmen bungalows in town. But this one had double-paned windows, a fire-resistant roof, siding made from concrete, and other modern and energy-efficient features. Radhauser's ranch house needed a new roof and, given its wooded location, he'd been considering one like this. The Craftsman had a new paint job—light tan with dark chocolate trim.

  Radhauser rang the bell.

  A slender and very attractive brunette, about thirty, answered the door. She stood approximately five foot six and wore a black jogging outfit and a pair of hot pink Reeboks. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and held in place with a rubber band. Her face was flushed and without makeup.

  Radhauser took off his Stetson. “I’m Detective Winston Radhauser from the Ashland Police Department. I’m looking for Bradford Baker.”

  “I’m Evelyn Baker, his soon-to-be ex-wife,” she said. “What’s he done now?”

  Odd that should be her first question. Corbin hadn’t mentioned any record aside from that domestic disturbance citation. “I’m afraid this time it’s about what someone may have done to him.”

  She tilted her head. “I don’t understand. Does this have anything to do with that Christian group he’s always spouting off about? Don’t tell me he was involved in the burning of that Muslim prayer house.”

  Great, Radhauser thought. It was the same Baker. The suspect list just grew to include Fayyad Hadad and everyone else who’d participated in that Muslim peace rally Baker and his followers had turned into a full-blown riot.

  “May I come inside? Do you have a few moments to talk?”

  “Of course,” she said, then took a step back so he could enter. The room was spacious with wide planks of hardwood floor covered in part with an area rug in shades of blue and green.

  She led him into a room with huge windows that looked out on the Winburn parking lot, Lithia Park and Ashland Creek. “Have a seat.”

  “It must be nice living this close to the park.” He sat on a blue leather recliner beside one of the windows, took off his hat and set it on his lap.

  Mrs. Baker sat on the matching leather sofa across from him. “I jog there every morning. What’s this all about, detective?”

  “You may have read in the paper or heard on the news about the severed hand we found in Lithia Park about three weeks ago.”

  “I did. It’s terrifying to think something like that could happen here. Most people in Ashland think of Lithia Park playground a safe place for our children to roam.”

  “We know the crime didn’t take place at the playground,” Radhauser said. “We believe the hand was taken there and left for some unknown reason.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What’s all this got to do with Brad? Surely you don’t suspect him of being involved.”

  “We’ve found another hand.”

  “But I thought you caught the guy who did it. I read in the paper there was a suspect in custody.” She glanced out the front window toward the creek. “Was this one found in the park, too?”

  “No. Another location.”

  “That’s terrible, but again, what’s it got to do with me or Brad?”

  “It looks like you just got back from a run. Would you mind doing a quick walk-through of the house with me to make sure he isn’t here?”

  She shot him a confused look. “Why would he be here, detective? We’re separated. I had the locks changed after he moved out. As far as I know he doesn’t have a key. Brad hasn’t lived in this house for ten months. He doesn’t even come inside when he picks up our son. Brad’s apartment is over on Mountain View.”

  “Please, humor me. Just a quick look in every room.”

  He followed her down the hallway, opening and closing a series of doors.

  After opening the last one, she turned to Radhauser. “Just like I said. He’s not here.”

  "Is your husband right or left-handed?"

  "Left-handed. Why? You don't think that hand…" Her eyes widened and her face went pale.

  Marsha Parsons was right-handed. Did the killer cut off his victim's dominant hand? And if so, what was his motivation?

  He returned his attention to the interview. “Does your husband have any enemies—anyone who’d want to do him harm, Mrs. Baker?”

  “Please. Call me Evelyn. Our divorce is almost final and I no longer think of myself as Brad’s wife.” She crossed her arms over her chest. "Brad is a hothead. He's been written up at work. And some of the parents on his Little League team have complained about the way he treats their kids. I'm sure he's got lots of enemies. But I neither know, nor do I want to know, any of them."

  A familiar
weight dropped into Radhauser’s chest. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but we were able to get a viable print from the hand found this morning. I had someone run it through our system and it belongs to your husband. I’m here because his driver’s license lists this address.”

  The color faded even more from her cheeks. "You're sure?"

  “Positive. Fingerprints don’t lie.”

  “Does this mean that Brad is…I mean…is he dead?”

  "That's what I'm trying to determine. We've got someone checking area emergency rooms. He may be still alive—especially if he, or someone else, applied a tourniquet."

  “Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands for an instant, then paced across the room. “What about my son? He’s with his father this weekend. Brad’s the coach of Landon’s Little League team. They had a game scheduled yesterday morning.” She checked her watch. “It’s pretty early, but have you been to Thomas Flannigan Sports Park? He could be there. Brad sometimes takes Landon there on Sunday mornings to practice his hitting.”

  “We’ve got officers in the park now.” He reminded her they’d made a positive ID.

  Evelyn slipped her phone from her jacket pocket and dialed. “I’ve got to find Landon.” She listened, the muscles in her face tightening with each second that passed. “No one is answering.” She grabbed her purse and started for the kitchen, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m headed over to Brad’s apartment.” She hurried through the house and into the garage. “What if that madman has Landon? What if he cuts off his hand, too?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Radhauser followed Evelyn Baker into her garage.

  She pushed a button mounted on the wall beside the door into the kitchen. The garage door rumbled open.

  He hurried out of the garage and into his vehicle, started it and fell in behind Evelyn’s dark blue Volvo station wagon. He prayed they’d find Landon Bradford unharmed.

  Less than five minutes later, they arrived at an apartment complex on Mountain View Avenue. Number 101, Brad's apartment, was on the first floor with its entrance facing the parking lot. She raced from her car, leaving the driver's door open and pounded on the door. "Landon," she shouted. "Are you in there?"

  “Don’t touch the doorknob,” Radhauser said.

  She pounded again.

  “Help me,” a voice called from inside, along with the distant sound of a dog barking.

  Radhauser set his backpack on the concrete, pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door, placed the pack on the living room floor and moved aside for Evelyn.

  She raced down a narrow hallway, Radhauser at her heels. “Landon? Where are you?”

  They stopped in front of a closed bedroom door. A bolt lock had been installed on the outside, near the top.

  “In here, Mom! I can’t open the door. I think something is holding it closed.”

  Radhauser lifted his right eyebrow. “Does your husband, I mean Mr. Baker, make a habit of locking your son in his room?”

  She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He’s strict and demands way too much of Landon. But I’ve never known him to do anything like this.”

  She reached for the bolt.

  Radhauser grabbed her arm. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll need to dust for fingerprints.” With his gloved hand, he carefully unbolted the door. It was the same type bolt installed on the children’s bedroom door at the Parsons’ house. Judging by the sawdust on the doorknob and floor, Radhauser was certain it had been installed recently.

  As soon as the door opened, Landon raced into his mother’s arms. She picked him up and clutched him against her chest. Radhauser followed them into the bedroom.

  From his height, Radhauser guessed Landon to be about eight years old. He was slender with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He wore white baseball pants, grass-stained at the knees, a green shirt, socks, and baseball cap. The way a boy would who'd awakened that morning and gotten dressed for a practice session with his dad. His Nike baseball cleats were dusty but otherwise looked new.

  There was something vaguely familiar about the little boy. A minute later, it dawned on him. Landon Baker was the boy who'd bullied Kareem Azami on the school playground and blackened his eye. He was also the boy he'd seen berated by his coach near the Little League snack bar. A coach he now knew was the boy's father. Landon was in the same first-grade class as Kareem and Lizzie.

  “I have to pee.” Landon pulled away from his mother’s embrace. She set him back on the floor and he raced into the bathroom. After the toilet flushed, he returned to the bedroom. “Why did Dad lock me in here?” At that point, he stopped and stared at Radhauser. “I know you. You’re Lizzie’s dad. You talked to my class about bullying.”

  “You’re right. I sure did.”

  Evelyn bent and held Landon by the shoulders. “Are you telling me that your father installed that lock?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” Landon’s blue eyes were wide and puddled with tears. “I woke up and dressed in my baseball clothes for practice. But when I tried to get out of the room to go pee, I couldn’t open the door. I pounded and pounded, screaming for Dad to let me out, but nobody came.” Tears fell. “I tried to open the window, but it was stuck. Is Dad still mad at me because I walked too many batters?”

  Evelyn grabbed a tissue from the box on the dresser, took him in her arms again and met Radhauser’s gaze over the boy’s shoulders. “Brad takes his Little League coaching pretty seriously.”

  Again, Landon wrenched away from his mother and glared at Radhauser. “Where’s my dad?”

  Radhauser wasn’t sure how to respond, but the last thing he wanted was for this boy to see a scene like the one they’d discovered at the Parsons’ house. “Keep him in here for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”

  She sat on the edge of the twin bed in the sparsely furnished room and pulled Landon onto her lap. Her hands trembled.

  Radhauser did a quick survey of the apartment. It was a furnished two-bedroom—the cheap kind normally occupied by students. When he opened the door to the master bedroom a dog leaped from the bed, barked and ran toward Radhauser. A beefy Rottweiler, exactly the breed of dog you'd have expected a man like Bradford Baker to own.

  Taking a chance, Radhauser reached out to pet the dog. He licked the detective’s gloved hand. “Good boy.”

  Evelyn hurried down the hall. “Don’t worry, Rudy’s harmless. He’s just a mean-looking puppy who barks a lot.”

  She grabbed the dog’s collar, then led him back to her son’s room. “Get his leash, Landon, and take him outside.”

  Radhauser heard the front door open.

  He turned his attention to the bedroom. Just like the Parsons’ dining room, the floor was covered in a blue tarp, with a dining chair set up in the middle of it. An end table that matched the one in the living room had been positioned beside the chair, a wooden chopping board set on top.

  But there was no blood or any other evidence that a crime had taken place here. Had something or someone interrupted the perp’s plan? With students being the primary occupants of these apartments, it was easy to imagine that someone was up at all hours. Did the perp rethink his decision and move Baker to another location? Where had he severed the hand they’d found at the park?

  When he heard Landon return with the dog, Radhauser hurried back to the boy’s room. He warned Evelyn to keep both the dog and Landon in there.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. A tremor shook her chin and bottom lip.

  Radhauser grabbed his camera from his backpack and photographed the scene from the bedroom doorway, using his wide-angle lens, then snapped close-ups of the chair, side table and chopping block. As soon as forensics arrived, he'd have them dust the master bedroom for prints, especially the chair and cutting board.

  He returned to the smaller bedroom. Landon was seated on a desk chair, his mother on the bed. Ru
dy, still on his leash, lay on the floor at the boy’s feet.

  “Have you found him?” Evelyn asked.

  “Not yet. Is it okay if I ask your son a few questions?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What kind of questions?”

  “I need to locate his father and I suspect he may have information that could help me do that.”

  She nodded.

  Radhauser turned to the boy. “Did you hear anyone enter the apartment last night, Landon?”

  “Nope. Only Dad and me.”

  “Landon is a sound sleeper,” his mother said.

  “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  His blue eyes widened. “Is my dad okay? Where is he?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, son.” To make the boy feel more comfortable, Radhauser crouched in front of the desk chair so he could meet Landon’s gaze.

  Rudy growled a low rumble but didn't bare his teeth.

  “Tell me what you and your dad did last night.”

  “After the game, he was mad at me because I didn’t pitch good. But then he got nicer and let me go home with Bobby and his dad. We went swimming. They have a really big heated pool in their backyard. And then we went to Abby’s Pizza. Me and Bobby had pepperoni and played video games. After that, his dad brought me back here.”

  “Did he come inside with you?”

  “No, he dropped me off, but he waited until I unlocked the door. He told me to flash the outside light when I got inside. And to be sure to lock the door again.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. But it wasn’t all the way dark yet. Maybe around eight-thirty.”

  “Was your dad here when Bobby’s father brought you back?”

  “I guess so. His car was in the parking lot, but his bedroom door was closed. Sometimes he gets mad when I wake him up, so I just brushed my teeth and went to bed. Dad said we had a big practice session today and I needed to get plenty of rest. So when I woke up, I got dressed for practice, but...”