by Sid Kar
Frank and Joe walked out and down the sidewalk towards the southern side of the store.
“This boy is short, Frank, like you said our killer is,” Joe said. “He could have run over there, popped a bullet and ran back here. No one looking at this hour. Broke his own camera.”
“No, that would be too easy, and he doesn’t fit the type,” Frank shook his head, then looked up at the camera that was attached with a mount to the wall but the camera itself extended to overlook the sidewalk. Frank shone his torchlight on the camera and exclaimed, “There you have it—the broken glass.”
“Punks threw a rock, huh?” Joe said.
“Or…” Frank let his words trail off as he searched around the sand and dirt ground of the store’s vacant side lot with his torchlight.
“What are you looking for?” Joe asked and joined him a couple minutes later.
“Found it,” Frank held up a bullet in his hand and shone his light on it.
“Forty-five again,” Joe said.
“Ballistics will have to confirm, but I will bet you it came from the same pistol,” Frank said.
“I won’t take that bet,” Joe said. “Now what are you looking for? More bullets?”
“No, our boy is too good of a shot to need a second,” Frank said and shone his torchlight on the sand and dirt leading up from the highway into the side parking lot. “Son of a bitch is actually some crackshot, no tire marks whatsoever. He must have fired from the highway itself and out the passenger side window no less. I doubt a Pro like him would expose himself by getting out and firing a pistol in open sight.”
“But Frank, even if there were tire marks, it could be customers,” Joe said.
“This is the employee lot. The owner must be too cheap to pay for its paving. I saw the paved customer parking lot on the other side. No way customers would pullup into the dirt here, and the clerk probably lives close enough to walk,” Frank said then looked around and noticed a trashcan at the rear. He walked over and started dragging it back.
“Frank, what the…” Joe started laughing.
“Joe, give me a hand,” Frank said. Joe walked over and both of them dragged it till it was just under the camera. Frank climbed on top of it and he was level with the camera’s mount. He raised himself on his toes and shone his light down on the mount and noticed a hole with cracks spreading out in all directions. Frank jumped down.
“Yep, the hole on the top indicates the killer fired upward at a steep angle,” Frank said, “someone kneeling, crouching low or from a car seat, definitely not standing.”
“We should seize it as evidence,” Joe said.
“Tell one of the Oldwood boys to do it when we go back,” Frank said as they walked back into the store. “But I doubt we will get anything more from it.”
“Satisfied?” the clerk asked.
“We are going to take your camera,” Frank said.
The clerk raised his hands in exasperation but then shrugged.
Meanwhile Joe grabbed a chocolate muffin and threw it on the counter, “And this too.”
“You hungry?” Frank asked.
“State is paying; I am eating,” Joe grinned.
“Might as well get me a coffee, two cream, two sugar,” Frank said to the clerk.
A minute later they walked back across Route 1 again, with Frank gulping down his coffee, and Joe chomping on his muffin. They stopped behind the trunk of Frank’s car.
“Hey, can we clear out the body?” Dr. Evan asked peeking from the trailer’s door.
“Give me fifteen minutes. I am going to do my first hypothesis,” Frank replied, and Evan went back in. Even with all the photos, diagrams, and evidence, Frank knew he never got the type of insights that he did from actually looking at the dead body and the crime scene and visualizing the possible method of the homicide right then and there. The clues would correct and fill in the missing pieces of this picture going forward, but to start, he preferred a roughly painted canvas in his mind to arrange all the facts and theories on.
Frank finished his coffee and tossed the cup in his trunk. He ruffled through a duffle bag and found a magnifying glass. He started walking back to the trailer.
“Grab the screwdriver. We might need to take the trailer door with us,” Frank said.
Joe stuffed the remainder of his muffin inside his mouth even as a few crumbs fell out. He leaned in the trunk and followed Frank with a screwdriver in his hand.
Frank pulled the trailer door half way open towards himself. Then he positioned his magnifying glass against the door lock while shining the powerful torchlight through the glass and into the keyhole. He knelt down on the steps and looked through the magnifying glass with one eye.
“Lock’s been tampered with,” Frank said and handed the Glass to Joe, “Remember to take the door with us when we leave. We should get some metal shavings from the lockpick tool.”
Both of them walked back in the trailer where Jenny alone was still working and dusting for prints. Evan and Gerald were done with their tasks and were chatting with the two paramedics in low whispers. The paramedics appeared restless and looked at Frank with a plea for relief in their eyes.
“I know you two might be needed for another call, but just a few minutes more,” Frank said to them. No one besides the investigators ever wanted to stick around the murder scene especially when a dead body was still lying around.
“I am going to be here all night,” Jenny said with a wry smile.
“I am going to have the two local cops stay here,” Frank said. “The chances are extremely low but sometimes the criminals do return to the scene of their crime. And where the hell are Ben and Charles? They should be joining you?”
“They will be here,” Dr. Evan said, “hopefully soon. They were having late dinner/early breakfast; said they were redundant if you and Joe were called.”
Frank nodded his head as he felt a little pride in his competence. Benjamin was the Blood Spatter Analyst and Charles did the Shooting Scene Reconstructions, but Frank rarely received any insights from them that he didn’t discover for himself, and Joe was great with firearms knowledge.
“Let’s start the Hypo, Frank,” Joe said.
“Go ahead, Joe, grab that shotgun,” Frank said and pointed to a shotgun on a gun rack on the wall next to the television. The rack had three slots but two were empty and the bottom most slot held the shotgun.
Joe grabbed the shotgun, pushed the lever, opened it, brought it to his shoulder and looked down the barrels. “Twelve gauge, double barreled, unloaded,” he said. “Looks old and rusty, probably bought ten to fifteen years ago, not much care and maintenance.”
“Where them shells, Joe?” Frank asked.
Joe closed the shotgun and put it back on the rack. He opened the first drawer, then the second, then the third, “Found it,” he exclaimed and took out a box of shells. “Eight buckshot shells in the box of ten.”
Frank moved towards the small, circular table in front of the sofa. He pointed his finger at the items, “Cigarette, half smoked, in ashtray; glass half full with beer,” Frank picked up the 20 Oz beer can. “More beer in here.” Then he pointed to the TV that had been left running, “Low volume, not loud enough to masks any sounds.”
“What are you getting at?” Dr. Evan asked.
“Door is tampered with, but Adam wasn’t surprised,” Frank said. “He didn’t reach for his shotgun or for the shells to load it. Didn’t spill anything.” Frank moved towards the dead body and pointed to the blood spatter on the ground and then on the wall behind. “Blood spray both in the front and in the back high on the wall means the gun was fired from some distance; but not too far away.” Frank moved closer to the blood spatter on the wall and said, “Many tiny blood droplets show that Adam didn’t stumble backwards from the door. He was here when the door opened. But he wasn’t surprised.”
“He would have jumped up and rushed for his shotgun if the door had busted open,” Joe said.
“Exactly,”
Frank replied. “Here is what I believe. The killer picks the lock, most likely with his back to the highway, but doesn’t go in. He actually knocks on the door and waits till he hears the footsteps right up ahead. Then he pushes open the door, sees Adam back near the wall, fires a single bullet from a pistol with a silencer with his one foot on the step below. Then he puts his gun back in his jacket, closes the door, calmly walks back to his car and drives off.”
“You seem pretty assured of your theory,” Gerald said.
“I have seen the pattern,” Frank replied.
“Where? I am there on most scenes with you and…” Gerald said.
“Not in New Jersey. Afghanistan,” Frank said soberly, “It was a trick we used at times. Kick the door down and every bad guy inside goes for his Kalashnikov. Knock on the door and they will position themselves on either side before one of them opens it. Can’t sneak in either because the doors over there were creaky as hell. So we would pick the lock and wait till we heard the footsteps, then suddenly push it open and if the man approaching was carrying an AK, our man in front would shoot him dead. They wouldn’t fire if one of them was in the way and we would find out real quick if the house held the bad guys without risking a dangerous break and entry.”
“Are you saying the killer was in Afghanistan?” Jenny asked.
“Can’t say for sure, but I am now confident that he is a military trained assassin,” Frank said. “Narrows down our search parameter considerably once we rule out the usual suspects – family, friends, robbers; anyhow, Dr. Evan, you can take the body now.”
“Alright, if you will help me load the body on the gurney,” Dr. Evan said to the paramedics, “we can get the hell outta here.” Evan turned to Gerald, “I will take the body in their ambulance. You can follow in our car.”
“What we doing Frank?” Joe yawned.
“Done here for now,” Frank said and picked up the plastic bag with the bullet, “Get the door.”
Joe started on the door with his screwdriver, and Frank walked out just when the two local cops approached him. The crowd had mostly dissipated by now and only a couple of watchers stood braving the late-night chill.
“What is the plan for tonight, Detective?” one of them asked.
“You two are staying here,” Frank replied. “I know it’s cold, but once we are gone, you can sit in your car. Just park it out in the front of the trailer.”
The two of them looked morose at his response but stayed quiet.
“You pick up the overtime,” Joe said as he walked by carrying the door. Frank and Joe pushed the door in the backseat and got in front. Frank started up the car and pulled out on the empty highway.
“We start early tomorrow,” Frank said. “I will let you do the background on the store clerk. Try to find out if any customers came by and see if he was away from the counter at any time.”
“Will do,” Joe said.
“I am going to track down the daughter,” Frank replied, “we will start with her.”
Frank made a U-Turn at the next traffic light and they drove back north on the highway.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, Day 2
Frank slammed his palm on the alarm clock to stop its wailing. He stayed in the bed for a few moments then suddenly sat up and squinted out the window as the first rays of chilly, January, morning sun blinded his sight. He raised his arms to block out the light and then looked at his pistol on a small corner table next to his bed. He was one of those men who slept with their loaded gun next to them, and he had good reasons for it. During the course of his police investigations he had been threatened by violent criminals, and though no one had ever tried to attack him at his home yet, he was not going to take any chances.
He looked out the window at his police cruiser and onto the street. He always did as a matter of habit. He lived in a two story, three-bedroom house that was at the end of a cul-de-sac in an old suburban development, and he had specifically purchased it for that very reason. There was only one way to his house, and he could see till the end of that street.
A few minutes later Frank, dressed up in his uniform, had gone downstairs. Today was going to be a long day, he thought. He whipped himself up a four-egg omelet with ham, bacon, sausage bits and cheese and ate it with a tall glass of milk blended with two scoops of protein powder, one banana and four strawberries.
He texted Joe, put on his boots and strolled to his cruiser. He looked around at the trees surrounding his house. After he had purchased it, he had paid a gardener a small fortune to plant as many shrubs, bushes and trees to surround his house as could be supported by the soil. Subsequently, the foliage had grown too dense not only for an intruder to sneak through but also for a shooter to fire through the woods. He had spent another small fortune having a carpenter remake all of his first floor windows so that none was large enough for an adult to break into the house through. Added to his mortgage, his savings had dropped to the last thousand that year, but he had gained more than the money’s worth in a quiet night’s sleep.
Other detectives jokingly referred to it as “Frank’s Fortress,” but then again they all slept lightly with one eye open, popping at every light that flashed across their large glass windows, one ear to the ground, alert to every whisper of sound. But no one was coming into his house without loudly breaking down his door and then Frank would be ready. Frank feared to fight no one, he told himself, as long as he wasn’t taken unaware.
Joe’s house was less than five minutes’ drive away. It stood at the edge of 70 or so acres of farmland which his family had once cultivated but had since left to fallow, and the wilderness had resumed its natural course and started to grow and possess an ever larger share of the land every year. The property had undergone many renovations over the generations and the base of the rather large but simple farmhouse had an irregular façade of a colonial mansion grafted atop. The Marsh family had the fate to always find itself in that peculiar position where its farm generated sufficient surplus revenue to kindle a desire to climb upward in their social stature and standing but with the subsequent misfortune of the mercantile ladder falling away and orphaning the inextirpable yearning. After many cycles of feast and famine, the Marsh home’s architecture emanated the rustic air of a log cabin and oozed the gargoyle grotesquery of gilded plush.
Joe sat in his own cruiser just outside his long winded driveway and dozed while his elbow dangled out the window, just when Frank pulled alongside him and asked, “Ready?”
“Always,” Joe replied, “Where to?”
“You go to the convenience store and see if you can get the credit card receipts and contact any customers from last night. Ask them if they remember the clerk and if he ever left the counter,” Frank said.
“Where do I meet you?” Joe asked.
“I am going to work out of our headquarters and do some background research on the internet and in the databases,” Frank said, “call me when you are done. Then we will head out to meet his daughter.”
“Let’s do it,” Joe said.
Frank and Joe turned their cars around and drove to the main street of their small town of Gaston which was located just north of Bridgewater. Joe’s family had been there forever; Frank’s family, however, had moved there and then moved out, but Frank had stayed, albeit in a different house.
They caught the exit for Route 287 and soon thereafter Frank took the exit for 202 & 206, the latter of which would take him nearly all the way to the State Police headquarters in West Trenton. Joe continued on 287.
The floor of the Investigations Section was nearly empty this early in the morning and Frank saw no other detectives from the Homicide Unit. Better that way, he told himself. He could work in peace without the usual jokes he heard from the other detectives about Joe. He walked into a small office with a soundproof glass door that had two large oak tables with two reclining leather chairs facing each other and a single monitor on one table and six monitors on the other. Frank walked over to the table wh
ere three computer monitors were stacked on top of the other three. That was his desk, the other belonged to Joe. Frank liked to lay out the crime scene along with all the facts and clues in front of him and this setup let him see the whole picture at once.
This was where Frank and Joe worked out of. Frank had had to fight for it, and he had threatened to quit after his term was up if he wasn’t upgraded to his own office. Frank hated working out of a cubicle, and he absolutely loathed the open office trend that seemed to be spreading like a plague these days.
Frank sipped on the iced coffee he had picked up along the way while he spread the digital photos of yesterday’s crime scene, already uploaded by Gerald, on two of his monitors. He stared intently at each individual photo for a minute before moving to the next one. He saw nothing that he had missed yesterday.
Frank left his office and walked to the end of the corridor to the computer lab where the IT Department was located. It too was mostly empty; only Romesh Patel, one of the IT Analysts and two other junior IT techs were present.
“Detective Frank, early today, need any help?” Romesh asked.
“Got a case last night,” Frank said, “I need online and social media profiles on the victim, his family, possible friends and neighbors. The victim is one Adam Buck of Oldwood Motor Homes. Pull the basics from the DMV database. Are two hours sufficient?”
“No problem. Yours is the only request currently,” Romesh replied.
Frank walked back to his office and himself pulled up the DMV database, but he did a search in the Commercial Driver Licenses database and found Adam’s old expired license. The license renewals went back decades, and the earliest issue was in 1978. Adam was a lifelong trucker as Dave had mentioned and a New Jersey resident at least that long. Frank was glad that the case didn’t seem to cross the state borders so far; he hated collaborations where he didn’t have the command of the investigation.
He spent the next hour and a half contemplating the case while he slowly finished his large iced coffee. The office had started to fill up, but he hid behind his wall of monitors and ignored the activity outside. Then he saw Romesh’s email and promptly walked over to the IT department. The detectives in the office were in a happy mood as today was Friday, but Frank ignored them. Inside the IT lab, he moved into a smaller private conference room with Romesh who turned on the large screen.
