Weeds in The Garden of Love

  “So you tailed him,” Roy said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?” Roy was becoming increasingly impatient.

  Austin described two other residences Davis was staking out. One was a house and the other an apartment—both in Botsford Downs. Roy wrote down the addresses. “He was at that apartment building last night,” Austin said. “I know because I followed him. I watched as he parked down the block and walked back to the building. He stood inside looking at the directory … you know, like he was looking for an apartment to buzz. The thing is, he never buzzed anyone. He kinda hung around near the inside security door. When someone came out, he slipped in before the door closed. I saw him get into the elevator.”

  “What time was that?” Roy asked.

  “Around eleven-thirty, I think. Could have been a few minutes earlier. He was at that apartment building for about ten or fifteen minutes. Then he left.”

  “Did you follow him?” Roy hoped he had an eyewitness who could put Davis at this scene in Woodland Estates.

  “Yes, sir! But I lost him right after he left Botsford Downs. I think he might have spotted me ‘cause he started driving erratically. It was around eleven-forty-five or maybe a bit closer to midnight.”

  Roy was disappointed, but he understood. Successful surveillance utilizing one vehicle is nearly impossible. Any suspect with even half a brain would burn you nine times out of ten. “When Davis gave you the slip was he heading towards Woodland Estates?”

  “No, sir. He was heading the other way, towards the interstate. But I thought I should check the Talbot’s place, just in case. I drove right over, and it was quiet. Lights were out. No sign of Davis. I hung around for a few minutes and then left around twelve-fifteen a.m. I was tired, and I had to get up for an early shift. Mr. Talbot said he needed me here at five-thirty a.m.— to drive Mrs. T. to the airport. She was going to visit her daughter in, uh … in … St. Louis. I think.”

  “What time did you arrive here this morning?” Roy was trying to make a long story shorter.

  “Five-twenty a.m., sir. I always try to be early.”

  “And?” Roy wondered how this half-wit could actually make a living as a private investigator. I don’t think he could spell investigation, let alone actually conduct one.

  “Oh, sorry,” Austin said. “The house was dark. When Mrs. Talbot didn’t come out to the car, I rang the front door bell. No one came. I tried the door, and it was locked. I was beginning to think something wasn’t right. I went around the back. Patio door was wide open. I found them upstairs, just like they are now. You know … I’ve never seen anything like that. It didn’t seem real. I meanI felt like I was watching a movie or a cop show on telev—”

  “Thanks, Austin.” Roy stood up to leave. “I’ll send in a detective to get a statement from you. We appreciate your help.”

  “Davis did this, Detective. I know he did this.”

  Roy wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions or rule out any possibilities until all the evidence was in. Experience had taught him; if you never rule anything out, you are never surprised. The wall phone in the kitchen was dead, so Roy used a police portable to call his captain. He explained his suspicions about Davis. He requested they send someone to Lorne’s apartment to ascertain his whereabouts.

  “Lt. Coulter is looking for you,” Dave said, as Roy walked out of the kitchen. “We have another one.”

  Roy wasn’t surprised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Reckoning

  Craig and Vikki walked out of Mercy Hospital and into a deluge that Friday morning. Rain, whipped by a raw wind, splattered the pavement. Craig took Vikki to her car. He made sure she was on her way before he walked over to his car. He was soaked, but he didn’t care.

  Dr. Gorham had told them Robbie was out of surgery but was still in critical condition. “The next twenty-four hours will tell the tale, Mr. Andrews. He’s not out of danger yet. He has head trauma and massive internal injuries.” Vikki squeezed Craig’s hand. “But we have some things on our side. He’s a healthy young man and a fighter. I have no reason to believe he won’t get through this. But there’s nothing more we can do now. I suggest you go home and get some rest. If anything changes, we’ll call.”

  Craig drove along Glenrose Parkway through the heavy rain. Huge waves were crashing on the shore. The beach and the parking lot were deserted—not a vehicle or a person to be seen anywhere. He remembered warm summer days on the beach with Robbie and Heather. “Oh, God,” Craig sobbed. “Please help me. Let my kids be okay.”

  Then Craig thought about Chrissie driving drunk with his children in the car. He would deal with her later, when Robbie and Heather were out of danger. Probably not a good idea anyway—right now, I’m afraid I’d kill her.

  Craig saw two black-and-white police cars and a police van parked across the street from his apartment building. This area of Botsford Downs was relatively safe, so numerous police cars parked on their street was a rare occurrence. As he got off the elevator and approached his apartment, he saw an officer dusting the door for fingerprints. The door had obviously been forced open; the lock was broken, and the door jam was splintered. Craig identified himself to the officer.

  Inside, he saw another police officer photographing what appeared to be a partial muddy footprint on the living room carpet. A plain-clothes cop caught Craig’s attention. He was a good-looking guy for a cop. He was tall, sandy-haired and had a warm smile. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit. “I’m Detective Rick Palmer, sir. You’re, Mr. Andrews?”

  “Yes. Is anything missing?”

  “It doesn’t look like it, but can you check for us, sir? Your super called this in earlier this morning. Said a neighbor reported your door was damaged. I take it you weren’t home last night.”

  “We were at the hospital all night. My ex-wife and my kids were in a car accident yesterday afternoon.” Craig thought it was strange to hear himself say those words so matter-of-factly. It sounded so callous.

  “You okay, sir?”

  “Tired. It was a long night.”

  Vikki walked in carrying two take-out coffees. Craig introduced her to Palmer. At his request, she went to the bedroom to check her jewelry. Nothing was missing or even appeared to have been disturbed. Even her treasured diamond stud earrings were right where she left them, in their miniature jewelry box on her vanity.

  Palmer explained robbery probably wasn’t the motive for the break-in. “They didn’t take the television set, stereo or any liquor. Also no money, jewelry or other valuables are missing. But whoever did this, really wanted to get in here. I’m willing to bet it’s someone you know—someone with a grudge. Anyone come to mind?”

  Craig looked at Vikki. She signaled with her eyes he should tell Palmer who they both thought had a motive. “Eric Millard,” Craig said. “He’s Vikki’s ex. I heard he’s been acting sort of freaky lately. I had a fight with him at Malarkey’s, not too long ago.”

  Palmer asked about the fight. Craig told him about Eric’s affair with Chrissie, the photographs of Vikki with Jim Roberts and Roberts’ subsequent suicide. Vikki couldn’t help but be embarrassed. She was flushed and looked uncomfortable.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” Craig said. “We had to tell him the whole story.” Vikki winked at Craig. She understood and besides, it was old news.

  “Your super says he may have this guy on tape from the lobby security camera,” Palmer said. His portable radio squawked, and a garbled voice said something in cop ten code. Craig wondered how anyone could understand that babble. “Ten-four. I’m on my way.” Palmer turned to Craig and Vikki. “Busy morning. I have another call. I’ll be in touch.”

  Palmer was heading for the beach.

  * * *

  Chrissie didn’t recognize the ceiling tiles. She wasn’t at home. The room was out of focus. She heard
the rain hitting the window. She felt a wire attached to a buzzer on the pillow beside her. Gradually, she became aware of the horrendous pictures flashing in her brain: the rain soaked road, the other vehicle coming at her, the impact, the pain and the ambulance ride.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, God! My kids!” She frantically pushed the buzzer. “What happened to my kids?” She held the button down as hard as she could, trying to make someone come quicker. “Does anybody work here? Where the hell is everybody?”

  The senior nurse on the shift Sheila Pearson came into the room. She heard Chrissie’s last comment and ignored it. She’d been a trauma nurse for over twenty years, and drunk drivers weren’t her favorite people. Sheila had seen the trail of misery left in their wake—the physical pain, the mental anguish and the senseless deaths. “How are we, Mrs. Andrews?” she said coldly, as she checked Chrissie’s I.V.

  “What happened to my kids? Heather and Robbie! Are they … are they okay?”

  “They’re both in serious condition, ma’am. The doctor will be coming in to talk to you.”

  As she waited for the doctor, Chrissie’s mind kept flashing back to the accident. As hard as she tried, the images kept coming. She was scared but also ashamed at what she had caused. She had almost killed her children. They were suffering because of her. I’ll never drink again. I am really going to quit. But—I could sure use a belt, right now. My flask is in my purse. If only I could—Chrissie slipped back into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  Police personnel, numerous vehicles and the ever-present media were gathered outside the residence in Botsford Downs. All too similar to the grisly scene Roy and Dave had just left in Woodland Estates.

  “Here we go again,” Dave said, as they got out of their unmarked police car. “Never get used to this”

  Roy didn’t answer. He was already writing in his notebook. He was notorious for keeping meticulous notes. Even as a rookie, Roy had made daily notebook entries including: high and low temperature, total amount and type of precipitation, wind velocity and direction and any other information he felt would help him solve a crime. His occurrence and crime scene notes were even more detailed. Every observation was noted; nothing was too trivial. Hundreds of his notebooks were stored at headquarters and proved invaluable when cold cases were reopened. Police cadets at the academy were instructed in his method of keeping a notebook.

  Again, the murder scene was upstairs. Roy headed up, while Dave worked the entry point downstairs. The outside door to the kitchen was open, and one of the glass panes above the doorknob had been broken. Shards of glass were strewn across the kitchen floor. Once again, crime scene specialists were taking photographs and dusting for prints. A trail of bright red blood drops was traced across the kitchen floor. The interior doorframe and door handle were smeared with blood. Dave presumed the murderer both entered and exited by this door.

  Roy reached the top of the stairs and walked towards the master bedroom. A male cadaver was lying face down in the hallway near the stairs. A large pool of blood emanating from the corpse had stained the carpeting. The victim was clothed in a t-shirt and was naked from the waist down. “Cover him, please,” Roy said to one of the uniforms.

  Nicole Armitage was in the master bedroom and brought Roy up to speed. She was new to the coroner’s office, smart as a whip, thorough and professional. “The one on the bed is a thirties female. She suffered fatal trauma from a gunshot wound to the head,” Nicole said. “Powder residue indicates it was at close range, probably less than two feet. Been dead about six or seven hours. Puts time of death around one or two a.m. this morning.”

  Roy inspected the wound. “Three fifty-seven?”

  “Most likely. We recovered the slug from the wall behind the bed. Oh, and we found another one up there.” Nicole pointed to the ceiling above the bathroom door. On the wall by the bathroom, Roy saw another message written in blood: a number “4” with a line through it and a number “2” below it. His suspicions were correct. The murderer was counting down his victims. He wondered who was next. “So what’s with the math on the wall?” Nicole asked.

  “Saw the same thing at Woodland Estates, earlier this morning. Looks like it’s the same killer. He’s taunting us—keeping score.” Roy was writing in his notebook. “What’s your best guess on that bullet hole in the ceiling?”

  Nicole speculated the male victim struggled with the perp. The vic was probably in the master bathroom when he heard the first shot. He jumped the shooterthey struggled and the gun likely went off a couple of times. One bullet hit the ceiling. The other one, fired from point blank range, struck the male victim in the left thigh. “Looks like the fight continued out here.” Nicole led Roy into the hallway. “The perp must have dropped his gun during the struggle in the master bedroom. The vic has defensive slashes on his hands and arms, so our killer had a knife.”

  Probably the same knife he used at the Talbot’s, Roy thought. Then he realized he should be listening to Nicole.

  “ … likely a hunting knife or even a chef’s knife. It explains all the blood and the cause of death. This vic put up one hell of a fight.”

  Blood splatters and smears were on the walls and carpet for about ten feet down the hallway. “Looks like the guy was fighting for his life,” Roy said.

  “Yeah, but I think he was also trying to impede his attacker so his kids could escape,” Nicole said.

  “Kids? Kids were involved? Where are they? Are they okay?” Roy’s genuine concern for the children showed in his voice.

  “They’re fine, Roy. They escaped and ran outside into the pouring rain in their pajamas. Rang the front door bell at the neighbors, but no one answered. They hid in a travel trailer stored in the backyard. They probably knew the neighbor never locks it. Guess they fell asleep. They woke up the neighbor early this morning and he called nine one one.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They’re with relatives.”

  “Anyone interview them?” The children were the only eyewitnesses, and Roy hoped they could provide something to help catch this killer.

  “Uniforms talked to them. Kids said a gunshot woke them up. They heard their father wrestling with someone. Their dad was yelling at them to run. He was fighting for his kids, Roy. He almost certainly saved their lives. The guy’s a hero.” Nicole pointed to a small blood pool on the carpet. “This is probably where the vic took a knife wound to his abdomen. He still tried to crawl down the hallway. The perp finished him off by cutting his throat. He died right where he’s lying now.”

  “Was the body mutilated in any way?”

  Nicole wondered how Roy could possibly know that. “I was just about to tell you. His genitals were severed, most likely post-mortem. Found them inside the female.”

  Roy shook his head. “Similar m.o. to the Estates murder this morning. Except, this victim is lying face down.”

  “I figure the killer must have rolled him onto his back,” Nicole said. “He severed them and rolled him back onto his stomach. Seems like a lot of trouble to me. I can’t figure why he would do something like that.”

  Roy knelt down on one knee. “It’s the ultimate form of revenge.” He gently pulled the death blanket down to the male victim’s waist. The corpse’s head was turned towards the wall. Roy leaned over to look at his face. “It’s Greg Hodges!”

  “You know we’ve identified him as Garth Hodgson. His wife Loretta is the female vic,” Nicole said. “Why did you call him Hodges?”

  “My partner and I investigated a bar fight at Malarkey’s. Hodgson had ID sayin’ he was Greg Hodges. My gut told me he was lying—didn’t know why.”

  Roy needed some time alone. He slowly paced in the hallway. This was the part of an investigation he lived for, the challenge of unraveling a mystery to nail the perpetrator. This was the essence of Detective Roy Wood—why he loved being a co
p. Roy would use all his investigative skills, instincts and experience to prove who had the motive, the opportunity and the means to commit these horrendous crimes. Motive was of utmost urgency. Eliminating suspects utilizing opportunity and means usually required a great deal of time and legwork. Motive was quicker. The motive could explain the “why” and might lead to the “who.”

  Roy leafed through his notebook to refresh his memory. The P.I. said Davis was staking out this house as well as the Talbot’s. Talbot was the one who fired him. The Hodgson’s were on the list because they ratted him out to Talbot. Hang on! Davis also contacted me to complain about Hodgson. Roy found the entry in his notebook. Here it is. Davis reported Hodgson and some other guy tailed him from his office to a restaurant.

  Roy’s suspicions were originally aroused when Palmer told him Davis’ ex-wife was missing. Roy felt in his bones Davis was involved in her disappearance and probably capable of something even more sinister. Danny from Malarkey’s confirmed Davis had a dark side. He told Roy that Davis was in the bar most evenings, sharing his misery. The more he drank—the more he talked. After Charles Talbot fired him from the SOE, Davis told Danny that Garth and Loretta Hodgson were part of the conspiracy against him. He vowed to get even with them all. Davis’ exact words were: “if it is the last thing I ever do.”

  Roy needed to reconstruct the probable sequence of events from the previous evening. He spoke softly as he paced. “The P.I. followed him last night when he left the apartment building in Botsford around eleven-thirty. Then he lost him. Davis was so paranoid about being followed; he probably picked up on the tail right away. He deliberately headed away from Woodland Estates. Once he was positive he had shaken the surveillance, he headed back to the Talbot’s. When he finished with the Talbots, he came here and did the Hodgsons. The sequence makes sense.”

  Roy continued to pace and then something he just said triggered a thought. It hit him like a lightning bolt. Wait a minute! The apartment building in Botsford Downs! Where the P.I. saw Davis last night. Whoever he was after is probably on his list. They could be the two missing victims! But who in that building had a connection to Davis? Roy needed answers—and fast, especially to the most important question of all. Where was Lorne Davis?