Lethal Invitation Read online

  Dan shook his head. “No. He got called to an early meeting with the Chief and the Mayor. The press is playing up the thumb-murder angle for all they can get and there was another convention cancellation because of it. The Tourism Board is up in arms and he’s threatening everyone’s job if we don’t make some noticeable progress.”

  Demetrius glanced toward the building with a shake of his head. “I suppose the fool thinks he could do better.”

  Dan grinned. “Now, see. That’s why I came out here to warn you. If you go in there half-cocked and say something like you did two years ago, you’ll be out of a job and I’ll be without a partner. You don’t want that and neither do I.”

  The big detective grimaced at the reminder and his fists involuntarily clenched as he remembered that day. He had just returned from the courthouse where he’d been grilled on the stand for six straight hours about an investigation and arrest. It was a good collar on a serial rapist and he’d done everything by the book. The arrest was a culmination of two years of investigation and countless hours of interviews with young girls whose biggest worry should have been about how to fix their hair for their next date. The girls were his own daughters’ ages, which made it an up-close and personal case for the big man. The suspect was guilty. Everyone knew it, but there was not enough hard evidence for an indictment. Finally, a new shred of evidence surfaced, the nail in the coffin for the disgusting man so Demetrius rushed to make the arrest.

  Four months later, the air-tight case unraveled when the last critical piece of evidence, a pair of tennis shoes owned by the rapist, could not be introduced into court because they had been lost in the evidence room. The lieutenant, looking for a scapegoat, blamed the fiasco on Demetrius. He’d marched into the small office, leaned on the desk and yelled at the bigger man loud enough for everyone to hear. Demetrius was already mad at the grilling on the witness stand and the outcome of the trial. The dressing down at the hands of the incompetent man was more than he could bear. Keeping his seat, he merely looked up at his boss, grabbed the tie as it hung from the smaller man’s neck and jerked. The men were nose to nose.

  “You listen to me you little pipsqueak. I’m going to count to one, then you’d best get your pathetic, worthless self out of my office.” He released the tie and glared into the saucer-wide eyes of his boss. “One.”

  The Lieutenant stood and rushed into the hallway. Since that time their relationship had been strained at best and the letter of reprimand for insubordination remained in Demetrius’s file. If it hadn’t been for the chief stepping in, the small man would have pushed for dismissal. There was no pretense of friendship, they both more or less stayed out of each other’s way.

  Demetrius jerked back to the present at a shout from the edge of the parking lot. It was Dusty from forensics walking their way carrying what looked like a pillow under his arm.

  Dan waved then turned to his senior partner. “I talked to Dusty about the pillow. I was wondering why the murderer shot through one. He agreed to come with us to the range for an experiment.”

  Demetrius glanced once more at the young man strolling toward them. “I assumed it was some type of muffler.”

  “Yeah. Me too. Come on. Let’s go.” Dan pointed toward a government issue Ford Galaxy from carpool.

  Rather than the indoor range, the men drove to an outdoor range on the west side of town. Demetrius watched Dusty with the preparations. He placed a decibel meter ten feet away on a concrete shooting rest then motioned for Dan to join him on the firing line. Holding the pillow under his arm, Dusty turned to the detectives. “Hearing protection on?” He glanced at both men then pulled his earmuffs on. “Go on and shoot one round.”

  Dan nodded then took the position taught in all the police academy shooting classes. He fired one round. The shock of the concussion was easily heard through the hearing protection, but not so loud as to be uncomfortable.

  “One-hundred-thirty-one decibels,” yelled Dusty so all could hear through the earmuffs. He passed the pillow to Dan. “Now one through the pillow.”

  Dan held the pillow in front of the gun with the barrel barely touching the fabric. He pulled the trigger. The report through the earmuffs was markedly quieter than the first shot. Demetrius was surprised. He’d expected some reduction but not that much. He stepped to Dusty’s side to read the meter over his shoulder just as the youngest man hollered, “Ninety-six decibels.”

  He pulled his own gun from the shoulder holster. “Let me try.”

  After a quick perusal to make sure all had hearing protection, he aimed and fired. His gun was slightly louder than Dan’s.

  “One hundred thirty-six.”

  Taking the pillow from Dan, he repeated the shot. The noise decrease was unmistakable. He waited for Dusty to call out the number.

  “Ninety-six. Same as Dan’s Sig.”

  Demetrius holstered his Glock, then each of the men removed their hearing gear to allow them hang around their necks. He studied the burn marks and holes in the pillow, pushing his index finger through and observing it from the other side.

  “I never would have guessed it.” He turned to Dusty. “So how loud is ninety-six decibels?”

  The young man made a face. “If you’re more than thirty or forty feet away, it would sound like a hard-thrown baseball hitting a concrete wall, or maybe a car door slamming.”

  “Well, that answers why Lucinda didn’t hear anything from inside the house.” He shook his head. “How many people know about this?”

  Dusty shrugged. “I researched it on YouTube. I suppose anyone that wanted to could learn about it. There are hundreds of videos on gun noise suppression.”

  Demetrius shook his big head. “Great. Now any Tom, Dick or Harry effectively has a gun silencer in their bedroom.”

  “Not a silencer,” reminded Dusty. “It’s actually a suppressor.”

  Demetrius jerked the hearing muffs from his neck. “For all intents and purposes, it’s the same if it sounds like a car door slamming.”

  ◆◆◆

  Detective Crown parked the Galaxy in the parking lot at University of Arizona Police Department. He approached the new, red brick building on Campbell Avenue with a smile. Years earlier he had applied for a position on the University force, but that was back when they were housed in a run-down complex on the south side of campus. The application was, in truth, a back-up application in case he wasn’t called for an interview with the Tucson PD. His luck held out and he received an offer from his first choice. He shook his head at the recollection as he walked through the heavy glass door.

  The receptionist was dealing with an irate coed holding a bicycle with a missing front wheel.

  “You should have locked both wheels and the frame.”

  “I expect you to pay for a new wheel.” The coed slapped the chest-high counter.

  As he watched the interchange, he smiled on two counts. First was in appreciation at the receptionist’s composure as she tried to calm the student. Second was the fact he was with the TPD and had more interesting things to deal with than stolen bike wheels. He waited patiently, then had to hurry out of the coed’s way as she jerked the one-wheeled bike and stormed toward the door. She glared at him with obvious disgust.

  He stepped to the counter and was rewarded with a smile. She was good to be able to handle a situation like that and still be willing to smile at the next person in line.

  “Good afternoon. How may we be of service today?” Her smile expanded.

  He returned the smile and nodded. “First, may I compliment you on your people skills? You handled that exceptionally well.” He pointed over his shoulder.

  The woman stood straighter. “Why, thank you. That’s a kind thing to say. Most of the people we get in here are upset about something. I just try not to let it get personal.”

  “Good for you. And you’ll be happy to know I’m not upset about anything.” He smiled again and pulled his identification. “I’m Detective Crown with the Tucson PD. I’m
investigating the murder of Dr. Smallwood. I’d like to look at his files if you’d be so kind as to call an officer to escort me and open the door to his office.”

  She frowned. “That’s so sad. He was such a loved professor, so kind and gentle. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  With a sigh, she walked down a hall to the back offices. Almost immediately, a young man in uniform accompanied her to the lobby.

  “This is Officer Dillman. He can take you.” She reached to her desk and plopped a three-ring-binder on the chest-high counter. Flipping pages she ran her fingers down a column then stopped. “Dr. Smallwood’s office was… er… is in the Chemistry Building?”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you very much.” He looked at the young police officer with a nod. The boy looked barely eighteen. Demetrius wondered how it was that everyone looked younger and younger these days. “Shall we go?”

  Officer Dillman stared at the trophy cases while Demetrius perused the files. He found nothing of interest until the bottom drawer of a wooden filing cabinet. Nearly a hundred manila folders were neatly arranged with alphabetized names written on the tabs. DeShawn Anderson 2011, Fernando Arriba 2002, Dominic Brown 2007, Demetrius Crown 1996. He quickly looked up from the cabinet toward the trophy cases in the room, then after a breath and a swipe at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve, he rubbed the top of the folders with the backs of his fingernails. Drrruuuuupppp.

  So these were the professor’s chosen ones. He studied the tab on his own folder and remembered again the first meeting, all the more thankful he’d been wise enough to accept the crippled man’s help. He realized he had made good choices and bad choices in his life, and that choice was one of the best.

  He’d seen the names and graduation pictures in the book that now rested in the china cabinet at his house. He pulled the first file, laid it on the desk and flipped it open. The first page was a lengthy, hand-written letter. He read it quickly and was embarrassed. It was a heartfelt letter of thanks for rescuing a young man who now had a future because of what Dr. Smallwood had done. He realized with shame that he had never written a thank you letter. He shook his head as he closed the file.

  Toward the back of the filing cabinet, there were other folders with names but no graduating year. “Hmmm. I wonder what that means?” He pulled the first. Lantrel Jackson. He opened the file which contained only two pages. The first detailed information of a young man on a football scholarship and listed some of the attributes as well as some of the less desirable characteristics. As the big detective read, he knew his own attitude at that age was nearly identical. He chewed his lip before reading on. Down the page, he saw a date with a notation. “Help offered. Not interested.”

  Demetrius quickly realized the files with no graduation date were of students who chose not to take advantage of Dr. Smallwood’s offer. He flipped to the second piece of paper. The writing was dark and deep. It looked as though the professor had been angry, and as Demetrius read, he felt the same anger at the waste of a young man. “Convicted of grand theft auto. Two years in a Florida prison.”

  He looked unseeing toward the pictures on the walls imagining a defiant young man too proud to accept advice. He tapped a pencil on the folder. Stupid kid. Why didn’t you take advantage of the help? Demetrius wondered for the hundredth time where he would be if not for the willingness of his special, and now dead, friend. He rubbed the scarred wood of the filing cabinet as he thought of his circumstances. He remembered the letter of thanks and frowned at his own thoughtlessness at not writing one.

  “I should have done more.”

  “What’s that?”

  He looked up at the young officer. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. Just talking to myself.” Even as he said it, he thought of what he was doing for Marcus. It felt right and he made up his mind to be a help to wayward students at every opportunity.

  The big man returned to the files. Five more folders with five more names of individuals who had refused the offer of guidance and help. Four of the five were from years earlier. The most recent held his attention. The name on the tab—Edward Mitchell.

  Demetrius pulled the folder and held it on his lap. The date was only two months earlier. There was only one page with the following notation. “Extremely intelligent but lost doing something he doesn’t want to do. Polite and reserved yet oddly belligerent at times. Capable of so much more, only lacks direction.”

  Most of the page was blank then a terse entry. “Help offered. No interest. What a waste.”

  Chapter 14

  The typically crowded restaurant was even more so on this particular Monday morning as Demetrius followed the waitress to the back to wait for Marcus. Their weekly breakfast meetings had been enjoyable and the boy was doing well in school and staying motivated, but the death of Dr. Smallwood brought a sudden urgency to the mentor-mentee relationship. The funeral had given Demetrius an opportunity to meet many of the individuals Dr. Smallwood had helped through college. The conversations had been rewarding and he vowed to do what he could to carry on the tradition.

  He nodded as the youngster slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Hello, Marcus.”

  “Hi, Demetrius.”

  Neither spoke, they merely studied the menus left by the waitress.

  At length, Marcus asked, “So, how was the funeral?”

  Demetrius gazed over the top of the plastic-covered menu. “Didn’t you go?”

  “Nah, man. I hate those things and I really didn’t know the guy.”

  A nod was the answer because Demetrius noticed the waitress coming to take their orders. When she was gone, the big man clasped his hands and rested them on his stomach. “It was good. He had a lot of friends and helped a lot of people.”

  Marcus nodded. “Why would anyone want to kill the professor? He seemed like a good guy.”

  The big man rubbed his fingers on the tabletop, tracing the fake grain in the Formica. “I’ve wondered the same thing.”

  After breakfast, Demetrius walked with Marcus toward campus. With a wave, the boy peeled off to enter one of the high-rise campus buildings for his first class of the day. The big detective paused to watch his newfound friend stroll away. In his mind’s eye, he could already see the picture of him standing proudly next to Marcus on graduation day. The thought was rewarding and renewed his determination to continue the legacy.

  Finally, he turned toward the big administration building on the north side of the grassy mall at the center of campus for an appointment with Officer Dillman. It was early, but the mall and sidewalks were busy with people hustling and bustling as if the University was a city within a city.

  He climbed the steps toward the oversized, glass-fronted doors, then turned and stood with his back to the building for just a moment to gaze at his surroundings. The air was cool but pleasant, and the sun to his left brought the early morning warmth. The clock on the Student Union Building chimed eight times. He listened in contentment as the echoes returned from the surrounding buildings in the still, morning air. He breathed deeply as he looked across the mall to the old chemistry building. With a shake of his head, he turned to stride through the doors into the main lobby. He walked directly to the Records Office. Officer Dillman stood at his approach and extended a hand. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you too. Thank you for meeting me here today.”

  “No problem.” He pulled two papers from a thin binder. “Here is the schedule and contact information you requested.”

  Demetrius accepted the papers. The first was the contact information for Edward Mitchell along with a black and white picture. He noticed the boy appeared small and thin. Under the photograph, a phone number and address were included. The big man nodded appreciatively toward the campus cop, then turned the page and studied it, noticing the boy had a nine o’clock criminal justice class and a ten o’clock meteorology class.

  Demetrius looked up. “Do you know this boy at a
ll?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know if he’s been in any trouble since coming to the university?”

  Officer Dillman glanced furtively around the room, suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry. I’ve given you all the information I can without a subpoena.” He shrugged and lifted his palms.

  Demetrius smiled. He knew about the privacy laws but had decided to ask the question anyway. “I understand completely. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for your help.” He reached to grasp the young man’s hand.

  As they shook hands, Officer Dillman leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Just between you and me, there’s nothing more in his file.”

  Demetrius nodded appreciatively. The new police officer was young but he understood the give and take of police work. He might have the makings of a good cop. “Thanks. I think I’ll just wait outside class for him. He’s not a suspect, just someone who had an association with the professor. I only want to talk with him.”

  As he left the building, the big detective wondered what exactly he expected when he met with the student. What he had said was true, the boy wasn’t a suspect. But what was he? Turning down the offer for help and direction was not a crime and there was no indication the boy was in any way violent. All Demetrius knew was what Dr. Smallwood had written. “Extremely intelligent but lost doing something he doesn’t want to do. Polite and reserved yet oddly belligerent at times. Capable of so much more, only lacks direction.”

  ◆◆◆

  Dusty and Dan hunched over the small table and studied the plaster cast made of the shoeprint found in the wash behind Dr. Smallwood’s house. Dusty measured the length and width with an extra-long ruler. “I make it about a size twelve. The tread pattern doesn’t match any of the expensive shoes. More than likely it’s a cheap shoe from Walmart or another big-box store.”

  Dan leaned back and crossed his legs. “Is that it?”

  “Afraid so. Not much else to see from here until you find the actual shoe.”