Lethal Invitation Read online

  ◆◆◆

  Demetrius cringed as the ceramic plate clanked loudly against the glass as he set the table for Sunday breakfast. It seemed the quieter he tried to be, the noisier he was. It had become a Sunday morning tradition in their house for him to let his wife sleep in while he fixed the meal for his family—although she teasingly complained that sleep was impossible because he was like a bull in a china closet when in the kitchen.

  He glanced up with a sheepish grin as she walked, yawning, into the kitchen in her housecoat.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Smells good.” She smiled as she reached up to give him a kiss.

  With a flourish, he pulled a chair from the table then motioned for her to sit. “Let’s let the kids sleep. We can eat together and they can eat later.”

  After a cozy breakfast, she retreated to the bedroom to get dressed while he stepped out the front door to get the morning paper. He removed the rubber band while still on the porch and read as he made his way to a leather-covered easy chair in the living room. He read methodically, section by section. In the local section was the story of the killing he had been called to the previous day. He sat up and held the paper closer. As usual, the reporter got about half of the details correct and Demetrius noticed the writer had sensationalized the thumbs being cut off. There were no photographs but the account of the murder had been gruesomely detailed in three short paragraphs.

  Demetrius growled as he turned to the editorial section. In huge bold letters was the headline. MURDERS CONTINUE—POLICE INEFFECTIVE.

  The editorial was a scathing rebuke of the Tucson Police Department and the homicide detectives in particular. “How hard could it be,” wrote the editor, “to arrest the perpetrators of these heinous crimes against humanity? After all, this is not Chicago.”

  Demetrius spent the rest of the day in a bad mood, not only because of the editorial, but also because he was one of the lead homicide investigators for the Tucson Police Department Violent Crimes Division and he took any criticism of the Division as criticism of him on a personal level.

  Killings in Tucson were not as frequent as in the bigger cities, but each murder, especially the unsolved ones, were a black mark on the hardworking policemen in the TPD. Demetrius’s track record was actually better than some of the other detectives and he was proud of the fact. Still, he was aware there were far too many cold case files, and, he had to admit, some were his. He stood from his chair to look out the front room window to the peaceful, residential street in front of his house. The recollection of the grisly scene of the severed thumbs from the murder scene brought a frown to his face. He knew the murderer was out there somewhere. He spoke out loud to himself. “I’ll find you. Sooner or later, I’ll find you.”

  Demetrius’s disposition was not much better by the time the work week started. His frustration mounted during his Monday morning commute from his home on the northwest side of town to the downtown station took longer than normal because of a wreck on the freeway. He waved politely to the highway patrolman who ushered him past the crumpled, blue Nissan Sentra on the shoulder of the road. Demetrius studied the scene as he crept by. Next to the car a man held a woman. She was obviously distraught, hugging him with her head buried in the crook of his neck. It wasn’t until Demetrius got to the station he knew the exact reason the woman was so upset.

  A group of sad-faced, uniformed officers leaned on one of the office space partitions.

  “What’s up?” Demetrius stopped in front of the men. Usually, this group was playful and laughing as they got ready for shift change, but today the mood was somber.

  “Wreck on the southbound freeway,” answered one.

  “Yeah, I saw that.”

  “Killed a baby.” The statement was short and terse.

  Demetrius exhaled and dropped his head in instant sadness. He didn’t know the people but it made no difference. In the course of his job he had seen countless dead bodies and he readily admitted he had grown somewhat callous. A murder victim was just that, a murder victim with evidence to give and another case to be solved. Most of the time he practiced the art of detachment when it came to dead bodies, but the death of a child still hurt his heart. He shook his head then, in a somber mood, wandered past to his office.

  As he entered the room his eyes were instantly drawn to the stack of case folders seeming to stare at him from the interior darkness. They only served to darken his already foul attitude as he flipped the light switch. The folders sat at the back, right corner of his desk and represented a number of unsolved murders for the past four years.

  Seeing the unsolved case folders and remembering the previous day’s editorial brought a frown to his broad face. He was working hard. He knew he was a good cop, but the stinging rebuke from the paper still hurt. He touched the stack as he walked past, remembering each case in each folder. He knew the contents well because he had studied them repeatedly for any clue, but no matter how many times he searched through them, nothing concrete had surfaced.

  “Sure would be nice to get a break,” he mumbled.

  A shadow appeared at his door accompanied by a light knock. He looked up to see the Lieutenant waiting for a cue to enter. Demetrius’s frown deepened. He had been hoping the ‘talk’ about the newspaper editorial would be later in the day. Maybe by then there might be some development in the new case. With effort he forced his face muscles to relax. “Hi, Lieutenant. Come on in.”

  The boss, only two years older than Demetrius, had been a marginally respected but not particularly well-liked cop. A ladder climber from the very beginning, he was better at politics than he was at actual police work. His expensive suit and polished oxfords were worn daily to impress the Chief, the Mayor and City Council. He entered the room with an air of superiority and started the conversation while standing at the front of the desk.

  Demetrius knew the standing was a power play. At least once a year all the detectives attended body language training to help with their suspect or informer interviews. He had never liked the Lieutenant on a personal level or as an employee, and he hated feeling like he was being manipulated in each conversation.

  The Lieutenant glared. “Did you catch the editorial in the paper yesterday? I sure hated to read that.”

  His eyes were calm as was his voice, but Demetrius knew from experience the man was livid because it shed some doubt on his abilities as a cop and as an administrator. As far as Demetrius was concerned, the man had no abilities as either. He was full of bluff and bluster and tried to take the credit for anything good and pass the blame for anything bad.

  “I saw it. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  An instant flash in the five-foot-eight-inch man’s eyes was a warning to the detective. The Lieutenant was madder than he thought.

  “They got one fact correct.” the smaller man’s voice was deceptively calm and measured. “We have too many murders that we can’t solve.”

  Though he said ‘we’, Demetrius knew very well he meant ‘you.’ He looked into the man’s hard eyes, wondering if he should stand in a power play of his own. He wanted to but fought the temptation because there was no likely positive outcome. The last time he’d stood up to the boss had not ended well and he’d promised Wanda that when dealing with the Lieutenant, he would show restraint.

  From his seat, he nodded. “Yes, sir. Things will break soon. I’ll check to see if we can find anything that might connect this with the cold cases. If there is, sooner or later whoever it is will tip his hand. When he does, Dan and I’ll move in.” Dan was his junior partner. “Since Sturdevant is sick we’ll take this case. We’re on it.” The big man sounded confident though on the inside he knew too many murders, especially drug executions, were never solved.

  The lieutenant leaned on the desk, bringing his face closer in an obvious display of his status as the boss. “You make sure of that. The Chief is on me so I’m on you. Let’s get this one solved, the quicker the better. Okay?”<
br />
  Demetrius nodded and watched as the short man turned to march down the hall, his hard soled shoes clacking on the polished linoleum floor.

  ◆◆◆

  Edward attended his morning classes, sitting as always in his customary seat on the front row because it was expected. His urge to kill someone had diminished as it always did. Countless times he’d thought about a murder, going so far as to determine the victim and the method, but in the end, he always reverted to his compliant self.

  After his ten o’clock class he strolled by the old chemistry building on his way to the library. As he looked up at the windows on the fourth floor, he had the strangest feeling. It seemed to be a feeling of power because he had held the life of the professor in his hands and had decided not to go through with the killing. The sensation filled his chest and brought a flush to his cheeks.

  Unaccustomed to the sudden feeling of power and control, he stopped quickly on the sidewalk, so quickly a coed bumped into him from behind.

  She bent to retrieve a dropped book, then sneered. “What are you, like, retarded or something?”

  She turned and hurried away before he could answer, but her words stung. As he stood on the sidewalk with students passing on both sides, he looked again at the high windows. The feeling of power grew in him in a way it never had before. It rose from his hips and over his shoulders to his chest to edge out the feeling of inferiority caused by the girl’s words of a few seconds earlier. It felt good. With a resolve he had never before experienced, his desire to kill became overpowering.

  Chapter 5

  Edward sat on a bench under the shade of an olive tree on the University of Arizona campus. The afternoon sun glared off the windows of the eight-story science library which jutted into the sky behind the older and much shorter chemistry building. Sweat beaded on his lip even though the shade kept the intense heat at bay.

  He stared at the almost hundred-year-old chemistry building. Each time the old wood and glass doors opened, Edward glanced to see who was exiting. After what seemed like an hour, Dr. Smallwood rolled from the doorway onto the sidewalk at the front of the building. He paused only a moment to speak to a student, then his considerable arms pushed forward and the wheelchair gained speed traveling west several hundred feet before turning south toward one of the faculty parking lots.

  At a reasonable distance, Edward casually followed. His objective for the day was to learn which vehicle belonged to the wheelchair-bound man. He had already searched the internet and knew his address. Remembering the lecture about stupid mistakes, he wanted to know everything about the man in order to have a fool-proof plan in place. His tentative date was November 6th, eight weeks away.

  ◆◆◆

  Lucinda Smallwood stared out the window while leaning on the credenza, lovingly watching her husband as he worked in the garden. As she watched, she marveled again at his ingenuity. The walkways were concrete so he could easily roll his chair to and from the block-sided raised beds two feet off the ground. The various vegetable plants were easily accessible for harvesting, though she had chided him several times over the past years that the two of them couldn’t eat all he could grow. All she got in response each time was a smile and another wicker basket full of squash, carrots, bell peppers and tomatoes. It seemed as though they supplied the entire neighborhood with fresh fruits and vegetables.

  She absently turned the ring on her finger. They’d been married forty glorious years. She had fallen in love with him way back in high school in southern California. He had been a football hero and could have had any girl in the school, but he chose her, a shy introvert who was good at math. Their senior year she had volunteered to be a tutor just for something to do. He visited her regularly so his grades would be good enough to play college football.

  When a scholarship offer was extended by the University of Arizona, he asked her to apply there too so they could go together. They were inseparable and grew even closer after the accident. No one was surprised when they married, although several of her girlfriends questioned her judgment for wanting to marry a paraplegic. She never wavered, and now, all these years later, she was more in love with the man than she could ever have dared to dream.

  She smiled as she noticed him wheeling away from the garden spot, over a small concrete incline reaching toward the driveway. As usual, he had a basket full of vegetables on his lap. Halfway up the slope, he stopped to rest. She frowned. He had never needed to rest before and she noticed his chest rising and falling from hard breathing. At length, he started again, stopping at the back door to place the basket on a table in the shade of the carport.

  She met him at the door. He was all smiles, although his breathing was raspy.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m great,” he replied, but she could tell he wasn’t.

  “Are you getting sick?”

  “I just can’t seem to catch my breath today. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

  But she did worry. The next day while he was at work, she called to make an appointment with the doctor’s office for two weeks from Thursday.

  ◆◆◆

  A cool westerly breeze lifted the flags at the south end of the high school stadium on a pleasant Thursday evening. It was the fourth week of football season and second home game for the junior varsity squad. Demetrius and Wanda sat in their rigid stadium chairs under the bright lights watching their son, a mountain of a man in his own right, play outstanding defense for the home team. The proud parents jumped and cheered at every good play.

  The phone at Demetrius’ side vibrated and quacked like a duck. He smiled as he watched his wife shake her head. He knew she thought it was a dumb ringtone and to tell the truth, he didn’t particularly care for it either, but the look on her face each time it went off was worth it.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Demetrius.”

  He recognized the voice right away. “Well, hello, Lucinda. How in the world are you today?”

  “We’re good. Carl would like to ask you a favor.” She sounded tired and he somehow sensed she was not as good as she had proclaimed.

  “Sure. Anything. What can I do for you?”

  “He’ll need to explain. Could you and Wanda come for supper tomorrow night?”

  “Just a sec.” He held the phone to his chest and focused on his wife. “The Smallwoods are inviting us for dinner tomorrow. Can we make it?”

  She lifted her eyebrows and shrugged. He took that for a positive answer.

  “We’d be glad to come. What time?”

  “About seven o’clock.”

  “We’ll be there. Can we bring anything?”

  “Just your appetite. Looking forward to seeing you.”

  He changed phone hands then touched his wife’s knee while focusing on the call. “Us too, but you sound tired. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Her voice quivered. “He just needs a favor.”

  He shook his head, wondering what the problem was and hoping it wasn’t serious. “We’ll be there.”

  He squeezed Wanda’s knee while taking a deep breath as he holstered his phone. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest. In a moment of reflection, he thought of his good friend Carl Smallwood, twenty years his senior, ex-University of Arizona football player, and the man who had been his inspiration to finish college. With a small shake of his head, he recalled the effort put forth by the man on his behalf, the many early morning meetings to keep Demetrius on track and the unwavering support.

  At graduation, no one knew who was prouder, Demetrius or Carl. Their friendship had continued to grow in the ensuing years and the Smallwoods had unofficially adopted the Crowns, and the Crown children had likewise adopted them as surrogate grandparents. The Smallwoods had children of their own, some the same age as Demetrius and Wanda and others younger. The families grew closer as the years progressed.

  Demetrius sat quietly, suddenly losing interest in the game as he thought of his own personal relationship
with the man. He had never had a father growing up. He realized in a moment of clarity that Carl had been the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. If something was wrong, he’d do anything he could to help.

  ◆◆◆

  Edward scoured the local newspaper’s internet sites. He knew one of the first things he needed was a bogus trail to lead the cops away from him. Common sense told him if he could copy a murder, the police would have conflicting information such that a trail could not lead toward him. A recent story told of the so-called thumb murder and it gave the kind of detail he needed for the perfect copycat crime.

  He pictured in his mind exactly how it would be, and he was entranced in his imagination of Dr. Smallwood begging for mercy. In his mind, Edward knew exactly what he needed for the perfect crime and plans were in motion to acquire everything in such a way there would be not the slightest hint pointing back in his direction.

  ◆◆◆

  Demetrius and Wanda arrived at the Smallwood residence in an upscale subdivision in the north-central part of Tucson. They parked in the oversized circular driveway where the giant trees blocked the setting sun and the expansive shrubbery surrounding the yard and house gave the impression of a desert haven. They had been guests countless times over the previous years since their marriage, and they were always made to feel welcome and appreciated.

  They heard Carl’s loud call, “Come on around back.”

  The younger couple made their way between the detached garage and the house, down a concrete walkway leading to the backyard. Shrubs, trees and green grass were plentiful amidst the sidewalks which allowed Carl to navigate to and from various points of the oasis. Demetrius shook his head at the sight and was inwardly embarrassed at his own, plain landscaping. Here was a thriving Garden of Eden tended by Dr. Smallwood who was confined to a wheelchair. Demetrius admitted for the thousandth time how amazing the man was.