Lethal Invitation Page 8
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The lake at Reid Park Zoo was much too crowded for Edward to dispose of the gun. He had visited the location two times precisely at nine o’clock each Tuesday evening over the last two weeks to choose the best spot from which to throw the pistol into the water. Each previous time the lakeshore and adjacent picnic tables had been empty. It was even colder this night than last week so the expectation was for the place to be devoid of people, but there was some type of frat party with loud music and fiery bamboo tiki torches and college-age kids which made it impossible to ditch the Glock. Edward drove by slowly, then with no other option, tucked the gun under the driver’s seat and headed back to his apartment. He could get rid of it tomorrow.
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Demetrius sat on the couch with his arm around Wanda. A large bowl of popcorn rested, half on his leg and half on hers, as they watched Dancing with the Stars. It was a tradeoff agreed to many years earlier when he wanted to watch Monday Night Football and expected her to watch with him. She agreed only if he would consent to watch what she wanted on Tuesday nights.
The phone vibrated and quacked like a duck on the coffee table next to Demetrius’ feet. He was initially happy for the reprieve from the mindless dancing show, but frowned as he recognized the number of Dan, his partner.
“Hi, Dan. How’re you doing?”
“Not good, I’m afraid. I have some bad news for you.”
Demetrius stood, immediately concerned. He quickly racked his brains and knew it couldn’t be the kids because they were all home. A dull pain started in his chest. “I’m listening.”
“It’s your friend, Dr. Smallwood.”
Demetrius immediately understood. From his last visit, he knew the man was failing quickly. “I see.” He frowned, then immediately wondered why his partner would be calling him with the news. “So…., Why are you calling?”
“It’s my night to work. I got the call from the one of the uniformed boys about thirty minutes ago and it doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t make any sense?”
“The killer cut off both his thumbs.”
Demetrius sat hard on the couch, his face contorted in confusion. “What?”
“He was shot in the back of the head and had both thumbs cut off.”
The big detective shook his head and frowned, unable to wrap his head around what he was hearing. “No. He was dying of cancer.”
“I don’t know about that, but we do need your help here. The wife is pretty distraught and I’d like for you to take a look at the murder scene.”
He reached for Wanda’s hand while talking on the phone. “Are you sure we’re talking about Dr. Smallwood?”
“Yes. Your friend. The one in the wheelchair. I’m here at his house now. Can you come over?”
The eight-minute drive was silent with neither speaking. Demetrius had requested Wanda come to help with Lucinda Smallwood while he helped Dan with his investigation, though he was hoping that somehow there had been a mistake. They arrived to be met by a uniformed officer at the driveway.
“This way.” He pointed toward the garden. Demetrius was torn between his desire to care for the wife of the man who had meant so much to him and the desire to get right into the case and find the killer. With a squeeze of her hand, he sent Wanda inside while he, putting on his homicide detective face, followed the pointing of the officer to the back of the garden where he was met by Dan.
“Thanks for coming.”
A grunt was the only answer as the men strode to the body, limp and lifeless in the chair. Demetrius’ shoulders sagged as he recognized the corpse and an involuntary breath escaped from his lungs. The beam from Dan’s flashlight crisscrossed the body, the chair and the surrounding concrete. A glint from something caught the senior detective’s eye. He extracted his pen as he bent to retrieve a spent, nine-millimeter casing lodged in the crevice between the walkway and the short retaining wall. Dan pulled a clear plastic bag from his pocket and held it open while Demetrius allowed the casing to fall from the pen. The bigger man then bent and still using the pen, lifted one corner of the discarded pillow with a hole and burn markings to see underneath. There was nothing.
Next to the large wheels, directly beneath the hanging arms, lay the severed thumbs. There was some blood on the sidewalk but not the massive amount one would expect if the heart was still beating at the time of the cutting. Demetrius allowed himself one small sigh of relief at the thought that his mentor and good friend had been spared that agonizing punishment. But why would anyone want to harm the gentle professor? He was loved by his students and had many friends inside and outside the university—and no enemies Demetrius knew of.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, although as he did, he realized the desert night was cool, almost cold. He came to the conclusion that perhaps he was too close to the situation. He was, after all, a good friend. No, more than that, he confessed to himself, more than a friend. He loved the man as the father he never had. He drew a breath to speak, to tell Dan he shouldn’t be an investigator on this particular homicide, but Dan spoke before he could begin. The words cut Demetrius to the core.
“If this was an execution, we’ll have to check into any possible drug background.”
The senior detective was immediately back on the case. There was no way he was going to let Dan or any other detective drag the good name of Dr. Smallwood through the mud with drug accusations and investigations. “I can tell you he wasn’t into drugs in any way. The man wouldn’t even drink a Pepsi because of the caffeine. This was not a drug execution like the sand wash murder was. Or at least like we think it was. It may look like the two are related, but I’m sure they’re not. We’ll know tomorrow after forensics gets a chance to compare the casing.”
Demetrius stepped to the side for another, parting gaze at the man to whom he owed so much. He took a deep breath. “He was dying of cancer.”
Dan nodded, then hesitated, obviously hesitant to make the next statement. The big detective noticed.
“What?”
“Well, we’ll need to ask his wife some questions. Could this be a mercy killing?”
The prospect had not crossed Demetrius’s mind. He shook his head. “I’ve known the Smallwoods for the past twenty years. I know them well and I’m sure of two things. He wasn’t into drugs and she didn’t kill him.”
He saw the look in his partner’s eyes, the expression that says, “I’ll take your word for it but no one knows anything for sure when it comes to murder.” Demetrius nodded, indicating his understanding that depending on the initial findings, they may have to question the wife. He placed his hand on Dan’s shoulder and gave it a caring squeeze before turning to assist his wife in the house as she attempted to console Lucinda.
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Edward woke the next morning sore and tired. He had tossed and turned all night, although the reason for the restless sleep had nothing to do with remorse. It was because he was frustrated and disappointed at the anticlimax of the killing. The pathetic professor had not shown any fear, in fact, it seemed as though he welcomed the end of his life. That picture was in direct opposition to the fantasy Edward had held as he planned the killing. The boy had wanted the man to cringe at the realization he was going to die, to beg for his life and plead for mercy, all the while acknowledging that the student, rather than the professor, was in complete control.
Edward had meticulously planned countless murders and his expectation had always been that the killing would bring about in him the feeling of control and power. He was furious a weatherman, an invalid, a cripple, would dare rob him of the feeling he deserved.
***
The night had been long and restless for Demetrius as well. He and Wanda stayed at the house with Mrs. Smallwood long after the photographer was gone and the coroner’s attendants had loaded the body. He was up early to be ready to meet Dan at the Smallwoods’ to see what evidence might be collected in the light of day.
The cri
me scene tape hung limply at the entrance to the garden from a dwarf orange tree on one side and a dead tomato plant on the other. Demetrius stepped over the tape, then stopped with arms folded to study the scene. He squinted at the early morning sun rising over the greenery, then strolled to the back, slowly but with purpose, eyeing his surroundings for any clue.
He stopped a few feet from the chalk lines showing the location of the wheelchair and two circles around bloody spots where the thumbs had fallen. To his dismay, he saw nothing more than he had seen the night before. In the early morning stillness, he heard the brakes on Dan’s car squeal, then a car door slam. In less than a minute, Dan stood at his side.
“Anything new?”
“Not yet. Just got here myself.” He paused, peering to the front of the property then to the back. “I was wondering how the killer got here. Did he walk from the road and driveway or did he slip into the garden from the back of the lot? If he came the back way, there should be some sign. Maybe a footprint?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
They walked side-by-side along the concrete walkway first to the south then to the north. At the farthest edge of the garden, the bigger man reached to keep Dan from walking farther. There on the concrete path was a sprinkling of mulch and dirt. Both men approached slowly, examining the spill then the planter box to the side. It was the obvious point of entrance. Several plants were crushed and there were depressions in the soft dirt where someone had stepped.
Demetrius glanced at his partner, then nodded before stepping onto the retaining wall and ducking through the shrubbery to stand on the outside edge of the planter box. Only after searching the dirt of the bank of the dry riverbed for any evidence of footprints did he step down. A few seconds later, Dan emerged to stand at his side.
There was no trail and no immediately visible footprints, only intermittent desert grasses and weeds on the sandy bank. Looking both directions, Demetrius walked slowly to the north, the likely point of approach. In twenty feet they were rewarded with a clear print where the assailant climbed to the bank from the wash below. From immediately behind, he heard the beeping as Dan punched the numbers on his phone, then within seconds, his partner’s request.
“This is Detective Robinson. We need a forensics team at the site of last night’s murder. We’ve found a footprint.”
Chapter 11
The lieutenant barged into Demetrius’s office only seconds after the big detective walked in and hung his light sports coat on a stand in the corner. “What’ve you got?”
Demetrius turned from the coat rack to face his superior. He was in a foul mood and chose not to sit but rather to stand erect at his full height to stare down at the man. It was a power play he had long dreamed of but never taken the opportunity. His expression caused the lieutenant to blink and swallow hard before taking a small step back.
The big man paused, enjoying the brief moment before explaining. “We found a footprint this morning and a pillow with a bullet hole. The forensics guys are working on those and we have a shell casing they have upstairs. I was going to call up there first thing to see if they’ve found anything. It’s the first thing on my list.” He glared at the intruder.
The boss either ignored the hint or didn’t realize what it was. He raised his voice. “The mayor has already gotten calls about another murder. We need to get these wrapped up. I want you to concentrate on these and nothing else, and if you can’t handle it, I’ll find someone who can.” He turned his back and marched out of the office and down the hall.
Demetrius watched him go and had to consciously relax his neck and shoulder muscles as well as his clenched hands. He shook his head before taking a seat and savagely picking up the phone. The fact there was no answer only frustrated him all the more so he slammed the phone to the cradle and stood to go upstairs to see the head of forensics in person.
By the time he had jogged up three flights of stairs his anger had diminished. At the door, he scanned the office and knocked lightly. One of the techs, a new one evidently, looked up from some project. With a jerk of his head, he invited the detective into the lab.
“I’m looking for Robert.”
“He called in sick today so I guess I’m in charge. Is there something I could help you with?”
The big man grimaced and furrowed his brow. The kid looked barely old enough to shave much less mature enough to be in charge. “How long will he be out?”
The boy shrugged.
The detective needed information and he needed it now so he pushed ahead. “I’m Demetrius Crown from downstairs. We recovered a shell casing last night and wondered if he had been able to take a peek at it.”
“Dusty Rhodes.” The youngster smiled and extended his hand. Demetrius returned the smile at the not-altogether-uncommon southwestern name. Dusty chuckled then pointed to his workbench.
“This one?”
Demetrius focused to see, under a light and magnifying glass, a nine-millimeter casing. “Maybe. Is it from last night?”
“Yeah. You’re in luck. There are some partial prints.”
Demetrius’ mood was suddenly much brighter. “Sweet. Have you recovered them yet?”
“Sure have. Keep in mind they are partials, but one thumbprint and one fingerprint should make for a positive ID. They’re running through the databases as we speak. Maybe fifteen minutes to finish and see if there’s a match.”
“That’s great news.” The older man smiled for the first time that morning. His shoulders tingled. He pointed toward the magnifying glass. “Can you determine if it matches a casing from a murder from a month or so ago?”
“I can check and see. Do you have a case number?”
“I can get it from my office. I remember the victim’s name, though, if you can find it that way.”
“Sure. Let’s give it a try.”
He gave the name and watched in anticipation over the tech’s shoulder as it was entered into the search bar on the computer. Within seconds the results flashed on the screen.
“Bingo,” exclaimed the man in the chair. Demetrius had to quickly step back as Dusty hurriedly rotated the stool then strode to the back of the lab. He returned in thirty seconds holding a plastic bag with a spent cartridge inside. Pulling latex gloves on with a snap, he extracted the shell and placed it next to the one under the magnifying glass with an attached round lamp.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Demetrius tapped his foot lightly and repressed the urge to look over Dusty’s shoulder to see for himself, although he knew he didn’t have the training to see whatever the tech was looking at.
“Hmmm,” came the mumble as Dusty leaned back to find a pair of tweezers which he used to reposition one of the shells. He cocked his head this way and that as he studied the shells under the magnification, then rotated and leaned back on the stool to face the big detective. A half-smile showed on his face as he twirled the tweezers in both hands. “Different gun.” The comment was given in a matter-of-fact, sure-of-himself way.
“How can you tell?”
The tech swiveled his stool and picked up one of the shells with the tweezers. “They are both Winchester nine-millimeter and were both fired by semi-automatic weapons, but that’s where the similarity ends.” He pulled a pen from the pocket protector of his lab coat and pointed to the butt end of the casing. “Semi-autos have extractors that force the shell to eject so a new one can be loaded. The extractors leave small scratches or indentations on the base of the shell.” He rotated his wrist allowing the big detective to see the shell. “The scratches on these two are different, hence, different guns.” He replaced the shell to the glass, then folded his arms and smiled self-assuredly at the big man.
Demetrius knew guns and the explanation made perfect sense, although he admitted he wouldn’t have thought the extractors might have made different marks on the shell. He studied the young man before nodding in appreciation.
“I guessed as much. I think last night’s murder wa
s a copycat. It’s nice to have some backup there.” He looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “How long till we get a read on the prints?”
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Edward showered and got dressed to be ready for his nine o’clock class with Dr. Milligan. He had yet to miss a single class in his two years at the university and even though he had things to do today, missing class was not an option—his dad wouldn’t permit it.
He stepped into the small kitchen tucked into a corner of the two-bedroom apartment for a bowl of cereal. There on the table sat the book from the library along with his student ID card.
“Sweet,” he mumbled with a sadistic grin. He quickly ruffled the pages of the book. As expected, the small printer tape indicating check out and due date was tucked inside. Leaving it where it was, he placed the book into his backpack and the ID card into his wallet. All thoughts of eating were gone so he strolled through the door, slamming and locking it before turning toward campus.
He started out cheerful enough, but the improved mood from finding the book checked out to him with the time stamp of eight-forty-seven pm had completely evaporated by the time he took his seat in class. He felt so unfulfilled. All that work, all that planning, for nothing. He felt powerless. Sure, he had killed a man, but there was no feeling of dominance, of power or of control. He shook his head. Thirty minutes into the lecture, he realized he’d been so filled with the futility of the killing he hadn’t heard a single word. He tried to focus, but within minutes he had regressed to comparing the fantasy of the murder to the actual killing. It had been such a let-down. Surely, no normal person would be so calm when facing their executioner. It was in that moment he decided not to ditch the pistol, but try again to see how the next victim would react.
Dr. Milligan dismissed the class and the mass of students hurried to the exits at the back of the hall. Edward turned in his seat to study them over his shoulder, wondering if one of them might be his next victim. He relished the instant return of his sense of power.