The Witness (27 page)

“No wallet on him. A seventy-year-old retired gentleman, by appearance still in reasonably good physical shape: good muscle tone, fit, not wearing glasses or hearing aids, and with tennis shoes that look well used for walking. He would probably have lived to be a hundred if someone hadn’t murdered him.”

Connor absorbed the details while trying to block out the smell. The hands were still in remarkably good shape given the decomposition, no slices or broken bones. “No defensive wounds? That surprises me.”

“Probably the blow to the side of the face comes first, knocks him down, attacker straddles him and stabs repeatedly … ,” Marsh guessed, noting the angles.

“Yeah. You can see where the attacker’s legs protected the guy’s slacks from the blood splatter. Our doer must have looked a mess on his way out of the house afterward unless he changed clothes somewhere inside. There weren’t blood drops on the front walk that I saw. Arrived and departed by car?”

“There’s a door going out to the garage. We’ll check that direction. After dark, a short walk to a parked car—neighbors aren’t going to be that nosy, but we’ll see what anyone happened to remember.”

“He’ll have bloody clothes, shoes, a knife—at least it is something to find. Who called it in?”

“The postman thought it odd the mail and newspapers hadn’t been picked up for a couple days and mentioned it to an area patrol. Officers knocked on house doors on either side of here and across the street but found no one home. I’m wagering we’re looking at a retired guy living in a neighborhood of working couples and no one will remember seeing anything at all.”

“It’s easier to solve a murder in a community where crime is an occasional thing than a neighborhood absolutely shocked when it happens the first time,” Connor agreed, hoping someone at least had a dog that had gone off barking for no reason at all and an owner observant enough to remember the cars on the street. He looked at his partner. Marsh had caught the call—this one was his. “Where do you want me?”

Marsh smiled and nodded toward the hall, letting him off the hook. “Work the office and bedroom and find us a name for him. If you can’t find his wallet, a prescription bottle might do. It looks like he lives alone.”

“Thanks.”

“The next one is going to be yours. I’m betting it’s an ice floater in one of the rivers.”

“Don’t even think it,” Connor protested, remembering last year’s winter discovery. He headed toward the bedroom to see if he could put a name to their victim. “We’ve got blood drops in the hallway,” he called, noting the evidence. “Maybe cleaned up in the bathroom?”

He glanced in the open door on his left. “Oh yeah, blood in the bathroom. He tried to wash up in here.” A bleach bottle sat with the cap still half off in the tub, suggesting the killer had been at least trying to destroy evidence of his own presence after the wash-up. The lab guys would be struggling to get prints on the guy, for the smeared blood still present looked like glove smears rather than fingerprints. Connor left that problem to the experts. He nudged open the medicine cabinet. He saw no prescription bottles, which surprised him, just Chap Stick, extra hand soap, a shaving kit, solitary toothbrush. Nothing in the room suggested a female lived here.

The room he thought would be the office turned out to be a spare bedroom. He opened the next room and found it to be the man’s bedroom. The man kept a very neat home—that was Connor’s first impression of the room. The bed was made with the spread tugged tight to remove folds, the pillows perfectly aligned. The furniture was clear of the usual miscellaneous items dumped from pockets: no spare change, matchbooks, toothpicks, pocket comb. A very nice watch sat on the dresser next to a cigar box. Connor pushed up the lid of the cigar box and found it full of coins, a couple dates on the dollar coins putting them at a hundred years old and solid silver. The watch and coins sitting out in plain sight, still here, said this wasn’t an obvious robbery.

Connor opened the top dresser drawer and found the wallet in the same place his own grandfather kept his, top drawer left, next to the folded socks. He opened the thin worn leather. The driver’s license gave him a name, and the photo was enough of a match to be the match they needed. “Nolan Price, seventy-one,” he read aloud. Two hundred in cash still in the billfold.

He carried the wallet back with him to the living room. “I know this guy is going to prove to be former military, probably Korea. The house is tidy neat. I’m not seeing robbery as a motive—there’s cash, coins, a nice watch, all within easy reach.”

“I’ll add another piece to it,” Marsh said. “Look behind you, fourth picture down in that frame of snapshots.”

Connor scanned the wallet photos arranged in the matted frame. “This is not good. Our victim, standing beside a Mr. Henry Benton.” He lifted the frame down and worked the backing free. He slid out the wallet photo and then handed it to his partner. “That looks like a uniform to me.”

“Chauffeur? It must be, given the car that is behind them. What is that, a Rolls?”

“Daniel doesn’t use a chauffeur, but maybe his uncle did. The age would fit with this guy having retired recently.”

“A coincidence? This particular guy turning up dead right now?”

“We’ve had stronger coincidences before,” Connor replied, not wanting to get drawn somewhere the crime wasn’t taking them yet. “Even if he still had something useful like keys to Henry Benton’s estate, that kind of thing—Daniel doesn’t live there, and a robbery isn’t that simple. There are full-time security guards walking the grounds while the estate goes through probate. What’s keeping forensics?”

Marsh stood. “They’ve got a fatal house fire over on the west side of town. I told them not to rush; our guy isn’t going anywhere.”

“True. Let’s get outside a few minutes, Marsh. This is killing my sinuses.”

“It’s a little raw,” Marsh conceded. “If it’s family, we’re probably looking for a nephew, I’m thinking.” He grabbed Connor’s arm, stopping him from passing the mirror. “How did we miss that?”

Connor saw the image too and turned to scan the room. “You’re telling me.”

The note was written in blood across the rich leather-bound books on the middle bookshelf, the note probably bright three days ago and now darkened into a stain in the books’ leather. The sun passing free of clouds had briefly brightened the room and the contrast. He walked with Marsh around the body to get a closer look.

“‘I know …’ Something else looks faded out,” Marsh said.

“‘Family secret,’” Connor figured out, tracing but not touching the pattern from the other end of the shelf. “‘I know the family secret.’”

“What secret? A seventy-one-year-old guy has a family secret worth murdering over?” Marsh wondered aloud. “This victim is not Henry Benton giving away two hundred million in his will. What is going through this killer’s messed-up head?”

“I don’t think we’re looking for someone particularly crazy,” Connor said. “He used blood already at the scene and on a vertical canvas; that’s a nice way to stop any match to handwriting. And writing on objects—forget fingerprints in this. This looks like a paper towel dipped in blood was used as a pen.”

“The psychiatrist is going to love interpreting this one,” Marsh agreed, writing the words down.

“You’ve got to admit, notes are pretty rare. What is this, our second one in six years?”

“I didn’t like that case either,” Marsh replied. “What else? Is that the extent of the message or did he try and write on something else strange when this line of books ran out?”

Connor looked around the room. “It’s going to take hours to eliminate everything.”

“The back of doors, the back of pictures, rolled-up blinds … not just what we see now, but what the killer might have selected as amusing at the time. What time are you meeting Marie tonight?”

“Eight.”

“Don’t expect to make it on time.”

Connor took out his phone. “I knew it was going to be like this today, Marsh. Didn’t I tell you just this morning while we were getting coffee that things were going too smooth with Marie?”

“You did.”

“The third date and I’m already canceling one.” Connor shook his head and walked away to have some privacy for the call.

“Don’t tell her someone killed her father’s former chauffeur, claiming to know a family secret,” Marsh offered dryly, beginning the laborious process of turning over pictures on the wall one at a time to check for what might or might not appear behind them.

Connor scowled at his partner. “Marie? Connor. How’s the picture unpacking going?”

He listened and smiled at her answer as he walked through into the kitchen to begin systematically opening and closing all the cabinet doors.

“You’re not going to be able to come tonight after all,” Marie guessed, speculating on why he had called back so soon.

“I’m afraid not. We’ve got a case that wants to be difficult.”

“Dangerous?”

“Only to catching hepatitis B or some other blood-born bug. Forensics isn’t here yet so the preliminary walk-through is on us.” He covered the phone. “Marsh.”

His partner came to join him.

Connor pointed to the inside of the pantry door.
I know the family secret
was painted in blood across the wood.

“He’s getting neater. This must be the second attempt to write it.”

“Prints,” Connor suggested. “Maybe.”

“A very slim maybe. But five will get you ten we find this message at least a couple more times.”

“I’d take that bet.”

“Connor?”

He uncovered the phone. “Sorry, Marie. I was talking to Marsh.”

“You’re at a murder scene?”

He opened the refrigerator, wondering if there would be a message written in blood inside it too. “I’m in a kitchen looking at a half-used carton of eggs,” he replied, getting the image in her mind down to something more subdued than what he figured she was thinking. “Can I call you late tonight instead? Say around ten?”

“I’ll still be up.”

“Thanks, Marie. I’ll talk to you then.” Connor hung up the phone. “The reporters are going to have a field day with this crime-scene write-up.”

“You know about the message; I do. We play bullies with the crime-scene folks—maybe we can keep it suppressed. At least the words of the message.”

Connor shook his head. “There is no way reporters are not all over this as soon as the crime-scene photos are taken and our report written. It’s not only a good story, it’s a good
new
story. You know the news it is Henry’s chauffeur will have it leading on page one of the society section tomorrow; it’s
new
news that gives them a reason to repeat the Marie and Tracey story all over again. And when someone mentions what the message says, it’s going to be announced in screaming headlines in a big, bold font.”

“Then let’s hope it really is some nephew that we find sitting at his kitchen table still wearing the bloody clothes three days later. Otherwise you might end up arresting me for confronting a reporter who splashed the investigation details across the evening news.”

Connor smiled. “You want me to call the deputy chief?”

“I’ll do it.” Marsh pulled out his phone. “After that I’ll call the chief himself. No use keeping the good news quiet. We’ll need to interview Daniel tonight. He’s the one who probably knows this guy and when he retired and who was listed as the next-of-kin contact in the employee file.”

“On a Thursday evening—he’ll be playing racquetball at the club.”

“By chance do you know what Daniel was doing Monday evening?”

Connor frowned at his partner. “Helping me move furniture around, from five to after ten.” His partner put Daniel on the list of folks to eliminate for doing the murder, and while he would have done the same, it was still an unpleasant thought to have had.

“Just asking.” Marsh’s attention turned to his call. “Yes, sir, I’m on scene now. Nolan Price, age seventy-one. A stabbing attack with rage features. There’s a note left at the scene written in blood. We’re going to need some special handling on this as I’d like to keep that quiet as long as possible.” Marsh smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I’ll keep you informed. Thank you, sir.”

He closed the phone. “One copy of the case report and it goes directly to the deputy chief until this is wrapped; nothing gets filed through channels.”

“The beat reporters are going to be burning you in effigy.”

Marsh smiled. “That just leaves the forensics folks to keep quiet.”

“Take names at the door and threaten bodily harm for who talks—I doubt it will work, but you can try.”

“Give me a week with this message under wraps and I can use it to break the guy who did it. He’s going to be begging for a chance to talk about his message when we get him into an interview room.”

“The family secret is burning a hole in him, whatever it is,” Connor agreed. He began opening drawers. “Do you see any knives missing from this kitchen? That wooden block on the counter looks full, and I’m not seeing a miscellaneous drawer with another knife or two lying around. The dishwasher is empty.”

“Our killer brought his own weapon—that doesn’t often happen with a knife, not a slim-blade knife at least. Those wounds didn’t look wide like a military knife.”

“That was my thought too.”

“So maybe not a family argument that flares, gets out of control, and the old man gets stabbed to death, but something a lot more premeditated.”

“We don’t get that many premeditated murders either.” Connor closed drawers. “I’m glad this one is yours.”

“Thanks a lot,” Marsh replied dryly. “I’m calling the chief now. Unless you would like to do the honors?”

“I’d confirm that employment first and the fact this is indeed Henry’s retired chauffeur. Maybe scan for tax returns in the office? I’m sure he’s got them filed in chronological order, given how everything else is maintained. A copy of an old W-2 will do it.”

“Good point.” Marsh left the kitchen to go check.

Connor eased open the trash-can lid while holding his breath, afraid that he might be staring at the bloody knife or something else gut curdling attracting bugs. Just the remains of an omelet, too many days old, resting atop a folded newspaper and an opened can of chili. “When I die, God, please let my place burn down so someone isn’t going through my trash afterward, wondering at how I lived,” he whispered, gratefully closing the lid, and stepped away.