The Bailey Murder
Leesburg, South Carolina
Senior Homicide Detective Michael Dobson arrived at the scene soon after the early morning call. Andrea Bailey, one of Leesburg’s wealthiest residents, was found dead in her mansion at the bottom of the staircase with her neck broken and her skull cracked. She was seventy-eight years old. A back door had been pried open and much of the house rummaged in an apparent robbery.
Investigators were puzzled to find that Mrs. Bailey’s high-tech security alarm system hadn’t been armed. At first glance, nothing appeared to be stolen. Drawers and cabinets had been opened, their contents scattered, but much of her expensive jewelry, paintings, sculptures and anything else of value was left behind.
Her deceased husband, Richard E. Bailey, had been a successful real estate magnate. After his retirement, the couple had settled in the town of Leesburg in a mansion built on ten acres of fenced-in land, miles from the populated areas of town. Richard and Andrea Bailey never had children. Their niece, Evelyn Bailey, was executor of their estate and had become well-known after the death of her own parents in a tragic private plane crash, which had happened five years prior to her uncle Richard’s heart attack and death at the age of seventy-nine.
Detective Dobson pulled into Mrs. Bailey’s courtyard in his gray, four-door Crown Victoria, stopping amid other police cars and ambulances. He stepped out of his car and walked past a fountain, following a cement path that led to the marble steps of a double-door front entrance. Inside, he saw five police officers talking with two detectives from the Summerville County Police Department where Dobson also worked. Their jurisdiction covered Leesburg and several other interconnected towns.
A pool of blood had formed across the tiled floor below the winding staircase where Mrs. Bailey lay covered under a white sheet. Standing under a golden chandelier, Dobson examined the expansive foyer beyond. Its circular-shaped entrance-way led on both sides into other rooms. Sunlight beamed into the house through arched windows, their long silk draperies opened halfway. He’d never been in a home quite like it.
A nearby china cabinet stood with its drawers pulled out and emptied across the floor, sterling silverware scattered and glittering in the light. Yellow numbered police placards lined the floor around Mrs. Bailey and next to the blood spots that marked the steps leading up.
Among the investigators in the room were Detective Jack Harris, Dobson’s old partner, kneeling at the bottom of the staircase with Lieutenant Phillip Fitzpatrick. Neither had taken notice of him until one of the officers, Staff Sergeant David Peterson, called out to him from near an expensive-looking painting.
“Morning, Detective.”
Both Harris and Fitzpatrick turned and looked up at Dobson as he approached. “Morning. Got here as soon as I heard.”
Dobson glanced into an adjacent room where a couch had been flipped over along with several tables and lamps. A large bookcase near the fireplace lay on the floor amidst scattered books and broken glass. “What are we looking at here?” he asked.
Harris stood up and stroked his dark mustache. “Trying to figure it out ourselves. Damn wrecking ball went through this place.” The sleeves on his light-blue dress shirt were rolled up. His red tie swayed along with the ID hanging around his neck on a lanyard. He and Dobson nearly matched, both wearing black slacks with their pistols holstered at their waists.
“Who called it in?” Dobson asked.
“Mrs. Bailey’s niece,” Harris said. “She lives here sometimes with her aunt.”
“Sometimes?” Dobson said, curious.
Lieutenant Fitzpatrick suddenly stood up and joined the conversation. “Between here and New York. She looks after her aunt, but hadn’t heard from her in two days. That’s when she called the station, concerned, and asked that we do a courtesy check.”
He paused and pointed at Mrs. Wade’s covered body. “Sergeant Peterson did so and found her dead on the floor here.””
Dobson pulled a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on as he kneeled next to Mrs. Bailey’s body. He lifted the sheet and saw that she was lying on her side with her arms splayed out in front of her, a crack on the back of her skull. Her curly gray hair was covered in dried, crusty blood. “Do we have any idea how long she’s been like this?”
“At least a day or two,” Harris said. “Judging by her discoloration.”
Dobson turned his head to follow a thin trail of blood that led to the last step of the staircase as Lieutenant Fitzpatrick stood over him and spoke.
“We have a break-in and what looks like a murder. The only question is why?”
“Was anything stolen?” Dobson said, pulling the sheet back over her.
“Hard to say at this point,” Harris interjected.
“But I’m sure we’ll find a fair amount of property theft,” the lieutenant added.
Dobson’s knees cracked as he stood up. “We should start with monitoring her accounts. See if any money had been withdrawn.” He walked toward the entranceway to the right, which led to an expansive dining hall. “I heard that her security system was disarmed. That’s a red flag right there.”
“Her niece said that sometimes Mrs. Bailey would forget to set it,” Fitzpatrick said, following him. “It was a big concern of hers when leaving.”
Dobson stopped and turned. “Where is she?”
“Back in New York,” Harris said, walking beside him. “On business for the week.”
Dobson nodded, thinking to himself. “Someone must have been watching the place, perhaps waiting for the niece to leave.”
He looked past the spacious dining hall to his right and saw the entrance to a kitchen where pots and pans covered the floor. He walked over and could hear Harris following behind.
“Strange scene, eh?”
“Whoever was in here had a lot of time on their hands,” Dobson said. They entered the kitchen where cabinets had been opened, drawers pulled out, and pots and pans scattered across the floor. Sergeant Jimenez, a short, stocky officer with a crew cut, turned from the nearby stove and greeted them, digital camera in hand.
“Morning, Detectives.”
“Morning, Sergeant,” Dobson said, surveying the scene. “One heck of a mess.”
The overhead lights illuminated the white cabinets and granite countertops. A nearby open pantry door revealed several shelves that had been emptied, with canned goods and boxes spilled on the floor, as though no stone had been left unturned in what appeared to be a search.
Sergeant Jimenez nodded. “Trashed about every room in the place.”
“It’s like they were looking for something,” Harris said.
Dobson stepped over some pots and broken plates and approached a wide porcelain sink where a stack of dirty dishes rested. “Did Mrs. Bailey employ help? I imagine a place like this has its share of upkeep.”
“We’re looking into it,” Harris said.
Dobson paused as he looked up and scanned the entire kitchen. Its large stainless steel refrigerator hummed in the corner. Curtains were drawn on a window across from him. “Where was the point of entry?”
“In the back,” Harris began. He then pointed outside the kitchen and into the dining area. “The back door was busted wide open.”
“No others?” Dobson asked.
“Not that we’ve seen so far,” Harris said. “Gate was wide open too. Evelyn Bailey said that her aunt had a habit of leaving it open, as well as forgetting to set the alarm.”
Dobson stuck his hands in his pocket and looked around the kitchen. “Seems odd that she wouldn’t have security guards on-hand. She could certainly afford it.”
“I know,” Harris said. “Place was empty though. Not a person around.”
“No one else lives here besides her niece?” Dobson asked.
“Not to our knowledge,” Harris said.
They looked around the kitchen some more and then returned to the foyer where Mrs. Bailey lay on the ground. There was still a
n entire upstairs to be searched, and Dobson felt overwhelmed with all the area yet to be covered.
From the front entrance, two young male paramedics walked inside, guiding a wheeled gurney with a black body bag on top. They looked around at the elegant chandeliers and paintings on the walls around them. One of them whistled.
“Morning,” Harris said as they neared.
“Morning,” they answered back.
They stopped at Mrs. Bailey’s body, where one of them knelt next to a dried puddle of blood on the floor and pointed to her covered body. “Bailey. Is this her?”
“Yes,” Dobson answered. “But don’t touch her yet. Not until forensics arrives.”
He rose, looked at his partner, and sighed. Dobson turned and approached the staircase, placing his hands on the railing and looking up. There were spots of blood on every step. He kept to the side, avoiding the yellow numbered placards, and began walking up, only to be called back down by Fitzpatrick.
“Gentlemen, I have some important news,” he announced to the room.
Dobson halted and turned his head with a sigh as the other police officers entered the foyer, gathering around the lieutenant.
“You too, Detective,” Fitzpatrick said, pointing at Dobson.
Dobson stood on the third step, hesitant, and then walked down as Fitzpatrick continued. “I’ve received word of a suspect seen driving the area the other night in a gray four-door Chevy Suburban.”
“Do we have a license plate?” Harris asked, scribbling into his pocket notebook.
Fitzpatrick stopped. “If we did, I don’t think we’d be standing around here talking about it. Do you?”
“I suppose not,” Harris said. “Who saw the van?”
“People,” Fitzpatrick said. “Now, we need to put out an APB for this vehicle. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. In the meantime, forensics are on their way.”
“Where’s the niece?” Dobson asked.
“She’s flying back today to talk to us at the station,” Fitzpatrick said.
Dobson then pointed upstairs. “Which one is Mrs. Bailey’s room?”
“Come on, Mike,” Harris said, patting his shoulder. “You really need to see this.”
“Be careful. Don’t touch anything,” Fitzpatrick said as the paramedics left with her body.
Dobson followed Harris to the top of the stairs where a table and lamp had been turned over. There were long hallways on both sides with a dozen or so rooms. Harris went down the right past several open doors, revealing rooms all equally ransacked. Portraits hung along the wall, along with family photos that seemed to date back generations.
Harris stopped at the last room on their right and held his arm out for Dobson to enter. “This was Mrs. Bailey’s master bedroom.”
Dobson walked inside, observant. Under the expensive-looking dome lights, the room was filled with elaborately carved furniture and dressers, gold-framed mirrors, and vanity sets. Clothes from open drawers and a nearby, open walk-in closet were strewn across the plush, beige carpeting. He slowly approached a queen-sized bed, with an exquisite silk curtain and canopy around it.
The curtain was open, the blankets dragged to the floor, with several gold-laced pillows tossed aside. In addition to the reckless mess of the otherwise opulent room, he noticed something unusual. There were bullet holes in the bed’s headboard, directly near where someone would have been sleeping. Dobson circled the bed to get a closer look and could see shells on the ground, each one numbered with a yellow placard.
Dobson knelt next to the bed and retrieved one of the shells, holding it up. “Nine millimeter…”
“Yep,” Harris said, entering the room. “Looks like the dumbass fired three shots and missed.”
Dobson got up and walked over to where the blankets had been yanked off to the left. On the ground with the sheets lay some hair curlers, a slipper, and an earring.
“Strange assortment of things left behind,” Harris continued. He then crouched closer to the floor, pointing. He then walked toward a vanity set filled with all kinds of creams and powders and pointed to the shattered mirror with a hole in the middle of it. “Here’s where he fired another round and missed.”
Dobson drew closer and saw yet another shell casing on the floor with a yellow placard next to it. He continued to follow Harris outside the room where he pointed to another hole in the wall next to a painting of a ballerina. “Another shot right here,” he said. “But we can’t find the casing to that one.”
He continued back down the hall, talking along the way. “Mrs. Bailey ran from her bed and miraculously avoided multiple gunshots.” He halted, pointing at the ground where another sandal lay. “She lost this here and kept going. She was headed downstairs.”
He pointed to some broken pearls, a gold necklace, and some earrings as he continued walking. “She lost more jewelry here. At this point, she probably thinks that she’s going to make it. But then…” He stopped at the staircase where there were more hair curlers scattered about, a shawl and a silk robe just lying there.
Dobson looked down each hallway, intrigued. He paused and examined the banister closely, lightly touching the smeared makeup. His eyes traveled down to the hardwood floor where he saw a toothpick lying near a baseboard below the railing. “This is interesting,” he said, knelt and gripping it between two gloved fingers. He then placed the toothpick in a small Ziploc bag.
Harris leaned closer. “What do you have there?”
“Toothpick,” Dobson said. “Seems odd that it’s just lying here.”
“Takes a real son of bitch to chase down an old lady like this,” Harris said.
Dobson stood up and leaned against the railing, looking downstairs at the marble foyer. “Whether she was pushed or fell, this is some sloppy work.”
“You said it,” Harris added. A brief silence followed when he slapped Dobson on the back and descended the stairs. “We’ll convene later. I’m out of here.”
Dobson stood at the railing, confused. “Who’s writing this one up?”
“The report?” Harris asked.
Dobson knew that he was playing dumb. “Yes, the report!”
Harris reached the bottom of the stairs and kept walking. “Sorry, my nine hours are up. I was supposed to be home a while ago.” He then walked out the door with a parting wave.
“Hey, thanks a lot!” Dobson called out as his voice echoed throughout the mansion. But Harris was already gone.
Dobson folded his arms over the railing and looked down. The questions surrounding Mrs. Bailey’s murder were endless. He was confident that they’d find fingerprints, tire tracks, or footprints, something that could help lead them to a suspect.