“Sounds like you’re right, Garth.” Craig glanced back at the bar. “Danny says Millard is bonkers. Says he was flashing a gun in here a few nights ago. He booted him out and told him to never come back. Then, Danny paid a visit to the cops.”
“Told ya. You gotta be careful.”
“Careful?” Craig said. “ Hell, I’m way past careful. I’m going out tomorrow to buy a gun. I’m not taking any chances with a mental midget like Millard. In his tiny pea brain, he thinks he has a motive. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get the opportunity.”
Garth knew Craig meant every word. He wondered if he and Loretta were in any danger. After all, he was here the night Craig cold-cocked Millard. Garth decided he had nothing to fear. Millard didn’t even know who he was. He was worried about Craig though.
“You’re a million miles away, Garth. You okay?”
“Sorry. I was just thinkin’. That Millard is one scary dude. You never know what he could … well, let’s just say—I’ve got a real bad feeling about this.”
Craig had a bad feeling too. That’s normal when fear forces you to buy a gun.
* * *
That Thursday seemed like any other day, but a very special event was planned for the afternoon. Paul and Lauren Beaumont were hosting the official opening of the new Victoria Crossing sales office. The guest list included the who’s who of city government, business and real estate.
The office staff planned the event in an extremely professional manner. Nothing was left to chance. The catering, the decorations and the press kits were flawless. Even the local media was impressed. Chrissie figured they were only covering this because of the free booze.
Paul spoke about his development plan for Victoria Crossing: the new park and green space, the recreation center and the Olympic sized swimming pool. After Paul and Lauren cut the ribbon to officially open the new sales center, the mingling began. Chrissie was so caught up in the event, she lost all track of time and the amount of liquor she had consumed. Charlotte, one of the sales reps, signaled Chrissie she was wanted on the phone.
“Where are you, Mom?” Robbie asked. “Heather and I have been waiting here forever.”
Rain began to fall from low gray clouds as Chrissie drove across town to the Hillside Recreation Center. She felt horribly guilty about forgetting to pick up her kids. She had never done that before. She could easily justify it, however. She was working long hours. She was on overload, running Towercrest Realty coupled with the added pressure of Victoria Crossing. Paul Beaumont was a tough taskmaster. He expected his project to be her first priority. In addition, she was busy with prospective buyers and contractors. She was also training a new sales staff.
As Chrissie turned into the parking lot, she spotted Robbie and Heather standing inside the front doors of the Recreation Center. She was relieved they were okay. Now that Vic Crossing is open, I’ll have more time to spend with them. But I shouldn’t worry so much. My kids are pretty independent. Besides, it’s not my fault. Their father could have offered to help out. But he’s all wrapped up with his new squeeze.
Robbie pushed Heather out of the way and climbed into the front seat. He claimed dibs on riding up front because he was older. Chrissie promised Heather next time would be her turn.
Chrissie drove home along County Road 31. She often chose this alternate route to avoid rush hour traffic on the main thoroughfares to Botsford Downs. The road was a two-lane blacktop with soft shoulders. It needed resurfacing and no longer drained properly. Water collected in huge puddles in many spots. This county road had no streetlights; so on a rainy night like this, visibility was limited.
As she drove, Chrissie apologized to Robbie and Heather for being late. She explained she had to speak at the opening of the new office. Afterwards, the media interviewed her, and then the president of the real estate association asked for a quick meeting with her.
Robbie felt the car weaving. “You okay, Mom?”
Chrissie reached over to brush Robbie’s hair off his forehead. “I’m fine. I’m just tired and—”
“Mom!” Robbie screamed. It was too late.
Their car had crossed the centerline into the oncoming traffic. Her judgment and reflexes impaired by alcohol, Chrissie was slow to react. She had to swerve hard to avoid a head-on collision with a delivery van. Sliding on the wet pavement, the left rear of her vehicle slammed into the front of the oncoming van. As her car careened down the road, she cranked the steering wheel over in an attempt to straighten out but overcorrected. The car leaned heavily, and both right wheels dug into the gravel shoulder. The forward momentum propelled the car into the air. Landing in the ditch, the car rolled violently until it finally came to rest on its roof—in a cornfield.
Several drivers locked their brakes and managed to stop safely only to be rear-ended by others. Some veered off into the ditch to avoid a collision. Then—everything was eerily quiet.
Except for the hissing of a leaking radiator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Scenes
Craig was still at work that Thursday when Mercy Hospital called. He was listed as Chrissie’s next of kin. She had no one else. They told him his wife and children had been in an accident. They could supply no further details.
Craig raced to the hospital. His heart was in his mouth as he sped through rain soaked streets. He arrived at the emergency room around seven p.m. He was directed to the nurse’s station in the intensive care unit. He was frantic. “I’m Craig Andrews. You called me about an accident. My kids—my kids were in a car accident.”
A doctor walked around to the front of the counter. “I’m Dr. Cody. I’m a surgical resident here. Actually, Dr. Gorham, our chief trauma surgeon, is—”
“How are my kids? How are Robbie and Heather?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” Dr. Cody said. “Heather is okay, but your wife Christine is in serious condition. She has head trauma and a suspected concussion.”
“Ex-wife. What about my son Robbie?”
“Your son is in surgery. He didn’t fair as well as the other two. He’s in critical condition. I don’t have a prognosis right now.”
“What do you mean? You have no idea if he’s going to make it? What kind of a place— “ Craig stopped. He was angry, but his anger was directed at the wrong person. He should be yelling at Chrissie. “Sorry, Doc.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Andrews. We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything.”
“Thanks. Can I see Heather?”
“She’s still in recovery. She has internal injuries and a broken right femur. You’ll have to wait awhile.” A nurse signaled the doctor. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Andrews.”
Craig felt sick. Whenever they said: “we’re doing everything we can”, it wasn’t good. If Robbie was in surgery, it was bad. He didn’t know what to do. Craig sat helplessly in the waiting room. He stared blankly at a Red Cross blood donor poster. He was numb. He bowed his head and thanked God Heather was okay. He begged Him for his son’s life.
A nurse walked over and told Craig that Heather was out of recovery. She took him down the hallway to Heather’s room. She warned him his daughter was still feeling the effects of the anesthesia.
The rain was beating against the windows in Heather’s room. Craig’s heart skipped a beat when he saw her. She was lying unconscious in that big hospital bed. She looked so small and vulnerable. He took her little hand in his. Her leg was in a cast and elevated by ropes and pulleys. She was hooked up to an I.V. drip and a heart monitor.
The reality hit Craig like a brick. This wasn’t some stranger’s little girl, some kid he didn’t know. This was Heather, his Heather. Those blips on the screen were her heartbeats, Heather’s heartbeats—his little angel. When she came into the world, he held her in his arms in the first minutes of her life. And now, he had come so close t
o losing her. Craig shuddered at the thought. He lowered his head to the edge of the bed and wept. He couldn’t help it. This trauma coupled with all the heartache of the past few years fueled those tears. He couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t want Heather to wake up and see him like that. He walked out into the hallway.
Craig paced the floor outside Heather’s room. He struggled to regain his composure. Suddenly, he realized he hadn’t left a message for Vikki. She was returning home tonight from a business trip. He checked his watch. It was shortly after eight. Her plane was scheduled to land at ten-thirty p.m. Vikki had parked her car at the airport to save Craig the trouble of picking her up. She’d worry if he wasn’t waiting for her at home. He found a pay phone. “Hi, Vik.” Craig tried to sound calm. “Listen, sweetie. I’m at Mercy Hospital Emergency. My kids were in a car accident. My airhead ex-wife was driving. Heather is in recovery and it looks like she’ll be fine. Robbie is still in surgery. I’ll call you later. Love you.”
Craig needed Vikki. He couldn’t face this alone.
* * *
It was pounding rain that Friday morning when Detectives Roy Wood and Dave Astor arrived at six-twenty a.m. Yellow police tape strung across the front of the residence indicated the scene was secure. Uniformed officers were stationed outside, their wet slickers shining in the floodlights. Vehicles were parked haphazardly: black and whites, crime scene vans, an ambulance and a meat wagon from the coroner’s office. Vans from several local TV stations were parked close by as well.
“Looks like the media already has this covered,” Dave said.
Roy parked behind a police car. “Doesn’t take them long to get wind of a big one. Gruesome crime is always big news.”
The scene was a large two-story home in Woodland Estates, an upscale gated neighborhood on the west side of the city. The area was ultra high-income, and many residents employed private security firms. The crime rate was low; especially murder.
“Upstairs, Roy,” Lt. Coulter said, as they checked in. “It’s my scene and I need your report a.s.a.p. Looks like we have a possible entry point. The patio doors in the family room are jimmied. Dave, I want you to work that while Roy is upstairs. Listen, you two. As you saw outside, the media’s all over this. Downtown’s got the heat turned up—told me we gotta nail this son-of-a-bitch sooner, rather than later.”
That was typical Coulter. He always got right to the point. He also knew how to run a scene and maintain the evidence chain. Roy respected Coulter and was glad he was in charge.
The master bedroom was enormous. At one end was a dressing room leading to a luxurious marble bathroom with dual sinks, a corner shower and Jacuzzi tub. An over-stuffed sofa with matching lamps on antique end tables was at the opposite end of the room. The entire wall at that end of the room was windows and sliding glass patio doors leading to a balcony. A king-size four-poster bed was on one side of the room. On the opposite wall sat an antique armoire, its open doors revealing a large television set.
The bedroom was a hub of activity. Crime scene specialists were taking photos, dusting for fingerprints and collecting relevant evidence. Yellow death blankets covered two cadavers on the bed.
“Hey, Roy,” Jim Close said. “Nice morning for it, huh?”
Over the years, Roy had worked many homicides with Jim. He was one of the best crime scene techs in the coroner’s office. “Hi, Jim. Got a time yet?”
“Body temp and rigor peg it around midnight, maybe one this morning.”
Roy was writing in his notebook. “Any signs of a struggle?”
“None,” Jim said. “But you better have a look.”
Jim walked to the bed and pulled back the blankets. The victims were a middle-aged couple, lying side-by-side. Both had been shot in the head. Above the bed, written in blood was the number “6” with a line through it. Below that, a number “4.” Roy was studying the bloody inscription.
“I see you noticed the art work,” Jim said. “Any idea what it means?”
Roy didn’t offer an explanation. He suspected the murderer was telling them he was going to kill four more people. He didn’t have enough evidence to confirm it, and he wasn’t about to speculate. He asked Jim about the murder weapon.
“We have a small hole in the forehead and a big one back here.” Jim rolled the male’s head over to the side. “Looks like a three fifty-seven, but we’ll wait for ballistics. And check this out.” Roy looked at a bloody mass partially protruding from the male victim’s mouth. At first, he was puzzled. Then, he took a closer look and realized what it was.
“Are those his—”
“—genitals,” Jim said. “Severed and stuffed into his mouth.”
“Post-mortem, I hope.”
“From the amount of blood, I’d say yes. The poor guy was already dead. Doesn’t matter though, it was still cold and brutal.”
“What about her? Looks like an exit wound on the back of her hand.”
“Yup, sure is. The bullet went through the palm of her right hand.” Jim turned her hand over. “It penetrated the forehead and into the brain. Evidently, the perp did him first. She knew what was coming. Looks like she put her hand up to shield herself. Didn’t help much.”
“Who found them?” Like any good investigator, Roy assumed the person who discovered the crime was a suspect—even if it was a cop.
“A private dick. He was working for them. He’s downstairs. Also claims he has a suspect.”
“I’ll go down and interview him.” Roy looked at the bodies. “Charles and Arlene Talbot. What a waste.”
“Yup. Hard to believe the Director of the SOE murdered like this,” Jim said.
“Former Director.” Roy walked towards the door. “And his former wife.”
* * *
Vikki arrived home from the airport that Thursday night at eleven-fifteen p.m. She left for the hospital as soon as she heard Craig’s phone message. She rushed across town through the pouring rain. Craig was asleep in a chair when she arrived. She kissed him on the forehead. He woke up and hugged her for all he was worth. He quickly brought Vikki up to speed on what he knew.
“Oh, Vik. I don’t know what I’d do if Robbie—”
Vikki wrapped her arms around him and gently rubbed his back. “No, no, no, it’ll be okay. They’re doing everything they can. All we can do now, is hope and pray.” Over Craig’s shoulder, Vikki saw two police officers at the nurses’ station. One of the nurses pointed, and the officers walked towards them. They were the officers who were investigating the accident. One of them explained what they had determined so far.
“It appears, sir, the children’s mother was at fault. Witnesses at the scene said her vehicle crossed the centerline. We suspect alcohol was involved.”
Craig didn’t know what to say. He knew Chrissie was an alcoholic. He always feared something like this would happen one day. “It’s all my fault. I knew she had a drinking problem. I should have forced her into rehab—forced her to quit. I should have taken my kids away from her. I should have at least tried.”
Craig was clearly punishing himself. The officers assured him he was not responsible for the injuries to his children. They told him the decision to drive drunk was his ex-wife’s. Before they left, they shook his hand and said they hoped everything would turn out for the best.
Craig was riddled with guilt even though the situation was beyond his control. As irrational as it was, he couldn’t help blaming himself. He wouldn’t allow Vikki to convince him it wasn’t his fault. He was hurting too much to listen to reason. He didn’t say a word. He sat and stared at the floor. Finally, he looked up at the clock. He wondered why it was taking so long—why no one was telling him anything about Robbie. Vikki hugged him and wouldn’t let go. He was so thankful she was with him.
The elevator door opened. A doctor wearing green scrubs got off and walked to the nur
se’s station. He was looking for Craig. He was Dr. Gorham—Robbie’s surgeon.
* * *
The private investigator was talking to a uniform when Roy walked into the Talbot’s living room. “Thanks, officer,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.” Roy shook the P.I.’s hand. “Detective Roy Wood. Your name is?”
“Paul Austin.” He took a business card from his suit pocket. “Austin Security Services. I was hired by Mr. Talbot.”
Roy chuckled to himself at the acronym but didn’t say anything. He figured Austin had heard it before. “Well—Paul Austin,” Roy said, as he took out his notebook. “Tell me, why would Charles Talbot feel the need to hire a private investigator?”
“His wife was being followed. She kept seeing the same car … or one like it … I guess … anyway, it was tailing her. She even saw it parked down the street from their house on several occasions.” Austin hesitated. He waited for Roy to ask another question.
“You have any idea who was following her?” Roy was beginning to suspect Austin was not a bright light.
“Some guy named Lorne Davis, sir.” Once again, Austin waited for the next question.
“And, you determined this—how?” Roy was losing patience with this cop wannabe.
“I think it was around two weeks ago, during the course of my contracted duties, I spotted a car following Mrs. Talbot. I made the plate. A friend of mine at the D.M.V. said it was registered to Davis.”
“Simply because he was following her, you think he did this? He’s the suspect you told the crime scene guys about?”
“Yes, sir! But I haven’t told you everything. I saw him in the area a few times and decided to do some counter-surveillance on him. You know, track his movements.”
“Instead of calling the police and letting us handle it?”
“He hadn’t done anything wrong yet,” Austin said. “And I didn’t think you guys would be interested.” Roy knew this dunderhead was probably right. The police have more to do than chase down vague leads in a non-criminal matter. Still, in light of these murders, this would have been nice to know.