The May Day Murders
Scott Wittenburg
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Scott Wittenburg
Discover other titles by Scott Wittenburg at www.scottwittenburg.com
This book is available in print at many online retailers (ISBN 978-1411634237)
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
Sam Middleton held the door open for his ex-wife and daughter before joining them as they descended the steps of the funeral home. Leaves of brilliant colors blew in every direction as they made their way across the parking lot to Ann’s white Toyota Camry. Sam stood and watched Ann search absentmindedly in her purse for the car keys—the tears welling up in her eyes for the third or fourth time that day.
He glanced over at Amy, who seemed oblivious to her mother’s grief, and Sam silently wished that she would at least make an effort to console her. But Amy simply stood there apathetically and he was once again reminded of how dramatically his little girl had changed since the divorce last spring. She seemed almost a stranger now, no longer the sweet, freckle-faced little kid who was so considerate of others and nearly always obeyed her parents’ demands without question. Amy had since become defiant and selfish—seemingly overnight—and was so wrapped up in her own little world that it was downright scary. Through some force unknown to him, his little bundle of joy had evolved into a bitter, incorrigible young lady of fourteen—a keg of dynamite just waiting to blow up at the slightest provocation.
Ann suddenly broke down and started weeping. Sam stepped over and put his arms around her comfortingly, feeling a little awkward as he did so.
“Why, Sam?” she sobbed. “Why did Marsha have to die? She was so full of life—so happy! And now she’s . . .”
“There now, dear,” he consoled. “Please don’t get yourself all worked up again.”
“And so violently! Who in the world would want to do that to her? Marsha wouldn’t harm a fly. She was so . . . so kind. And Dave, and little Tommy . . . What will they do now?”
Sam hugged her tightly, patted her back. “I don’t know, Ann. It’s certainly an awful situation. I guess they’ll just have to try to put all the pieces together and get on with their lives without her. Just like the rest of us will have to do.”
She buried her face in his chest, and Sam’s heart bled for her. He had known that Ann was going to take it hard when he’d called to give her the grim news of Marsha Bradley’s murder, but he had never conceived that it would absolutely devastate her like this. She and Marsha had been best friends since grade school and had been practically joined at the hip in the years since. That was a lot of memories shared together; a lot of closeness. And for Marsha Bradley to die so abruptly like that—and in such a gruesome, hideous way . . .
“I hope they find the bastard who did this to her and string him up by his balls!” Ann declared bitterly.
She pulled away and faced Sam, her eyes moist with tears. “Do you know if they’ve found any clues yet?”
Sam stared at her gaunt, lovely face and replied, “When I checked with Roger this morning, he told me that they still don’t have much to go on. Little Tommy is still in shock, and no one is going to interrogate him until he calms down. The shrink seems to think that could take awhile. And since Tommy is the only witness they know of so far, Roger doesn’t think that much of anything is going to break until they can question him. Poor kid. I guess he’s so traumatized over this that they’ve had to practically force him to eat, and he still hasn’t spoken a word to a soul. Not even to his father.”
“Is Dave going to be able to handle all of this, you think? He looked absolutely awful in there.”
Sam shook his head slowly. “He’s taking it pretty hard, no doubt. My guess is that once the shock has worn off, he’ll be out for blood. I just hope they find this asshole soon. The whole town’s pretty stirred up, as you can imagine. Probably already forming a lynch mob, as we speak,” he added with a wry grin.
Ann managed a weak smile. “God, am I ever glad I don’t live in this little Peyton Place anymore!”
Sam ignored her remark. “The police are advising everyone to be on the lookout for anything or anyone suspicious and recommending that parents set up a voluntary ten o’clock curfew for their kids.”
“Are you covering the story, or is that a stupid question?” she asked.
“Yes, to both,” Sam replied dryly.
“Well, keep me informed. I want to know everything that happens, okay?”
“Sure,” Sam nodded. He let go of her and turned to Amy. “Why so quiet, kiddo?”
Amy shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing to say. I just want to go home,” she answered, her tone of voice bored.
Sam went over and kissed his daughter on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “Look after your mother, okay, sweetie? This has been really tough on her, and she needs all the emotional support she can get right now. Think you can do that for your old man?”
Amy remained expressionless and replied, “Okay, Dad.”
Sam held her bright green eyes in his a moment and could feel the familiar pang of remorse gnaw at him—just as it always did whenever he was about to say goodbye to his estranged family. He missed them both more than he wanted to admit to himself. Amy, as if reading his mind, suddenly gave him a bear hug. “I miss you, Dad.”
“I miss you too, honey.”
Then, as quickly as it began, this rare, magical moment ended. “Can we go now, Mom?”
Ann unlocked the car door. “We’re on our way.”
As Amy walked around to the other side of the car, Sam stood and watched as Ann got in. “Be careful,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I learn anything.”
Ann looked up at Sam and squinted from the glare of the sun coming from behind him. “Thanks, Sam. Take care of yourself.”
He nodded and waited until Amy was inside, then said, “You two take care of each other, okay?”
“We will, Dad. Bye.”
Sam closed the door and stood by as Ann started the engine and backed the car out. He waved to them as they pulled away.
As he sauntered across the lot toward his gray Grand Cherokee, Sam’s head was reeling from the events of the day. He reached the Jeep, climbed in and fired up the engine. He felt numb and more alone than he’d felt in a long time. Marsha Bradley’s rape, murder, and ensuing memorial service were agonizing enough. But seeing how hard Ann was taking it, then watching her drive away into the sunset along with his kid—leaving him here in this godforsaken town while they headed to a new city and a new life—was just about more than he could handle right now. Although Columbus was only a couple of hours away, it might as well be somewhere in China.
Sam floored the accelerator and pulled into the alley, turned onto Grant Street and headed north. Traffic was light for a Saturday afternoon—but then it was always light in this little burg of 21,000. One of Smithtown’s few assets was its intrinsic charm; the rolling foothills that virtually surrounded the entire town, the fine old houses with their neatly manicured grounds, and the nearby state forest located to the west just outside the city limits. Otherwise, the town was a bust. An economically anemic place that was swiftly heading in the wrong direction as towns go. Shrinking instead of growing.
Smithtown was comprised for the most part of white middle class folks, coexisting with a smattering of impoverished but determined southern Ohio hillbilly farmers. Minorities existed to a considerably lesser degree, with the Indian and Asian American professionals—mostly physicians—equaling, if not exceeding the town’s black population. Smithtown’s County Hospital seemed to draw immigrants in search of a place to practice medicine like a streetlight to moths.
As he waited impatiently for a traffic light to change, Sam wondered for the umpteenth time why he remained in this depressing place. With the exception of his job as a reporter at the Smithtown Observer, there was virtually nothing else holding him here. Especially now that he’d split up with Ann. Even his parents had moved on—happily retired and basking in the Florida sunshine.
His game plan had fallen apart, he admitted to himself grimly. He had always had this crazy dream of being a novelist, and after having gotten his first bestseller published, moving his family to New England to spend the rest of his life writing novels in his den in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace. Now, at forty, he no longer had a family to move anywhere and his “bestseller” was yet to be written, stalled on page sixty-three where it had lain dormant for months.
Sam hung a right onto Court Street and heaved a long sigh. The divorce had been the beginning of his undoing, no doubt about it. He missed Ann and he missed his kid. His motivation to write was shot—his two greatest sources of inspiration now in a car heading north on Route 23 en route to Columbus . . . To a new city and a new life . . .
One mistake was all it had taken to end their once happy marriage of seventeen years. He’d fucked-up royally by letting his dick do his thinking for him. One measly night in the sack with that beautiful young thing had blown everything all to hell. Had he seen the consequences beforehand, he would never have let it happen. But it was too late now. Ann had been relentlessly unforgiving and hadn’t budged an inch. She had surprised him. He had never realized that Ann was so strong-willed.
The joke was on him . . .
Sam shut his eyes for a moment in an effort to exorcise these nagging thoughts. When he opened them again, he focused on the road and thought about the matter at hand: Marsha Bradley’s murder.
Once he arrived at the Observer, Sam resolved, he was going to research each and every minuscule detail the police had logged thus far concerning the case, as well any background info he could find on Marsha and Doctor David Bradley for the article he was writing for Monday’s paper. He needed to call Roger and set up a time that he could visit the Bradley residence and take some shots for the article, just in case he needed them. Roger would question this, and probably laugh in Sam’s face as he proceeded to ask Sam why in the fuck he wanted to take more pictures of the murder scene. Sam would then reply flippantly that it might add interest to the article, and Roger would know better, but say no more about it.
Smithtown Police Detective Roger Hagstrom was Sam’s best friend and had been for practically four decades. He’d been with the Smithtown P.D. for twenty years, and was one hell of a good cop—when he was sober, that is. Roger had a serious drinking problem and many were the times that Sam had had to bail him out of the fixes he’d often gotten himself into. His hangovers were legendary and he frequently missed entire days of work as a result of them. Sometimes he’d even get himself blasted while on duty, which never failed to create some major problems.
But the Smithtown Police Department was very small—only fifteen officers and patrolmen in total—and they needed Roger Hagstrom badly enough to overlook his shortcomings. Besides that, Roger Hagstrom was second in command, so they more or less had to. His only superior, Chief Frank Thompson, admired and respected Roger’s skills as a detective and tolerated his tardiness and occasional inebriation on the job up to a point; his only stipulation being that Roger not make the chief’s special leniency toward him public knowledge.
Sam often tagged along with Roger on his assignments. It wasn’t a particularly unusual situation—cops and journalists frequently worked closely together to a degree, especially in a little town like Smithtown. What made Sam and Roger’s relationship unique was the way in which they complemented each other. They were a good team and often aided one another in achieving their respective goals.
Besides the benefits attained from their working relationship, Sam had another reason for occasionally joining forces with his friend: it was interesting as hell. Murder cases were few and far between in Smithtown, but there were plenty of other crimes going on all the time: dope deals gone bad, burglaries, armed robberies, bar stabbings and shootings. A pretty lively town for its size, crime-wise. The faltering economy seemed to have a lot to do with it.
Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Observer and shut off the ignition. The parking lot was as desolate as he’d suspected it would be; the Observer had no Sunday paper and everyone had already cleared out for the day. He got out and walked over to the side entrance of the massive stone columned building and entered. He turned right and made a beeline through the ornate lobby to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.
When he reached his floor, Sam strode past the reception desk to the editorial offices. His office was located at the far end on the left, near the coffee machine. He cued up a pot on the Bun-O-Matic and checked to be sure that there was some milk in the tiny refrigerator beside it before entering his office and switching on the overhead lights.
Sam stepped over to the window behind his desk and opened the blinds, staring out at the view outside. Directly below him he could see downtown Smithtown; five square blocks or so of dead or dying businesses that were slowly but surely being strangled by the slumping economy. Further north, beyond the railroad tracks, was the Hilltop section of town where the majority of Smithtown’s less unfortunate resided. It sprawled either way for a few miles, bounded by the Scioto River to the west and a range of foothills to the east. It was early October and autumn was already making its debut in southern Ohio. The trees were flecked in bright shades of reds and yellows, making the view even more impressive than usual. In another week or two, Sam thought, the hills would look as though they were on fire as fall peaked-out.
Sam turned around, rolled his swivel chair out from under his desk and sat down. The large oak desk was in its usual disarray, littered with files, sections of last week’s papers and no fewer than three used coffee mugs strewn randomly around a black plastic ashtray in bad need of emptying. He tidied up the papers a bit and carried the dirty coffee mugs out to the sink by the coffee machine. When he returned, Sam switched on the computer, located the police file on Marsha Bradley in a drawer and pulled out its contents.
Sam felt a cold chill run down his spine as he stared incredulously at the eight-by-ten glossy photograph on top. It was an image of Marsha Bradley lying nude on her living room floor, face-up, her eyes frozen in a hideous expression of terror. A narrow red welt running across the width of her neck where she had been strangled to death was crisply rendered in the photo, as were her breasts with the words “May Day”—one word per breast—meticulously inscribed in red lipstick by her murderer. And, as if all of this wasn’t appalling enough, Marsha’s assailant had then proceeded to cram the lipstick vial into her vagina; its end barely visible between her splayed legs.
The autopsy performed on Marsha’s body had determined that this final gruesome act had been performed after her assailant had strangled her to death. No weapon had been found at the scene, but the coroner’s hunch was that Marsha had most likely been strangled with a lamp cord or similar object. Prior to her murder, the victim had been raped and sodomized, and her assailant’s semen and hair samples had been sent to a lab, pending analysis.
Sam laid the photograph aside and studied the police report. The victim, Marsha Lynn Bradley, nee Stilson, had been a white female, 5’6”, 118 pounds, brown eyes, thirty-nine years old. Her husband, Doctor David Lee Bradley, had discovered her body on the night of October 8, at 9:47 P.M. The victim’s son, Tommy, age five, had been present in the house when the body was discovered, locked in his bedroom closet. The child had been in a state of severe shock and literally unable to speak when police arrived at the scene. There had been no signs of physical trauma to the child.
Preliminary investigation revealed no apparent signs of forced entry and nothing had been stolen. Odder still was the fact that there had been no signs of a struggle at the scene. The entire house had been searched and dusted for fingerprints and it was later determined that none of the prints found belonged to anyone other than the victim, her immediate family and Mary Willis, the housekeeper. The lipstick vial was confirmed to have belonged to the victim. No usable prints had been found on it.
The victim’s husband had been questioned. Doctor David Bradley had reportedly been at a friend’s house, Matt Timmonds, helping him install drywall in his garage. David Bradley had left his house at around six-thirty P.M, shortly after dinner, and had remained at the Timmonds’ residence until he had returned home and discovered his wife’s body. Bradley’s alibi was corroborated after an interrogation of Matt Timmonds. David Bradley, at least at this point of the case, was not being considered a suspect in the murder.
Sam glanced down at the right-hand margin near the bottom of the report and saw Roger Hagstrom’s barely legible scrawl: “No clues, no leads.” He could almost read his friend’s frustration in the bold pen strokes.
Sam had been out of town the night that Marsha had been murdered. He’d driven to Huntington, West Virginia to interview a disc jockey that worked at one of the town’s rock radio stations for an article regarding the recent format change of Smithtown’s only radio station from rock to country music. When he arrived back in Smithtown shortly after midnight, Sam had played back the message Roger had left on his answering machine advising him to get in touch with him ASAP—that something “really big” had happened. Sam had promptly called the police department to learn that Roger was at the Bradley home investigating a murder. Sam had arrived at the Bradley’s just as they were wheeling Marsha’s body out.
Roger Hagstrom had been sober and in rare form when Sam had gotten there. He’d never seen his friend as exasperated and stressed-out over a case in all the time he’d known him. Roger had later confided that he felt particularly uneasy about the murder and that he had a gut feeling that Marsha’s assailant was going to be tough to nab. Besides the fact that the police had so little to go on, his bet was that the murderer wasn’t a local man. He based this on what he already knew about Marsha Bradley. She had been an extraordinarily friendly, easy-going woman who was well-liked by everyone in town who had known her, and odds were that she had no enemies capable of disliking her enough to commit such a heinous assault. Her rape and murder, in fact, appeared to have been premeditated—well thought out in advance and executed without a hitch. Of course, Roger had gone on to say, someone local may have done it—nothing was impossible—but the odds were stacked against this. He conceded that until there was some kind of motive established, the murderer could theoretically have been just about anyone.
There were a couple of other things that had bothered Roger as well. One was the message the assailant had left on her body. ”May Day.” God only knew what it meant, he’d told Sam, but it implied something that he hoped wasn’t the case here. A serial killing. It was often standard M.O. for a serial killer to leave either an object or a message of some kind behind for the police and the rest of the world to try and figure out. It was all part of the “psyche” of a deranged, cold-blooded murderer, Roger explained, to challenge the public, as if to say, “Well, now that I’ve done this, what the fuck are you gonna do about it? I’ll even make it easy for you—all you have to do is figure out this . . .”
And another thing was bugging Roger. The fact that there had been no signs of forced entry and no signs of a struggle prior to or during Marsha’s rape and murder. No signs of trauma whatsoever were visible on her body other than the welt on her neck. This almost suggested that Marsha Bradley might have known her assailant, perhaps even intimately, and that she’d trusted him enough to allow him into her home. This was the most unsettling aspect of the whole case, Roger had declared. If Marsha Bradley had indeed known her assailant intimately, it posed a number of disturbing and “touchy” questions that needed to be asked and answered.
Sam set the report down and went out to the coffee machine. After pouring himself a mug and adding a shot of milk he returned to his desk. He took a sip of the steaming brew, lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, staring pensively at the blinking cursor on the computer monitor.
Sam was no detective by any stretch of the imagination, but there was one thing that wasn’t quite jibing in Roger’s theory of Marsha Bradley’s murder case. If it indeed turned out to be that Marsha had known her murderer, then why was Roger still so bent on thinking that he hadn’t been a local man? It would seem most likely that he had been, and that Marsha had been having an extramarital affair with him, as unfathomable as that may be. Had the murderer been an absolute stranger who just happened to have blown in from out of town, Marsha would most certainly have given her assailant one hell of a struggle during the rape, one would assume. Unless of course she had been either drugged or unconscious during the act, neither of which being the case. The autopsy had shown no signs of drugs in her system and only a slight trace of alcohol. Dave Bradley had told the police that his wife had drank a glass of white wine with her dinner that evening.
Sam had brought this up to Roger the day before, and Roger had reiterated that his theory was by no means ironclad, and that he wasn’t by any means ruling out the possibility that Marsha Bradley’s assailant had been a local man. But Roger had then countered Sam by asking him what he thought the odds were of Marsha Bradley having an affair in Smithtown, Ohio and not a single person ever having known about it, or even suspecting it. Sam had had to agree that it was nearly impossible to conceive—considering the little town’s penchant for gossip and flinging rumors around like there was no tomorrow. Never once had anyone ever breathed so much as a shred of gossip that Marsha Bradley might be having an affair with anyone, period. Her and David’s marriage had been that seemingly rock-solid.
Roger had gone on to say that there was really only one thing he was absolutely sure of, regarding the murder case. Marsha Bradley’s assailant was as clever as he was demented. He had somehow managed to pull the entire thing off without leaving any trails whatsoever. Not one of the neighbors questioned had seen anyone enter or leave the Bradley house on the night of the murder. Nor had they seen or heard anything unusual that night; no strange cars parked in the vicinity, no dogs barking, nothing. It was becoming more and more apparent that the only person living who might possibly have seen the murderer was little five-year old Tommy Bradley.
Roger told Sam that Tommy Bradley was probably their only hope. He had to have seen or heard something that night. After all, there was little doubt that it was the perp who had locked the youngster up in the closet. The big problem was the fact that nobody could interrogate Tommy until the psychiatrist gave them the green light; and that could be weeks, maybe even months. In the meantime, the murderer’s trail was only going to get colder and colder.
Smithtown Police Chief Thompson had decided it best to keep fairly tight-lipped about the case for the time being as far as the public was concerned. Sam wasn’t permitted to report any of the details concerning the murder, other than the fact that Marsha Bradley had been sexually assaulted prior to being murdered by strangulation. Not a thing was to be mentioned about the message left on her body, the possibility that it might have been a serial killing, nor that the only concrete evidence found so far had been nominal forensic evidence. There was no need to get the entire town in a panic that there might be a serial killer on the prowl, the chief had contended. Thus, until something broke in the case, the Observer was to portray Marsha Bradley’s rape and murder as little more than an “unfortunate loss to the community” and blatant testimony to the “extreme violence in today’s society.”
Sam had vehemently objected to keeping the case so hush-hush. He had argued that the public had a right to know the facts about the murder. Public knowledge, he insisted, may actually help to open things up. Somebody might come forward with some vital evidence who may have otherwise remained silent, for instance. Or, if the killer had been a local man, then there was always a chance that someone local might be able to point a finger at him, having learned the details surrounding the case. Roger was sympathetic to Sam’s argument, but Chief Thompson had refused to budge an inch. He had told Sam, in his infinite wisdom, that it might be a good idea to advise the public to be on their guard and to impose a curfew on their kids, but beyond that, he was not to report any more than what had been established. Sam had been forced to comply.
Sam took a drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He didn’t like being muscled around like this, and he had let George McNary, the managing editor of the Observer, know it. McNary, of course, had given him his usual pompous recitation about freedom of the press and how he had always believed in it unconditionally when he’d been a reporter just starting out back in the “good old days.” But, McNary had gone on to say, times have changed and one has to adapt. Furthermore, he added, it was never a good idea not to comply with the police. Hence, the old fart had whimped-out as he always did, and Sam again found himself praying for the day when the ultra-conservative, stubborn dick-head finally retired.
Sam had already written two follow-up articles concerning Marsha Bradley’s murder and now wondered how much more he could expound on it. The piece for Monday’s edition was supposed to tie in with her memorial service today, and its intent was to more or less eulogize one of Smithtown’s most beloved and popular citizens. That was fair enough, he thought, but he’d much rather be reporting the facts of the case, or better yet, that her murderer had been apprehended . . .
He glanced down at the police photo and once again felt a cold chill shoot down his spine. He had known Marsha Bradley well, and like everyone else who’d known her, couldn’t understand why anyone would want to murder such a wonderful woman. The familiar wave of contempt swept over him and Sam felt his blood begin to boil. Somehow, he thought, they would catch the low-life asshole who did this to her and make him pay dearly for it.
And he wanted to be there when it happened.
Sam now wanted to return to the murder scene as soon as it could be arranged. Dave and Tommy had been staying at Dave’s mother’s house until the police finished up with the investigation of their house, which would be soon—perhaps even tomorrow. Sam hadn’t remained very long at the Bradley house the night of the murder because Roger had insisted on letting his crew do their work. Now, Sam wanted to do his.
Maybe, he thought, the police had overlooked something. It was a long shot, he realized, but there was always the possibility. It had happened before, hadn’t it? As thorough as Roger and his men were, Sam had seen first hand how they had missed seeing the forest for the trees a few times in the past. The edge always seemed to be missing in a lot of police work—that overwhelming drive to leave no stone unturned, that driving motivation to capture the full picture.
Sam, however, was motivated beyond words—certainly more than a handful of Smithtown cops would ever be. This was a dear friend of his who had been assaulted and robbed of her life—not to mention his ex-wife’s best friend. Sam had made a pledge to himself from the very beginning that he wasn’t going to sit around on his hands while Marsha’s murderer was still at large. He was going to do what ever was in his power to see that this bastard was brought to justice.
Again, Sam tried to imagine himself in Dave Bradley’s shoes right now. What if it had been Ann instead of Marsha who had been murdered? he wondered. How would he deal with it? Could he deal with it?
He didn’t even want to think about it . . .
Sam picked up the phone and dialed Roger Hagstrom’s number.
CHAPTER 2
It was seven-thirty when Ann Middleton pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. It wasn’t until she reached for the door handle that she noticed the light on the front porch wasn’t lit, making her wonder if she’d forgotten to turn it on before she and Amy had left for Smithtown earlier that morning.
“Do your remember if I turned on the porch light before we left?” she asked, turning to Amy.
Amy, still half-asleep from the drive, replied, “Yes, you did, Mother.”
“I wonder why it isn’t on now.”
“Maybe it’s just burned out,” Amy suggested sleepily.
“Maybe . . .”
Ann opened the door and got out. Amy followed suit and walked sluggishly around the car to join her mother.
“I wish they’d fix that damn streetlight,” Ann groaned as they walked cautiously up the walk in the darkness. “Watch your step, honey.”
Ann held onto the porch railing as she led the way up the four steps leading to the porch of the modest Cape Cod. She opened the storm door, groped around until she finally managed to get the key into the lock, and freed the dead bolt.
In the dim light afforded by a nightlight plugged into the wall at the far end of the room Ann located the switch and turned the living room lights on. She noticed that the other switch, the one that worked the porch light, was up, confirming that she had indeed turned it on. She waited until Amy was inside then stepped back out onto the porch and reached up to unscrew the bulb in the fixture. Noticing that it was already practically screwed all the way out of its socket, she tightened it up instead. It came on.
“That’s strange,” Ann muttered to herself.
“What’s that, Mom?” Amy asked from inside.
“This stupid light—it wasn’t burned out. It was just loose in the socket.”
Amy peered out through the door. “Maybe the boogie man did it!” she giggled.
“That’s not funny!” Ann scolded, shooing her back inside.
“Just kidding, Mom,” Amy chuckled, and made a beeline for the stairs leading to the second floor.
Ann strode through the living room to the kitchen, removed her coat and flung it over the back of a chair. Mandy, their three-year-old calico cat, suddenly emerged from the laundry room and squinted up at Ann with that unmistakable look that said it was well past feeding time. Ann reached down and petted her before going over to the cupboard to get the Meow Mix.
Even though they had stopped off at a Shoney’s near Chillicothe for supper on the way home, Ann realized that she still felt hungry. Deciding that it was probably due to the stress and emotions of the day, she went over to the refrigerator and took out a container of yogurt, got a spoon and dug in.
Amy suddenly waltzed into the kitchen. “I’m going to the movies with Amanda.”
Ann swallowed a spoonful of yogurt and stared at her daughter reproachfully. “What have I told you about asking first, young lady?”
Amy pouted before replying. “Okay, Mom. Can I please go to the movies with Amanda?”
Ann tried to hide her disappointment. She had hoped that Amy would stay home with her tonight—she didn’t want to be alone after today. But Ann knew that they would only get into an argument if she objected, and that was the last thing she needed right now. “Okay, honey,” she sighed. “Do you need a ride?”
“No, Amanda’s mom is picking me up in half an hour. I’m going to take a quick shower and change first.”
“Back by ten,” Ann warned.
“Mother! The movie doesn’t even start until eight-thirty!”
Ann shook her head in resignation and said, “All right. But I want you to come straight home when it’s over. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you,” Amy whined. She shrugged her shoulders and made a face before storming out of the kitchen.
Ann was hurt and angry at Amy’s lack of consideration. Her daughter had to know that she was overwrought from the memorial service but Amy’s social life apparently took precedent over her mother’s emotions. For what had to be the hundredth time since she and Amy had moved to Columbus, Ann wished that Sam was there to help her get a handle on their daughter. She was starting to doubt that she could ever do it alone.
With a sigh, Ann finished her yogurt and decided to give Karen a call. Maybe her friend could help cheer her up a bit. She went over to the phone and dialed Karen’s number.
“Karen, it’s me. What are you up to?”
“Hi, Ann. Just sitting here waiting for Bill. How did it go today?”
“Horrible,” Ann replied. God, Karen, this is awful. I just can’t believe she’s gone!”
“I feel so sad for you, Ann. I know how much she meant to you. All I can say is that she’s gone to a much better place,” Karen declared compassionately.
“I guess so.”
“How was her husband?”
“Devastated. Cried like a baby through the whole service. I really feel sorry for him. And poor little Tommy. He wasn’t even there.”
“The poor child. Has he spoken to anyone yet?” Karen inquired.
“No, and Sam informed me that he’s practically having to be force-fed, too. It’s just awful . . . He won’t even speak to Dave! God only knows what that poor little boy must have gone through that night.”
“I shudder to think. Have the police gotten any more leads on who might have done it? They mentioned it again on the six o’clock news, by the way, but they didn’t give any details. They just said that the investigation is still under way.”
“No. Sam’s friend, Roger Hagstrom, the detective who’s in charge of the case, told Sam that nothing new has turned up. Apparently, they’ve done about all they can until they can interrogate Tommy. And that could be a long time, according to Roger.”
“In the meantime, there’s a psycho killer on the prowl,” Karen said.
“It’s frightening, isn’t it? I told Sam that I hope they hang him by the balls when they finally catch him.”
Karen chuckled. “You sure have a way with words, Ann.”
“It just infuriates me! Marsha was the nicest, most decent woman you could ever know. And for some crazy bastard to do that to her just makes me want to go out and find the monster myself and make him suffer.”
“I don’t blame you one bit. Not to change the subject, but how is your ex doing? Did you two get along?”
“I have to admit that I couldn’t have made it through all of this without Sam. For a while I almost forgot we were divorced, in fact. Sam’s basically a good man, and he’s always been at his best during a crisis.”
“You miss him?” Karen asked.
Ann sighed and paused a moment before answering. “Well, yes and no. I miss the stability of having Sam around more than I miss the man himself. And Amy . . . Christ! She’s turning into a regular delinquent! I know for a fact that she drinks because I’ve smelled alcohol on her breath a couple of times. And she’s smoking cigarettes now—I don’t think I told you about that yet. Found a pack stashed under her dresser yesterday. She’s become incorrigible, Karen. She hardly ever minds me anymore. I know that the divorce has a lot to do with it—she still resents it—and she blames me for it ever happening. She wants Sam and I to get back together; that I know for sure. This is so difficult, Karen . . .” she added, her voice wavering.
“C’mon, dear, pull yourself together. You’ll get through all of this. You just need to get your mind off everything for a while. You’ve been through an awful lot lately, but things will look up. As for Amy, I’m sure she’ll come around eventually. Just give her some time. Part of her problem has to do with her age, bear in mind. I sure wouldn’t want to be that age again! Remember how tough it was? Teenagers are in their own little world and tend to shut everyone else out of it. But Amy’s a good kid. She’ll come around—you can count on it.”
“I wish I were as optimistic as you are, Karen. As usual, you’re probably right—I only hope I don’t have a nervous breakdown in the meantime. There are just so many things going on that I feel out of touch with. Like Amy’s choice of friends at school, for instance. They all seem okay, but what do I know? We’ve only been in Columbus for three months and I still hardly know a soul in this neighborhood. And I’ve only met one of Amy’s friend’s parents so far—Amanda Givens. Her mother’s divorced and seems to be a nice enough gal, but her home is apparently the big hangout for all of Amanda’s friends. How do I know that she’s keeping an eye on things when all those teenage girls are congregating there?”
“Ann, you worry too much! Woodcrest is one of the best suburbs in Columbus and has an excellent high school. Amy’s in good company, believe me. Speaking of which, how’s her schoolwork coming along?”
“Lousy,” Ann replied flatly. “And it’s no wonder. She hardly ever does her homework.”
“Well, all I can say is give her time. She just needs to adjust to everything.”
“Thanks for the encouragement, Karen. I need all I can get right now.”
“No problem, dear—I think I just heard Bill pull up. We’re taking in a movie tonight. I sure wish you’d hurry up and find a man so we can double sometime!”
Ann laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet, Karen. I’ve got enough problems as it is.”
“Well, you should still keep your eyes open anyway. It may be just what you need now—a relationship of some kind. It would help get your mind off your troubles.”
“I doubt it. I don’t think I’d be very good company to anyone right now,” Ann lamented.
“Nonsense! I can see that you need an ego-boost, dear. Trust me, any man in this town would kill to go out with you! If I looked just half as good as you do, I could be taking my pick of eligible bachelors!”
Ann laughed again. “You’re too much, Karen! But in spite of your tendency to exaggerate, I’ll take the compliment anyway. At least you’ve managed to make me smile.”
“Come on in, honey,” she heard Karen say. “Ann, Bill’s here. I want you to think about what I said and cheer up! Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Thanks, Karen. If I don’t talk to you tomorrow, I’ll see you at the office Monday.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow and check in,” Karen asserted. “Take care of yourself, Ann.”
“I will, Karen. Tell Bill I said hello, and you guys have a good time tonight.”
“Thanks, dear. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Ann hung up the phone feeling grateful for having a friend like Karen. She always had that knack for making her laugh, she thought to herself.
Karen Walker was office manager at the travel agency where Ann worked. She was fifty years old, divorced, with two kids who were all grown up and married. And although she might look her age physically, she possessed a lighthearted attitude toward life that made her seem years younger. When Ann was introduced to Karen on her first day at the agency, the two hit it off immediately and had become best friends from then on.
Bill Warner was Karen’s boyfriend—mid-fifties, balding, and worshipped the very ground Karen walked on. They had been dating for over five years and Ann often wondered why they didn’t simply get married after all this time. Karen’s explanation was that she’d “already made that mistake once,” and insisted that she was quite content with their relationship the way it was. Ann had the feeling, however, that Bill wasn’t in total agreement with Karen, and would gladly marry her at the drop of a hat.
Ann stared blankly at the kitchen table as her thoughts shifted to Marsha. She felt a tear come to her eye as the stark reality of her death hit home once again. Already she missed her lifelong friend, and she knew that life would never be the same without Marsha Bradley in it. Before moving to Columbus, Marsha had been her confidante and sounding board during the divorce, always there to comfort and support her. Marsha had in fact been one of the few reasons she had been hesitant to move out of Smithtown after the divorce. Perhaps had she not moved away, Marsha might still be alive today . . .
Ann held her head in her hands and shut her eyes. She suddenly felt very alone, living in a strange new city in unfamiliar surroundings. Had she done the right thing? Would she have been better off forgiving Sam for what he’d done and staying with him, instead of stirring everything up as she had? The after-effects of the divorce had so far been anything but auspicious. Nobody was happy. Not Sam, not herself, and certainly not Amy.
And now, Marsha Bradley was dead.
Was somebody trying to tell her that she’d made a mistake?
The sound of the squeaky hot water faucet coming from the bathroom reminded her that Amy was going out tonight and that she’d be left alone in the house for the rest of the evening. She had never really gotten used to not having Sam around since the divorce—especially at night—and she had been even more apprehensive about it since moving to Columbus. Even though Woodcrest was supposedly a “safe neighborhood” as suburban neighborhoods go, it didn’t make Ann feel any more secure. The porch light suddenly crossed her mind and she wondered how the bulb could have gotten unscrewed so far. Could the wind have done it? she wondered. Certainly not! Maybe it had been loose all this time, barely making contact, and had just happened to back itself out far enough to go out while she and Amy were gone. Yes, she decided, that’s probably what had happened.
Just then, Ann heard a rustling noise outside, coming from the back yard. She stood up and ran over to the window and peered out. The yard was pitch dark and she recalled that the floodlight mounted on the roof had never worked right since they’d moved in. Ann had attempted to replace the bulb herself but it was too high up for her to reach, so she had called the landlord and asked him to do it for her. Mr. Ogilvy had come over the next day with his ladder and a new bulb, and having finished replacing the old one, had informed her that there was a short in the wiring and that he had gone ahead and repaired it. Since then the light had worked sporadically, going off and on randomly, as if it had a mind of its own. Ann hadn’t yet taken the time to call Mr. Ogilvy back to tell him that it still wasn’t working right.
She would call him first thing in the morning, she decided.
Ann’s eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness as she looked around the yard as far as she could see from her vantage point. Finally, a couple of moments later, she felt assured that there weren’t any intruders outside. Probably a raccoon or opossum, she thought to herself.
Ann realized that her heart was racing now and she looked down at her hands to find that they were trembling. She smiled wryly, telling herself that she was letting her imagination get the best of her. She simply had to try and get her mind off of everything, she resolved. Maybe get into a good book after Amy left.
Ann turned around and strode out of the kitchen. She paused outside the bathroom and opened the door a few inches. “Save me some hot water, kiddo!” she shouted into the steamy bathroom.
“Okay!” Amy hollered back from the tub.
Ann closed the door, went upstairs and peeked into Amy’s bedroom. It was a mess as usual, but she had hoped that it would have lasted longer than this. She’d helped Amy tidy up only yesterday and it already looked like a tornado had blown through it. With a sigh, she crossed the hall to her own room and entered.
As she sat down on the side of the bed to take off her shoes, Ann looked around the room and felt grateful that she and Amy had been fortunate enough to rent this house, as opposed to having to live in an apartment. She had Sam to thank for that. When she had informed him that she and Amy were moving to Columbus, he had been predictably shocked and angry with her. He had fumed that it wasn’t fair of her to move his daughter out of town, and accused Ann of making an already bad situation even worse. This had made her feel guilty, but she explained to him that she couldn’t bear to live in Smithtown any longer, and asserted that she wanted someday to return to college and get her law degree. Furthermore, she needed to get Amy and herself settled in before school started in the fall so Amy could get herself adjusted.
Sam had reluctantly given in and wanted to know where she intended to live. Ann had replied that they would get an apartment and Sam had immediately objected, insisting that they at least try and find a house to rent because apartments weren’t safe. Sam had subsequently made a few calls to some friends he knew living in Columbus and one of them had tipped him off about this house in Woodcrest. Sam had even driven up with Ann and Amy to check it out and had ended up paying the first month’s security deposit as well.
The house was perfect, all things considered. The rent was reasonable and it was roomy for its size. Ann particularly liked the family room that had been added on to the rear of the house, complete with a working fireplace and a bar.
Sam was a good man, in spite of his faults, she thought to herself—
The image of seeing him emerging from that bitch’s apartment, arm-in-arm, flashed through her mind and made her teeth clench. She would never be able to forget that look on Sam’s face when he had spotted her parked across the street, watching them . . .
Sam had supposedly been working late at the Observer that night. He’d called Ann at around dinnertime and told her that he was running behind on an article he was writing, and that he had to finish it up that evening so it could go to press in the morning. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, he’d said, and he told Ann to go ahead and eat dinner without him. She had immediately suspected foul play, because Sam had rarely stayed late at work in the many years they’d been married. He had always preferred bringing his work home to finish because, as Sam put it, he would “rather be at home with his family than cooped-up in that fuckin’ office.”
Besides this break from the usual, Sam’s tone of voice had sounded different that evening, a little more distant than usual, as if he was already feeling guilty for what he was scheming to do. Ann’s suspicions mounted when Sam had called her the second time, at around nine o’clock. He was a little drunk, Ann suspected, when he told her that the article was taking longer than he’d anticipated and that he needed another hour or so. Ann had managed to remain calm though, telling Sam not to worry, that she fully understood.
There had been a few rumors going around town at the time that Sam had taken a sudden interest in a certain young woman whom the paper had recently hired as an apprentice photojournalist. Her name was Shelley Hatcher. She was around twenty years old and fairly new in town; having recently moved to Smithtown from somewhere in Kentucky. Apparently, Sam had taken Shelley under his wing since he himself was an accomplished photographer, and in fact, always shot his own pictures for his articles in the newspaper.
Ann had a funny hunch what was happening, so she had made a quick phone call to one of her friends who once mentioned that she knew where this Shelley woman lived. Apparently Shelley had had a few wild parties at her apartment and Ann’s friend, who lived nearby, had twice seen the cops come to break them up because of complaints about the noise. Ann got Shelley’s address from her friend, trying her hardest not to arouse her suspicions yet knowing all the while that she wasn’t fooling her for a second.
Ann had then hopped into her car and drove by the Observer to see if Sam’s Jeep was in the parking lot. Just as she suspected, it wasn’t. She drove to the address her friend had given her, which turned out to be a small apartment complex on the other end of town. And sure enough, the Jeep was parked out front.
Ann had parked across the street and waited for nearly an hour before Sam suddenly came out the door with Shelley Hatcher hanging all over him. The slut had just planted a big kiss on Sam’s cheek when he glanced across the street and spotted her. He had immediately broken away from Shelley and run over to the car to beg Ann’s forgiveness. He knew he’d been caught, and hadn’t even tried to lie his way out of it . . .
Ann took off her other shoe, then went over to the dresser and picked up the family portrait. She stared at Sam’s tall, slender frame, his long, unruly hair and his soft gray eyes. His expression was calm, content. She and Sam both had their arms around Amy and the three of them looked like one happy, loving family. Even Amy looked content and at ease, in contrast to her present demeanor; smiling and full of love for her mother and father. Ann’s eyes traveled over to her own image and smiled pensively, recalling how long it had taken to get her hair to look that good . . .
She quickly set the picture down and felt a stab of sadness. A family once so full of love and togetherness was no more. She could still recall how hurt and angry she had been when she’d caught Sam cheating on her, and how old and obsolete she’d suddenly felt when she saw Shelley Hatcher for the first time that awful night. Ann no longer felt wanted; her husband no longer found her desirable. That’s what had gone through her mind. Sam had risked everything just to sleep with a younger, more attractive woman, and she knew that she could never make love to him again knowing that.
Ann had filed for divorce the following day.
Word spread quickly about the incident and the public humiliation had been unbearable. Once it got out that Ann wanted a divorce, it seemed as though everyone in town started looking at her differently—as if she was the wrongdoer, not Sam. Everyone except Marsha, that is. Marsha liked Sam as much as the rest of the town did, but Marsha also knew how proud her friend was and how much it had hurt her to see her husband with another woman. Marsha encouraged her to go through with the divorce and supported her all the way to the end.
Amy, on the other hand, had mixed feelings at the time. She knew that what her father had done was wrong but at the same time didn’t want to see her parents split up. It had been especially hard for her the day that Sam had packed his bags and moved in with Roger. Their house had suddenly become a broken home.
Ann had to admit that she’d actually felt sorry for Sam by the time the divorce had been finalized. He was really hurt and it showed, yet he had still managed to be a gentleman throughout the whole thing. He’d tried his hardest to make it as painless as he could, just for Amy’s sake. When the papers were being signed, Ann had almost gotten cold feet and backed out at the last second. But she hadn’t.
Once it was all over, Ann knew that she had to get out of Smithtown. She had suddenly felt like she was living in a fish bowl and that everyone hated her for what she’d done. She wanted to leave town as soon as possible, to get away from the narrow minds and to get on with her life. To start anew with a clean slate. Columbus seemed to be the most obvious destination. It wasn’t far away, but far enough . . .
Ann heard Amy coming up the stairs and attempted to compose herself. Moments later she went across the hall to her daughter’s bedroom. Amy was rifling through her drawers when Ann entered.
“Do you know where my navy blue sweater is, Mom?” she asked.
“I think it’s hanging in your closet, honey,” Ann replied. “It’s a wonder you can find anything in this room!” she added, staring aghast at the piles of clothes thrown all over the floor and on the bed.
Amy ignored her comment and went over to the closet.
“What movie are you going to see?” Ann asked curiously.
“Not sure yet. Probably the new Christian Slater one. I can’t remember the name of it.”
“Isn’t that rated R?” Ann asked. She knew that it was. She’d seen a preview for it on television the other day.
Amy found the sweater and glanced over at her mother, a smirk on her face. “Yeah, but we’ll get in.”
Ann wanted to protest but didn’t. She stood and watched Amy as she flung the sweater on the bed and took off her robe; in awe of how quickly her little daughter was growing up. The freckles on her fair skin were barely noticeable now. The baby fat was gone and her breasts were nearly as large and full as her own. Amy’s proportions had become more defined as well. Longish legs, tiny waist, slender hips. And the cherubic face had suddenly taken on a young woman’s countenance—high cheekbones, full lips, aquiline nose and haunting green eyes, all framed by a thick, luxurious mane of auburn hair.
Amy sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans that fit so tight they looked as though they were painted on. She stood up again, put on a cream-colored knit blouse then the sweater.
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