The road snaked past wooded area and then opened out onto fenced, green
fields where leggy thoroughbreds lazily faced the new morning. Behind
impressive gates and long, winding driveways were the residences of the
fortunate few, who were actually very plentiful in Middleton. Frank
concluded that he wasn’t going to get any help from the neighbors on
this one. Once inside their fortresses they probably saw or heard
nothing on the outside. Which was undoubtedly the way they wanted it and
paid dearly for that privilege.
As Frank approached the Sullivan estate he straightened his tie in the
rearview mirror and pushed back some stray wisps of hair. He had no
particular affinity for the wealthy, nor did he dislike them. They were
parts of the puzzle. A conundrum that was as far from a game as you
could get.
Which led to the most satisfying part of his job. For amidst all the
twists, turns, red herrings and plain mistakes, there lurked an
undeniable truism: if you killed another human being, you came within
his domain and you would be ultimately punished. What that punishment
was, Frank usually did not care. What he did care about was that someone
stand trial and, if convicted, that someone receive the meted penalty.
Rich, poor or in-between. His skills may be somewhat dulled, but the
instincts were still there. In the long run, he’d always go with the
latter.
As he pulled in the drive he noticed a small combine chewing under the
adjacent cornfield, its driver watching the police activity with a keen
eye. That information would soon be passing through the area in rapid
movements. The man had no way to know he was destroying evidence,
evidence of a flight. Neither did Seth Frank as he climbed out of his
car, threw on his jacket and hustled through the front door.
HANDS DEEP IN HIS POCKETS, His EYES MOVED SLOWLY AROUND the room, taking
in each detail of the floor, walls, and venturing to the ceiling before
coming back to the mirrored door and then to the spot where the deceased
had lain for the last several days.
Seth Frank said, “Take a lot of pics, Stu, looks like we’ll need it.”
The crime unit photographer paced through the room in discrete grids
outward from the corpse in his effort to reproduce on film every aspect
of the room including its lone occupant. This would be followed by a
videotaping of the entire crime scene complete with a narrative. Not
necessarily admissible in court, but it was invaluable to the
investigation.
As football players watched game films, detectives were more and more
scrutinizing the videos for additional clues that might only be seized
upon on the eighth, tenth or hundredth examination.
The rope was still tied to the bureau and still disappeared out the
window. Only now it was covered with black fingerprint powder, but there
wouldn’t be much there. One usually wore gloves to climb down a rope,
even a knotted one.
Sam Magruder, the officer in charge, approached, having just spent two
minutes leaning out the window sucking in air.
Fiftyish with a shock of red hair that topped a plump, hairless face, he
was having a hard time keeping his breakfast down. A large portable fan
had been brought in and the windows were fully open. All the CU
personnel wore floater masks, but the stench was still oppressive.
Nature’s parting laugh to the living. Beautiful one minute, rotting the
next.
Frank checked Magruder’s notes, noted the greenish tint to the OIC’s
face.
“Sam, if you’d stay away from the window, your sense of smell would go
dead in about four minutes. You’re just making it worse.”
“I know that, Seth. My brain tells me that, but my nose won’t listen.”
“When did the husband phone in?”
“This morning, seven-forty-five local time.”
Frank tried to make out the cop’s scribbles. “And he’s where?”
“Barbados.”
Frank’s head inclined. “How long?”
“We’re confirming it.”
“Do that.”
“How many calling cards they leave, L
aura?” Frank looked over at his ident technician, Laura Simon.
She glanced up. “I’m not finding much, Seth.”
Frank walked over to her. “Come on, Laura, she’s gotta be all over the