Marilyn Wright Dayton
maredayt@yahoo.com
CHAPTER 1
I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE(Detroit, Michigan – the mid-90s)
Detroit, Monday, 7pm
He was where he had to be. Not where he wanted to be. And, on an early Monday evening, Homicide Detective Guy Davis turned off his car and leaned back in his seat. It was raining, and he felt like he was wrapped up in a metal cocoon, isolated from everybody and everything. He had been called out on another homicide, to another city. But he didn’t feel ready yet. It seemed like after 17 years as a cop, seeing everything there was to see, you’d get used to it. Yet, it was the kind of work he enjoyed – the challenges, and the way each case was always different. Different, but still the same. Someone was dead. He had to mentally get himself ready to see another person dead. So, he closed his eyes, and hummed quietly to himself.
He had to clear his mind. Clear his green-eyed redhead out of his mind. She was with him every day. He could see her during the day and in his dreams every night. Jesus! He had to pull himself together.
All right. Get out of the car and get in there. Take your notebook and pen. He reached over to his glove compartment, noticed the small flask of whiskey, deciding it would help relax him and warm him up. It was the day after Easter Sunday, and it was damp and cold in Detroit. He felt sure it was the same in New York City, where he served on the force. He pulled down a warm, bitter swig, took a deep breath and moved to get out of the car.
Wait, his hand fell from the door handle. Why was he here again? Why did his Chief send him all the way from New York City to Detroit? He pulled another swig to help clear his brain from the fog that had developed during the long drive.
Oh, yeah. There was a murder several days ago here. The Precinct Captain was a friend of his NYC Chief Buster Russo and asked for a profiler to help with the case. Russo had thought it would be good for Guy, to get away for a while, focus on a case in a new territory. So, here he was at a police precinct in Detroit, between Foxtown and Corktown, near the bridge to Windsor, Canada. Maybe it would help him forget. As if he ever could.
There she was again. Flashing green eyes, that went so well with her sparkling smile, throwing back her long red hair. Damn!
He moved out of the car and went into the station.
There was a lot of noise inside, complaining people who appeared poorly dressed and dirty, yelling at the poor cop standing behind the front desk. Other cops milling around, all talking at the same time. He shook his head, and moved to the left down a hallway, sure he could figure out how to find the Commanding Officer of the Precinct, called “Cap” Bill Overton..
Then he heard a big, booming voice, reeming out one of the cops who had apparently missed something on a case, and a door being slammed. He followed the noise. He found the closed door, opened it and smiled at the big man behind the desk.
“Who the Hell are you?” The voice fit the large body.
“I’m Guy Davis, from New York. You needed a profiler? So, here I am.”
“Well, you look like shit!”
“Long trip. I could take time to get cleaned up, check into a local motel, and then come back.”
“No…no. Sit down. We have a lot of work to do. You’ll just get rumpled up more anyway.” A look of acceptance came over the large Police Captain. Then a hint of a smile. “Let me get you caught up with the highlights, then take a long look at this file,” which he tossed over to Davis.
“Victim is a middle-aged female, professor at the University. She was stabbed, then pushed down the stairs at the house she shared with her husband, who is several years younger than her. He supposedly had gotten home after it all happened and found her. But he is just not shaken up enough about it, you know? Front door was left ajar (he had come in through the garage door into the kitchen), and there were bloody footprints leading to the front door. But, of course, he had messed them up, walking all over them. He said intruder. We think it’s him but can’t prove it. Second dead wife for him, both with large life insurance payouts.”
“Sounds like an easy case to me,” Guy reacted.
“The guy is the Mayor.”
“Oh, I see.”
The door to the Captain’s office opened and a cop in plain clothes stuck his head in. “Got a murder, new one. I need a partner, and everyone’s out on a call. Who are you?” as he looked down at Guy.
“Okay, this is your temporary partner, Guy Davis, Detective and Profiler from NYC.” He looked over at Guy, “Good way to get your feet wet, literally. Why don’t you go along and help out on this one. And we can meet on the other case when you get back.” And he proceeded to pick up the phone to make a call, ignoring Guy.
Guy figured he just got an assignment, stood and walked back out the office door. He offered his hand to the cop, who said. “Yup, I’m Officer Jack Watkins. Let’s get going. You got wheels?”
Guy nodded and they headed to his car. He hoped that the flask was back in the glove compartment. He didn’t want to give the wrong first impression. Even if it might be the correct one.
CHAPTER 2
DEAD GUY
Detroit, Monday, 8pm
He never parked right at the scene. He liked to leave his car a block or two away. That way he could check out the neighborhood, see who was standing around outside, just out of sight of the cops, waiting. Sometimes he would see someone hanging out, just close enough, who was either involved or knew something. He could mentally take a picture of their face and clothes, for use later. Having almost total recall helped immensely. He forgot nothing. He could even remember a page number on a report, and what was on that page. Weird. But he was grateful for that small gift. It sometimes made the difference in his work.
He never worried about his car, even in the worst of neighborhoods. It was just a tin-can shell, rusty, almost a non-color from the years. But he had an engine in that shell that could pretty much beat any race car on any road. That came in handy, too.
He got a funny look from Watkins, who was wise enough to keep his mouth closed. He must have figured parking so far from the scene was because his new temporary partner was from out of town. Smart move, as Guy wasn’t in the mood to be questioned.
The street around the victim’s building was disappointing. Nobody outside, but the patrol cars and some cops hanging around, waiting to be told what to do next. Of course, the rain didn’t help. He could be missing someone who was trying to stay dry, hanging around in a doorway somewhere, still able to see the action at the front door, but hidden from sight.
“Hey, Watkins, what did he pull you away from this time?” One of the cops was waiting for them at the front door. “You know you’re late, as usual. Wylie is ranting and raving up there, waiting for you. Better hurry up.” Then he noticed Guy. “And who are you?”
Watkins looked over at Guy, “Long story, I’m sure. He’s on special assignment or something. Davis, meet Mac. Mac, meet Davis.”
Being a trained profiler means that you can learn to read people fairly quickly and pretty well. Guy could size up Mac, a guy who liked to give people a hard time. That was how you found out what people were really like. So, Guy stopped, took out a cigarette, leaned against the outside of the building, and just looked at Mac and Watkins. And smiled.
Watkins shook his head, turned around, stepped inside and ordered the elevator. Seems he figured that Guy would follow him in when it arrived, which he did.
“You ought to give those things up. Those things will kill you. Or at least slow you down if you need to chase some killer down a long alley.” With that, Watkins smiled, and Guy figured that this guy liked to give people trouble too.
Guy stomped out the cigarette before he got on the elevator. “Yeah, Jack. I may have some bad habits like smoking, occasional drinking, but somehow, I still seem to get the job done.” And decided to give this guy some trouble too, “When are you going to make Detective, Jack? When you help solve your first crime?”
Watkins’ smile vanished. Guy figured him out correctly. This Detroit Officer had been on the force probably a dozen years, but just didn’t seem to have what it takes to solve murders. His strength was in ordering people around, remembering what forensics needed to do, what witnesses to line up, etc. He probably started out as a NPO (Neighborhood Police Officer) in blues, working his way up to be one of the Crime Investigators. But he somehow couldn’t seem to pull it all together and make it make sense. Not like Guy. Guy had always been the best, even though it wasn’t in this city. It would take time for them to learn what he could do. And now he had made his first partner here hate him. He sighed, because it made him regret the bad start with Watkins. Oh, well, he could change that, given some time.
As the elevator doors opened, they could hear Sergeant Rick Wylie yelling at everybody, and occasionally shouting Jack’s name. Both men took deep breaths and stepped out into the hallway, heading towards the voice. This they both were used to.
Sergeant Wylie stood in the middle of what you could call the main living room of the victim’s apartment, on the 12th floor. It was still early evening, but Guy felt like going to a motel and either collapsing or finding the bar. He was really feeling that long drive and realizing he shouldn’t have driven here through the night. He had been awake for over 36 hours and knew he would be for another 8 at least.
What he hated the most were the smells. There was a smell to homicidal death. Some of it was blood, some was the seared skin around the wounds, some was fingerprint powders, and forensic chemicals. It was unlike any other mixture of scents. And it stayed with you, kind of like an aftertaste of a drink. Oh, how Guy wished he had a drink right then.
He tried to concentrate on the crime scene. He felt he might be able to tell what kind of a personality this victim had by the way his apartment was decorated. Cold. Sterile. Unemotional and unfeeling. Probably a people user.
The apartment was painted stark white, the floor all through the rooms was tiled in black and white. The furniture was avant garde, black and white. The victim was a professional fashion photographer, and the walls reflected his work. Mostly black and white prints of females. All kinds of gorgeous females. That part, Guy appreciated. Some of the pictures were of various parts of the female anatomy, like one was of a breast, just some girl’s breast. Black and white. Guy studied that one for quite awhile. It reminded him of her, then he could picture her red hair in his mind again. He shook his head to clear it.
Everyone was done, and mostly gone. Forensics was gone. Coroner’s officers were gone. So was the body. The body had been a mess apparently, judging by the huge red blobs left behind. Guy got out his notebook. He always liked to write down his first impressions of a crime scene. Not that he needed to remind himself, just because he got feelings from it. Impressions.
The impression he got from this scene was an old story – that the guy either had a relationship with his killer or had just ended one. And the killer probably did it as sexual revenge. Why? Because the guy was shot in the groin as well as in the heart. From close range. Wylie was in the midst of filling them in as Guy’s mind began to wander, as it often did.
The killer could have been a female. Unless it was a guy, and he wanted the police to be thrown off by shooting the photographer in the groin. Or the victim was gay and his lover shot him. Damn, but Guy hated cities like this sometimes. There were so many types of people, so many kinds from so many places all over the world, that anything went. Yup, anybody or anything goes. That’s cities like New York and Detroit for you.
Guy looked around the room, at the splashed patches of bright red by the bar. In front of the bar, behind the bar, below the bar on the floor. Obviously, that was where the guy was shot. The red was quite an accent, against all the black and white. When the guy was alive, he should have used red accents, it looked better.
Guy looked at his notes again. He had written down everything that Wylie had told them. Victim was Victor Valentine, approximately 45-50 years of age, fashion photographer, originally from England. Three years in Detroit. Lived here exclusively, according to the landlord and the bills they found in his desk. They had this guy’s life, right here in the desk. Guy moved over to the desk and picked up the appointment book. This was where Guy would start his part of the investigation. He figured that he was pulled into this on a lark, but he would deliver as he always did.
As he looked back through the past few days’ notations, he realized how much of a perfectionist this guy was. He made notes on everything. Today, at 9am, he had written down Bw/S. Then nothing until 4pm, when it was Mt/S&C-??. Same S? And why the question marks. Who was C? Guy will need to match that up with the time of death when they got that from forensics. He tucked the scheduler into his coat pocket.
Usually, Guy didn’t have so much to work with. Maybe this murder would be solved this week. Maybe even today, as he looked at his watch. It was now past dinner time. And somehow his stomach had decided to join in that silent conversation.
As Guy and Jack ducked under the crime tapes covering the doorway, he looked again at the second set of red stains in the hallway, just outside the apartment door. Guy’s impression was that this was someone else’s blood. He wouldn’t know for sure for a couple of hours yet, but he felt that it may even be the killer’s blood. He just couldn’t figure out how Valentine could have shot his killer out here, gone back inside to be shot himself and then die without his gun being found anywhere in the apartment. This hallway blood definitely added a twist. Then, there was the heavy bronze statue that was lying near the bar on the floor. There was blood and hair on one end of the base. When they got the report on the blood types and hair samples, he would know more.
When he and Jack were downstairs by the front door, he was surprised to see the officer called Mac still there guarding the crime scene. The man looked at them. Guy knew that he looked about as unlike a professional detective as one could get. Wrinkled clothes, stubble on his face, messed up hair. But that was his way lately. They could get used to it, like they were trying to back in New York.
He didn’t have any plans to look like a stockbroker from Wall Street. There were enough of those guys in police departments already. And he had been one of them, until about a year ago. Today, he does his ‘own thing’ and they could just accept that.
When they got back in his car, he wished he could take another swig. He knew he still had a long night ahead, after a long day and night yesterday. Maybe he should think about taking some more time off after he finished in Detroit. A guy could grow old fast in this job.
CHAPTER 3
THE GIRL
Detroit, Monday, 8pm
Ralph first noticed the girl when she was standing at the ticket counter. She looked like she was either going to pass out or get sick. He hoped she was buying a ticket for another bus driver’s route, not his. He got his double-sized cup of heart-burn coffee from the machine and headed out to do the final checks on his bus. Even though someone else was supposed to do the maintenance on his bus, he always liked to check out the engine, tires and see if the bathroom had been cleaned. It was his responsibility to keep his riders safe. Mostly, though, it was because of his wife. She was always harping on him to make sure he was going to stay safe and come home to her. He smiled at the thought of how she always stood there with her hands on her hips until satisfied that he was listening to her. They had been married over 20 years and he felt really lucky that she still cared so much about him. His ‘little woman.’
Bad news. After he was satisfied the bus was in fairly good condition, he began receiving riders. And there she was. The girl. Up close, she looked worse than his first impression. Her hair was damp and clinging, hanging lifelessly. Her face was pale and her eyes looked almost glazed over. Her outfit looked like she had raided a local second-hand army outlet. And was that dried blood on her jacket? She was either on drugs or drunk.
He took her ticket stub and watched her move slowly, rather unsteadily, down the aisle. He hoped she would go in the back, lie down and sleep it off, whatever it was. Then, he became distracted with the next rider handing him her ticket.
When it was time, he sat down in his driver’s seat and made his little speech, introducing himself, and reminding the riders of their route, just in case they were on the wrong bus. “Next stop is Toledo, Ohio.” He was looking at everyone through his mirror, as he maneuvered out into the traffic. He could see the girl, way in back, then watched as she disappeared, apparently lying down. Good. Now, he could concentrate on his driving.
He was the company’s most popular driver at Tri-City Bus Company. They rewarded.him for his friendliness and his concern for his riders with a fat raise every year. He was happy in his job and liked to watch and read people. That’s why he was so concerned about this girl. He didn’t like what he was reading in her. He hated to see young people high on drugs or drink. There was so much more to enjoy in life. And here they were, so young, already screwing up their lives. Well, let them do it somewhere else. Not on his bus.
It was about an hour later when it happened. Some older woman, who was seated in the back of the bus, had decided to use the bathroom, and saw something wrong when she passed the girl. She screamed so loud that Ralph jumped and almost swerved the bus into another lane of cars. He signaled and pulled over where there was a large enough shoulder near a ramp. He called in on his radio to the dispatcher that he was having trouble and to keep the line cleared for a possible emergency.
When he saw the girl, he knew it was an emergency and hurried to call the dispatcher, swearing all the way back to his radio. “Got an emergency here. We have a young lady, unconscious and bleeding heavily. We need an ambulance. We are about three miles north of Milltown near the exit ramp. Should I get off and drive her to the hospital in Milltown?” They told him to stay where he was and to wait.
Conveniently, there was a police patrol car nearby, because there were two policemen on the bus asking questions within ten minutes. Nobody knew the girl. There was no identification on her. Not even a purse. She just had a few dollars in one of her pockets. Ralph knew he wouldn’t forget this one. He shouldn’t have let her on the bus to begin with. Now they were going to be late getting back on their main route, which meant his whole schedule was going to be off. His wife would really worry. He decided to send a message to her as soon as they got to Milltown. The dispatcher was sending another bus to get his passengers back on the road. His bus was grounded, the police were going to take it. It was going to be a long night.
Milltown Police Sergeant Gerard Goodwin was on his third cup of coffee when he got a chance to talk to the doctors at Milltown Memorial. The girl had gone through some surgery for a gunshot wound to her left shoulder. The doctors didn’t think the wound was any real problem. The bullet had made a clean hole, entrance and exit wounds were both easy to clean and stitch. They should heal with no problems. The bullet just missed the shoulder bone, the pathway being about the best location with minimal damage. She was lucky. What the doctors were concerned about was the wound and swelling behind her right ear, which had caused her brain to swell. There didn’t appear to be a blood clot in the area, but she was still unconscious, and it was from more than the loss of blood. They would all have to wait until she woke up to see what kind of brain damage there might be.
There was no bullet for evidence, so Goodwin collected the labels from her clothing, got her fingerprints, and headed back to his office. He wanted to check the missing persons reports in the areas around Detroit first, then go wider if nothing showed up. If they couldn’t find anything about who she was, then it was protocol to contact the local FBI office.
She had to come from somewhere, and she must have someone who had noticed her missing. Actually, judging from her outward appearance and the fact that she had no purse, she could have been a victim of a crime in the city, before she boarded the bus. And, in a big city like Detroit, it was easy to become a non-person. It was a perfect place to get lost if you wanted to. If she was a runaway, though, there should be a missing persons’ report on her somewhere. He crossed his fingers as he sat down to the computer.
Milltown may be a small town, on a bus route between large cities, but there was a lot to be said about small towns. Everybody knew everybody. And they all helped one other out when needed. It was the way towns in this country used to be, before people started fighting so hard to just survive. Sgt. Goodwin had been a cop for almost 30 years and felt sad the way so many people had to struggle to feed their families in today’s rough economy. So many people have lost the really important values in life. That’s why he settled in this town, after five years on the force back in New York City. This was where he married and raised his family. Their values were still intact.
He thought about this young girl’s parents and how they must be worried about her, especially being in such a violent place as Detroit. You couldn’t pay Goodwin to let any of his kids live in the city. They were safer here in Milltown. A great little town.
A couple of hours later, he had to face the fact that there was no one matching this girl’s description who was missing. The ones that sounded like possibilities didn’t check out once the pictures were sent to him. There were no matches for the fingerprints either. Goodwin decided to call the hospital and check on the girl’s condition. Maybe she had woken up and would be able to tell him something. So, he crossed his fingers and picked up the phone. As he waited to talk with the doctor in charge of her case, he looked at his fingers. He didn’t remember where he had picked up that habit…of crossing his fingers before doing something. Maybe it came from his grandfather. He vaguely recalled seeing him do it a few times. But his grandfather, whom he had adored, died when Goodwin was only ten years old. And, funny thing, he still thought about him today. Probably because he had spent so much time with his grandfather those first few years of his life. Until some braindead dopehead took that great man away from his loving family. One of the reasons why Goodwin hated New York City.
Well, the girl was still unconscious, and the doctor was sure it was from the head wound. As Goodwin hung up the phone, he decided to go home and get a couple of hours sleep. Then, he would check in the morning to see if she had come out of the coma. He hoped so. This whole thing was giving him a bad feeling. Maybe because she reminded him of his daughter a little. About the same age. About the same innocent young face when she was sleeping. Still innocent in a lot of ways.
CHAPTER 4
ON THE CASEDetroit, Tuesday, 8am
Detective and Profiler Guy Davis found a spare desk at the precinct around 8am. After being awake for two days, he had caught five hours of sleep, showered and shaved. Even though his body was at rest for those five hours, his mind had continued milling through the events of the last couple of days. He didn’t feel any closer to answers on this case but knew what he had to do next.
Sergeant Rick Wylie was surprised and impressed to see Davis when he got to headquarters. Wylie was still standing next to his desk when he saw Officer Jack Watkins arrive and have the same reaction. They nodded to one another, and Watkins walked over to Davis. Not many could keep those crazy hours that they did and still be able to function. He asked Davis, “You get any sleep last night in that seedy motel you stayed at?”
Guy Davis stood to answer the question, a good chance to stretch, which he did, “A few hours. Bad back on a bad bed, so you might just see me do a lot of this today.” And he stretched again.
The booming voice of Captain Bill Overton cut through the almost quiet of the room. “Davis and Watkins. Here. Now.”
Watkins smiled and winked, as they turned to go and see Overton.
“Sit. So, the case we were having so much trouble solving when we called New York to get you here? Well, we don’t need you now. We have solved that case. It was the Mayor, and we got enough evidence to hang him. You can go back home if you want to, Davis.”
Guy Davis sat in the chair, looked over at Watkins, then, “Actually, sir, I would like to stay and see this new case through. Since Jack needed a partner and we seem to be able to work together pretty well,” Jack nodded in agreement, “I think I can be of some help. Why arrive one day, then leave the next? It takes longer than that just to drive here.”
The Captain sat and mulled this over a bit, “Watkins, what do you think?”
There was a trace of a smile on Jack’s face, “Cap, I really could use the help. And I’ve never worked with a Detective who is a Profiler before. I would like that experience.”
Overton sighed, as he picked up a file in front of him, “Well, okay. Let’s give it a few days. But report to me at the end of each day, okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, he opened the file and brought it up to his face to read. Guy wondered, ‘Bad eyesight, or a signal for us to leave?’
Watkins stood up and turned to the door, and Guy followed him. Jack turned around, walking backwards, “Let’s grab some breakfast down the street while we discuss the case.” Then turned, went to his desk, grabbed his jacket, and walked out, expecting Guy to simply follow him. Which he did.
As they ordered at Watkins’ favorite greasy spoon down the street, Guy appraised his new partner. Neat dresser, dirty blonde hair fashionably cut, handsome facial features, nice smile and bright blue eyes, even after working these long, grueling hours. Jack looked athletic, with muscles that looked like he worked out a lot. Guy couldn’t figure when the guy would find time.
“Okay, I’ve got some ideas, but I’d like to hear your impressions, Jack.”
Watkins wasn’t sure how to take this new guy in town, who just seemed to jump in and take over their case discussion like that. Well, he did have to work with the guy, so he took a breath and pulled his notebook out from his jacket pocket, putting it on the table but not opening it. He began recalling details from memory so he could start drawing some conclusions to share with Davis. “Valentine was obviously killed in front of his bar, due to the blood patches. He was killed by one gunshot wound to the heart. The shot in the groin was an afterthought.” He paused wanting this fact to show Guy that he had already talked with the coroner’s office. Guy nodded, so Jack continued, “Bullets were 38 caliber. No gun found yet, we are still looking. The killer knew Valentine. There were two glasses out, one almost full, the other half-full. No clear fingerprints on either glass. There was a partial print on the lip of the fuller glass. Turned out to be Valentine’s. The afterthought shot to the groin could have been emotional, showing sexual revenge of some sort. Or – maybe intentional to throw us off in the wrong direction.”
He paused only for a moment, taking a drink, then, “That may depend on finding the blood donor from the hallway. I met with the coroner early this morning. The preliminary report shows it’s not Valentine’s blood. Same blood was found on the statue as in the hallway. We have a hair sample to make comparisons when the time comes. The blood could belong to the killer, but I doubt it. We recovered a bullet from the wall near the blood stains. A 38 caliber, same as killed Valentine. I think it could have been one of two scenarios. One being the gun used was Valentine’s gun and he had shot at the killer in the hallway, who then fought over the gun, won, then shoved Valentine back into the room, shooting him. But, we would have found the killer’s blood inside the apartment. No sign inside, except on the statue.”
Guy leaned forward, “So, could be someone saw the killing, a witness. Killer shot at witness, who got away. We found some blood both in the elevator, and on the inside of the apartment building front door. We need someone to check out gunshot wound victims at the area hospitals who also have head wounds. Maybe we’ll get lucky. And we still need to check the victim’s rented studio.”
“We should do that today.” Jack picked up Valentine’s scheduler which Guy had lain on the table, “We can check the studio first, then get a list of people to see.”
Guy asked, “What was the time of death? Did the coroner have that yet?”
“Yes, sometime between 4 and 6 pm yesterday. He was still warm when the first police car arrived on the scene. Neighbors had called it in because of gun shots in the building.”
Guy finished his coffee, stood, tossed some money on the table, and the two walked out. Guy felt a small smile on his face. He liked the way Watkins’ mind worked. The officer had promise. He could make Detective yet.
For more information on this book and other novels by Marilyn Wright Dayton, go to Amazon here.
A Matter Of Time - Read a sample chapter here.
Copyright 2015-2024 by Marilyn Wright Dayton
Contact her at maredayt@yahoo.com.
See the Author's Amazon Page at https://www.amazon.com/author/marilynwrightdayton
