Victoria turned around and took one last look at her wretched sibling. "I really wanted to believe that you were going to change, but you're hopeless. You've hurt me tonight. I've been angry with you before, but this is the first time I've ever felt so disappointed. I'm ashamed of you."
In one moment of thoughtless innuendo, the fragile bonds that held a family together had been destroyed. The sardonic minefield through which Mary loved to maneuver had claimed another innocent victim, leaving the disillusioned hate monger alone to nurse the wounds of an intrinsic battle she'd never be able to win.
The devastating exchange with Mary left a hollow feeling in the pit of Victoria's stomach that tormented her thoughts well into the long and sleepless night. It seemed as though the silence would go on forever, until the liberating drone of the 4 a.m. alarm reminded her that she had an early morning errand to run.
It took a little longer than usual for Victoria to get dressed. Though the photo albums on her sister's dining room table were the essential elements of an important project, she didn't relish the thought of walking into Mary's house so soon after their life-altering confrontation. However, knowing that the object of her present indignation planned to be in Panama City for the weekend made the arduous drive down the dark and misty streets a bit more endurable.
As Victoria drew closer to her destination, the muffled rumblings of an approaching storm summoned memories of cold and rainy nights when two little girls were reassured by the soothing tone of a father's lullaby. For a brief moment, the hopeless optimist was tempted to anticipate a time in the future when they would put away their animosity and renew the love they'd once shared. Regrettably, she would soon come to realize that the sporadic flashes of distant lightning weren't the only source of illumination about to shed a garish light that everyone would see.
The streets surrounding Mary's two story suburban home in the close-knit sanctum of Gossamer Seasons resembled a carnival sight as neighbors braved the predawn drizzle to observe the activities of the police officers who had descended upon the front lawn. Amid the lambency of red and blue flashing lights, seven patrolmen dressed in navy blue uniforms scurried about the scene in a mode of unrelenting urgency while the crackling of loud radio dispatches filled the air. It was obvious that something terrible had happened.
Terrified and perplexed, Victoria parked her car in the driveway of the house across the street. Through the rhythmic swipes of her windshield wipers, she beheld the forlorn spectacle of a distraught woman sitting on the front steps, sobbing like a baby. It was one of Mary's closest friends, Alice Lipton.
Mary never realized how fortunate she was to have someone like Alice in her life. The amiable introvert didn't mind going the extra mile for the people she'd loved. She was a vibrant sixty-year-old divorcee who'd never had a good relationship with any of her own relatives. That's why the events that had previously occurred left a pain in her heart that would never be healed.
"What's wrong, Alice?" Victoria asked, approaching. "Did someone rob Mary's house?"
Alice stood up and embraced Victoria. "It's worse," she stuttered in a tearful panic. "Mary came home and caught the burglar. When I awakened at midnight to get a drink of water, I looked out and saw that her lights were on. So I went across the street and let myself in with the key she gave me. She was lying on the floor of her study. I'd never seen so much blood."
"Oh no!" Victoria dreaded. "It can't be true."
"I called the ambulance. I didn't know she was gone."
As the two women stood in the rain, comforting each other, Victoria remembered all the angry words and bitter feelings that could never be taken back. "Why did it have to come to this?" She wondered.
"Mary was like a mother to me. We had such good times together. Now it's all over. Everything's over."
"It's not over," Victoria replied with a contemplative expression on her face, as she thought about the upheaval that her sister's death would create. "It's only the beginning."
The bereaved sister's assessment was accurate. By daybreak, the local press had gotten wind of a rumored incident at the Larson home and laid siege on every available parking space in the immediate vicinity. Expeditious cameramen and byline hungry reporters with state of the art recording equipment anxiously awaited the appearance of the towering, heavy-set police Department spokesman, Inspector Samuel Hoffman.
Hoffman had the uncanny ability to contain his brusque irrational disposition when the cameras were rolling. In private, however, his unpredictable rage could boil to the surface at any given moment. The charismatic former hostage negotiator knew how to torment the media with a form of ambiguous jargon that gave even the most experienced journalists nightmares. His deep New Jersey accent was flavored with just enough Southern drawl to make him a hit with the common man. Of course, the expensive double-breasted suits and fifties-style haircut didn't exactly diminish the public's perception of his undeniable magnetism. He was truly one of a kind.
When the Inspector finally came out of Mary Larson's house, the sky was clear and the sun was beginning to rise. He confidently gaited toward the restive correspondents and prepared to take their questions.
"What's happened to Mrs. Larson, Inspector?" asked a columnist with the Panhandle Tribune.
"Mrs. Larson's body was discovered shortly after midnight," the Inspector answered. "She'd been murdered. The apparent motive was robbery."
"Do you have any suspects," a writer from a North Florida women's magazine inquired.
"At this time we're investigating ever possible angle concerning this homicide."
"What does that mean, Inspector?" The frustrated Channel 14 news anchor groaned.
"It means the Burnadett P.D. is committed to finding Mary Larson's killer."
"Give us a break, Hoffman," someone whined from the rear of the crowd. "How about some straight answers for a change?"
"Let me make one thing clear," the obviously irritated Inspector replied, "I'm not going to say anything that could compromise this investigation. As we speak, every available detective is being summoned to his or her post. If it takes all the resources at our disposal, we're going to bring this murderer to justice. Feel free to quote me."
The Inspector wasn't exaggerating. Within a few hours after the body was discovered, every division head in the department was receiving a personal invitation to the crime of the decade. Chief of Robbery-Homicide, Captain Leo Paremore received his call around 6:45 a.m.
There weren't a lot of leaders in the Burnadett P.D. like Paremore. After five years at the reins of a job that left many of his predecessors tired and bitter, the Captain had never lost his compassion. Understanding seemed to come easy for the wavy-haired detective with the endless wardrobe of polyester suits. His comprehensive approach allowed him to peer into the consciousness of others in a way that most of his fellow officers could never fully grasp. There was nothing flashy or pretentious about Leo Paremore. He was just a cop who cared for the public he served.
The Captain stepped out of his car, looking like several hundred miles of bad road. His sleeves were torn and his hair was a mess. The Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand seemed to be the only thing standing between him and a nervous breakdown. It wasn't the best time to have to deal with Inspector Hoffman.
The Inspector approached Paremore in his usual state of demonstrative hysteria. "Where have you been?" He demanded with a piercing voice that seemed to echo off every tree on the block. "Where's your tie?"
"Please, Inspector," the ailing Captain implored. "Not so loud."
"What's the matter with you, have you been drinking?"
"Of course not! I spent half the night on stakeout. We're ready to make an arrest in that extortion case."
"Let one of your sergeants take over. As of this moment, the Larson homicide is your top priority. This case is a political time bomb. The voters may be a little more patient with a mayor who puts top homicide cop on the front lines. You don't have much time, Captain. Solve this murder before we all have to find another job."
"I fully understand the ramifications involved, Inspector."
"I'm glad we're on the same page," he replied in a slightly mollified tone. "Mrs. Larson's sister, Victoria Lambert is inside. She and the Chief's wife have been friends for years. So proceed with caution. I'll be in a little later."
"I understand. By the way, Inspector…"
"What?"
"Would you happen to have a couple of aspirin?"
"You've got to be kidding me," he scoffed as he walked away, shaking his head.
The front door was open when the Captain entered the house. His second in command, Lieutenant Mahalia Mathers was examining the lock.
Lieutenant Mathers had grown up hard and poor. She seemed to comprehend the throbbing desperation that could compel the most placid individual to commit an act of shameless violence. Her incredulous brown eyes revealed the heart of a wounded soldier who'd battled the foes of human decency and lost. Twenty years of fighting crime had made her cynical and stolid. Finding the good in people was often difficult for her. Yet there were those rare moments when someone would pervade her dogmatic fortress with an unexpected display of sincere kindness, forcing her to admit that there might be a ray of hope still left in this miserable old world. Granted, when it came to keeping the deeds and misdeeds of modern man in their proper perspective, Mathers occasionally needed a little prodding in the right direction, but Paremore never had any reason to doubt her integrity, nor her commitment to the department.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," the Captain greeted her. "What can you tell me?"
"Hi, Captain," she replied. "All the locks are in tact. The killer clearly entered the house through the window of the study."
"Have you determined a motive?"
"The motive appears to be robbery," she stated with a tinge of skepticism.
"You don't sound convinced," he observed.
"The whole thing seems a little too amateurish. According to the victim's sister, six-thousand dollars was missing from a concealed private safe along with a few pieces of jewelry."
"Doesn't that sound like robbery?"
"The value of the rings and necklaces was more sentimental than monetary. The personal journal that Sergeant Van Eason fond had the safe's combination written on the inside cover. Anyone who'd previously been in the house could've known where Mrs. Larson kept the book. None of her expensive silverware was taken. The television and stereo are still here. I believe this so-called robbery was staged by an assailant with a specific agenda.
"For all we know, Mrs. Larson might have surprised the intruder before he could steal anything else. There's also a good probability that he forced her to open the safe.
"That's a good point, but it doesn't explain the window."
"What about the window?"
The killer entered the house by cutting the screen and breaking the glass. He even sustained a careless injury and left drops of blood for us to find. It just doesn't look like the work of a pro."
"Even the most experienced cat burglar can make a mistake. Besides, there's another scenario we need to consider. Mrs. Larson as very well known and rich. That kind of prestige breeds enemies. A professional hit man sent to settle a score could have constructed this scene of confusion to throw us off the trail. It's too early to form any definite conclusions."
"I know you're right, Captain, and I agree with you. It just doesn't seem feasible that a common thief with no axe to grind would've taken time to indulge in the upheaval left in that study."
"Every point you've raised is valid, Lieutenant. However, at this juncture, the death of Mary Larson poses more questions than answers. Check with N.C.I.C. See how many parolees and recently released ex-cons share our killer's M.O. It would also be a good idea to speak with business acquaintances and various charity representatives. We may find a suspect or two outside the family."
"I'm on it, Chief," she replied, preparing to leave.
"Ah, Lieutenant…"
"Sir?"
"Where's Mrs. Lambert?"
"She's in the dining room."
"Is she alone?"
"Why, yes," Mathers answered, as if she couldn't begin to fathom why he would even ask. "She looked so upset. I really didn't know what to say to hr."
"You don't have to say anything, Mahalia," he said, tenderly. "Just sit down beside her and be kind."
"I can do that," she declared in a voice of reluctant valor.
At five feet eleven inches tall, with a nine-millimeter semi-automatic strapped to her waist, Mathers had stared down some of the most vicious criminals in the state. Yet as she trekked across the thick burgundy carpet, an expression of precarious dread made it obvious that she'd never faced anything more frightening than a vulnerable little old lady whose entire universe had just come crashing down around her.
While Captain Paremore didn't envy the Lieutenant's plight, he realized the task ahead of him was even more disdainful. He had to walk into the room where one of the town's most beloved citizens was lying dead in the middle of the floor.
The Crime Scene Unit was hard at work snapping photographs and dusting for fingerprints when Paremore walked into the study.
The Captain was hardly a stranger to the mind-boggling carnage of a violent homicide, but the aftermath of Mary Larson's ordeal was enough to rattle the foundations of anyone's existence.
Bloodstained books, which had likely been thrown at the attacker, were dispersed about the anterior of the fireplace. Disheveled papers and scratches across the hardwood floor suggested that someone or something had collided with the solid oak desk in the corner. Disintegrated figurines and ornaments gave evidence of being toppled from their perches with the force of an earthquake. The victim had put up a valiant fight. Grievously, it was her last.
The Medical Examiner, Dr. Silas Parnell, was preparing the body for transport.
Being in the presence of Dr. Parnell always made Paremore feel like he'd taken a step back in time. To the nostalgic Doctor, the soul shake was still an accepted form of salutation. His salt-and-pepper Afro was well conditioned and neatly packed in place. There was still a hint of seventies slang in his otherwise urbane verbal delivery. Even though his favorite denim jacket and black leather boots tended to spark a flicker of dubiety among his colleagues, the Captain had the utmost confidence in Parnell's knowledge of forensic pathology, as well as his dedication to justice.
After twenty-eight years of marriage, Dr. Parnell had been cast into the disenfranchising role of venerable bachelor by a vindictive ex-wife, who seemed devoted to the cause of his emotional and financial demise. Walking the tenuous tightrope that separated his professional objectivity from his personal trials and tribulations would prove to be his greatest challenge. Helping him keep his mind focused on the biggest case of his career the day after his former spouse's attorney had sent him a summons to appear would prove to be Paremore's.
"How does it look, Silas?" The Captain asked.
"Like a train wreck," he replied.
"I'm inclined to agree," Paremore concluded, looking around the room.
"I was talking about you," he clarified, referring to the Captain's appearance. "Were you abducted by aliens?"
"I had a long night. What can you tell me about the victim?"
"Eighty year old female, sustained multiple contusions and abrasions. External injuries to the upper torso and abdomen lead me to suspect internal damage. I also found blood and tissue under the victim's fingernails. Some of the blood on her clothes probably belongs to the killer. Estimated time of death would've been somewhere between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. Man, this killer had to be one cold cat.
"So she was beaten to death."
"At this point, my money's on this blow to the temporal bone," he said, pointing to the victim's head.
"Any ideas on the murder weapon?"
"I'm fairly sure it was a lug wrench."
"You don't hear that every day. I can see why Mathers believes this was personal. Nothing around here seems conventional."
"It wouldn't be the first time a family member was pushed to the limit and took steps to rid himself of the debilitating cancer that threatened to destroy his entire way of life!" Parnell snarled with a ravenous glower on his face.
"Doctor," the Captain spoke softly, attempting to curtail his digression.
"Sorry, young blood. My ex-wife is dragging me into court again on the fifteenth and I've been climbing the walls all night."
"I wish I could make things easier for you, Doc."
"Thanks, man. Unfortunately, there's nothing anyone can do. I'll just have to weather the storm and keep myself occupied. So let's solve this poor woman's murder."
"Alright, Doctor. I read that Mrs. Larson always drove down to Panama City on Thursday nights for a three-day weekend. Yet she was home last night."
"A splitting headache might have altered her plans," he replied, displaying a bag containing a bottle of prescription medicine. It's sumatriptan succinate. It was found in the victim's purse. Her sister confirmed that she was taking it for migraine headaches. The toxicology report will tell us whether or not the medication might have been enhanced.
"Don't you mean poisoned?"
"I've been doing this a long time, Leo. Nothing surprises me anymore. I'll be able o tell you more after the autopsy."
"Thanks, Silas."
After Dr. Parnell's attendants placed the body on a gurney and exited the room, I turned my attention to the window where the intruder allegedly entered the home. Sergeant Levi Van Eason was perusing a ledger that was found in the safe.
Some may have found it tempting to underestimate he Sergeant, but Paremore knew better. He'd always been able to count on the lanky, sandy-haired country boy. His knowledge of the streets coupled with a vast array of connections in the world of journalism, politics and business gave him the kind of insight that was invaluable in a widely publicized murder case. Beneath the surface of his plainspoken tenacity, there abided a genuine concern for the citizens he'd sworn to protect. His empathy was made manifest by the look in his funereal eyes as he labored to maintain his composure.
"Is everything alright, Levi?" the Captain asked.
"This animal ought to get the chair," he said.
"I believe the jury generally decides that."
"You're right, Captain. I'm sorry. It's just so hard to think of someone breaking in here and attacking a defenseless old lady."
"It's not easy for any of us, Sergeant. She was a cherished woman who did a lot for this community. She'll be missed. However, it's our job to gather evidence and bring the guilty party to justice despite our personal feelings. Anything less would dishonor Mrs. Larson's memory."
"I understand."
"What's so interesting about that book?"
"It's a ledger. I'm going to let one of our forensic accountants look it over."
"Good idea. Were you the first one on the scene?"
"Yes, sir. I responded to the dispatch and found the victim's neighbor, Alice Lipton standing in the front yard. I followed her into the house and discovered the body."
"Mathers said something about a journal."
"It's on the desk. Mrs. Larson expressed some serious discontent with certain members of her family."
"So you think it's personal, too?"
"It's hard to say, Captain. Even the most irenic families have been known to throw down the gauntlet every now and then."
"Is this the only room that was robbed?"
"Yes, sir. The killer was likely surprised by the victim before he could search the rest of the house."
"If that was his plan."
"All of this could be a façade," Paremore replied, moving toward the window. "I'm trying to get inside this killer's head."
"Watch your step," Van Eason warned, "there's broken glass all over the place."
"Didn't Mrs. Larson and her husband live several other places before settling here," the Captain asked, scratching his head.
"According to the society pages."
"I want you to get in touch with some of your newspaper buddies and find out if the Larsons have ever been involved in any high-profile incidents. If this is a vendetta, the killer's rage may have deeper roots than we think."
"I'll get right on it, Captain," he complied as he headed for the door.
"Levi…"
"Sir?"
"If you need to talk, my door is always open."
"Thank you, Captain."
Though Paremore was concerned about the Sergeant's state of mind, he had no doubt that the officer would conduct himself in a sound and professional manner. It was what he'd come to expect from the people under his command.
Lieutenant Mathers and Mrs. Lambert were sitting quietly in the dining room when Captain Paremore opened the door. The weary mourner looked ill. Her silver crown and glory was combed back in a pompadour style. The captain didn't want to talk to her at such a terrible time, but the conversation couldn't be put off.
Mathers graciously stood up and placed her hand on he tearful lady's shoulder. "I'll have to be going now," she told her. "I'm sincerely sorry for your loss."
Mrs. Lambert reached out and took the hand of her reluctant comforter. With all the warmth and appreciation of a loving mother, she looked deeply into the Lieutenant's eyes. "Thank you," she said. "Your kindness has meant more than you'll ever know."
The gesture caught the veteran detective off guard. She reacted as though a jolt of electricity had surged through her body. "You're very welcome," she replied as she nervously walked past the Captain and exited the room.
"She's a very special young woman," Mrs. Lambert said to Paremore.
"She's been through a lot in life," he replied, taking a seat beside her.
"I sensed that."
"Mrs. Lambert, I am Captain Leo Paremore. I know this isn't the best time, but I do have to ask you some questions."
"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Captain. The Chief speaks very highly of you."
"That's nice to hear. Have there been any recent threats leveled at your sister?"
"I don't believe so. It's funny how things can change. When my late husband and I moved into our home, I was afraid to go out alone. He even bought me a gun for protection. Today, it's one of the safest parts of town. Mary moved here to Gossamer Seasons because she thought she'd be safe."
"Why did you come out so early this morning, Mrs. Lambert?"
"I needed these pictures for a book I'm writing about our family," she said, showing him the albums.
"Did you drive yourself?"
"Yes. My son has been staying with me while his wife's out of town, but I didn't want to wake him, so I just came alone."
The Captain was about to ask another question when Inspector Hoffman interrupted him.
"I'm going to give Mrs. Lambert a ride home," Hoffman declared.
"But we haven't finished," Paremore said.
"You can talk to Mrs. Lambert another time," the Inspector insisted, taking the old lady's hand and helping her up, in an obvious ploy to gain her favor. "I've already contacted Dr. Lambert and told him what happened. He'll be waiting for us. This way, Mrs. Lambert."
"Thank you, Inspector," she said. "It was nice meeting you, Captain."
"Likewise, Mrs. Lambert," Paremore replied, rising from his seat. "I'm truly sorry for your loss."
"The Captain had no delusions about this case. He realized the emotional and political forecast looked stormy. However, the dedicated detective was prepared to ride the waves of media scrutiny until the homicide was solved. The cyclone of public opposition turned out to be an even more debilitating man-made disaster, however.
After four weeks of looking under rocks and shaking down suspects, the Burnadett Police Department continued to come up empty. Delayed results compelled frustrated citizens to organize protests. Every morning an angry hoard of chanting individuals who loved Mary Larson would gather across the street from the Police Station. Yet none of these outraged crusaders for justice could understand the loss experienced by Alice Lipton. While Alice appreciated the dedication of the protestors, she realized that their efforts weren't going to bring Mary's killer to light. She needed someone who would gather the evidence and stand up for the memory of her friend. So she called me.