Dear Crossing (2 page)

Valerie Davis’s body lay on the floor in a wide pool of coagulating blood at the far side of the kitchen’s center island. Eyes open and unblinking, she seemed to be contemplating the bloody stump of her arm.

Her left forearm and hand were missing.

2

Ray made a show of checking his watch when Woody arrived twenty minutes later.

“I got here as soon as I could. What’s going on?”

“Valerie Davis is inside. Dead. Looks like you’ve got a murder on your hands.” He watched the color drain out of Woody’s face, taking pleasure in laying the burden on his shoulders.

“Murder?” He repeated the word as though it required translation. “What happened? Was she stabbed? Shot?”

“Nothing that routine.”

“Give me a straight answer, damn it.” Without waiting, Woody turned and headed toward the back of the house. “Forget it. I’ll look for myself.”

Ray tried to block his path. “You can’t. Not yet.”

“Get out of my way.”

He held his ground. “You can’t go inside.”

“Like hell I can’t. I’m the Chief of Police.”

“And I’m the first responding officer. I can’t let you compromise the crime scene.”

“I’m going in with or without you.” Woody started away. “Are you coming?”

Left with no choice, Ray went with him to the back of the house, moving aside at the French doors to let him pass. Two steps inside, Woody came to an abrupt stop. Dried blood coated the doorjamb. It spattered the floor and objects along the pathway. The metallic smell hung in the air, a noxious scent that could linger in the nostrils for hours, even days. In the mind, forever.

Ray’s first bloody crime scene flashed through his mind—a sixteen-year-old boy shot by rival gang members and left to bleed out in an alley. Fifteen years later the look and smell of blood remained as fresh in his memory as though it had been yesterday. With care, Ray stepped into the lead again. His tone softened. “It gets worse,” he warned.

Woody lagged behind.

“The body’s over here,” Ray said, with a backward glance. He moved deeper into the house. “Here. In the kitchen.”

Woody stepped around a pool of blood that ended just short of the living room, a room in shambles. Magazines and decorator pillows lay strewn across the floor. A mantel clock lay broken near the fireplace. Pieces of shattered figurines lay amid the debris.

On the other side of the kitchen’s butcher block island, Valerie Davis’s body lay on its right side. She was barefoot, dressed in black slacks and a white, cashmere sweater. Her left knee was drawn toward her chest, her head lying on the outstretched right arm. Had she been in bed, she’d have appeared to be resting comfortably, but the blood-soaked clothing, the blood spatter caking her face and hair all told a different story.

Brown shoulder-length hair lay across her left cheek and throat. Her face was frozen in an ashen grimace. Death had stolen the vibrant spirit that once lived behind those dark eyes.

Careful not to touch the body, Woody took a deep breath and crouched to do a rudimentary examination. He stood again, trying to swallow. “Where’s her forearm?”

“I haven’t found it yet,” Ray said.

Woody’s face turned a pale shade of green. “You don’t suppose whoever did this took it with him as some kind of sick trophy or something, do you?”

“It’s possible, but judging by the weapon’s location, she was attacked outside. It’s more likely some scavenger carried it off the property—dog, fox, maybe a coyote.”

“You found the weapon?”

“Out back.” Ray led him through the French doors again. A gore-covered tree stump stood twenty yards from the house. Beside it, an axe lay on the ground, its blade dulled by dried blood—the handle spattered.

“Holy Christ.”

Ray watched Woody try to wet his lips, knowing from experience that his mouth was probably too dry for the task. “Ted Barton called this in.”

“Where is he?”

“I got what I could out of him and sent him home for now. He cut this tree down for the Davises yesterday and says he forgot his axe. Claims he came back for it this morning, walked into this nightmare and phoned the station.”

Woody brushed perspiration from his forehead though the temperature was cool, the sun still low in the sky. “Claims? You’re saying you doubt his story?”

“I’m saying he’s a suspect at this point.” Ray pulled his cap farther down on his brow. “Just because you may have gone to school with the guy or shared a few laughs over a beer or something doesn’t mean he’s above suspicion.”

“Look, you arrogant—”

“Sorry.” Ray moved on quickly, the simple apology leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “I’m just saying something might’ve set him off. Maybe she criticized the job he did, or maybe they argued over his bill. Who knows?”

“I don’t buy it. Barton’s laidback—levelheaded.” Woody turned his back to the bloody tree stump. “Besides, why would he incriminate himself by leaving his axe behind?”

“Maybe he panicked,” Ray said. “Or it might’ve been his way of trying to throw us off the track, knowing it would probably be the last thing we’d expect him to do.”

“That’s crazy, Ray. Ted’s not the type.”

“Now there’s a scientific approach.”

“Don’t worry. If the evidence points in his direction, I’ll get scientific real damn fast. In the meantime, I’m going on gut instinct.”

“Okay, but don’t get too attached to that. Barton’s reactions did seem genuine to me, though. He was still as green as grass when he left.” He looked back at the stump. “What happened was probably unpremeditated…especially if someone else did it. If you plan to kill someone, you don’t leave your choice of weapon to chance.”

Woody tipped his hat back off his damp brow. “So, the axe was a weapon of opportunity.”

“More than likely.”

Ray and Woody walked back toward the house as Chuck Wilke and two other officers approached from the front yard. As first responding officer, Ray gave them a brief rundown before issuing orders. “I want the entire area cordoned off. Create a wide perimeter. Unwanted spectators are going to start showing up soon. Keep them back when they come—as far away as possible. No exceptions.” Ray told Officer Rodgers, “Station yourself at the front entrance. You’re in charge of the logbook. No unnecessary personnel inside. Got it?”

Woody glanced around the property. “Chuck, Where’s Neil?”

Chuck Wilke hiked his pants up over his beach ball belly. “Still at Hank Kramer’s place, I guess. The old fart’s got a missing cow.”

“I know,” Woody said. “Kramer called me about it at home this morning. Twice.”

“Neil will find it, Chief. He prob’ly earned a cow-tracking badge in Eagle Scouts or something.” A chuckle set his stomach in motion.

Woody cut his deputy’s laughter short. “The damn cow can wait. I need him here. Now.”

“Irene might’ve had trouble reaching him, Chief. He and his radio are probably out of range. He’s likely to be out in some field, sidestepping cow patties.”

“All right, never mind. Get busy.”

As Wilke hurried away, Ray pointed to a tree growing alongside the second-floor balcony. “Broken branch. See it?”

Woody shielded his eyes, trying to locate the cracked limb. “The means of entry?”

“That’s my guess. If the balcony door was unlocked, only a ladder propped against the side of the house would’ve given the perp easier access.”

“Shit,” Woody said, crossing his arms. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to go through this entire place inch by inch right now.”

“The BCA would hand us our heads. Whoever did this was already long gone by the time I got here. I found muddy footprints upstairs in the master bedroom. The mud’s dry. It confirms entry was probably made through the balcony window.”

Woody nodded. “So someone climbs the tree and gets inside. Mrs. Davis hears or sees him and takes off through the French doors. He gives chase and catches her out back near the axe and—”

Ray twisted his neck, trying to loosen the tight muscles. “Judging from the condition of the living room, they must’ve had a confrontation there
before
Valerie Davis made it outside.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t see any blood in there. It figures she had to have made it out of the house before the axe came into the picture.” He drew a deep breath. “I can show you where the mud upstairs came from if you want to see.”

On the move, Woody hollered to Chuck Wilke, “Everything under control over there?”

Wilke gave him a thumbs-up as Officer Neil Lloyd stumbled outside through the French doors. He hunched over, retching. He straightened up, his face as flushed as a tropical sunset.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” Ray hollered.

Neil wiped his mouth. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything.”

“You had no business being in there in the first place. Rodgers is supposed to be keeping unauthorized personnel out of the house. What the hell is he doing?”

Neil wiped his mouth again. “He was heading into the woods. I think he’s taking a leak.”

“Geezus.”

“It’s no big deal. I told you I didn’t touch anything.”

“No big deal? You’re damn lucky you didn’t puke inside. As it is, you could’ve just upchucked on something crucial out here.”

“Enough,” Woody said. “Neil, help the others secure the area. Ray walked away as Woody stopped Neil. “Hey, did you find Kramer’s cow?”

Neil nodded. “It was dead—in the last place Kramer said it would be.”

“That figures. The miserable old bastard’s not happy unless he’s stirring up trouble.”

Officer Cooper, a middle-aged cop with middle-age spread, approached Woody.

Waiting impatiently at the south side of the house, Ray tried to interpret their body language as the two men talked briefly.

As Woody rejoined him, he announced, “New issue. Suppose someone knew Barton left the axe behind. That would make it an inviting choice of weapons. It couldn’t be traced like a gun and it would throw suspicion elsewhere—on Barton in this case.”

Ray turned his back to the glare of the sun just coming over the crest of the Davises’ property. “Unless Barton told someone he’d left it here, that’s a stretch.”

“Not if someone saw the axe sitting there. Paul Davis was here yesterday, Ray.”

“Her husband was here?” Ray said.

“That’s what Coop just told me. He did the property checks yesterday morning and saw Paul Davis coming out of the house. The two of them even talked for a minute before Davis excused himself and left. Coop heard Barton’s chainsaw, so Barton was already at work out back.”

“Where’s Davis now?”

“Back in the Cities as far as I know. Crap. I’m going to have to have the authorities there notify him about his wife. Better them than me, I suppose.”

“Chances are he already knows. You know the statistics as well as I do.”

Woody started away. “I’ve got to get the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension rolling on this.”

“Already done—the BCA and the medical examiner, too. We’d better finish cordoning off this area fast.”

“Right,” Woody said. “This place is going to turn into a parade ground in a hurry.”

“Probably sooner than you think,” Ray told him. “The media’s going to turn this town into a three-ring circus. The press, TV and the rubberneckers are going to be crawling out of the woodwork.”

Woody looked toward the sound of approaching sirens. “Yeah. The wife of Paul Davis—daughter of Chester Stockton. A woman with connections to two high-profile men. We couldn’t keep the media away with artillery fire.”

“You’ve got that right.” Ray gestured toward the foundation of the house and the broad strip of soil recently tilled for Valerie Davis’s spring planting. “Take a look at this.” Deep boot prints remained in the earth turned to mud by Friday night’s rain. Ray held his foot over one of the impressions for comparison. “Probably size eleven or better—wide.”

“Boots aren’t Paul Davis’s style,” Woody said. “And his feet aren’t that big. I like his footwear. I’ve noticed. Besides, I don’t see Davis climbing a tree to get inside his own house.”

“No, but a man in his position would probably hire someone to do his dirty work for him. You want me to help with perimeter control?” Ray asked.

“No, I need you with me.”

The statement comprised an order, but underlying the directive, Ray noted a clear admission and a small piece fell from the chip lodged on his shoulder.

3

Paul Davis walked into the Widmer police station, targeting Woody, who was talking with one of his men. “I want to see my wife. Where is she?” Every hair was in place, his clothing impeccable as always, but he seemed as tightly wound as piano wire. Davis barked, “I said where is she?”

Ray stayed at his desk, dissecting Davis’s appearance and behavior.

Trying to direct him toward his office Woody approached with his arm extended. “Mr. Davis, if you’ll come with me—”

“I want answers and I want them now. I’m not moving another inch until you tell me what’s happened.”

“Sir,”—Woody took him by the elbow— “come into my office. I’ll tell you all I can, but I’d rather we talk privately.”

Unaccustomed to taking orders, Davis bristled, but followed, his body rigid, his patrician face frozen in a grimace. Woody gestured Ray inside where he took up a spot beside one of two gray filing cabinets.

“Mr. Davis, I think you’ve already met Officer Schiller.”

“Damn it, stop stalling.” The tension in his voice swelled to a new level. “Tell me what happened to my wife.”

Woody braced himself. “It appears she died of blood loss. That and possibly shock.”

Davis dropped into a chair like his legs had snapped. Elbows on his knees, he clutched his graying temples and sagged against the back of the chair, hands lying limp on his lap. “I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “You say it was blood loss. In God’s name, how? The officers who notified me refused to give any details. What kind of accident did my wife have?”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident,” Woody said. “Your wife was killed by an intruder.”

“An intruder?” Davis repeated it as though he didn’t understand. “A burglar?”

“We don’t think so. Nothing appears to have been taken. We’ll need you to verify that later.”