The May Day Murders

The May Day Murders

Scott Wittenburg

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)

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.