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    Situation Solved: Mystery
    Situation Solved: Mystery
    Situation Solved: Mystery
    Ebook249 pages3 hours

    Situation Solved: Mystery

    By Harvey Stanbrough

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    About this ebook

    Detective Kelli Holt is on a routine assignment, investigating the murder of an elementary school teacher.

    But the investigation itself is far from routine. Why does an elementary school teacher have 1.7 million dollars stashed in her floor safe and in her purse? What does her pupil and 7 year old neighbor know? And who or what exactly is Situation Solved?

    Before she can find any answers, she is assigned to a second murder investigation that might or might not be connected.

    And she very nearly becomes a victim herself.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStoneThread Publishing
    Release dateFeb 1, 2019
    ISBN9781540173560
    Situation Solved: Mystery
    Author

    Harvey Stanbrough

    Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

    Read more from Harvey Stanbrough

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      Book preview

      Situation Solved - Harvey Stanbrough

      Table of Contents

      Situation Solved

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      Situation Solved

      a police procedural crime novel

      from StoneThread Publishing

      Dedicated to E. J. Phillips and Alison Holt

      two of the toughest ladies I know

      and to Dean Wesley Smith

      without whose guidance I probably wouldn’t have written anything more enchanting than a grocery list

      1

      It was an uneventful graveyard shift for Corporal Jerry Phillips. The night air was warm and there was no moon. Why people called no moon a new moon he’d never figured out.

      Soon after he’d gone on duty at 11, the dispatcher sent him to break up a bar fight. But that was okay. It was on the lighter side of routine.

      As soon as his bulk filled the front door of the bar, one combatant glared at him and the other twisted his head around to look. Then they backed away from each other, albeit with their hands raised to ward off an unexpected attack from the other.

      He separated the two, pointing to send the second man to a stool at the bar, then guiding the first by his shirt collar to the wall next to the front door. He searched the first guy and took a small, fixed-blade knife from his right front pocket.

      I found it, the man said.  Thin bands of turquoise, mother of pearl and coral were inlaid on the handle. He wrapped the blade of the knife in a napkin, talked with him for another half-minute, and told the guy to go home.

      Jerry turned to look at the second guy. He was still waiting patiently on a stool toward the far end of the bar. Good boy.

      The man leaned over a little to watch his adversary leave the bar, but there was no malice in his eyes.

      As Jerry approached him, the guy nervously started to take a drink from the long-neck bottle he was holding.

      Jerry laughed. Nah, c’mon, he said, and pointed. There’s nothing left in that one, man.

      The guy frowned, then looked at the bottle. Most of the bottom was broken away. He had intended to use it as a weapon.

      Jerry pointed again. Set it on the bar. Stan’ll take care of it.

      The man laid the bottle on its side on the bar. Slurring slightly, he said, Officer, he attacked me first.

      Jerry nodded, then chatted with him for a minute or so.

      As they talked, the bartender approached, took the broken bottle and dropped it into a trash can behind the bar.

      This one didn’t seem drunk either, so Jerry sent him home too. And that was that. Sometimes it was better to report a misunderstanding through the dispatcher. Better to avoid the paperwork, and better not to clog the court docket. Especially over nothing.

      A second call came in a little over two hours later. Another bar fight, but one that spilled into the parking lot.

      At that one, only fists were involved. A crowd had gathered around the two men, but the fight was one-on-one. The arrival of Jerry’s cruiser and the siren winding down had the same effect on that fight that his sudden presence had on the first.

      As soon as he pulled into the parking lot, his overhead lights sweeping blue-red-blue over the crowd and the white, concrete-block wall of the establishment, the crowd dispersed.

      The two men stopped fighting and turned to face him. They stared at the cruiser, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

      Jerry stepped out, made a point of putting his right hand on the grip of his pistol, and walked across the lot toward them. The distance was only about thirty feet, but by the time he got there, the former adversaries were acting like long lost friends.

      No harm, no foul.

      It had been awhile since he’d had a shift that didn’t result in paperwork. Maybe this morning he’d get home at a little after 7 when his shift ended. When there was paperwork, often it kept him busy until noon.

      He passed the rest of the shift driving slowly up and down streets that held businesses, checking windows and looking for doors ajar. That and listening to his favorite country music station on the a.m. radio.

      Well, almost the rest of the shift.

      *

      A few minutes before 7 the dispatcher called his number again over the radio. Are you running your usual route around that residential area on the north side?

      He keyed the mike. Roger that. See you in a few.

      The dispatcher laughed. I’ll have the coffee on, but first swing by 11117 Rosemont for a health and wellness visit on a female living alone. The neighbor across the street advises something doesn’t ‘feel’ right.

      He grinned and put on a fake whine. Doesn’t feel right? Okay, but why me?

      He could hear the smile in her voice. You’re the closest.

      Will do.

      A few minutes later, just as he should be going off-shift, he pulled up in front of 11117 Rosemont. He keyed the mike and let the dispatcher know he was on-scene, then got out of his car.

      A wellness visit, so probably the person he was checking on was elderly. And it was still pretty early. He hated the thought of maybe waking up whoever it was, but if she didn’t want to be awakened by the police she should keep her neighbor apprised.

      A row of rose bushes lined the yard-side of the concrete driveway. The garage door was closed.

      A nicely manicured lawn stretched across the front of the small ranch-style home, a single small Japanese maple tree in the center of the yard. Red brick rose around the bottom of the house to a height of about three feet, then white wood siding above that. A square concrete slab—probably an extension of the sub-floor—formed the front porch, and a series of square red concrete tiles led from the sidewalk to the porch.

      He was careful to stay on the tiles as he approached the house. Some homeowners were picky about that. After he stepped up on the porch, he worked the thumb latch on the aluminum screen door and propped it open against his left hip. But instead of knocking right away, he leaned forward and cupped his hands around his face, peering through the two small vertical windows in the top third of the heavy wooden door.

      No lights were on in the living room or the kitchen beyond. No sound of a television or anything like that. Probably she was still asleep.

      Well, it couldn’t be helped.

      He knocked loudly on the door and announced himself, then waited and listened.

      Still no sounds.

      He knocked again, a little louder, and announced himself.

      No response.

      He tried the door knob and was surprised to feel it turn in his hand.

      He pushed open the door. Ma’am? Police. Are you all right in there?

      Still no response.

      Whoever had called it in was correct. Something didn’t feel right.

      2

      Corporal Jerry Phillips keyed his shoulder mike and called for backup, drew his weapon, and moved into the small house. The living room was clear. He watched and listened toward the open arch that led into the kitchen as he moved toward an open door on his right.

      It was an office, and it was clear too. He moved back across the living room to clear the kitchen, then back again into the hallway. The bathroom was on the left and the door was open. He stepped through and checked. It was clear too.

      He came out of the bathroom and turned left toward the open bedroom door.

      At the entrance, he stopped and peered around the door jamb. Aw man.

      The victim lay sprawled on her back on the bed. She wasn’t elderly at all, and she definitely hadn’t overslept. She was covered with blood and obvious multiple stab wounds.

      He didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene, and there was no reason to check for a pulse.

      He backed away from the room, touched nothing. He would secure the scene and wait for the detective. Had he called for a detective?

      A second officer showed up, a rookie fresh off his training rotation.

      Phillips stopped him in the living room and sent him back on patrol. Then he keyed his shoulder mike. Dispatch, send a detective to investigate a probable homicide at my location.

      *

      I’m Detective Lieutenant Kelli Holt. Our detective squad is housed in a single large room in the left wing of the station. We call it the bullpen. The chief detective has one of two small separate offices. The secretary is in the other one. We others make do with cheap partitions in chrome frames with a faded orange loose-weave fabric stretched over fiberboard. Ugly as sin.

      My cubby hole is along the wall on the same side as the chief’s office. Between mine and the door to the hallway are two other cubicles, but they’re both empty. The one next to mine belongs to Joseph Big Joe Balducci, who’s currently on vacation. The other one is for the next cop who passes the detective exam.

      The other detectives—Bill DeVrie, Champ Sessions, and Fred Doughtery—have their own cubicles along the wall that leads to the secretary’s office.

      A few minutes after the shift started at 7, Bryan Rye Jackson, the chief detective, stuck his head out past his office door and yelled, Holt, you out there yet?

      Like I was ever late. I’m here, skipper.

      Good. Your turn in the barrel, isn’t it?

      I had never quite understood the allure of that juvenile joke, but it roughly translates to you’re next. I said, Yes sir.

      Get over to 11117 Rosemont, north side. Looks like a homicide.

      And just like that, I drew the case.

      I turned from my desk and stuck the file I’d just opened into a file drawer. It was minor compared to a homicide, at least so far. Wife-on-husband domestic violence. Only she weighed in the vicinity of 300 pounds and he was practically Jack Sprat. She made it a habit to beat him regularly with a cast-iron frying pan. So far she hadn’t taken it to his head. He made it a habit to refuse to press charges. Just another day in Paradise.

      I grabbed my jacket and headed out. Twenty minutes later I pulled up at the curb behind the patrol car.

      Corporal Phillips met me at the front door and nodded as I approached. Detective, how’s it going?

      I looked up.

      Phillips practically filled the door at a little over 6’2" and probably 200 pounds, and frankly, very little of it was wasted. He was young, especially for a corporal, in his late 20s or maybe early 30s. He hadn’t yet started taking on the paunch that afflicts so many cops after eating too many late-night or early morning meals and sleeping right afterward.

      As I stepped through the front door, I managed a smile. I’m good so far, Jerry. But it’s early yet.

      Then the smell of copper hit me full on, mixed with the stench of urine and defecation. Even after so many of these, I never expect it. I resisted the urge to gag and looked up at him. I have a feeling all that’s about to change.

      Phillips nodded again and stepped aside.

      I said, So what do we have?

      Phillips took another step back, then stopped and fished a small notepad from his breast pocket. He flipped it open and ran the scene. Single victim in the bedroom. Caucasian female, naked, multiple knife wounds to the face, hands, arms and torso. He flipped the notepad closed and returned it to his pocket.

      That’s it? Was she DOA?

      As Phillips buttoned the breast pocket, he nodded, but he said nothing.

      You checked?

      He looked me in the eyes meaningfully and shook his head. No need, detective. You’ll see what I mean.

      I nodded, but I had to wonder what other procedures he’d ignored. Okay, show me.

      He turned away, and I followed him into a short hallway.

      At the end, he stopped at a doorway, stepped to one side and gestured.

      I brushed past him.

      But I stopped just inside the door. I looked to the right and felt my eyebrows arch. Bile rose in my throat, serious this time.

      The victim lay on her back on the bed. Naked, blond, young, athletic.

      Covered with blood, punctuated with black-red wounds.

      The corporal was right. There was no reason to check for a pulse.

      The room was dim, almost dark. The only light filtered in past the light-blocking venetian blinds.

      There were two double-hung windows, one on the wall past the foot of the bed and one on the wall on the far side of the bed. Both with light-blocking blinds, both blinds closed. There was  a nightstand on either side of the bed, a small lamp on the one nearer the door.

      A small dresser with a mirror over it stood to the right of that. On top of it was a medium sized jewelry box, the top standing open. It didn’t look as if anyone had gone through it. A small chest of drawers stood in the corner near the foot of the bed on the far side. A pair of folding doors on the left led to what I assumed was a shallow closet.

      The stench of copper and discharge was strong. Through it ran the slightest hint of perfume.

      I glanced at the dresser again. A small bottle of Eau de something was overturned. A slick, transparent trail had leaked from the top of the bottle over the edge of the dresser and about halfway down the first drawer.

      I looked down at the beige carpet, careful not to disturb possible evidence.

      No shoe prints, no boot prints, no dried mud or stones or leaves carried in on footwear. I raised my gaze to the bed again.

      One thin, staggered line of dark, stringy drops traced toward me across the sheet, down the side, across the first few inches of carpet. There were more lines of spatter above the body where the wall formed a corner beyond the bed. Stretched smears, pointing back to the points of impact. No doubt it was all blood from the murder weapon. Tracks or no tracks, the murderer had stood on this side of the bed.

      I took a half-step, then glanced back at the door frame to my right, hoping to find a dark, well-defined thumbprint. Something. Anything.

      The paint on the frame was clean. The wall next to it was clean. The light switch was clean.

      I looked at the blood spatter on the far wall again, then up at the ceiling.

      There was a fan with a small lamp hanging below it. White blades. A chain in the center for the light, a chain on the side for the fan. Both chains had a white bob at the end, but neither had any blood on it.

      Several lines of blood spatter trailed over the ceiling and over two blades of the fan. That made sense. But it looked dry, so at least nothing would drip on me.

      I looked at the bed again and almost unconsciously adjusted my breathing to very shallow. I took another tentative step forward.

      The bed was a queen size. The victim was turned slightly, her head and both arms pointing to the opposite corner. Both arms, her throat, and both collar bones were covered with a sheen of tacky blood. Some on her face. But it wasn’t drenched like her arms were. Defensive wounds.

      Her torso was soaked in the stuff too. Her legs were spread to about a thirty degree angle. She was a natural blond. The bottom sheet was stained yellow and dark brown between her legs.

      I had to averted my gaze for a moment.

      3

      I took a breath. Turned my attention back to the bed.

      The woman’s right leg was still under the sheet from the hip down. There was no blanket. There was a thin comforter, but it was bunched roughly at the foot of the bed on the near side. It was comparatively flat on the far side, moved aside at an angle only a bit by the victim’s right shoulder.

      The left leg was on the mattress to mid-calf. The rest extended over the edge, the left foot turned slightly inward.

      Blond hair, the right eye blue, open and staring at the ceiling. The other eye was closed. Or maybe empty. Her face was locked in sheer terror, her mouth agape, as if still trying desperately to draw one more breath.

      She was a very pretty woman, or had been. Probably in her early 20s. Certainly not 30 yet. Maybe 5’2 or 5’3", maybe 120 pounds. A trim, athletic figure.

      Corporal Phillips stepped into the room behind me. This one’s a real mess, isn’t it?

      I tensed. Without looking around, I said, She.

      What?

      "Isn’t she." I turned my

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