Murder My Love (2 page)

The group completed its thorough tour of the first floor of the house and ultimately approached the open door to the kitchen. What greeted them was carnage beyond their collective experience. The body of a male was lying on its right side in a pool of blood. It was propped against the swing door, which was held open by the corpse. He appeared to be in his late twenties as Officer Huff had described. He wore blue jeans and a plaid shirt. They clearly saw an entry bullet hole in the upper thigh of his left leg. The trouser leg was drenched in blood. He appeared to also have been shot in the chest at close range. There was a trail of blood from his sneakers to the kitchen table that abutted the far wall. They surmised that he had been shot at the table and as he tried either to escape or pursue his assailant, he left a trail of blood. With a shot to the chest, he had probably collapsed, fell against the swing door, and his body wedged it open. They did not touch or move the body. The rents in his shirt and the large pool of blood surrounding the corpse suggested that he might also have been stabbed. They did not at first enter the kitchen. Rather, they would wait for the CSI team and the Medical Examiner to arrive. Meanwhile, the photographer took several pictures through the doorway. In the rear of the kitchen adjacent to the sink they saw that a woman was lying on the floor face up. An empty crystal cookie jar lay next to her head. A bloody towel lay near the body. The scene was macabre, hideous beyond imagination. She was wearing a bathrobe that was untied, exposing an otherwise naked body. The victim had been stabbed numerous times in her face, neck, and torso. Their eyes were drawn to the multiple stab wounds surrounding her escutcheon and her inner thighs. Blood was splattered everywhere; on the floor, on the walls, on the kitchen cabinets, and on the counter-top. It looked as if someone had dipped a paintbrush in a bucket of blood and flicked it all over the kitchen. At first glance, it appeared that she also had been shot at least twice. They clearly saw one entry hole in her right chest just above her breast and one in her abdomen below her navel. The odor of clotting blood was nauseating. Chief Wilson instructed one of her officers to notify the Medical Examiner and the Crime Scene Investigators of the urgency of her request. Even if they were all located on their day off and immediately dispatched, it would be hours before they could arrive. It was imperative they not disturb the victims until they were first examined professionally. The entourage of police retreated from the house and assembled once again on the porch. None had ever witnessed anything remotely resembling such grotesque savagery. Of one thing they could be certain. This crime was personal. Either that or there was some deranged psychopath on the loose in West Warwick. Stanton was heard to say, “The guy who did this is one sick son of a bitch.” The silence that followed was deafening.

Chief Wilson waved to Huff to come forward. As Huff ascended the steps Wilson grabbed him close and whispered in his ear, “Good job. I would have lost it if I wasn’t warned.”

Huff stepped back, shook Wilson’s hand and said, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned and slowly walked to his patrol car.

The two male officers asked to be excused. The stench of blood and the odor of death throe defecation had already contaminated their senses. They walked with a quick step to the far end of the street. Chief Wilson returned to the kitchen with Officer Kurtz. The police photographer told her that he would take several well-placed steps into the kitchen where he would photograph everything he saw from the perimeter of his two feet. He said he would take more photographs later, after the Crime Scene Investigators had performed their assessment and the medical examiner had conducted his analysis. The photographer, who was experienced with murder scenes, methodically went about his business with no sign of emotion. He recorded the crime scene from every angle taking extraordinary care not to contaminate the evidence.

While the photographer was snapping pictures Chief Wilson returned to the open front door. She sucked in deep breaths and exhaled audibly, trying desperately not to lose composure. Kurtz remained remarkably impassive as if she had seen savagery similar to this on many occasions. When Wilson had sufficiently cleared her head, she returned to the kitchen to observe the police photographer going about his business, the flash popping like a strobe light. Satisfied that he was doing a thorough job, she called Stanton and Devlin to come forward to continue their search of the house. They ascended the stairs, inspected every room, opened every closet, and checked every cabinet. There seemed to be nothing out of place and nothing to suggest a motive for the carnage. At last they came out on to the porch and the Chief motioned for the waiting policemen to come forward. She began to bark orders. The intensity of her voice somehow calmed her subordinates. They were acclimated to this side of the Chief. She demanded to know the identities of the victims, the name of the homeowner, and to inquire if any strangers had been seen in the neighborhood. She directed other policemen to find out where the victims worked. Did any of the neighbors know the victims? And especially, who made the call to headquarters? Like a pack of hounds, the policemen dispersed to retrieve the answers. They were grateful for the orders, anything to get away from the scene of the crime. There was nothing left for the Chief to do but wait for the CSI.

Dr. Otto Kruger, the Medical Examiner, arrived in the late afternoon, followed soon after by a truncated CSI team. The Chief provided them with a thorough briefing. They first toured the perimeter of the house, then spent several hours inspecting the crime scene inside the house, focusing their attention in the kitchen and the bodies of the victims, scribbling copious notes, taking samples of blood, and dusting for fingerprints. Having performed their sampling, the police photographer was able to enter the kitchen and take pictures at angles that were previously unavailable. Kruger sensed Wilson’s exhaustion as she had been on the scene for more than six hours. He told her that it wasn’t necessary for her to remain any longer. There was nothing more she could do or contribute to the investigation by the CSI. The Chief assigned two policemen to guard the house and turned the crime scene over to Kruger and the CSI team. She thanked him and departed.

On the ride home she had to collect herself and flush away the horrible images that were dancing in her mind. She took a closer look at West Warwick, a place where her career had recently taken her, a community she had eagerly adopted. Through an objective lens, she saw that Main Street was lined by an endless series of dull two story block buildings constructed during the nineteenth century when factories and light industry were the region’s principal employers. It was a sleepy town bordering the Connecticut River. A maze of two lane country roads far removed from any interstate highway led to the town center. The town was tired. Some of the buildings had undergone restoration, but the final product remained an uninspiring canyon of multicolored brick. The only concessions to modernity were the neon signs hung randomly along the main thoroughfare. Warwick College and Pine County Community Hospital were the principal sources of employment. The ball-bearing factory situated on the bank of the river at the edge of town was the last vestige of an industrial town. Once, the Connecticut River had blessed the region with a flourishing economy. Foundries and factories bordering the river had supported a thriving whaling industry. Sea going vessels could navigate the river to the outskirts of Hartford. Pratt and Whitney, the aerospace giant, had been the region’s heart and soul. Across the river in East Hampton several factories that forged brass bells had anchored its economy. Its output was so grand and its quality so revered that the town was christened ‘Bell Town, USA.’ Its doors were shuttered after World War ll due to foreign competition. Along the river in virtually every hamlet, small and large farms once thrived by raising shade tobacco. Endless rows of staked plants covered in coarse muslin nourished by the iron rich sediment of the river could be seen along every country road. Tobacco farms supported the economy of towns like Cromwell, Glastonbury and Colchester. Farming collapsed soon after Fidel Castro’s coup when commerce with Cuba ceased. The exquisite quality of Connecticut shade tobacco could no longer be exported to wrap Cuban cigars. Additionally, the clock factory that was once the pride of New England had been closed for decades as the digital age arrived. The royal typewriter factory closed with the arrival of the computer. The principle sources of employment that municipalities relied on for revenue disappeared. Farmers, blue-collar workers and tradesmen were forced to disperse, to seek employment elsewhere. The vacuum was partially replenished by insurance companies that opened regional offices to avail themselves of a labor pool desperate for work. The county courthouse became a bustling entity, as did the hospital and college. Lawyers, nurses, paralegals and secretaries became the backbone of the new economy. The transformation could be seen everywhere. Students, professionals, and professors were seen to enjoy lunch, shop and recreate in the dismal sea of brick. Yet the homes remained extraordinary examples of New England elegance. Many capes and Victorians had been restored to their former beauty, especially those situated in and around the college campus. Modern split-level homes, isolated as they were from the center of town, dotted the landscape and stood in stark contrast to well-maintained treasures. In the rural environs homes received somewhat less attention. Some were neglected altogether. The house at 172 Elm Street fell into the latter category. The hideous crime witnessed by the Chief at that house seemed to be out of character with the community she had adopted.

When Abby left the crime scene, she resumed her role as wife and a mom, no longer Police Chief Abby Wilson. As she had done countless times, Abby entered her home and walked directly to her bedroom. She removed her weapon from its holster, checked that the safety was engaged, placed it in the locked drawer of her night table adjacent to her bed, hung her belt in the closet and walked out to greet her husband and children.

“Hi, Mom! Where ya been?” cried the twelve year old, the younger of her two boys.

“Had a little extra work today. Anyone hungry?”

“I’m starved,” said the seventeen-year-old.

“How about I call in for KFC? Or do you want Chinese tonight?”

The tenor of her voice betrayed her. Sam, her husband of twenty years knew in an instant that she was not herself. He came up behind her, hugged her, and nuzzled his face in her neck by her ear. He murmured, “What’s up?”

“I can’t tell you.” She turned to face him and hugged him tightly. She whispered to insulate her remarks from the children, “It’s fucking awful. That’s all I can say for now.”

He kissed lightly, barely brushing her on her cheek. It was the kind of kiss they privately shared, one they called a butterfly kiss. The token of affection brought back fond memories of their early days together.

Sam and Abby met when she had first been appointed to the Greenwich police force. They met at a party through mutual friends and immediately took to each other. Her intellect and good looks were not lost on Sam, who had graduated at the top of his class from Georgetown. He was earning six figures working for Barton and Boyles, an international brokerage firm. With that income the twenty five year old upstart was able to indulge her in a whirlwind romance. They dined in the finest restaurants; they attended plays and opera in New York City, traveling to and fro in a limousine, and vacationed in Paris. She recalled how he kissed her in the gilded elevator of the George V hotel, how they walked along the Champs-Elysees, how they skipped like children along the banks of the Seine and how he hugged her in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral and told her how much he loved her. She could not have conceived in her wildest imagination such a glamorous courtship. It was magical. It was there that she gave of herself to him willingly, where they first made love. The Catholic Church decrees that the Sacrament of marriage is both
ratum et consumatum,
first the vows before God to love each other, then the conjugal act itself. Sam and Abigail did it in reverse. When they had returned stateside they were married in a small intimate ceremony with only the immediate families in attendance.

Abigail grew up in a humble Irish household. They lived in the upstairs apartment of a two family house. Her dad was a bus driver and her mother was a waitress in a cafeteria. They repeatedly, and not subtly, floated the idea that their daughter should become a policewoman. To them it was one significantly huge rung up the ladder. They saw police work as an honorable profession that provided both financial security and personal fulfillment. Abigail was an only child and felt compelled to fulfill her parents’ dreams, but first she had a dream of her own. She wanted to attend college. Her parents were able to support her dream at a state college where the tuition was affordable. With her degree, passing the civil service test was a breeze. She aced the physical on the first try. Reality set in during her first year as a cop. It was a mundane job. Her boss limited her responsibility to handing out parking tickets for violations and directing traffic. Paper work was the only reprieve. When she complained, her boss told her, “Stop bitchin’! You’re lucky to be a cop. There are guys out there who’d give their right arm to be where you are.”

What he said was beyond an insult; it was belittling and demeaning. His attitude, one that permeated the entire police department, was her first wake up call. Double standards were not unknown in college. Abby was appalled to learn that they extended to the work place. She knew she had to be better than any of her peers to get ahead. It was after only one year of marriage that Abby felt trapped in her job. She could not move up the ladder without an advanced degree. Unlike the men in her department, women in police work were held to a higher standard. She shared those concerns with Sam.

On a very special night, Sam took her to dinner at Maison La Fitte, an elegant and very expensive restaurant. After cocktails, wine and a sumptuous meal, he ordered an after-dinner drink, a Lemoncello, for each of them. After the first sip he leaned forward and said, “Abby, we don’t have kids yet, I’m making a bucket of money, why don’t you go back to school?”