The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (21 page)

“You seem to know a lot about me and, I have a sneaky suspicion where you got your intel on me. Let me ask you a question: When you’re given the chance to make your one phone call, are you going to call your lawyer, Louis Randall?”

A look of worry and immediate fear raced across the man’s face. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” the man said.

“You’ve mentioned that already, so, why don’t you tell me who, exactly, I am fucking with?”

“I was told you’re a private dick,” toothless said. “Ain’t much of a private dick if you can’t figure things out, I’d say.”

“Your vote of no confidence really doesn’t effect me all that much. But, you’re right in suggesting that I should know more than I do. It pains me, honestly, that I really don’t know what is going on in Ravenswood. It pains me. In my line of work, details often come from unsuspecting sources. And when information about a case comes, it often comes in bunches. And now I find myself here with you. Sure, you tried to shoot me a few minutes ago, but, hey, I’m willing to overlook that whole misunderstanding. For me to get past the attempt on my life however, I’m going to need your assistance. And by assistance, I don’t mean helping me fine tune my punching skills. What I mean is that I would like you to fill me in on all the details and information about Ravenswood, Bo Randall, Louis Randall, why my friend Victoria Crown was attacked and anything else you think I should have figured out at this point of my investigation.”

“Go. Fuck. Your…”

True to Derek’s promise, the man, whose name Derek later discovered by rummaging through his wallet was Gene Witten, was unconscious by the time the third punch crashed into his face. Derek spent a few minutes going through Gene’s phone, jotting down his most recently dialed numbers—none of which had contact names associated to the numbers—before calling Investigator Mark Mullins.

Mark Mullins walked outside, hoping the fresh air might clear away some of the horrible images from his mind. Wishing that the slight breeze that had picked up would have the ability to blow away the images like a autumn wind charges felled leaves with flight. Inside the Patel home, he had seen four dead bodies, each stabbed multiple times and each with their necks deeply slashed. He had seen murder scenes before and each one was congested with its own, unique set of haunting images. But what disturbed him most in the Patel home were the defensive wounds on the mother’s arms. Having seen stab wounds on so many victims, some of the victims having survived and others having succumbed to the injuries inflicted once the victim’s defenses failed, Mullins could recognize defensive wounds and was able to recreate the horrible events in his mind’s eye.
 

Apparently, the mother, who was in her mid-forties, had dark brown eyes that were probably brimming with wonderful thoughts of her children’s future before some psychotic with a knife put a definitive end to whatever the future may have possessed, was holding one of her children—a three-year old boy who apparently had just finished taking a bath and was in the process of getting his pajamas on—when the murderer entered the bedroom. The coroner counted at least twenty-six stab wounds in the mother’s arms and hands, all inflicted as she desperately tried to prevent the knife from breaching her defenses and reaching her cradled son.
 

Though her face had fallen slack and assumed the gray, lifeless pallor that only the dead display, Mullins could almost sense the mother’s face still held a glimmer of terror, probably carved into her face when she realized she would fail to protect her child.

Having finished his work, the coroner told Mullins he’d wait for him outside and would call the morgue whenever Mullins was ready to clear the scene. It took a few hours before Mullins was ready to have the four bodies removed from the house.
 

“You treat them with respect,” he told the grim looking tandem of men from the coroner’s office as they zipped up the body bags and lifted the lifeless bodies onto stretchers. “They didn’t deserve what happened to them and I’ll be goddamned if anyone on my team shows them any disrespect. I’ll be goddamned.”

When he was in charge of a crime scene—one that included bodies—Mullins would usually request that all the bodies were simply covered with a white sheet, placed on a stretcher and quickly whisked to whatever vehicle was sent to transport the bodies. But this scene, with the family of four all killed by a relentless knife, was different. Never a believer in auras or anything remotely suggestive of the paranormal, Mullins felt a strange and wholly foreign presence in the house. This “presence,” as he had become comfortable calling it, demanded more than a semi-clean sheet. These victims were recently a family of individuals, each with their own futures, dreams, desires, fears and secrets. Covering them all in body bags would certainly not allow those futures to continue in any fashion, but at least they would remain private beneath the blackness of the body bag.

As he stood, angry at the impotence of the breeze and its inability to blow away the images, Deputy Flanders approached. Flanders held the look of someone both resistant and nervous. Resistant to deliver the results of the neighborhood canvassing and nervous about what else he might be asked to do.

“We spoke to fifteen of the neighbors,” Flanders began, “and none of them noticed or saw anything.”

“Were all the neighbors home?” Mullins asked, his eyes fixed on the orange light still spilling from the sodium arc street light across the road from the Patel house. Though the night vision LED flood lights from the Ravenswood Fire Department’s rescue truck was illuminating the area with brilliantly clean light, they were not powerful enough to evaporate the orange cast of the street lights.
 

“All but the neighbor right next door,” Flanders said, pointing to the home of Matthew McCormick. “One neighbor said they saw the owner of that house walking away with another man a few hours ago. The two got into a car and pulled away. Probably about the same time you arrived on-scene.”

Mullins flashed his thoughts back to when he arrived at the scene. He had made a mental note of the car driving away from the scene when he passed the vehicle. “It was a Volkswagen. Dark green. Probably a Jetta. Two men in the front seat.” Mullins paused a beat. “Find out what kind of car the neighbor drives, as well as his name, where he works and his relationship with the Patel family.”

Flanders shuffled his feet. “His name is Matthew McCormick. Lived in the house his entire life. Not sure what he drives but it looks like there’s a Jeep Wrangler in his garage.” Flanders paused. “I can get more information for you on McCormick, probably in the morning, if that’s okay.” Flanders and the other fifteen to twenty deputies and troopers had been on-scene for several hours and some had already put in more hours than their scheduled shifts. Mullins believed that all the troopers and deputies were committed to serving the citizens with professionalism and dedication, but he also knew that commitment was strained when twelve hour shifts stretched into fifteen hour marathon sessions. He also sensed an unease fluttering about the assembly of law enforcement professionals. While not all of those gathered lived in Ravenswood, many did, and all were aware of the strange and, at times, tragic events that were occurring in the town.
 

“Start clearing the scene,” Mullins said, turning his back on Flanders and taking a small step towards the front door of the Patel home. “I need you to run a debrief with everyone here, and assign a car to escort the coroner and the transports to the morgue. I also want a deputy patrolling this and the adjacent streets for the balance of his or her shift. Let the deputy know to contact me if McCormick returns home or anything interesting happens.” Mullins paused and half-turned back towards Flanders. “What time do you get back on duty tomorrow?”

“I’m off tomorrow,” Flanders replied, biting the words as they slipped out and wishing he had taken an extra second or two to craft them before they reached Mullins’ ears.

While the State Police and the County Sheriff’s departments worked well together and often shared resources, Mullins understood that though he was in charge of this scene, his authority did not grant him the ability to place direct demands or expectations on anyone, whether a trooper or a sheriff’s deputy, without the verbal permission from the proper supervisor. His position as Investigator granted him plenty of flexibilities, but even those had strict and well-defined limits. “Then make sure whoever replaces you, knows how to contact me and is fully briefed on this investigation. Enjoy your day off.” Mullins stepped back into the Patel house, leaving Flanders standing on the front porch, breathing a heavy sign of relief.

Mullins was no further than three steps into the Patel’s living room before his cell phone vibrated in the left breast pocket of his tactical vest.

“Mullins,” he answered.

“It’s Derek Cole. Hope I didn’t call too late.”

“Kind of busy here, Cole. What’s up? Anything happen with Bo Randall or his mother?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but something I’m sure you’ll be interested in has happened.”

Derek went over the events of the last few hours of his day, ending with a brief description of Gene Witten and his current state of unconsciousness.

“You hurt at all?” Mullins said.

“Beyond some bruised knuckles and a sore shoulder, I’m fine,” Derek responded.

“You call nine-one-one yet?”

“I prefer speaking to people with a more direct connection to law enforcement. You’re the only person I’ve called.”

“Perfect,” Mullins said. “Besides knocking him out again, you have a way to secure your attacker?”

“Shoe strings will work, I suppose,” Derek said. “But a crack across his jaw will probably be more effective.”

“And illegal. Take a few pictures of his face and contents of his wallet and text them to my phone. Find his gun as well, but don’t touch it. You sure no one in the theater knew what was going on?”

“I have a feeling this guy had seen Star Wars before. He timed he shots to be in sync with the loud explosions during the movie.”

“Got to give him credit for that,” Mullins mused. “Listen, I’m on a crime scene right now but am in the process of clearing it. You okay to hang out alone for forty-five minutes?”

“I won’t be alone,” Derek said. “But I don’t anticipate Mr. Witten will be much company when he wakes up. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. Unless…” The rapidity of how quickly his thoughts shot to the ICU ward and Crown’s room shook him to his core. The feeling of something happening with Crown was unmistakable, undeniable and unexplainable.

“Unless, what?” Mullins asked, his voice trailing away.

“I’ll be here, but I have to make a call right away. See you in forty-five.”

Nikkie’s voice was wet and creased when she answered Derek’s call.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

“She’s stable now, I suppose. As stable as someone with her injuries can be.” Nikkie was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Ten minutes before Derek’s call, she was pushed into the ICU hallway by a heavy-set nurse. The nurse was responding to the alarm sounding from Crown’s hospital room and seemed to have no interest in pausing even for the briefest second to politely ask Nikkie to get the hell out of the way. A few seconds after the first nurse arrived, two more came running into Crown’s room, pushing Nikkie and Bo even further out into the hall. When the doctor arrived—at a much more controlled pace—Nikkie and Bo were closer to the nurses station than to Crown.

It was Bo who had noticed the change in his mother. Before the monitors to which Crown was connected could even register the alarming change, Bo stood up, straight as an arrow, grabbed his mother’s hand and told Nikkie she’d better get a nurse. Before Nikkie could even stand, the heart monitor began screaming its awful alarm.

Nikkie was expecting a nurse to come charging into Crown’s room pushing a crash cart. In fact, when no such nurse came pushing any type of cart at all, she feared Crown had slipped too far away for any cart, crash or otherwise, to bring her back. She risked moving closer to Crown’s room to steal a glance, and saw the reason for the crash cart’s absence. The three nurses and one doctor were huddled over Crown, one nurse standing beside the bed, holding two white strips that looked like heavy gauze bandages in her hands. Each strip was connected to the heart monitor beside Crown’s bed by thick, white cables. As Nikkie watched, the nurse placed one strip above Crown’s now fully exposed right breast, then adhered the second strip below Crown’s left breast. Another nurse was injecting a needle into Crown’s IV while the doctor was softly and confidently reciting instructions to the nurses, who, at least to Nikkie, appeared to be responding to Crown’s situation with finely tuned skills and not directly to the doctor’s instructions. A few seconds after the strips were applied to Crown’s chest, the nurse said, “Clear.” Each nurse and the doctor lifted their hands in a surrender position. The automatic external defibrillator then sent a measured electronic charge through the lead cables, into the pads and across Crown’s heart.

Crown’s body did not jump in a startling convulsion like the ones Nikkie had seen actors perform on TV. Instead, there was a slightly noticeable and brief muscular contraction before Crown’s body returned to stillness. Nikkie heard the heart monitor reporting out a fragmented and easily identifiable pattern of dysrhythmia beeps.

“Clear,” the nurse said again.

“She’s giving this fight all she’s got,” Derek replied. “Wish I could be there with you, but this case has taken a sharp turn into dangerous areas.”

“Derek,” Nikkie said, “I don’t know what I should be doing. I’m here to assist you with this case but…”

“You need to stay with Crown and Bo,” Derek said. “She’s stable now but, based on what you’ve told me, things can change at any second. Crown deserves to have one of us by her side. Plus, Bo’s been without a drink for several hours now. If he’s as bad an alcoholic as I think he is, he’ll probably sneak off soon to find a bar.”