Wolfe, She Cried

  WOLFE, SHE CRIED

  By

  Bliss Addison

  Published By Bliss Addison

  © 2007 Bliss Addison

  All Rights Reserved Bliss Addison

  Cover Art Annie Melton

  First Electronic Edition, May, 2007

  Second Electronic Edition June 2012

  This book is a work of fiction based entirely on the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. Real places mentioned in the book are depicted fictionally and are not intended to portray actual times or places. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Chapter One

  The telephone on Simon’s desk rang.

  “Chief Wolfe,” he said into the receiver.

  “You’d better get out here quick,” the caller said in a rush. “Someone just dropped off a dead body in my drills.”

  “Whoa, there. Take a deep breath and tell me who you are and where you’re at.” Simon heard the caller inhale and exhale.

  “It’s Wills Raven in Shampers Bluff.”

  Shampers Bluff was one of many small hamlets dotting the area surrounding Honeydale on Beauchamp Island and not far from the station.

  “Stay out of the crime scene. I’m on my way.”

  Simon needed to preserve the crime scene and Wills tromping around in it meant it was already compromised. He disconnected the call and said to his rookie deputy, Aubrey Thatcher, “We’ve got a body in Shampers Bluff. Get the crime scene equipment—Polaroid camera, film, evidence bags, plastic gloves, strobe lights, everything, and meet me there.”

  Ten minutes later, Simon pulled the four-by-four to a stop across from the Raven farm and stepped out of the vehicle.

  Wills ran out of his house and across the road.

  “I ain’t never seen anything like it, Chief.”

  Sympathizing with Wills’ shock, Simon placed a hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

  “My dog was barking up a storm. I came out and saw someone dragging something into the field.” He pointed across the road. “I decided to take a look…Oh, God.” He shoved his hand through his hair and shook his head.

  “Can you describe the person?”

  Wills gulped in air. “It was too dark for me to get a good look, and by the time I got on my boots and fetched a flashlight, the car was already down the road.”

  “Do you know what kind of vehicle it was?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know one car from the other.”

  “Did you touch anything, move anything?”

  “As soon as I figured out what it was, I got the hell out of there.”

  He instructed Wills to return to his house, then walked across the culvert.

  Careful where he stepped, Simon trekked up the small incline where Wills had indicated. He smelled it, the putrid odor of death and the metallic scent of blood. Drawing closer, he scanned the area with his Maglite and got his first view of the victim. A man’s body lay spread-eagled between two rows of soil. His longish brown hair hung sloppily around his head, his eyes staring straight up. His dress shirt was open and stained with blood, his muddied dress pants and boxers bunched at his knees. His penis hung from cylinders of soft, spongy tissue. Simon nearly lost the contents of his stomach. He choked back bile, forced composure by studying the bullet hole in the man’s chest and the powder burns.

  After his stomach settled, he said, “You royally pissed someone off, mister.”

  He implanted in his mind the position of the body, the victim’s approximate weight and height, the drag marks, the trampled footprints, and the distance to the road. The island saw a couple of murders every other year or so, the result of domestic dispute or bar fights that turned deadly, but nothing so premeditated or gruesome as this. If one of theirs committed this murder, nothing would be the same on the island again.

  He turned at the sound of someone lumbering up the hill. Stepping back in his footprints, he signaled to Aubrey to stay put.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Aubrey stared at the body. Shock registered in his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  Simon recognized what would come next. “Don’t you be sick on me.”

  Aubrey gasped, pulled a red polka-dot hankie from his back pocket and wiped his brow. “I’m…fine. Just…just need to catch my breath.”

  Simon passed him an antacid tablet. “Thanks. What kind of monster do you suppose did that?”

  “Aubrey, I want you to take Raven’s statement.” Simon pointed to Wills standing in the middle of the road. Following the direction of Simon’s hand, he nodded. “It won’t be long before we draw an audience. Call Henry and get him out here. He hasn’t much experience, but he can do crowd control, and get the Doc here, too.” Simon wasn’t sure if he had his deputy’s full attention. “I don’t want any mistakes.” He handed him a pocket-size recorder. “Use this and take notes, also. Canvass the residents once they show. Ask if anyone heard or saw anything, a car, voices, anything and nobody gets through except the Doc. Got that?”

  “Are you calling in outside help?”

  “This is our island, our town, our people. We’ll handle it.” When Aubrey left, Simon taped off the crime scene, set up the strobe lights and shot off one pack of film, then another, recording the scene. He slid on gloves, bagged the victim’s hands, secured them with elastic bands around the wrists and carefully went through his pockets—wallet, a pack of gum, change, a paper clip, a pen, one telephone message from Bill Hogart marked ‘Urgent’, two foil-wrapped condoms. No car keys. No cell phone. He bagged, labeled, listed them and checked the ID.

  Coroner Travis “Harley” Coombs, a five-foot-five welterweight with a reverence for the dead that both endeared and amazed, trekked up the hill. Simon nodded. “It isn’t pretty, Doc.”

  “Death never is.” Harley looked at the body and made the sign of the cross. “Whooiee. Someone didn’t like this feller.” He adjusted his bow tie. “What’s his name?”

  “Douglas Miller. Can you give me an approximate time of death?”

  Harley applied pressure to Miller’s arm. “No rigor and the body’s still warm. Lividity is still blanching. Allowing for the cooler temperature, I’d say he’s been dead less than two or three hours.”

  “That would make it,” Simon checked his watch, “between seven and ten.”

  “I’ll be able to give you a more specific time after the autopsy.” Harley patted Miller’s hand. “Don’t you worry none, young fella. We’ll find out who did this to you.”

  Chapter Two

  Evie Madison stared into the darkness that engulfed the island like an ebony blanket. The wind whistled through the trees on its approach to the cottage. Now, it howled and pounded against the windowpanes like a ferocious beast. She turned from the living room window, curled up on the rattan double Pappasan chair and took the journal in her hand.

  After a moment of hesitation, she opened it and wrote:

  Journal Entry—Evie Madison—Thursday

  I’m taking Gaston’s suggestion and jotting down my thoughts, feelings and questions. It seems silly, but here goes.

  I’m cold. I shouldn’t be. A fire burns steadily in the wood stove and an afghan covers my legs. The dampness from the bay seems to seep to my bones, making me feel like I’ll never be warm again.

  Why did I move back home?

  I shouldn’t have to ask myself that question. Home is where you come when you have nowhere else to hide. I can’t go back and undo what I did. I can’t go forward because of what I did. Maybe this place I’m in right now, this place between emotion and lethargy, is where I’m most comf
ortable, or where I want to be.

  I had another unproductive session with Gaston today. I shouldn’t complain. It’s not his fault. I can’t stop myself from going through the motions, answering his questions as he wants them answered, agreeing with him when normally I’d disagree. He’s trying to help, but I don’t want his help. Guilt and shame are my punishments. No one should try to take that away from me. Of course, I can’t tell him that. Sometimes, though, I want to, but that would only extend the length of the therapy, and I can’t have that when all I want is to be left alone. If I had a reason to live, I might feel differently. Oh, I know I would. But it’s too late. Everyone I once held dear is no longer mine to treasure and enjoy. Funny, though, the one person who makes me feel good about myself and who might help me recover from the past is the one person I can never be with. Not anymore. Not after what I did.

  Suddenly, I’m feeling depressed. If depression had announced itself, I might have prevented its coming. But that’s the way it is with depression. It sneaks up on you, then Wham! It latches onto you like a leech. I’ll function through it. I always do. If I didn’t, Gaston, Simon and my coworkers would notice. Then there’d be questions, questions I’m too ashamed to answer. They’d offer to help which would only make me feel deeper regret, plunging me into that dark, bottomless pit again and wishing if onlys.

  Images flash in my brain—my gun trained on Brad, my finger on the trigger, temper running wild as a brush fire through me, the cries of his children, the fright in their eyes, two uniformed police officers, my colleagues, shackling me in handcuffs like some thug. He didn’t tell me he was married. The bastard. How could he do that to me?

  Don’t think, Evie. Don’t listen.

  My reaction still puzzles me. I’ve been over this a thousand times in my head, yet I’m no closer to an answer. What possessed me that day? To cast blame on someone or something would be easy, but I can’t. My parents taught me to take responsibility for my actions.

  Now, I feel tired. A symptom of depression. There are many symptoms of depression, so I’m told, and I experience them all — heart palpitations, tightness in my abdomen, nervous fatigue, no appetite, blurred vision, numbness in my arms and legs and pressure in my head. The noise in my ears almost drives me insane. Of course, that would be saying I am sane. Sometimes, I wonder. I have no interest, zest or initiative for life and cannot plan or make decisions. Simple tasks, ordinarily done without forethought require the greatest effort. Sleep won’t help. What sleep comes is plagued with dreams, bad dreams from which there is no escape. Maybe death is my only alternative. Maybe—

  The telephone rang. So intent on her feelings, the sound frightened her, sending her jumping from her seat as though pushed from behind. The phone called to her again, insisting on a response. She glanced at the clock: 11:15. There was only one person who would call at this hour.

  “No. Not going to answer it.” She turned and sat. Again, the phone jangled. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No thanks, Constance. You made your point. I know you’re upset with me for having an affair with your husband. Perhaps you have the right, but enough is enough.”

  Without moving a muscle, she stared at the phone and waited out a fourth ring, then another. Maybe the caller wasn’t Constance tormenting her by hanging up in her ear. She checked call display. Unknown number. Her curiosity won out.

  “Hullo.”

  “Evie, it’s Simon. We’ve got a murder.”

  “A murder?” She straightened, fully alert.

  “The guy was castrated.”

  “Castrated? God.” Six years as a cop, two of those as a homicide detective, and still her stomach lurched.

  “Care to join me?”

  Though she had anticipated the question and the reason behind the invitation, it unsettled her. She wasn’t ready to work a case yet. “As an observer?”

  “As an observer.”

  She pushed her fingers through her short, curly hair. “Okay.”

  “We’re in Shampers Bluff. Remember where that is?”

  “Yes. See you in ten.”

  Evie pulled her Explorer to a stop across the road from the crime scene and surveyed the crowd of onlookers. It seemed every resident of the Bluff turned out for the happening. She stepped from her vehicle, pulled up her collar and zipped her parka. The headlights of police cruisers cast shadows across trees bordering the plot of farmland. A breeze picked up, smelling of sea salt, earth, pine needles and spruce trees. She inhaled deeply, capturing the fragrance.

  Simon approached her, grinning. “Twelve minutes. You said ten.”

  “I needed to fix my hair.”

  His eyes shot to her head. “Did you hear the one—”

  She groaned and stared at his long, black hair captured in a low-hung ponytail. Most days, he braided it. “Please, not another blonde joke.”

  He grinned and steered her across a gravel culvert and onto cultivated farmland. “Mom and Pa would like you to come to dinner Sunday night.”

  How would she decline another invitation without hurting them, without raising questions?

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Why the frightened expression? It’s just dinner with my folks. They haven’t seen you since you got back.” He moved closer and bumped her hip. “They might start to think you’re too good for us now, big city girl and all.”

  She put some space between them. “I haven’t felt up to socializing lately.” Truthfully, the thought of being in Keertana’s presence scared the bejesus out of her. The woman possessed a sixth sense and would surely prophesize the horrible secret Evie kept. Visualizing her disappointment, she saddened, better that though than —

  “Don’t you want to see them?”

  Sweet memories of his parents focused: Baking cookies with Keertana. Dan chasing her around the yard with a garden hose.

  “Of course, I do.”

  “What’s the hesitation then?”

  She found herself in that place, the uncomfortable place between another excuse and acquiescence. Realizing the prudence of submission, she stopped alongside him and gave him a look that said enough already. “Okay, okay. I’ll go.” Without intention, the words came out sharp.

  He looked at her long and steady. “Something the matter?”

  “No.”

  “I worry about you.”

  “We aren’t children anymore, Simon.” She smiled to soften her words. “You don’t have to look after me. I’m fine. My life is fine. Okay?” Uncomplicated and boring suited her well for the moment.

  “Uh-huh.” He moved up the incline.

  “It is.” She jutted her chin, increased her step and caught up with him.

  “Say it enough times and you’ll believe it.”

  “I suppose next you’ll tell me I need a man in my life.”

  “Nope. I wasn’t going to say that at all. But since you brought it up…”

  Once upon a time, eons ago, it seemed now, she wanted nothing more than a life with him. She motioned to the crime scene. “Have you ID’d him yet?”

  He studied her a moment, his brow crinkling. “Douglas Miller.”

  She inhaled.

  “Know him?”

  Her exhaled breath frosted before her face. “Not really… kind of. We went to high school together. He never gave me the time of day back then, but he hit on me the other day in Bertha’s Pastry Shop.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’s married.” She looked at him. “But, then, you already know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded and looked off to the distance, as though something weighed heavily on his mind. “I want you to work this case with me.”

  Damn. Exactly what she feared. “What happened to observing?”

  “Evie,” he lifted his Stetson from his head and mopped his brow with his coat sleeve, “you have the experience my other deputies don’t. I’m going to need your help on this one.”

  “How will Aubrey and Henry react? I don’t want to cause—”

&n
bsp; “Who cares what they think?”

  “Don’t give me that. I know you, don’t forget.”

  He halted and stared at her.

  Further argument would only raise questions—questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  “Right.”

  She shivered beneath the warmth of her down-filled jacket. “I don’t remember it ever being this cold here.”

  “Winter is settling in fast and hard this year.” He lifted the crime scene tape. She followed behind him, mindful where she stepped.

  Harley looked up from the body. “Evie,” he said, smiling. “I heard you were back and working on the Honeydale PD.”

  “Two months now.” Her voice mingled with the sigh of the wind through the trees.

  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Simon. “The chief treating you all right?”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  “Well, if it changes, let me know. I’ll straighten him out.” He turned to Simon and winked.

  The two six hundred watt strobe lights provided her a clear view of the body. She understood Simon’s chattiness, now. He hadn’t prepared her well enough, though. Castration. She’d envisioned something else. Bitter fluid filled her throat. Staring at the victim, she swallowed, once…twice, and took long, even breaths and spoke when she thought she could trust her voice. “How could a human being do something like that?”

  “You can speculate as well as I. Drugs. Revenge. A love affair gone bad. One hundred and twenty bucks in his wallet, so it wasn’t robbery.”

  Feeling like a rookie and an ass, she studied the size of the bullet hole in Miller’s chest. “Looks like a twenty-two.”

  “That would be my guess.” He directed his flashlight on the numbered marker beside a partial footprint next to the drag marks in the soil. “See this?”

  “Uh-huh. You’ll have a cast made?” Though she knew she wasn’t well enough yet to work a case, her pulse raced with excitement.