Murder with a Twist (10 page)

It was obvious this was little Davey's room. A colorful area rug done up to look like a collection of children's wooden alphabet blocks covered most of the floor. In the far corner was a bunk bed, the top level covered with stuffed animals, the bottom one made up with a Thomas the Tank Engine comforter set. Even though the lower bunk was neatly made, I sensed a void there because I felt a hollow sensation on my back between my shoulder blades. I also heard a faint sound, the distant tinkle of music from a child's toy, something like a jack-in-the-box. I mentioned it to Duncan, even though I didn't understand what it meant.

A long, wooden dresser with two columns of drawers stood to the left just inside the door. It was painted white with red knobs on the drawers, and on top of it was a lamp that had Thomas the Tank Engine for the base with more images of Thomas on the shade. Stacked neatly on one side were two piles of books. A quick scan of the spines showed several Dr. Seuss books, some fairy tales, a couple of popular modern-day children's books, and some coloring books. A box beside the books held an assortment of crayons and colored markers, as well as a set of watercolor paints and several brushes.

Something about the dresser triggered a physical sensation in me. Looking at the top of it didn't seem to bother me, but when my eyes settled on any of the drawers, I felt an odd sensation, as if something were pushing me away.

“I'm getting an odd sensation from this dresser,” I told Duncan. “When I look at the drawers, it feels like something is pushing me away, or maybe blocking me. I'm not sure what it means, but I suspect those drawers were opened recently.”

“Which of the drawers?”

I took a few seconds to let my eyes settle on each drawer, one at a time, before I answered. “I get the feeling when I look at every one of those drawers. I may be wrong, but I think all of them were opened.”

Duncan walked over to the dresser and pulled open the top left drawer. Inside it was a collection of children's socks and little boy underwear. Modern-day superheroes and cartoon characters dominated the designs on them. I saw more of Thomas, plus Super-man, Batman, Spider-man, Transformers, SpongeBob SquarePants, and several
Sesame Street
characters including Oscar, Elmo, and Cookie Monster. Most of the socks were paired up but there were some singles in there as well. The socks and underwear along the far sides of the drawer were neatly folded and laid out, as if someone had tried to keep the drawer neat and organized. The rest of the drawer, however, was a jumbled pile of half-folded shirts and underwear. Looking at it gave me the sensation that I was wearing an ill-fitting hat, and that the hat was riddled with holes that allowed the wind and the heat to come through. This was a sensation I recognized because I'd experienced it a few times before when my father and I were playing games with my abilities.

“I think someone went through this drawer very recently and in a hurry,” I told Duncan.

He nodded. “I would've come to that conclusion myself,” he said with a smile. “Based on other things I've seen in the house, our victim is a very neat person. Things in the closets, the kitchen cabinets, and all the drawers are very precisely organized. She might have even had a touch of OCD. It looks as if this drawer was originally laid out in a similar fashion, but someone rummaged through it.”

“Whoever did it either lacked finesse or they were in a big hurry. Maybe both.”

“I suppose it could've been the kid,” Duncan said.

“I don't think so,” I said. I turned and looked behind us, across the room at the wooden toy box that sat beneath a window, its lid opened to reveal its contents. “I get the same sensation when I look at that toy box over there that I get when I look at this drawer,” I explained. “Not only have things been hastily shoved around, there are some voids there.”

“You mean things have been taken?”

“Yes.”

“That may bode well for little Davey,” Duncan said.

“How so?”

“Well, if whoever nabbed the kid took the time to gather clothes and toys for him, it suggests they have no intention of hurting him.”

On the wall above the dresser, attached by a thumbtack, was another photograph of little Davey with the smiling woman I presumed was his mother. In every picture she was in, Belinda was looking at her son with obvious love and adoration in her eyes.

I turned to Duncan with tears burning behind my eyes. “If whoever took this child is hoping not to hurt him, they are too late,” I said. “His life will never be the same.”

Duncan sensed the depth of the emotion I was feeling. “If you need to take a break, we can do that,” he said.

I shook my head and swiped at my eyes. “No, I'll be okay. I'm just angry and disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes, disappointed that our civilized society can be so uncivilized, that there are those in the world who can inflict such hurt, and pain, and cruelty on others with hardly a second thought.”

Duncan walked over, took hold of me by my upper arms, and looked straight into my eyes. His touch made me feel lighter, as if I were floating above the ground. “There is a lot of beauty and love in the world, and you can't ever forget that, Mack,” he said, making me taste sweet milk chocolate. “You have to hang on to the good stuff. If helping me do this kind of work is going to make you forget that, I don't want you to do it.”

As I looked back at him, his face moved a hair's breadth closer to mine. I saw warmth, caring, and genuine affection in his eyes, and though I couldn't be sure, I got a strong sense that he wanted to kiss me at that moment. But then the reality of where we were, what had happened, and what lay in waiting for us in the other bedroom intruded. Duncan broke our shared gaze and looked down at his feet. His hands let go and he sighed long and heavy before turning away from me. He turned back to the open drawer of the dresser and, after taking a picture of its contents, he pushed it closed and opened the one beneath it.

I walked over and stood beside him, studying the contents. This drawer contained shorts and pants, and the same mix of organization and chaos that we had observed in the underwear drawer. Once again I sensed there were items missing. Duncan then opened the other two drawers, which held shirts and pajamas, and we saw that they were more of the same.

“You know, it seems odd to me that whoever took Davey gathered up clothes and toys for him, and yet they left behind his toothbrush,” I said.

Duncan paused in his picture taking and gave me a quizzical look. “How so?”

“I don't know exactly,” I said. “It's as if someone was gathering up items they would need to take care of the kid. And his toothbrush would be one of those things.” I shrugged and shook my head. “Maybe it was just an oversight.”

“A lucky one for us,” Duncan said. “Toothbrushes are often good sources for DNA.”

I assumed DNA would be needed only to identify a body and, as such, I shot him a horrified look. “You think he's going to end up dead?”

“Not necessarily,” he said, seeing the expression on my face. “But the reality is that sometimes these kidnapping cases don't get solved for years, and kids change as they grow. DNA may be the only reliable method for identifying a living victim who's been missing for a long time.”

After a few more minutes in little Davey's bedroom, Duncan prepared me for going into Belinda's room. “It isn't going to be pretty,” he warned. “There's a lot of blood.”

“I can tell from the smell,” I told him. “Is she maimed in any way? Dismembered? Anything like that?”

“No.”

“Then I think I'll be okay.” I sucked in a deep breath and focused on mouth breathing, hoping to keep the smell from overpowering my other senses. Then I followed Duncan inside, to one of the saddest sights I've ever seen.

W
e arrived back at the bar about an hour later. The weather outside was cold and gray, and the wind coming in off Lake Michigan split itself into icy tentacles that snaked their way down the streets and between the buildings of the city. There was definitely snow in the air; I could smell it, see it in the clouds, and feel it in my bones. I'd heard other people express similar sentiments often enough to suspect that these sensations were legitimate ones that others shared as well, but such is the nature of my disorder that I can never be sure. I can taste an oncoming snowstorm, something I've never heard anyone else mention, so I keep that one to myself. And I can often tell what kind of snow is coming from slight variations in the taste. Light, fluffy, dry snow tastes like white bread, whereas wet, heavy snow tastes like wheat bread.

Once inside, Duncan and I headed for my office, shedding our coats along the way. We waved several of my customers along to follow us: Cora, the Signoriello brothers, and Tad.

“We heard about some missing kid on the news,” Frank said when we were behind closed doors. “They issued an Amber Alert and said he lives in the Halyard Park neighborhood. Is that where you guys were?”

I nodded, not saying anything. I was still struggling with my emotions.

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Duncan said, reaching over and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Can I fix you a drink? I've got something special in mind, an old family recipe. It will take me a few minutes because it requires some kitchen prep, but I promise you it will be worth it. And it's the perfect drink for a cold night like this one.”

“Sure, thanks,” I said, intrigued.

“Anyone else?” Duncan asked the others.

The Signoriello brothers were huge Pabst beer fans and they each had one in hand, most likely their second or third ones if history was any indication. Cora, who tended to live in my bar because she could conduct her business from anywhere there was Wi-Fi—and it was thanks to her that Mack's Bar had Wi-Fi—often nursed a single glass of Chardonnay for an hour or two. In typical fashion, she had half a glass that she had carried into the office with her.

Tad hadn't brought a drink with him and he quickly accepted Duncan's offer. I think the others might have passed had the offer been for any regular drink, but Duncan's preface had them intrigued. Eventually everyone accepted and Duncan left to go make his mystery drink.

I settled in at one end of my couch and the Signoriello brothers filled up the other. Cora claimed the work chair behind my desk and then went about setting up her laptop. Tad settled into the chair on the other side of the desk, meaning Duncan would have to stand when he came back.

These impromptu meetings had become something of a regular event since the establishment of the Capone Club. A few people had emerged as “specialists” for the club, such as Cora for her computer and hacking skills, and Tad for his financial knowledge and contacts.

Another regular member—one whose “expertise” wasn't so obvious—was Kevin Baldwin, a single, thirty-something gentleman who has been out of town for a couple of weeks. He worked as a local trash collector—though he preferred the title “sanitation engineer”—and his primary value to the group was his access to people's trash. A lot of people don't realize that trash put out for collection can be gone through without a warrant by cops who are searching for information or evidence. The cops had asked Kevin a couple of times to set aside certain trash pickups on his route so they could search through them. Though the cops could legally confiscate someone's trash if they wanted to, they liked the idea of using Kevin to collect it for later inspection, because it kept the owner of the trash none the wiser.

The Signoriello brothers have little in the way of current expertise to offer, but they have an unbridled enthusiasm for the job, some great contacts in the insurance industry, and some keen insights on human nature gleaned from their combined 140-plus years of living.

Not surprisingly, the foursome in my office started pumping me for information almost immediately. I suspected they were hoping to get the scoop before Duncan came back, some juicy tidbit that he and the other cops investigating the case wouldn't want shared. But one thing Duncan and I had in common was a good understanding of human nature. As such, we had anticipated this and discussed it on the way back to the bar after leaving the Cooper house. Duncan had already told me what I could and couldn't share. Most of what I was allowed to tell was the same stuff the news people would get. Enterprising reporters monitor police scanners for bits of radio chatter that give away details, or they'll quiz neighbors, witnesses, or acquaintances for what they know. I've learned from Duncan that the cops are well aware of these information leaks and they expect that many of the details about the case will get out. But there are always a few things—sometimes seemingly insignificant things—that the cops try to keep under wraps so they can weed out false confessors and distinguish which of any similar crimes may be copycats.

In the Cooper case, one such bit of information was the fact that panty hose were found wrapped around Belinda's neck. The medical examiner who was there in the room with Duncan and me had determined—based on the amount of bruising around Belinda's neck and the amount of bleeding from her stab wounds—that the perpetrator had tried to strangle her with the panty hose prior to stabbing her. For whatever reason, the strangulation hadn't killed her, and after seeing the disarray in Belinda's bedroom, I guessed it was because Belinda put up too much of a fight. The ME did say he saw tissue under Belinda's fingernails—tissue we all hoped would belong to the perpetrator. But there were also deep scratches on the front of Belinda's neck, and the ME said that was a typical finding for someone who was being strangled from behind with something; victims typically clawed at the offending object in an effort to release the pressure on their throats and get some air into their lungs. The ME also said that while the strangulation might have rendered her unconscious, based on what we saw in that bedroom, it was clear that the stab wounds and the subsequent blood loss were the actual cause of death.

Beyond this bit of inside knowledge, Duncan had told me to use my judgment. If information I was about to reveal was something the public would likely know or could easily find out, it was probably okay to share. Otherwise, I should keep it to myself. That he entrusted me with this knowledge and discretion made me feel good.

So when Frank started with, “What was it like?” and Joe jumped in right behind him with, “What did you see?” I was prepared to provide plenty of possibly helpful but hopefully harmless details.

I started by describing the scene outside when I first arrived. Then I told them about the foyer and the living room—how they looked, the stain on the carpet, the framed photos in the bookcase. After that, I briefly described the bathroom and the third bedroom that was used as a home office. Then Tad asked a question that tugged painfully at my heart and brought my impersonal descriptions to an end for the moment.

“That poor woman,” he said. “What was she like?”

“She was pretty,” I said, recalling the photos of her I had seen in the house rather than the blood-smeared death mask that had been Belinda's face. “She was also small. I bet she stood only five feet tall, which would have put her at a definite disadvantage against almost anyone, although she did have very muscular arms and legs, and that makes me think she worked out regularly. Given that, she might have surprised the killer by putting up more of a fight than they expected.”

“Was there evidence of a struggle?” Joe asked.

“Some,” I said. “But not as much as one might hope, at least not in terms of knocked-over furniture and that sort of thing. In fact, the house was impeccably neat. Things were very clean, and the cabinets and closets were all organized and very orderly.”

Before I could explain further, Duncan walked in bearing a tray of six mugs. When he set it on the desk, I saw that one of the mugs had coffee in it. The other five were filled with a steaming, spicy-smelling, creamy-brown drink topped off with a cinnamon stick. Duncan doled them out to us, saving the coffee for himself.

“This is my granny's recipe for hot buttered rum,” he told us as everyone sipped and moaned with delight. The drink was hot, creamy, and flavored with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon—the perfect hot toddy for a cold autumn night.

“Wow, this is good,” I said, and then I took a second, longer taste. “You have to give me the recipe for this.” I took another swallow and felt my muscles start to unwind and relax.

“I don't know if my granny would approve,” Duncan said. “It's a closely guarded family secret. But I suppose if you're nice to me, I might be persuaded.” There was more than a hint of innuendo in this comment and I saw the others in the room exchange looks.

Duncan took a sip from his coffee mug, and I wondered if he had souped it up with a shot of anything, or if he was drinking it straight. “What have you guys been discussing so far?”

“Mack was describing what the victim looked like,” Frank said.

“And telling us how she was kind of a neat freak,” Joe added. “Maybe she had OCD and had to see a shrink. You should check on her insurance claims and see if she had any psychiatric care. If she did, they might be able to give you some leads on the people or situations in her life that were problematic.”

“Good idea,” Duncan said, setting his coffee on a corner of the desk so he could scribble out some notes.

The brothers both smiled, looking very pleased with themselves and their contribution. I smiled, too. As retired insurance salesmen, they had a knack for inserting an insurance connection into every crime discussion we had. It might have been annoying—particularly since it had pointed a finger at me in Ginny's murder—if not for the fact that most of their ideas, like this one, were good ones.

“Mack was about to tell us about the sensations she picked up on,” Cora said, her fingers poised above her laptop.

I looked over at Duncan and he gave me a subtle nod of his head, letting me know it was okay to continue. Everyone in the room understood that any information that was shared in my office was to be kept private.

“I got a definite sense of things missing from various parts of the house,” I said. “Things like the little boy's clothing, and perhaps some of his toys. I even got a sense that something had recently been removed from the refrigerator.”

Cora asked, “Can you tell me how many of each item was taken?”

I shook my head and frowned. “Based on the degree of the voids I felt with the clothes, I'm guessing it was multiples of everything, but I can't give you exact numbers.”

Tad confirmed what Duncan had said earlier. “Taking that stuff makes me think they don't intend to kill the kid,” he said. “I guess that's a positive.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Particularly since I think it might have been some juice that was taken from the fridge. There were several other juice boxes lined up near where I felt the void, although there were also several yogurt containers there. But we didn't find any fresh, empty containers of either juice or yogurt in the trash.”

Cora tapped away on her laptop keys. “It does sound like whoever took this kid is planning on long-term maintenance. Did they take any medicines, diapers, or the kid's toothbrush?”

I looked at Duncan, eyebrows raised. “Funny you should ask, because that's been bothering me,” I told her. “Why wouldn't they take the toothbrush if they were grabbing things for the kid? It doesn't make much sense to me.”

“It's a good question,” Duncan said, and I could tell from the expressions on the faces of the others in the room that they were all curious as well. “Maybe they meant to take it and forgot. I'm sure they were anxious to get out of there. Or maybe they figured the toothbrush would be an easy thing to buy new without attracting any undue attention.”

Joe Signoriello said, “I might be wrong, but the fact that they grabbed the stuff they did implies a lack of forethought to me, a level of unpreparedness. If taking the kid was something they had planned all along, wouldn't they already have stuff like that in place? I mean, come on, adults plan for kids in one way or another all the time, whether it be adoptions, or births, or even just visiting grandchildren. It's part of normal life and simple common sense. So if taking the kid was the main objective, I would think the kidnappers would already have all that stuff ready to go.”

“Joe's right,” Frank said. “Maybe taking the kid wasn't the main objective, but rather a by-product of his mother's death. Maybe that poor woman was killed because someone wanted her kid. Or maybe the kid got taken simply because he witnessed whoever killed his mother and the killer couldn't bring himself to kill a child.”

“All good points,” Duncan said. “Although I suspect a two-year-old wouldn't be a huge concern as a witness. I suppose he could identify someone, but I doubt the testimony of a two-year-old would hold up in court. I'm leaning more toward the idea that taking the kid was the main objective.”

“That poor boy,” I said, shaking my head. I felt a hollow ache deep inside my chest and once again I wasn't sure if it was an emotional response or a synesthetic one. “I hope whoever took him did so because they want him, not because they want to make him disappear.”

Several long seconds of morbid silence filled the room while everyone contemplated the various outcomes. Though for me, even silence is noisy. The various odors in the room—like Cora's perfume, the drinks we all had, the starch in Tad's shirt, and the steam from Duncan's coffee—each came with their own distinctive sound.

“Seems to me,” Tad said, “that we need to figure out a motive. Once we understand why this woman was killed, it might help us find the correct pool of potential suspects. Now, granted I'm a little biased since I work in finance—but it does seem like money is often at the root of so many of these crimes. Any indication of that in this case?”