No Remorse Page 5

  That was no wound. A wound could be covered with a Band-Aid, like the scrapes my nieces and nephews got on their knees from playing in the yard or falling off their bikes. When part of your skull has been shot off and left in tiny fragments along with brain particles, that wasn’t something you could attach a small plastic strip to, kiss the boo-boo, and send someone on their way.

  “The fatal shot came from the front. He was facing his killer. It must have happened quickly because there are no scrapes, scratches, or defensive wounds of any kind on his hands or arms. Whoever put this slug, a .22 by the way, in his brain caught him completely off guard.”

  “Is there any way he could have committed suicide?” I asked.

  “Not a chance. There’s no gun powder residue on his face or hands to indicate the barrel of the gun was against his skin,” Skip said. He pointed at Effridge’s eyes. “See his eyes? No raccooning.”

  “No what?”

  “Raccooning. Sorry, it’s what we call it when a victim has a close-range shot to the head. The blood seems to pool around the eyes. Since the shadowing isn’t present, it’s safe to say there was a decent amount of distance between the shooter and Effridge. Probably at least ten feet.”

  He pulled the sheet back further to reveal his chest. “This one is more confusing.” Skip ran his fingers through his dirty-blond hair.

  “Why is that? He got sliced up pretty good. Right?” Jones asked.

  “Actually, yeah. He was stabbed thirty-five times. The majority were significantly more than just flesh wounds. Coincidence?”

  “He’s thirty-five years old,” I mumbled.

  “Yup. A murderer with a sense of humor. And see this here?” Skip rolled the victim to expose his back to us then pointed to a small hole about six inches below Effridge’s left shoulder blade.

  “What the …” My mouth hung open at the small hole.

  “Exactly. I was wondering the same thing. Then I looked at him a little closer. This shot wasn’t fatal. It missed all his major organs. It didn’t go all the way through him, and it didn’t kill him. There’s no residue on him, so it wasn’t close-range either.”

  “Could there have been two shooters?” Jones asked.

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m thinking he got popped in the back first, which startled him. When he turned around, he was shot in the head. The calibers of the bullets are identical according to the size of the holes. We dug this one out of the rib it lodged in.” He held up a spent bullet. “We’ll still need to run tests to determine if the shots were fired from the same weapon, if the shell can be found from the head shot. That one did go through, and that’s what makes me think the shooter was a couple feet closer for that one. Speaking of the gun, any luck on finding it?”

  “We have to figure out who shot him first, and then who went stab-happy on his chest.”

  “I thought the wife shot him.”

  “No, or at least I don’t think so. I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “One more thing. Notice the stabbing took place primarily on the right side of his chest.”

  “Yeah. What does that mean?” I asked.

  “When you have a right-handed attacker, the stab wounds are typically on the left side of the chest. Most people stab straight out or down. Like this.” He made a fist and moved his arm back and forth in the air like he was stabbing someone. “It’s too awkward to stab across your body. You’d lose leverage and power,” Skip said.

  “So we’re looking for a lefty?”

  “I’d say so,” Skip said.

  “Interesting. It seems we’re looking for a lot of different things. Mainly a weapon,” Jones said.

  “Fellas, it sounds like you may have your work cut out for you.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m hoping like hell you can help some more,” I said.

  “So far, of all the evidence that was brought in, nothing stands out, but we’re still processing it. The fingerprints we’ve identified so far either match the wife or her son. There was a single blonde hair and, according to what I know, the wife is a brunette … unless it’s a dye job.”

  “I’m betting it’s the best damn dye job money can buy, but you’re right; Dupree’s not blonde,” Jones said.

  “Oh, and one more thing we found that you may be interested in. Have you come across any redheads during your questioning?” Skip asked.

  “No redheads. Why? What did you find?”

  “A single red hair. Not a dye job, either. So you’re on the lookout for a blonde and a red-headed female.”

  “Why do you say specifically a female?” I asked.

  “Because of the length of the hair, and the blonde hair was found in his crotch.” Skip smiled at us. “Also, typically stabbings like this are from someone with some pent-up anger and emotion. A whole lot of anger. If you’re thinking the wife isn’t the primary suspect, there might be another woman.”

  “Fuck,” I huffed out. “Dupree has a secretary who has a key, according to her son. She may be blonde; we haven’t talked to her yet. I guess we’ll have to see where that conversation takes us. We do know she was romantically involved with Effridge.”

  “Let me know what you find out, and I’ll keep working on what I have. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.” He covered Effridge back up and zipped the body bag. “Oh, and there’s an envelope for you on my desk. I had a second set of the crime scene photos made for you guys.”

  “Thanks, Skip.”

  He pushed the slab back in, then shut and locked the door. “Anytime. Good luck. It sounds like you guys are going to need it.”

  Chapter 8

  On our way back to the office, Jones and I decided to grab some lunch. Neither of us was very hungry, but we knew once we got back to the precinct, we were in for a long evening.

  “Pizza?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that works.”

  “I never asked you, did you find out anything about that Sims woman?”

  “She’s clean. Squeaky clean,” Jones said. “I thought this case would be easier to close. We have to get those other two women in to talk to us.”

  “Sims said she’d talk, but she couldn’t commit to a time. She said her job has her schedule all jacked up. I’m not buying the job excuse; I think there might be something else,” I said.

  “Stay on her. Tell her we can come to her if that will help her.”

  I pulled in to the parking lot and we exited the car. My feet hit the pavement with hard thuds and I let out a loud sigh.

  “You alright over there?” Jones looked at me just as I caught myself shaking my head.

  “Yeah, man, I’m fine.”

  “Kind of not sure I believe you, but if you say so.”

  “My mind is racing, dude. I’m trying to figure out what we do next if these two women don’t give us anything. Which way do we turn then?”

  “Fuck if I know. We’ll go back to the drawing board to see what we’ve missed, I guess. Or, we go to the college where this guy taught. There may be something or someone there who can tell us about Effridge. Maybe he was cozy with some female there, too.”

  “That’s a good idea. I want to go back by the apartment while we have the place secured. We need to look at everything again.”

  We each finished eating our slices, then got back into the car. Mrs. Dupree, Carlotta, wasn’t doing anything with the apartment until we gave her the go-ahead to clean everything up. She was hoping we wouldn’t need more than a week to make sure we had everything we needed before the cleaning crew would be brought in. I couldn’t imagine wanting to move back into the place where my spouse was murdered. Especially since she had another residence somewhere. But maybe she would just clean it and sell it off.

  When we walked up the steps, we saw the neighbor I’d talked to when we got the initial call. He was walking down toward us.

  “Good afternoon, Detectives.”

  “Hello,” Jones replied. I nodded my head in the gentleman’s direction. He stopped on the step righ
t in front of us.

  “Any luck finding the killer, yet?” he asked.

  “Our investigation is still in progress,” I said. I was trying to skirt the issue. It felt really funny saying we hadn’t arrested anyone yet. Hell, we didn’t even have a clear idea of who we should be targeting.

  “I would have thought for sure you’d have someone locked up by now.” His round belly shifted when he moved the brunt of his weight from his left to his right foot.

  “We’re working on it. I don’t remember if you told me or not, sir, but were you home Friday morning?” I asked.

  “I was here early in the morning. I saw that she-devil leave.”

  “And who is the she-devil?” Jones asked. He tried desperately not to let the smile take over his face.

  “Carlotta. His wife. She’s a real piece of work, that one.”

  “Did you see anyone else come in the building that morning, or after Carlotta left?” I jumped back into leading the questioning.

  “I just so happened to look out the window and saw her secretary walking across the street toward the building close to eight-thirty. She didn’t stay long, maybe ten minutes, tops.”

  Jones and I both looked at each other. I’m pretty sure we were thinking the same thing: we definitely needed to talk to her.

  “I saw another woman walking in when I was leaving, too.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?”

  “Well, let’s see. I was on my way to my podiatrist appointment. That was scheduled for eleven o’clock.” He stopped for a moment and looked around the hall, as if his answer to my question would appear out of thin air for him. He continued, “I had to catch the ten thirty bus to go across town, so it was probably close to ten o’clock. Maybe a little after ten.”

  “Do you think you’d recognize the other woman if we showed you a picture?”

  “I sure would. She was a cute little thing. Really cute. A carrot-top, or at least she had hints of red in her hair. If only I were about, oh, ten or fifteen years younger…”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if our McKenzie Sims was a red head. From what Calhoun had said, Effridge was seeing her, too. “We’ll make sure to stop back with some photos for you to look at. Hopefully you can tell us if you recognize anyone. What time did you return to the building that day?”

  “It was after noon. I don’t remember the exact time. By the time I got back everything was quiet around here.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “The name’s Buckley. Jordan Buckley, up in apartment twelve.” He took another step down. “You can come by tomorrow morning, if you like. I’ll be home. Bring all of your pictures and I’ll tell ya if you have any of the cute little redhead I saw.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Buckley.” We let him pass us as he continued his descent. And we continued what we had set out to do.

  Jones and I entered the apartment as carefully as we had the morning we were called here. We both inspected the entry door, particularly around the hardware. There was no sign of forced entry. We inspected everything inside the door and the door handle. I didn’t expect we’d find anything new, but desperation was setting in and we had to exhaust every possibility.

  We split up with the sole purpose of making sure we hadn’t missed anything in the living room, dining room, or kitchen.

  It felt weird being in the home, looking for evidence to collect, behind the more than capable medical examiner’s crew. But we had to take any and all measures to try to solve this case.

  Our first pass through the residence had us walking around the blood-stained area where the body had laid face up just between the dining room and living room. That had me thinking they probably weren’t in the kitchen. And if they were, it wasn’t for very long. So I made the kitchen my first stop to see if my hunch was correct.

  A half-consumed cup of coffee sat on the table. Jones walked into the kitchen.

  “I remember Calhoun saying he left Effridge drinking his coffee. If that were true, and Effridge didn’t charge after Calhoun, then he would have been sitting right here in this chair when Calhoun left,” I said.

  Being careful not to tamper with the possible evidence on the outside of the mug, I lifted it using my pen, carefully made my way to the sink, and dumped the remaining cold coffee out of it. Then I carefully placed it in a paper bag to give to the lab.

  Everything in the kitchen seemed to be in its place – nothing overturned, no missing knives, no dirty dishes sitting in the sink. I opened the dishwasher door and pulled out the drawer to reveal one cup. I bent to look at the writing and saw ‘Carlotta’ printed upside down. Had to have been a special order. I carefully placed that one in a paper bag, too.

  “Let’s go check the bedroom,” Jones said.

  I glanced around the kitchen just before I made my way down the hall and took a quick second-glance inventory of the knives that were in the butcher block on top of the counter. All knives were in their slots. The killer must have brought their own knife to the party, I thought. They had thought out the killing of the poor guy.

  I made my way into the bedroom and saw Jones looking at the unmade bed. He extracted a pen from his pocket and used it to move the sheets and comforter around.

  “No way am I touching that bed,” I said. He looked up at me and his lips turned up in the corners.

  “Me neither,” Jones said. “But I wonder if they came in here to scour it for any evidence.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Then they missed this.” Jones pointed at a long medium-brown hair. “Let’s bag it and take it back, but they need to go over this room. I hope that’s the only thing they missed.”

  I made a mental note.

  Next stop was the dining room. As I stepped into the room, the large blood stain on the carpet and blood droplets that splattered on the walls were all that remained.

  I carefully scanned the carpet, searching for a hair, a lint ball, anything that could provide a clue.

  After scouring the carpet for over an hour, I felt like my eyes were crossing. Judging by the scrunched features on Jones’ face, he must have felt similarly.

  “I’m not seeing anything new here. Did you see anything yet?” He looked up at me when he spoke.

  “Nothing, man. Nothing. Well, except for the couple of coffee cups in the kitchen and that hair in the bedroom.” I wiped my free hand across my forehead, wiping the sweat that was close to dripping into my eyes. “Let’s get out of here. We can stop by the lab to see if they have anything new and I’ll give them the mugs and hair to process.”

  “While you do that, I’ll call the college to find out what’s taking so long to get the professor’s schedule to me. We can meet back up in the office later and compare notes.”

  “Gotcha.”

  We walked to the door. As if we both were thinking the same thing, we stopped, turned, and took in the scene again, letting our eyes scan as far as we could see. Jones patted me on the back. “There’s probably nothing else here.”

  Chapter 9

  By the time we walked back into the office Sergeant Clancy was standing inside his office, glaring out the large glass window in our direction. I knew he wanted some answers. Hell, I did, too.

  “Oliver, what do you have for me?”

  I tugged at Jones’ shirt sleeve to pull him into the glass fishbowl of an office with me. Misery loved company, but I wasn’t sure who was more miserable. Me, because I didn’t have this case ready to close, or the Sergeant, because I didn’t have this case closed already.

  I conveyed what the lab had told us on our prior visit. Then I told Sarge that we went back over the apartment.

  “What the hell for?” He gave me this look, like he was questioning my sanity. “Did you find anything?”

  “Two coffee cups and a hair in the bedroom.” I cleared my throat. “Based on the conversation I had with the widow one of the mugs probably belonged to her, and I guess the other may have been the vict
ims. We also talked to the neighbor who had talked to me briefly the day we were all there. He had some interesting information for us. It appears all four of our persons of interest were in that apartment the day Effridge was killed.”

  “What’s your next move?” Sarge glanced over at Jones, who stood picking at his finger nails before turning his gaze to meet mine.

  “We have two more people we need to talk to right away: Larissa MacDonald, who’s Effridge’s’ mistress and baby momma, and McKenzie Sims. Sims is a model and has worked for Dupree’s design house. She’s also suspected to have been involved with Effridge, or at least that’s the story according to Jonathan Calhoun.”

  “What a cluster-fuck.”

  “You can say that again. This guy was screwing anyone and everyone.” I crossed my arms over my chest and exhaled.

  “Keep me posted. If you need anything, let me know,” Sarge said.

  “Thanks, Sarge. I’ll let you know how things go with the interviews once we get them cornered.”

  Jones and I left the fishbowl and walked back to our desks. We weren’t there more than five minutes before Jones’ phone rang.

  “Detective Jones.” He had a pleasant-sounding phone voice for a guy, but was very abrupt with his words. He quickly put his phone on speaker.

  “Good afternoon, Detective. I understand you and your partner want to talk to me.” The voice was sugary-sweet. I imagined an angelic figure holding the phone.

  “Who is this?”

  “Larissa MacDonald. I have some time this afternoon. Can you come over to my place? I don’t have a sitter for my baby, and I’d rather not drag him down there to the station.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we can come to you. And we’re sorry for your loss.” I listened to what I could hear of the remainder of the conversation and watched Jones write the address in his notepad. When he hung up the phone he relayed all the information I already knew, with the exception that she seemed quite emotional. Then we left to go get her story.

  When Ms. MacDonald led us through her apartment, I took note of how tidy the entire place was. She was either a compulsive neat-freak or had just cleaned up everything. I was leaning toward the neat-freak theory.