YANKEE TEN
“Yankee Ten, see the woman. Four Two Three Post Road. Possible homicide.”
Alyssa sneezed. “Ten-Four,” she responded automatically.
“You allergic to something?” Ty teased.
“Murder?” she suggested.
The cruiser turned onto Post Road, a short jog at the end of State Street, and they had no trouble spotting 423 which was smack in the middle of the block. A woman sat on the front steps of the yellow clapboard one-story. Low shrubs flanked the porch, and potted plants sat on the low walls on either side of the steps. The woman wore a gray cardigan over a white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was in her forties, with thin blonde hair raggedly cut at shoulder length. As the police car came closer, she stood up and shoved her hands into her pockets. She looked shaken up but grimly determined.
Ty parked in front of the house, behind a battered blue Chevy, and Alyssa got out first and approached the woman. “Hi,” she said, keeping it casual. “You called the police?” The woman gulped and nodded, apparently unable to speak. “What’s your name?” Alyssa asked. Her tone was friendly, unofficial, and she didn’t take out her notebook.
“Molly,” the blonde managed in a thin, reedy voice. “Molly Tucker.”
“You called in that somebody was murdered?”
“M-my husband.” She pointed toward the front door.
“I’m sorry. Are you sure he’s dead?”
“I uh…uh…”
Ty had come up by then and greeted Mrs. Tucker. “Let’s take a look,” he said. They wanted to preserve the crime scene until the detectives arrived, but first they had to be sure a crime had indeed taken place and the victim was beyond medical help. “Can you tell us what happened?” He took her arm and steered her toward the door.
“I came home and found—somebody shot him.”
“Where is he?” Ty asked.
She was bewildered. “I…I…” Ty twisted the doorknob and eased the door open. “I don’t want to go in,” she said. She was almost whimpering.
Alyssa nodded to Ty, and he strode in while she stayed on the porch with Mrs. Tucker. “What time did you get home?” Alyssa asked.
“Just a little while ago. I called as soon…”
“When did you last see your husband alive?”
“This morning. I was at work all day. He…he said he was going to…he’s working the night shift and he was going back to bed.”
“What time did you leave for work?”
Ty reappeared in the doorway and gestured to Alyssa. “You’ve got to see this,” he said. “Ma’am, would you come in the house, please? You don’t have to see the body.” Mrs. Tucker entered reluctantly, and Ty pointed to the sparsely furnished living room. “Have a seat. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Alyssa followed him into the kitchen. The room was modest, but neat, except for the body sprawled on the linoleum floor. It was a middle-aged woman with short, dark hair, wearing a dress that had been pale green before it was covered in blood. Her throat had been cut. Alyssa kept her breathing shallow, but the combination of the sharp, coppery smell of blood and an underlying stench of spoiled meat was almost overwhelming. “Maybe there are two bodies?” she suggested. “Did you check the other rooms?”
“Yes. So, does her husband wear dresses, or did she not look very closely? Just saw the blood?”
“I guess it’s time to call in the detectives.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Alyssa took out her cell phone and snapped a few pictures, which the police photographer would duplicate and improve on. In other circumstances she might have shown one of them to Mrs. Tucker, but the wide, staring eyes, horrible death grimace, and thick, clotted blood were too grisly to use for identification. She noted a small white scar above the victim’s left eyebrow and the bright red polish on the fingernails of hands twisted as if in convulsion.
#
The CSU had set up yellow tape and were busy processing the scene by the time Detective Jesse Aaron arrived. His partner, Camille Farris, was not far away, but he didn’t wait for her. Mrs. Tucker sat on the living room couch, her cardigan clutched tight around her. She stared up at him fearfully, eyes wide. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I understand you found the body?”
She nodded. “I just came home from work.” Her voice was tight, barely a whisper. “I found him there.”
Officer Alyssa Knight emerged from the kitchen, murmured a greeting, and showed him an image on her cell phone. He raised one eyebrow. “Your husband?” he prompted.
“Yes.”
“What made you think it was your husband?”
She stared at him. “What? I…I would know, wouldn’t I?” She was honestly puzzled by the question.
“There is a body in the kitchen,” he said gently, “but it isn’t your husband.”
“What do you mean? Who else would it be?”
“Mrs. Tucker, the victim is a woman, and she wasn’t shot, as you told the officers. Why did you say your husband was shot?”
She didn’t seem to even hear the question. “A woman?” she said blankly.
“Yes, ma’am. Caucasian, about five six, mid thirties, short brown hair, a scar above her eye—does that sound like anybody you know?”
Mrs. Tucker’s jaw dropped. “He’s still alive?” she asked. Her tone was unmistakable—she was terrified.
“He’s not in the house, ma’am.”
“He killed her,” she said.
“Do you know who she is?”
She gulped. “No, I don’t know her. I don’t know anybody like that. I never met her.”
“What makes you think your husband might have killed her?”
“He…he was the only one here. Oh, my god, he killed her and now he’ll kill me.”
“Please calm down, ma’am. You’re not in any danger. If he did kill this woman, he will be arrested and put in prison.” He met Alyssa’s eyes. “That was not self defense,” he said.
Mrs. Tucker rocked back and forth, hugging her arms. “Oh, my god, oh, my god.”
“Can I get you something?” Alyssa asked. “A glass of water? A cup of coffee?”
The terrified woman shook her head and kept rocking. Jesse nodded to Alyssa and went into the kitchen to see for himself. She could hear him greeting the CSU techs, veterans he had worked with before. None of them considered her anything but an interchangeable and negligible menial. She stood close to Mrs. Tucker but looked away to give her a minute to pull herself together. Her gaze fell on the bookcase, every shelf stuffed full, with books lying across the top of other books. This was a serious reader, but perhaps she hadn’t found much time for it lately, as a light film of dust lay across most of the books. A few exceptions stood out, well-read or recently read: one of the Longmire series, a Patricia Highsmith novel, Courage to Change, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, and two by Agatha Christie.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Tucker. I’ll be right back. Are you sure I can’t get you something?” No reply was forthcoming. Alyssa stepped into the kitchen. She was more accustomed to the smell now, but it was still nauseating. She resisted an unprofessional impulse to cover her mouth.
Jesse circled the body slowly, stepping carefully. He wasn’t affected by the scene, merely engrossed in the puzzle. One tech was measuring everything in sight, and the other expertly wielded a fingerprint dusting brush. “She was terrified,” Jesse said. “Which makes her a suspect. If she fired without looking, she might have assumed it was her husband, but you can’t cut a throat without getting close. She would have known who it was—maybe her husband’s lover? But she didn’t have any blood spatter on her clothes.”
He was thinking out loud; Alyssa’s job was to listen respectfully. She was only a uniform. “She could have changed,” she said, playing devil’s advocate, but she knew better.
“Check the laundry and the trash,” he said. She nodded but didn’t move.
“On the other hand, these footsteps are obviously not hers.” He pointed to smears in the pools of blood. “Too big, a man’s shoe. The husband?”
Alyssa went to the door between the kitchen and living room and stood where the detective could hear what she had to say to Mrs. Tucker. The distraught woman was still rocking, but had slowed and had a calmer, more thoughtful demeanor.
“Are you afraid of your husband?” Alyssa asked. No response. “Is he a mean drunk? Does he hit you?” Nothing, which was an answer in itself. Without any change in tone or emphasis, she continued. “Where did you meet her?” Mrs. Tucker lifted her head, surprised. “The woman in the kitchen. Where did you meet?”
“I didn’t. I told you…”
Interested, Jesse came to stand beside Alyssa. “The grocery store?” he suggested. “The gym?”
Alyssa gave him an exasperated glance and barely resisted rolling her eyes. Did this look like a woman who worked out in a gym? “An AA meeting,” she suggested.
Mrs. Tucker couldn’t suppress a gasp. “How did you…” She covered her mouth with one trembling hand, aware she had given herself away.
“Was her husband abusive too? Or was it somebody else? She was supposed to kill your husband for you, and you were supposed to kill hers? Only he got the best of her and now he’s out there somewhere, and you could be next. He might have the gun she planned to kill him with.”
Mrs. Tucker took her hand away from her mouth. “Al-Anon,” was all she said.
Alyssa looked at Jesse and he nodded. She stepped forward. “Ma’am, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder and solicitation of murder.” They could leave the question of additional charges, including possible felony murder, to the DA’s office.
Mrs. Tucker held out her hands, wrists together. “Lock me up,” she said. “Don’t let him get me.” Her voice was harsh with unmistakable fear.
Jesse stayed where he was while Officer Knight put Mrs. Tucker in the back of the patrol car. When Alyssa returned, he asked, “How did you know?”
She gestured at the bookcase. “Sometimes you can judge a person by her book covers.” She slid out two of the books that had caught her eye, noticeably less dusty than the others.
Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions and Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train.
The End
