Retribution
A Murder Mystery
Written By:
Atra Angelo
SundayThud, thud, thud.
The early morning silence was broken by a police officer knocking on the door of an old, but well cared for, farmhouse. It was an ungodly early hour in the morning, but there was a good reason he had come. The man who lived in this house always came into town on Friday for groceries- you could even set your watch to him. It wouldn't seem that odd now, except that every Friday for the last year he had come in at precisely eight a.m. to get groceries- and always with the same greeting of 'So how is everyone this fine morning?'
All the people in town had grown to respect and trust him. They knew him by name, and he knew all of theirs. Even the police officers in town knew him. They had learned of his time with the NYPD and they always wanted to hear about it. He never told much, and he always seemed to want to keep that part of his life to himself. After a while, the lady who owned the local grocery store knew his order and had it ready for him when he would come in.
He hadn't shown up on Friday, causing everyone to wonder what was going on. When he didn't show up on Saturday, they got really worries but didn't want to go to his house just yet in case he was 'entertaining' a female guest from the city. When he didn't come in for his normal cup of coffee at 5:30 on Sunday morning, they sent the rookie cop to his house to make sure he was okay. No one expected anything out of place, but they would rather be safe than sorry.
"Anyone home?" the twenty-one year old, rookie officer called, knocking louder. "Hello? William?"
He tried the doorknob and it turned without resistance, the door softly squeaking as it swung open on its hinges. The officer stepped through the open door and into the dark living room. He had a feeling down in his gut that something was wrong, and drew his gun. He stepped in cautiously and scanned the large living room/kitchen/dining room.
"William, are you home?" There was no answer and nothing looked out of place or strange, but there was an odd trip, trip, tripping sound coming from upstairs- like water dripping from a nozzle.
The police officer made his way up the stairs and again scanned the hall for the presence of anyone. He went through the first door on his right and stopped short upon seeing the room. He fumbled for his police radio, dropping it before finally turning it on, and quickly called in to dispatch.
"Dispatch, this is unit three requesting ambulance assistance and police backup at the farmhouse on the west side of town, over," he was almost to the point of hyperventilation by the time he made the call.
"Roger unit three, what is your status?"
"I have a DB here, and it looks like we have a homicide," he breathed. Something looked really familiar about the scene, but he couldn't put his finger on it as he scanned the room until . . . "Call the NYPD," he said into his radio. "Tell them it appears we've got a 'John Doe' copycat. They'll get here quick."
"Ambulance and police assistance are on their way. They should be arriving in ten minutes," dispatch told him. "And I'll call and let them know about the copycat. Out."
"What happened here Lieutenant?" asked Detective Chriseyda Jackson, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape as she stepped into the house and looked around.
As the police officers on the scene looked up at her, it was instantly clear to all of them that she was the Detective from New York. She had the air of confidence that only a city girl could have, though she couldn't be classified as a girl. She looked about mid-thirties, tall, and fair skinned with dark brown hair, and sharp, violet eyes- the color of amethyst. She was dressed in black slacks and a dark purple shirt. The gray trench coat she was wearing only emphasized her height and sleekness. She carried a bag slung over her shoulder, which rested on her hip slightly behind her. The gun holster and badge on her hip, the only indication she was a cop.
"Name of the deceased- William Summerset, he was a former NYPD Detective wasn't he?" He didn't wait for her response before continuing. "Apparently, he opened the door to someone and then they killed him. There are no signs of forced entry, so we figure he must have known who the person was or at least have invited them in," said the Lieutenant as he matched pace with her.
"Could he have had a spare key that the killer might have known about?" Chriseyda asked as she looked around the living room for signs of a struggle. There were none.
"I don't think so," said the lieutenant. "We found the key under the mat and it looked as though it hadn't been moved in a while. There was dust on it and around it, no fingerprints, no blood, nothing to suggest it had ever been used before."
"Thank you lieutenant," said Chriseyda walking past him, her shoes softly clicking on the hard wood floor.
They walked through the living room. "Strangely enough," he kept talking. "This is the same M.O. of a guy that died a year ago. My brother even saw him die."
"John Doe- I got the call. That's why I'm here," Chriseyda nodded absently as she stopped behind the couch, snapping on a pair of crime scene gloves and pulling her own personal, crime scene camera from the bag slung over her shoulder. "It just doesn't make any sense. He did die- a year ago today actually, so this copycat has vengeance on his- or her- mind. Which is odd considering Doe did it to make a social point- you would think the copycat would do the same."
"Every psychopath is different," said the lieutenant with a shrug. "Which is good for us. Then we can pin the person down easier."
"If the conditions are right," said Chriseyda as she continued her slow walk around the bottom level of the house. She pulled a camera out of her side bag, ready to take pictures of anything that caught her eye- just for her own reference.
She made her way through the living room, stopping to inspect the coffee table and couch. The Saturday newspaper was neatly folded and lying on the table next to the remote for the 24" TV. The couch looked neat, all the throw pillows were in place and fluffed to perfection. She walked around, taking a picture of the dartboard hanging on the wall. It seemed odd because there were no darts to be found. A clue, she thought as she snapped off a few more pictures, before something else caught her eye- a switchblade lying on the table to the left of the board. Not a clue, just his version of darts? She took a breath, letting it out slowly as she turned her attention on the kitchen.
The kitchen was even more meticulously kept than the living room. The floors looked as though they had been cleaned, but not recently- maybe a day or two before. There was one plate, cup, and fork in the sink- he obviously had not been entertaining anyone. Or if he had, the person had made sure to clean up after himself.
The two main rooms out of the way, Chriseyda turned her attention to her journey upstairs. The stairs themselves were clean and looked polished and well cared for. They weren't slick as she expected them to be and she made her way slowly up, making sure to use the sides of the stairs.
She was snapping pictures of the stairs and the landing as she got to the top. As she looked around the landing, her eyes took in everything- there wasn't anything that seemed out of place. The whole house seemed to be in meticulous order- strange considering the type of murder that had reportedly taken place. But she knew it could be helpful too. Maybe they'd be able to spot abnormalities more easily- if there were any to spot in the first place.
To her left was an open area that was set up like a study- every book in order on the shelves, and the papers on the desk in neat stacks. To her right was a short hall leading to a door, presumably a guest bedroom. She took pictures of everything- she knew, in her line of work, it could mean making or breaking a case.
"He's in there," said the Lieutenant, looking up from his notepad and pointing down the hallway, as she made her first walk through.
"Lieutenant," she said pointing to his pad of paper, "I want these stairs dusted for fingerprints, footprints, shoe prints, anything that we could match to the killer. Make sure you have the shoe prints of all the officers who have already used the steps to make sure that you can eliminate them. Also, I want luminol used on the stairs and railings. Check the kitchen too. This killer could have dripped blood anywhere or started the attack somewhere else. Be thorough, we don't know where the killer could have gone?"
"Yes ma'am," said the Lieutenant, jotting down the note quickly. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and barked a quick order. He turned back to her and his eyes asked the question 'Do you need anything else from me or are you finished giving me orders on my turf?' He didn't seem all that happy that New York City had sent a Detective to take over the case from them, but at the same time he was willing to give her every courtesy possible.
Chriseyda turned and headed toward the bedroom door. She could smell death in the air as she neared the room at the end of the hall. She took a deep breath and put her handkerchief over her nose and mouth- never hurt to come prepared. She stepped into the small room and was faced with a spectacle of a crime scene. She felt the wind get knocked out of her as she looked from the bloody bed to the word above the bed written in the victims blood- Sloth.
"You have got to be kidding me. This can't truly be happening again," she whispered under her breath. She had been told it was a John Doe copycat, but she wasn't expecting anything this accurate. She turned to the cop, who was still standing at the top of the stairs taking notes, "Call NYPD and tell them to get me copies of the case files from the John Doe cases. I have to read everything. I want them on my desk by the time I get back to my office."
"Alright Detective," he called from the study, his tie covering his mouth and nose. He apparently was not about to come into the room.
Chriseyda stood in the doorway and assessed the scene again. She took pictures of everything around the room. As with the rest of the house, there was nothing out of place, nothing that was messed up- other than the blood splattered all over. Whoever was duplicating these murders knew a lot about the originals. She needed those files, and she needed them thirty minutes ago- before she even set foot through the front door. She had to know just as much and more than the killer about those murders.
The coroner from the local PD walked in with his medical bag. He nodded to Chriseyda and then walked cautiously over to the bed. He checked for a pulse and for temperature. He obviously didn't find a pulse but he got a temperature and shook his head.
"He's dead Detective."
"Thank you Doctor," she said with a small nod, wanting to be sarcastic but knowing better and holding her tongue.
He looked up at her from across the room. "You better get whoever did this Detective. We loved this guy like he was one of our own. He knew all of our names- he was like our brother in arms. We heard about the case that happened last year. Supposedly this is a copy-cat of that one, right?"
When Chiseyda nodded, he continued, "Get this bastard for us. We can't have another of these Bible-pounders terrorizing the citizens of this state . . . or country."
"I know," she said shaking her head tiredly. "I better go. I need to continue my walk through and check on the progress, and then I have to go and study up on what happened originally. Reviewing the old case files might give me a better perspective on what's happening now."
"You may want to talk to the other Detective who was on the case a year ago," he suggested. "He might want to know what happened to his former partner.
"That won't be easy," Chriseyda sighed. "I highly doubt that Detective Mills would be willing to relive the atrocities he suffered. I don't blame him for that, and I'm really hesitant to tell him what happened to Detective Summerset."
"It might be difficult, but it is something that has to be done," said the coroner. "He doesn't have any family still living; and he told us several times that Detective Mills was the closest thing to family that he had."
"Even so," said Chriseyda, "I'm going to have to approach this delicately- if I do it at all."
The coroner shrugged, as if to say it's your call, and went back to analyzing the body lying on the bed. Chriseyda watched for a few more minutes, sickened by the precision that this new killer had already displayed. She sighed- knowing there was nothing else she could do here- and turning, she walked downstairs to get a full report on what had happened so far.
"Detective Jackson," came the voice of the lieutenant who had accompanied her around the house earlier. He came up from the den on her right. "We found a film canister dropped in with his magazines and newspapers, but we didn't find any cameras- or for that matter, any signs that he took pictures at all."
"Do you still have it here, or have you sent it off to be analyzed?" she asked.
"We have it right here," he said handing the canister, inside a plastic bag, to her. He still gave her the look that said he didn't like her being on his turf. But he was still willing to give her the flack she needed, due to the authority she held over him in the present situation.
"Thank you," she nodded as she took the bag from him. She gave it a cursory once over to make sure there was no evidence that could be compromised. Once she was assured that she wouldn't lose any evidence she turned her attention to the canister itself.
There were no signs of fingerprints, but they also hadn't dusted it yet. It was a 35mm film canister, which suggested that whoever it was might have a professional camera. They might possibly even be a professional photographer. She sighed- that was one lead that would be a pain in the butt to have to follow. There was nothing distinctive about the canister- no label, no date, just plain black with a gray lid.
Chriseyda sighed and handed the bag back to the lieutenant. "This is going to get real ugly, real fast," she muttered under her breath.
"What?" he asked as he took the bag back from her.
"If I don't catch a break, I'm screwed," she said out loud. "I won't solve this thing quickly enough, and the Chief will be on my butt. It's going to get real ugly, real quick."
The lieutenant nodded and went about putting together the rest of the report that he had to this point. "We haven't found any fingerprints yet either. We recovered some shoe prints, but they are pretty flat and non-descript. It will be hard to track them, but we'll try anyways. We haven't found anything else, but we'll let you know as soon as something comes up."
"Thank you," said Chriseyda. She turned to walk away just in time. Her phone vibrated at her side and she quickly answered it with "Detective Jackson."
"Jackson," the voice of Chief Johnson was harsh in her ear. "What have you found?"
"Sir, the police here have found footprints and they are sending them to the lab as we speak. There are no fingerprints, and there is a film canister they found mixed in with his magazines and newspapers. We didn't find any cameras, so we are assuming that the killer dropped it or planted it here."
"You don't have anything else?" he sounded pissed off.
"No sir," she said, she was exhausted and she really didn't feel like explaining this to him right now. "I'll be heading back in a few hours- after I'm sure that all the possible evidence has been collected."
"Leave in three hours," he said. "If you don't, I will have you suspended. Do you understand?"
Chriseyda was sure her boss was majorly PMSing, but she couldn't be disrespectful. She couldn't bare the thought of being taken off this case; it was exactly the chance she wanted to prove herself to the arrogant, stuck-up, condescending, pig-headed men in her department. She wanted to show them that she was capable of solving a case that would baffle everyone else, only she knew she would be baffled by this one too.
"Are you listening to me Jackson?" the Chief's voice cracked her thoughts.
"I'm sorry sir, I was thinking about the case," she said quickly. She heard him huff and he was about to repeat himself so he quickly inserted, "I understand. I'll be leaving in three hours."
Chriseyda sighed and put down her mug of lemon and honey tea. That made four cups that she had gone through, and she was only half way through the files on the last serial killings. She sat up straighter and stretched out her aching back muscles- hearing and feeling her vertebrae pop in the process. She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her. Sitting on the floor for two and a half hours wasn't how she planned on spending her night. There had to be something she was missing.
She flipped through a few more pictures of the previous crime scenes and then she started flipping through the pictures she had taken of the new crime scene. Something wasn't adding up, they were too similar, too perfect. No one could have done that kind of a job, unless they had seen the first crime scenes. She grabbed her coat as she hurried out the door and down to her car. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn't want to do it.
"David Mills?" Chriseyda asked the man who opened the door. He nodded. "My name is Detective Chriseyda Jackson, may I come in?"
David looked at her for a moment with his blood-shot eyes, and then moved out of the door way so she could get through. She stepped in and he shut the door, walking past her toward the living room.
"I'm sorry to come like this," said Chriseyda, "but I have to ask you about the murders that took place a year ago. The ones from the John Doe case."
She could see him stop and stiffen as her words sunk in. He shook his head and walked into the living room and toward his armchair.
"I need to know if you can help me," she said again.
"You are asking the wrong person Detective Jackson," said David Mills as he sat back in his armchair, swiping the glass of whiskey off the coffee table. "Detective Summerset was on that case too, and he wouldn't mind reliving it the way I would. Drink?"
"No, thank you," she shook her head and held up her hands. "I can't ask him Detective Mills," she said with a sigh as she sat precariously on the edge of his sofa.
"I'm not a Detective anymore," he snapped at her, slamming his drink on the arm of the chair, some of the whiskey sloshing over the side. "I was 'honorably discharged' after I killed that psycho, John Doe, for murdering my wife and child." He jumped out of his chair and paced the living room. "The answer is still no by the way. Go find, and ask, Summerset."
"I have," Chriseyda repeated more firmly, looking at him unflinchingly. "I have found him, but he can't help me anymore."
"Why not?" demanded David, turning to glare at her. He made a move to scoop up the abandoned glass from the arm of the chair.
"Because he's dead," she said, plopping the pictures down on the table in front of him. David stopped still and turned a ghostly shade of white, his mouth hung open in shock. "And the word 'sloth' was written above his bed, as you can see. We have a copycat on the loose exactly one year to the day that John Doe started his murders. This murder was so accurate to his signature; I think that someone who saw the original scenes is behind this. There was nothing distinguishing about the scene, no fingerprints, non-descript shoe-prints, the blood and gore was reserved to the bedroom and most of it on the bed. It's too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence."
She stopped talking and just took a breath. The exhaustion was catching up with her and she suddenly just wanted to sleep. There was an awkward silence between them as David looked at the pictures and Chriseyda closed her eyes, resting them for the first time that day.
Finally, David looked up from the pictures in shock. He picked another one up and flung it back down after one look. "Gees," he said under his breath. "This thing can't just die can it?"
"We have to stop whoever it is," said Chriseyda. She opened her eyes to look directly at him. "We have to make it stop."
"You think we didn't try?" asked David. "We killed that SOB and now there's a copycat. There always will be a copycat. This thing will not die."
"We have to try," she pushed- They just had to try. "For the people of New York, we have to try."
"What do I care about the people of New York?" asked David, his voice slurring from exhaustion, pain, and alcohol. "Do you think they cared when my wife was raped and then beheaded by that maniac?"
"Then do it for your wife," said Chriseyda, trying to be the voice of reason above the voice of the whiskey. "Don't let her die for nothing. And more than that, don't let more innocent people have to suffer that way you did."
David stared at her for a long moment. He didn't know how to answer her; there were no words at all. He shook his head to clear his befuddled mind and then sighed; she was right, as hard as it was to admit, she was right. His wife couldn't die in vain. He couldn't allow another man to endure the pain of losing his wife and unborn child.
"Do you have the old files?" asked David, finally sitting down across from her and rubbing his eyes.
Chriseyda nodded and pulled the files from her trench coat pocket. "These are all of the case files with the pictures and descriptions of each crime scene," she said setting them down on the coffee table.
David looked at the files lying on the table, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then wearily picked them up. He began flipping through them slowly, each picture cutting into his memory deeper and deeper.
"Give me a day or two, Detective," he said rubbing his hand through his short hair. "I have to get reacquainted with these cases and think of some other ways to track this psycho."
Chriseyda nodded and stood up. "Take your time," she said. "I know it's not easy for you, and I'm sorry for having to bring you into this, but I don't know what else to do."
David gave an absent wave as he read through the file. Chriseyda put her head down with a tired sigh, and walked out the door.
Her mind was running on full speed. She now had Detective Mills on board to help her with tracking down this new killer. She didn't agree with calling him- or her, it was a possibility- a psycho like Mills did. This new murderer was a very methodical killing; well thought out and executed- just as Doe had been.
Maybe a good night's sleep is what I need to see this case- or just any sleep at all, she thought as she steered her car toward home. She stumbled into her apartment building and down the hall. She stepped into her immaculate apartment, which looked as though it came straight out of a decorating magazine's centerfold. She didn't seem to notice or care as she dropped her bag on the floor, her keys on the table next to the door, and kicked her shoes off into the corner of her living room.
She was barely even awake enough to brush her teeth and wash her face, and the exhaustion seeped into ever part of her body. She walked, or rather stumbled, into her bedroom, collapsing on her bed, fully clothed and fell asleep instantly- dreaming of what would come in the next week.
Her dreams would never compare . . .
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