Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller

  Miller Avenue Murder

  The Campbell Murder Series Book One

  Nenny May

  From the author of Missing, comes a riveting new psychological thriller.

  Tillamook county, Northwest Oregon had been lulled, a slumber gradually trailing the brisk night when an unthinkable tragedy sends a tremor through the district. Blake Campbell an antique storekeeper had been found lacerated in a threadbare wedding dress in the heart of her late husband's home on Miller Avenue.

  And four women find themselves tied to the investigation.

  Detective Rachel Olson believes it’s a wedding night gone wrong. Criminal law professor Claire Fisher thinks it’s the ex-wife. Psychologist Lisa Patterson is convinced it’s the disturbed son. And District Attorney Regan Sinclair has her money on the governor.

  Four perspectives and a killer on the loose.

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2021 Nenny May.

  All rights reserved.

  Nenny May has asserted her rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction, names places and businesses used in this work are all figments of the authors imagination, any similarities to real persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. Businesses and locations mentioned herein are used fictionally.

  Cover design by Nenny May

  Nenny May Independent publishing

  ISBN: 9798721482151

  DEDICATION

  To God for keeping me long enough to tell this story. And to my family for being by my side.

  PROLOGUE

  "She was found with a kitchen knife in her hands. My bet whoever did this is an armature, panicked and tried to make it look like a suicide." Crime Scene Analyst Dan Harriet said. His voice was curt, firm.

  An analysis from what he’d seen, what he’d studied. He’d been a first responder. In the area, he’d lurched to action when a dispatch call had been put out to nearby stations.

  No matter how many crime scenes he responded to, no matter how many bodies he’d seen, Lieutenant Connelly Wilson couldn’t do away with that gut-wrenching feeling that plagued him.

  It was all too present with this case. With this body.

  "Got to be really stupid to think you can pass this up as a suicide." Lieutenant Wilson had his hands on his hips.

  With a breath, he took in the walls by the stairway. Crimson handprints had been pressed. Three left-handed prints, the last; faint and only three fingers had been imprinted on the paint. He could picture a frantic Jane Doe scurrying up the marble steps.

  It wasn’t an image he wanted.

  It wasn’t an image he could shake off.

  A mental picture of a fifty-something-year-old bride fueled by pure adrenalin and fear darting up the stairs for her dear life, only to die in the master bedroom of her Tillamook home clung to him.

  When he’d heard from Sherriff Pierce what had unfolded on Miller Avenue, not only had he instructed his best Detective to sit on the matter, he’d reached for his Beretta 92, belted it to his waist, and braced the morning’s rising sun.

  "Whoever did this…” Dan had a dirty look on his hardened face. “Shit…” He shook his head. He was by the foot of the stairway. The stocky man in Dad-jeans and a taupe button-down had lead both the Lieutenant and Sargent from their cars out front, through the kitchen flocked with cadets and by the creaking back door where Crime Scene Technician Janice Lee had a shard of glass between her gloved fingers.

  Harriet paused by the stairs.

  “It’s pretty sick.” Sargent Beverly Garwood echoed.

  New to the City Police Department, she’d thought it best to earn some brownie points and trail Wilson in his haste.

  She didn’t know how to feel about what she’d just walked into. This didn’t just make her skin crawl. This was more. Much more than she could wrap her head around. She’d faced things like this before. But not here. Not since she’d moved to Oregon.

  “I want to believe only a screwball can pull this off.” Wilson hoped.

  “I’m no master at nutcases, but I’m inclined to think this was someone levelheaded.” Beverly pitched, in her downturned deep brown eyes, a thousand-yard stare. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and jutted out her hip. They’d gone after this woman with a careless precision. She doubted this was the work of a madman.

  She’d seen that before. This wasn’t it.

  Yes, it was messy. But as Dan had said, this had to be the work of an amateur.

  “How’d you draw that conclusion?” Wilson wanted to know.

  Withdrawn from her deliberations she glanced at him wide-eyed. She released a breath and comported herself.

  “Never mind, it was a stupid thought.” She shrugged and waved a passive hand.

  Beige stained with crimson was burned to her brain. The stairway adjoining the living room was properly lit, under the fluorescent glare, the crimson was unmissable.

  “Glad I wasn’t the one to say it.” Wilson mused, the corner of his lips twitching in a nearly there smile that couldn’t just make an appearance in the situation.

  “This is…” Dan racked his brain for a suitable adjective, he couldn’t find one. “And in a sleepy town like Tillamook no less,” He mulled over. The poor man looked as if he were about to lose his lunch.

  “Hasn’t been so sleepy lately, high rate of robberies been keeping the locals on their toes.” Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets.

  He wasn’t a local. Born in Colorado to German parents, Wilson much like most in Tillamook, found himself drawn to the quiet allure of the county, intrigued by the creameries and textile industries the town was known for. What had begun as a trip to Tillamook had landed him a home by the bay, the heart of a fair young woman and a curly-haired rascal of a six-year-old son.

  To his crew, he was a sturdy man, average height with flakey pallid skin. It wasn’t all that bad, but it was noticeable.

  He was the reserved Lieutenant who had his head in the game and eyes on the prize.

  “Robberies, not brutal murders, this is a whole other level. This is sick.” Dan Harriet clarified.

  He was speaking from the perspective of a local. Born and raised in Tillamook county.

  “Think this could be a robbery gone wrong?” Beverly wanted to know. She leaned against the brass railings.

  “With a kitchen knife?” Wilson had an unruly eyebrow raised.

  Beverly was beginning to rethink her decision to tag along. Wilson wasn’t making this easy on her.

  “No idea is a bad idea,” Dan could feel the tension thickening. He wedged himself between the colleagues.

  “No, no, I think this is an exception. You ever come into work with no clothes on, Garwood?” Connelly Wilson folded his hands over his chest and pinned Beverly with an obnoxious look.

  “No,”

  “Then there lies your answer. Tillamook might be a sleepy town but the robbers here, are armed.” He gave mirthless laugh. “Or are you yet to educate yourself on Oregon’s gun laws?”

  “That’s enough!” Dan blared. “A lunatic just brutalized a woman and we’re talking about Tillamook robberies?” He’d grown impatient. He’d been there at the ripe crack of dawn, unable to return to the abyss of a sweet sleep.

  “In any case, whoever pulled this
off couldn't have gotten far. I noticed on my way that the area has been closed down...” Connelly Wilson lead the way up the stairs even though he didn’t know an inch of the place.

  “As soon as the 9-1-1 call was placed our first responders had barriers put up.” Dan followed behind.

  Reluctantly, Garwood had done the same.

  “Watch your step!” Dan Harriet called over his shoulder. Indeed, there'd been droplets of dried blood and blemished satin fabric on the stained marble floors.

  “Who put in the call, there aren’t neighbors for miles?” Wilson reached the top of the stairs.

  At the top was a hall. There were doors on either side. A narrow carpet had been rolled over the marble. Against the wall to his right, a couch had been pressed, above it, a portrait of a man hung crooked. The man was old, much older than Wilson’s father had lived to be.

  If he were to take a guess the man on the wall would be in his late seventies, wrinkles decorating his proud, oval face, his eyes, heavy-lidded, were a bright blue above which sat faint grey eyebrows. His skin was ivory, sagging. He’d had on a suit, the image hadn’t captured much of it, cutting off just below the man’s neck.

  Harriet had pushed his way into the first door to his right. Wilson followed close behind.

  “Don’t exaggerate it’s a couple kilometers and it’s a cleaning lady, apparently she was called in by our Jane Doe to spruce up the place, she let herself in and walked in on the body of her client.” Sargent Garwood said, coughed, features scrunched at the stench that welcomed her.

  It couldn’t be overlooked.

  “Think she could have done it?” Wilson tossed the question in the air. The stench was familiar to him. He’d reached the grim point in his career when the slap against his nostrils from a rotting dead body was familiar. He needed to ponder over his life choices.

  It was familiar, but he couldn’t tell how much more of the odor he could endure.

  “She was younger than our victim,” Dan seemed to consider it, then said; “But… I highly doubt a woman could have… done this,”

  “Women are taking over, what’s their quote… anything a man can do a woman can do better? Yeah! Don’t rule her out.” Wilson was quick to say.

  “So, our killer is a woman because women are fighting for equal rights?” She shouldn’t have come. Wilson didn’t want her there. These brownie points weren’t worth it. He was a misogynistic asshole who couldn’t seem to wrap his head around a female sergeant with the potential to become lieutenant. Whatever.” Garwood shrugged.

  “Where’s the cleaning lady?” Wilson hadn’t been looking at anyone in particular but taking in the room.

  Large couldn’t begin to describe the room. This had to be the master bedroom, the heart of the crime scene. Beige seemed to be the domineering color in the home as it crawled up almost all the walls he’d seen. The room was well lit up, and with the morning sun glaring through the parted drapes, he couldn’t draw his eyes from the bed, the one clustered by the forensics unit. He didn’t recognize them from where he stood by the door. They had to be with the Sheriff’s Department.

  “Some rookies got their hands on her, standard procedure.” Dan explained, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Wilson couldn’t miss the tiredness that wailed in the Crime Scene Analyst.

  Wilson hardly knew responders from the Sherriff’s Department, but Harriet was a notable name. One many precincts have tried and failed to recruit. He was loyal to Pierce’s unit.

  “Can’t leave the country kind of thing, huh?” Garwood asked.

  “Exactly,” Harriet confirmed.

  “So, she walks in on her dead boss, calls us, and what makes herself a coffee?” Wilson once more had been trying to sneak a peek between the wall the forensics team had created with their bodies. They’d moved in sync, the moment one was out of view, another took up the space.

  “She was instructed to wait with the body, and one of our guys got to her and she told us all she knew.”

  “And she apparently doesn’t know the name of our Jane Doe.” Garwood was skeptical. “Are we really buying this?”

  “Seems like it,” Wilson shrugged.

  “She’s an independent service, she works on call, she wasn’t given a name, but she was given an address and wired her charges ahead of time.”

  “Can we get access to the bank information?” He asked.

  “Not unless we have a warrant for her phone.” He bit back the urge to curse. It was stupid, but he’d reached an agreement with his wife Katherine Petrie-Wilson.

  A stickler for the rules, she’d grown tired of cringing at his curses. And tied him down to a swear-jar that was taking too much of his salary already.

  “What about the deceased’s phone?” He tried again.

  “We haven’t gotten our hands on it?”

  It was getting increasingly hard not to swear at Harriet’s words. He inched closer to the bed. What was with this guy and unwarranted pausing in the middle of a room anyway?

  He’d seen enough of the entryway in the bedroom. He wanted to be by the bed. By the body.

  “It’s her phone how far away from her could it be?”

  “Apparently she didn’t have it on her when her assailant pursued her.” Garwood muttered.

  Despite how rough around the edges, he was with Garwood, he didn’t hate her. New to his team, Lieutenant Wilson was grooming her. He sure as hell was a lot nicer than the Lieutenant that groomed him when he was in her shoes.

  “Get me that phone and get me that information!” He spat.

  “We won’t be needing it,” Sherriff Pierce said. He’d strode into the room behind Garwood, and he’d moved as if he’d known the place by memory.

  Connelly Wilson clenched his jaw and offered a passive glance at Pierce. Their conversation over the phone had been brief. Pierce had filled him in on what he knew and hung up.

  “Our victim is Blake Campbell, mother of one, no grand kids. I put a call in for her son, he’s being filled in on the… details.” Pierce spoke with an air of authority he’d earned from his grey years on the force.

  “Fine, but can I see our victim already?” Wilson couldn’t take it. Not anymore. His patience had worn thin.

  "I told the paramedics not to do anything with the body yet so she's unmoved from the bed." Dan Harriet said guiding them at last to the bed.

  There was nothing too special about it, it was a standard king-sized four-post bed, what was peculiar however had been the corpse lay almost decoratively on it, beneath a crimson-stained sheet. Closer, the unpleasant smell was stronger. If that were possible.

  “Jesus Christ!” Wilson hadn’t been prepared for what stared back at him.

  It was pale and glared up at the white high ceiling in that blank death stare. Their Jane Doe was definitely in her early to mid-fifties. She'd had obvious smile lines and cheeks that sagged on either side of her face. She'd had pixie-cut hair that had been dampened and knitted with sweat. It wasn't easy for a woman of that age to run for her life. There was little white left in what was once a wedding dress. It was threadbare and soaked in crimson.

  "Suspects?" Garwood drew his eyes from the dead woman’s.

  “None yet.” Harriet was as taken by the corpse as Wilson had been.

  “News vans are pulling up… Wasn’t able to get a name of what stations got here first but they’re right outside.” Robert Stone said perching at the other end of the bed, a camera between his beefy hands.

  Wilson recognized the crime scene photographer from a previous case. A less daunting case.

  “How are the rookies handling them?” Harriet was curious.

  “Hard to tell, those guys are just as confused as the rest of us.” Stone placed his Sony A7Riv against his cheek, a white flash went off, startling Wilson who reached a hand to his eyes rubbing them.

  Wilson knew the camera on sight from Stone. Off the crime scene, it was all the man could talk about and how much it had helped his side job as a nature photographer. Wi
lson can never forget the first time he’d heard of that, a crime scene photographer doubling as a nature photographer. He’d been starved for words.

  “Get someone down there, now, we can’t let all this,” Sherriff Pierce gestured to the woman on the stained bed. “leak.”

  Nodding Stone waved over an officer and relayed the Sherriff’s orders.

  He resumed his work, capturing images of the deceased Blake Campbell from every angle the man knew of. He’d taken his time with their Jane Doe almost as if he’d been concerned about the lighting. This was after all going in her record. In the autopsy file. He hadn't said a word after that.

  Wilson returned his attention to the body and beneath his breath muttered. “Shit,” He was going to get to the bottom of this. He’d let too many cases slip through his fingers, not this time. Not with Blake Campbell.

  He would catch this lunatic, even if it killed him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Detective Chase Dawson held the grime-stained translucent doors open by the handle for a rapidly approaching Rachel Olson who’d whizzed past him in quick strides, one steady Aldo Stessy pump clad foot after another. “Detective Olson,” Chase Dawson called out to her retreating form.

  “I hope to God what we have here is better than the scene I just came from,” She’d said. For a moment as she sauntered past the reception, a petite room manned—womanned—by a Gertrude Green, the by-the-book sweet old lady with skin of olives and eyes of glee, the soft yet firm click, and clack of her pumps was the only auditory sensation, that is until she’d caught a grunt accompanied by swift steps, he was straining to catch up.

  “I don’t know what you mean by better,” Detective Dawson mused, the baritone of his voice sending a chill down her spine. She wasn't the only detective on the case. In her last, the case of a deceased pregnant Leona Wendy, she'd worked hand in hand with Detective Chase Dawson from the Tillamook City Police Department.