Miller Avenue Murder: An addictive police procedural legal psychological thriller Page 3

  She didn't need that in her line of work. Emotions were foreigners in her role as a Detective, and Dawson seemed to have been paying extra attention when that was taught during their training.

  "Did you always want to open dead people up when you were little?" She made an attempt at small talk; she was dipping her toes in the waters first.

  She’d been initially introduced to Clark during Leona Wendy’s case, her first murder investigation. They hadn’t worked hand in hand. They’d barely worked together at all. Whenever they would meet it would be during the submission of a medical report and other than that they’d kept communication to a bare minimum.

  That was until, Blake Campbell.

  "I actually wanted to be a surgeon, but I flunked out of school at a point, got back and this seemed to be the best fit." Clark Finn rose from where he'd been sitting. The chair groaned and screeched against the tiled floors as his calves pushed against it.

  "How's our Jane Doe?" With her hands crossed over her chest, she stole a glance at him. He was a lean man... She wasn't profiling, but of middle eastern descent... was it profiling if she herself was a person of color? He had an occupied chin, how was this allowed in his line of work? Wouldn't or couldn't the embalming fluid clutch onto his beard and trail him home? Mentally snapping her fingers, she recalled that he would be wearing surgical masks during his work hours much like he had hanging around his neck, the straps still clinging to his ears for dear life.

  "Dead." His voice rumbled.

  "Find a cause yet?"

  "I'm good at my job; of course, I found a cause." Clark mirrored her actions and crossed his arms over his chest. "From what I can tell, and what I was telling Dawson,” He nodded towards the Detective at the other end of the body. “She was stabbed twenty-two times within the chest, stomach and neck regions. She’d as well accumulated slashes on her arms and back." He pulled down the white cloth that had been covering their Jane Doe's body, Blake Campbell's body. Aside from the scars, incisions he'd made during the autopsy, there were wounds, stab wounds and slashes he'd done his best to disinfect and stitch. Four gashes-lined her right rib, careless, six jagged punctures layered her left, five perforations between her sagging breasts, four lesions at her hip and three slashes at the left corner of her neck.

  Standing there, her eyes fixed on the Blake Campbell's bleached white torso, Rachel Olson made yet another attempt at building a back story. Twenty-two stab wounds indicated a personal attack, and yet not enough since whoever had done this hadn't gone for the head regions. Whoever had done this had the intent to kill, but perhaps hadn't wanted to disfigure his victim. Possibly a rookie. Someone close to the deceased.

  “Dawson, you’re practically an encyclopedia on our victim, can you draw up any reason why someone would have wanted to… off her?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know that much about her life after the death of her first husband Christopher.”

  “Well, that’s useless in this situation,”

  “Perhaps.” He mumbled.

  "She was slashed, lacerated if you would," Clark Finn continued, pointed to signatures drawn on by a kitchen knife on Blake's lean wrinkled torso. "deep bruising to the skin and damage to both the soft tissue and bone indicate a rather large assailant… a strong one.” He hovered his hand over a wound he’d stitched with Jeffery. “…She was inevitably strangled to death." He concluded by gesturing towards her swollen neck. Fingerprints had been etched onto what was once a saggy vainly neck.

  “Can’t we get umm… fingerprints off her neck?” Detective Dawson pointed towards Blake Campbell’s neck.

  “Yes, it can, and I am working on it and will have the report sent off to Detective Olson’s desk by the end of the week.” Medical Examiner Clark Finn answered.

  "Age?" Rachel asked.

  "Late fifties, best bet fifty-six."

  "How long had she been dead before we found her?"

  "My guess not long. I'm estimating an hour an hour and a half." That wasn't enough time for their killer to have gotten too far. He had to have been in the vicinity. Why hadn't they noticed him then? Even if he'd done away with the clothes, he'd worn to commit the act wouldn't someone at the scene have noticed a naked man fleeing?

  With a renewed keenness towards her work, she'd thanked Medical Examiner Clark Finn, abandoned him with Detective Dawson, and set out towards Crime Scene Analyst Dan Harriet’s office.

  He’d met her halfway, with her forehead creased, mind awhirl, she’d barely made it out of the elevator when she’d been joined by Crime Scene Analyst Dan Harriet. He hardly worked directly with her. It had been almost two years since she'd worked directly with Harriet. Their last investigation had involved the murder of Leona Wendy. Her case had been closed after it was uncovered that her baby-daddy in an attempt to perform a late abortion had executed his girlfriend. “What do have for me, Dan?” Rachel retraced her steps, now on route to her office. He wasn’t far behind.

  Men’s clothing had been uncovered from the scene. A button-down in particular. Steve Woods was yet to run it for DNA, but if it was in the vicinity it was going to turn up with the blood of the deceased. And if she was lucky, the DNA of their killer. It would add to the profile of their suspect and Rachel was itching to know just who this man could be.

  “You were barely at the scene.” Dan scolded.

  If only he knew how invested she was despite spending less time than him at the home of the deceased.

  “Had to report back here…Wasn’t able to send out the statements that brought me here, but… I actually met with the son of Blake Campbell…” Her pace slowed, almost as if to give the middle-aged Harriet a chance to catch up.

  “Hmm…”

  “Yeah, hmm… is right,” She bobbed her head as she spoke. She didn’t quite catch Mr. Campbell’s name, she’d been at the edge of her seat, peeved by his threat.

  “Have much to say?”

  “He threatened to take matters into his own hands.” She shrugged and once more at the row of chairs placed outside the Sherriff’s office, she’d taken a left. She was yet to meet with him. They’d barely conversed at the scene. He’d requested to meet with her to discuss further on the victim… she’d had too much on her plate and not enough time to get back to him.

  “He’s not going to act on his words, is he?” She blinked, focusing once more on Harriet. He was a man with a stern yet peaceful face. It was a tad difficult to piece where he was from with a single glance. The East-Asian American looked nothing like a stereotype. Not that Rachel Olson dabbled in stereotyping her colleagues. It was simply an observation that seemed to drift across her mind. Irrespective, it was the second time she’d partaken in taking a guess where her colleagues were from.

  Her shoulders rose and fell. She wasn’t going to take Mr. Campbell’s words lightly. He’d seemed like a man that would keep to his promise.

  That had burdened her.

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure you didn’t stop me to discuss Mr. Campbell,” She glimpsed at Dan over her shoulder and once more begun rummaging for her keys.

  “No, I didn’t. I actually came to talk about a theory I’ve been playing with since I took my leave from her home.” She was alive with an enthusiasm.

  Progress.

  She pushed the door open.

  “Run me through it, Dan.”

  Dan Harriet let himself in and took a seat.

  She didn’t join him. No, she went for the air conditioner, switching it on from the wall socket, the cool air that swirled its way around the room did wonders to her nerves.

  She returned to her rightful place behind her desk.

  “According to Cole Evans, our criminologist, we're looking for a strong, lean male who's quick on his feet. Not nearly the age of Jane Doe.” They had a profile. A lean male, fast, who’d been adorned in a stained button-down.

  Rachel clicked her fingers. “Sorry to cut you short, Harriet, but we need officers looking into chapels, elopement centers and cathe
drals and someone to look for weddings that took place within the last twenty-four hours.” She was yet to formally request this; it had just come back to her as she’d recalled what their deceased had passed away in. And who better to pass the word to the rookies and Uniforms than Dan Harriet?

  Harriet nodded.

  “And I want us to expand our search space. Steve Woods mentioned a blood-stained shirt he’d taken into evidence… If we can go further with our search, we can get our hands on more scrapped articles of clothing.”

  “I’ll get my people on that as soon as I leave. But I should mention, I have my doubts the Sherriff would agree with your request to expand our search.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Campbell case might be of importance but that’s going to press heavily on our budget.”

  She leaned towards him; her palm flat against her desk. “Someone’s mother was brutally stabbed to death in her own home. And we’re concerned about the budget?”

  He sighed. “I can’t say I understand your interest in this case, nor do I want to. In short, I won’t speak further on the matter. You might get lucky… I still have my doubts.” Rachel leaned back in her seat. He wasn’t the one she had to pick a fight with. He didn’t have a say on the budget. Sherriff Pierce did. Dan Harriet didn’t have a say on anything that didn’t concern examining the scene. “I do however feel, Detective Olson, that it should be brought to your attention my take on what could have happened to Blake Campbell on the night of her murder.”

  He gauged her reaction. She remained unchanged, patient. She knew what it was like working with Harriet. He took his time delivering information. And though she’d been irked initially, she’d grown used to him.

  “Well, building suspense is getting me next to nowhere. I began having my doubts about the wedding-night-gone-wrong theory a little after I departed from the scene.”

  She knew about his notion. She’d been at the scene when he’d pitched it to her. A wedding-night-gone-wrong best explained the threadbare, crimson-stained wedding dress Blake Campbell had been murdered in. It explained the back door Robert Stone, the crime scene photographer had been concerned with. She hadn’t disputed his theory. She’d run with it.

  “Where I initially believed that her jilted husband had found his runaway bride in their home and had taken out his pent-up aggression and humiliation on her, I begun to deliberate further, and I think it would be best we do away with that theory.”

  “Do away with it? If we’re not looking at a jilted husband, what do you think could have happened?” She gestured with her hands for him to continue, she was growing impatient.

  “I’m not too sure, this is after all the first day we’re on the scene. But I’ve had a talk with Clark Finn and the facts just don’t fall into the category of a crime of passion.”

  “And why didn’t Finn mention the talk he’d had with you?” She tilted her head. They were working on borrowed time. A woman had been murdered and the killer was still at large. This wasn’t the time for Clark Finn to forget to mention a conversation he had with Dan Harriet.

  “I don’t have an answer to that.” She let out a harsh breath.

  “Fine. But our deceased was found in a wedding dress, a button down was found near the scene and she was killed in her home… that seems to me like a crime of passion.”

  “That may be so, but level with me, Detective. You were at the scene, you saw the blood splattered walls, and floors? She was chased, this person had been determined to take the life of Blake Campbell.” She pulled open her top drawer. From inside, she’d brought out a folder and a branded paper. She would document his findings, and in her spare time, she would return to the scene. She trusted Dan. If he were to have one ability it would be listening to his instincts and she wasn’t going to doubt it. She was welcoming anything that could bring them closer to closing the book on Blake Campbell. It was the least the elderly woman deserved.

  “Okay, so what are we building to, Dan, because I don’t have all day…” She clicked the pen, once, twice…

  “I suspect this could have been a premeditated attack.” Her eyes broadened.

  “Didn’t think you were going to make it, Woods!” Dawson called out at the top of his lungs, leaned against the marble counter, a hand waved towards the bartender. He’d picked out the Evidence Technician from a distance. The lean man, though he wasn’t all that tall had an air to him that couldn’t be missed, and Dawson would like to pin it on the pornstache he insisted on keeping that didn’t quite work, but he was bringing it back into style.

  The evenings were rather slow for the local bar. Dawson knew this from experience. This wasn’t his first time down at American Angels. As a matter of fact, the self-proclaimed cocky idiot could take it as far as claiming to be a loyal customer. But as Dawson had led his team through the doors, he’d been startled at the turnout. Bodies pressed against each other; it was a miracle they’d gotten a table. It hadn’t been the best, but it beat the by-the-bathroom table a couple had gotten stuck with. He could barely get the attention of the lean blonde bartender that worked the night shift, the one with the generous rack that he was sure boosted business.

  “Aye! What does a man gotta’ do to get some service around here?!” Dawson was growing impatient.

  “Didn’t think I was going to show up, Dawson. I was heading home, I’d made it a quarter way there but then, I remembered your offer and I could use it after the day I’ve had,” Steve woods said his nose and strong cheekbones scrunched. Dawson assumed the young man wasn’t accustomed to the stench of sweaty clustered bodies.

  “After the day we’ve all had. I tell you when I heard I was being thrown on another murder investigation with the Sherriff’s department, I thought the Lieutenant was shitting me. I skipped out on going to the scene, don’t need some dead woman’s eyes burned to my brain,”

  “Well, I guess lucky you,” Steve had replied with a subtle disdain. “You’ve got Olson to cover for you, if you don’t show up, she does and she just fills you in on the need to know,”

  Dawson grinned. Perhaps he was lucky to have her. “The rest of us had to trudge our tired asses to the scene at the butt-crack of dawn, Dude it wasn’t something any of us wanted to do,”

  Dawson chuckled at Steve Woods’ choice of words.

  “I am not a morning person,”

  “Neither of us are, man,” Woods jabbed him in the shoulder.

  “I didn’t really get to ask Olson about the scene, how was it?”

  “Bloody,” Woods replied.

  The familiar blonde walked up to their side of the counter.

  “How may I help you boys today?” Her voice was petite, friendly. She’d pulled her golden curls into a tight bun that highlighted her dominant features, eyes an ocean blue and flustered cheeks.

  “Hmm… I always seem to forget your name, sweetie, could you come closer so I can get a glance at that name tag of yours?” She rolled her eyes at Dawson’s cheap line.

  “It’s a busy day, Dawson, order something or stop holding up the line,”

  Her feistiness only egged him on, but he’d shoved that part of him into a back drawer for the meantime. “Alright, Susanne, we need Budweiser’s all round, table of eight,”

  “In a sec,” Susanne said vanishing to the other end of the counter. Dawson had been tempted to call after her, but something else had caught his eye. The screen above the counter. The news headlines. He couldn’t make out what the reporter had been saying but it looked like a broadcast from earlier in the day.

  Breaking: Elderly Woman Stabbed to death in her Tillamook Home. The headline read.

  He huffed, it was expected, the headlines were hardly accurate. He anticipated it was a decision by the network to boost ratings. No one seemed interested in a story about a woman who died from strangulation, stabbing just seemed more gruesome and that was what their target audience wanted to see. It was a case of the viewer says jump and they ask how high.

  He only knew
this through his sister, a journalist who wouldn’t stop yapping about work.

  Where he believed in ‘don’t bring work home with you’, Annabelle Dawson believed her work was a part of her she couldn’t shake, and as such, it was a suitable point of conversation any day any time.

  Susanne returned to the waiting men. “Eight beers coming up!” She said and turned and reached into the fridge for eight bottles. One by one she placed them on the counter toward the two men. One by one, Dawson picked up what he could, what he couldn’t, he handed to Steve Woods and lead the way between two stocky men, a couple that seemed to mistake the bar for a club, and a woman that seemed all too familiar.

  This couldn’t be his eyes playing tricks on him.

  “Detective Olson?” He tapped the woman’s arm. She glimpsed up at him from her phone. “To what do we owe the occasion? The good-girl has turned bad I see,” He teased. She didn’t seem amused. If anything, she’d seemed rueful that he’d stumbled upon her.

  “I heard you and the CSI team were getting drinks here and I… I don’t know… thought I could get in on that action?” Dawson looked between he and Steve Woods—a man who seemed less than comfortable in the presence of his boss. “Woods, get us one more bottle, Miss. Olson, let’s get you to our table.” He tilted his head in the direction he’d been heading. He led the way to the table at the back that had been booming with banter.

  “That would have to be, Leona Wendy’s murder.” Crime scene technician Janice Lee shrugged a chunky shoulder.

  “Am I interrupting?” Dawson rose the beers in his hands and the table roared and cheered.

  “And look who I found?” He stepped aside giving room for Detective Olson to come into view. She offered a meek wave to the table and they’d fallen silent. Janice and Clark who’d been seating side by side shared a look. “Guys relax, she’s not here to dock your pay cheque, she’s here to loosen up, isn’t that right Olson?” When he was yet to get a response from her, he turned to her. “Now don’t humiliate me in front of the guys,” He encouraged with a small smile.