Life After Death

By Gail Soberg-Sorenson

"Time and tide wait for no man."

In "Life After Death" Detective Jack Ireland investigates the brutal murders of two brothers-Peter and Matthew Grayson. While digging for clues and leads in solving this high profile double homicide he must thwart off promiscuous advances from his prime suspect, the beautiful, seductive, diabolical widow, Sonja Grayson. Those who dare to love her suffer dire consequences.

Laurie Bergstrom is an ambitious and aggressive journalist with dubious intentions. She wants Jack, his skepticism of her is justified. His investigation into her past brings forth a shocking discovery. She is connected to the serial killers who put him through a decade of misery. It also comes to Jack that Laurie has unraveled an FBI cover-up of devastating proportions. Once again, Jack will be forced to confront his haunting memories of Kirsti's death.

The web of deception and betrayal thrown before him casts an entirely different and dangerous shadow over his beloved wife's death and Laurie's provocations. With one eye on Sonja Grayson and the other on Laurie, Jack has little time to waste. Both are confident and on the move. Each has a deliberate and immediate plan. One thing is certain. Jack Ireland's life will be permanently altered by the sequence of events in "Life After Death".

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781618563132

Book preview

Hart

Prologue

Jack aimed the high-powered flashlight toward the house; and there she was. Kirsti was sitting on a chair on a porch in front of the house. She was wrapped from top to bottom with silver duct tape. She seemed to be holding something on her lap. Her hands were taped to the object. Jack’s mind was racing and so was his heart. His worse fear was becoming a reality. She was holding explosives, and the remote was the trigger.

You can have me, just let her go.

The blond man quit humming.

It isn’t like that, Jack. I have my instructions. Irv distinctly told me that if you showed up instead of him, then I would know that you had cheated. You cheated, didn’t you, Jack? I know my brother is dead. You killed him didn’t you, Jack?

Jack shook his head back and forth slowly. Careful, Ireland, you have got to be careful.

No, your brother isn’t dead. He is on the way to jail. He gave me the map and told me to come and get Kirsti. He said you would let me have her if I came alone.

The blond man looked at Jack, flashed his dimples, and with a beguiling childlike smile, said softly, I don’t believe you, Jack. Irv would have made you bring him with you. He told me you would cheat, and he told me you would lie. Now it’s time to get this over with. I’m tired. I want to go see my mom. You shouldn’t have killed my brother.

Shorty lifted both arms—one hand held the gun, the other the remote. The porch light came on. Jack swung his head toward the house, his eyes were again on Kirsti; he saw her eyes. He whirled around and lifted his revolver; he didn’t have time to aim. As he pulled the trigger, two shots rang out, and then came a huge earth-shattering explosion.

To some there had been an infinite amount of time that had passed since this disastrous occurrence. However, to Jack Ireland, it seemed like only yesterday that two serial killers had swept through the Twin Cities leaving death and destruction behind them. As he stood upon his deck this brilliant October morning, he felt her near to him. He wondered if he would ever get over losing her in the way that he had. He was reminded by the calendar that they might have been celebrating their tenth anniversary in less than a week. Why had it happened? What had gone wrong? How had their love come to such a perverse and tragic ending?

He set his coffee cup down on the kitchen counter and moved his mind forward toward what was presently facing him; a double homicide had occurred in the quiet little town of Castle Rock. As lead detective for the Criminal Investigative Division of Dakota County, it was his responsibility to bring the killer to justice.

Time and tide waits for no man, nor does murder

Chapter One

Partners in Crime

Come along with me said the wind one day;

Come along merrily with me and play

The Investigation

Present Time

October can be, and generally is, one of the most pleasant months of the year in the state of Minnesota. This particular October was exceptionally so. The temperature was unusually high, low eighties; summer had extended by at least two weeks and multitudes of people were traveling along the river roads to take in the splendor of what was commonly called the changing of the leaves. The modest towns along the Mississippi River bank were lush with tourists who were eager to spend their money. This was not a new thing, but this year, there was much more of it. The historical city of Hastings was overloaded with visitors. And though this was excellent for the business owners whose shops, restaurants, and bars lined the streets; it was causing the residents a heap of aggravation. It had been a long, hot summer. People in town, the permanent residents, had become tired of the traffic, the noise, and the congestion this out-of-towner’s brought with them. They were eager to be done with all of it and get their town back to some sense of normalcy.

One of these permanent residents was Detective Jack Ireland. He had been kept up until the wee hours of the morning by a boatload of party people who had camped out on the river bank below his townhouse. There had been entirely too much imbibing by this bunch. With each passing hour, the music grew louder and the shouting more irksome. His tolerance came from recollection of his own self-indulgences in the not so distant past. They would suffer from more than just lack of sleep; this would suffice as punishment enough for keeping him awake all damned night.

On this bright fall day, the wind was blowing at a mighty pace and the leaves along the banks of the river were swirling in a merry dance, in multiple colors, along the streets and the avenues of Hastings, Minnesota. This was their time, and they were parading their glorious color for all to see. Detective Jack Ireland was bone tired as he poured his six foot plus, large framed, formidable body into the passenger seat of Detective Vic Melton’s car. The beauty of nature was the furthest thing from his mind when he settled in. He felt like the last rose of summer and looked like it too.

As he was fastening his seatbelt, he conferred to his partner Vic Melton, You wouldn’t by chance, have any of those energy pills handy that Doreen insists that you swallow every day.

Vic reached into his jacket pocket and extracted two brown caplets; he handed them to Jack, one at a time and said with a hint of mockery, Why, Detective Ireland, it just so happens that I do. I thought you’d never ask.

Jack tossed them into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of coffee and afterward decided to ask, Do they work?

To which Vic replied with a stronger hint of mockery, Doreen says they do.

Jack grinned and said, Well, that should be good enough for me. I’m sure that you swallow these horse tablets every day, don’t you, Melton?

I surely don’t, Detective Ireland, they make me gag. I put my daily dosage in my pocket to assuage my wife and throw them in the garbage after I leave the house. Let me know how they work out for you, Ireland.

Jack took another swig of his coffee and said with a smirk, Ahhh, I feel better already!

The odd thing was that after about another few minutes he was feeling less tired. It had to be a figment of his imagination.

Oh, dear god, Vic moaned, don’t tell Doreen that! She’ll turn our happy home into a health clinic.

Jack had to laugh. Vic had been suffering from serious asthma attacks in the past few years. Some had been life threatening and good cause for concern. In return, Doreen became overly protective. Their profession required long days and sleepless nights. Meals were ingested on the run, which meant a poor diet of fast food. Doreen did her best to compensate by packing lunches for Vic and loading him down with vitamins and minerals in pill form. He was careful to allow her to believe he was following her regiment, but most of the lunches wound up in the garbage can. The pills would pile up in the glove box and then tossed. Vic, like most humans, was a creature of habit. He preferred a good hamburger to a tossed salad, a donut instead of an apple and coffee rather than juice.

There was an alternative and far more practical reason for Jack’s exhaustion other than the wayward ship people cast upon his shore the previous evening. He had spent many troubled nights, while working around the clock, to solve a case concerning a fifteen-year-old boy who had been brutally murdered. The young man had been beaten to death with a crowbar. His bruised and broken body was found in a dumpster at the high school by the maintenance engineer.

This was no ordinary lad; he was the mayor’s son. This fact alone made it a high-profile case and the consistent clamoring from the news media, and the outcry from the community placed an enormous amount of pressure on those who were involved in the investigation. This particular case brought the infiltration of drugs and gangs in the metro and surrounding communities, front and center.

Jack had learned almost right away that the boy had been expelled from school two days prior to his death. He had been caught selling drugs to other students on school grounds. To avoid the judicial process, his parents agreed to get him into treatment. He was due to go in for evaluation the day that they found his body. There was absolutely no question in the minds of the investigators or that of Jack Ireland as to why his body had been placed where it was placed.

It was the girlfriend of the boy who eventually caved in. She was alarmed to near hysteria and in the end spilled everything to her insistent parents. Her boyfriend, she said, had introduced her to drugs of all sorts when she was thirteen. He had been using since he was ten and had graduated to selling by the time he was fourteen. They had used together and when he was high, he would tell her where he got his drugs. He kept his stash of money, the names, and phone numbers of his suppliers and his drugs in a metal box that was buried in the woods within walking distance of his home.

With names in hand, next would come the hard part. Jack had to prove that one of them or none of them had a hand in the death of the young man. After long, grueling hours, he narrowed the list of ten down to two probable suspects. With warrant in hand, he along with representatives from the DEA and the FBI searched the dwelling places of the two suspects and their vehicles. In one, they found the tire iron with the blood on it. In the house of the other, they found a pair of tennis shoes with blood on them. Forensics elatedly stated that the blood on these items matched the blood of the victim, and the two thugs were promptly arrested, read their rights, and hauled off to jail. The next phase would prove to be equally grueling for Detective Jack Ireland.

Thus, on this balmy autumn day, Vic asked Jack, How was your meeting with the DA yesterday?

Jack shrugged rather listlessly and said, You know how these cases go, Melton, we’ve done tons of them, or so it seems. We nab them, and they walk. Their attorneys want immunity for their clients if they turn over information that will lead to the arrest of others who are involved in the traffic of drugs. The DEA is after the big fish, these second-rate thugs are a considered peons in the larger scope of things and far too low on the totem pole to matter much to the feds. They squawk, they walk. It’s as simple as that. I think it sucks but I’m on the same peon level as the perpetrators.

If these two guys are granted immunity, that isn’t going to rest well with the mayor or the media, especially the mayor.

Jack shifted his position slightly. Reflecting on this case made him feel uneasy.

It won’t be the mayor, Vic, because he’s part of this system. He knows the score. I have met with him several times, and he isn’t going to go up against the DEA. In fact, he’s so engrained in the system that he’s the front-runner in going after the big ones. No, it won’t be the mayor, it will be his wife who will be the most affected by this. I feel especially sorry for her. Her son is dead. The killers are caught and in jail, but they will soon be granted immunity and disappear as though they never existed. They will be back out on the streets doing business as usual, only now they will be snitching for the FBI. Or so the FBI would like to believe. These guys came in from Brazil. There is no way they’re going to stick around here and help anyone get to the big bad boys from down below. As far as the media is concerned, this case is closed. They also have bigger fish to fry. It’s an election year.

As the two detectives conversed, they did not notice the gargantuan, green object that lumbered out on to the road in front of them. This huge piece of machinery, obstructed from view by a grove of trees, pulled out of the corn field unexpectedly and without regard to oncoming traffic; evidently, the rules of right-of-way doesn’t apply to combines.

Vic slammed on the brakes bringing the car to a screeching halt to avoid a broadside collision with an object far larger than he was. Jack dropped his coffee cup and grabbed a hold of the dash board with both hands to avoid being thrust full force through the windshield.

Oblivious to the commotion it had caused, the combine moved onward, hogging one full lane and half of another. Radically shaken by the abruptness and interception, Vic was tossing out expletives that were well warranted, considering the situation.

As he maneuvered his car around the combine, he caught a glimpse of the driver. He was wearing headphones and paying attention to not much else. This caused Vic to go into another spurious outburst of indignation against allowing slow moving vehicles on main highways, in particular, and against farmers in general.

Jack, in the meantime, was viewing his pants, now saturated with coffee and what hadn’t landed on his pants was soaking through his brown leather shoes. When Vic had finally gathered his composure and took a look, he broke out into a fit of laughter. Jack, with soggy shoes and pants, failed to see the humor, and he said as much.

Destination: Castle Rock

Jack and Vic were not out on a joyride. They were on their way to assist in the investigation of a double homicide that had taken place on a farm located north of Castle Rock Township, with a little assistance from Vic’s GPS, the place as not difficult to locate.

When they arrived, they had all they could do to find a place to park. The first responders were already there. The driveway was barricaded. Vic revealed his badge to the officer standing guard. He nodded and without comment, passed them through.

That boy deserves a medal for his enthusiasm.

Show mercy, Melton. He’s probably bored stiff.

Jack was not unfamiliar with how buildings were set up in farming areas; this one was a resemblance of many that he had observed over the years. There were four pole sheds that were placed in a U surrounding the house. Jack suspected, nearly correctly, that they were used to store machinery and tools.

It was harvest time; Jack glanced toward the west and saw a vast field of corn waiting to be harvested. He heard, in the distance, the humming of machinery doing just that. When he got out of the car, he caught the scent of ground corn dust floating into his nostrils. He might be a detective now, but he came from farm country where each season had its own distinctive fragrances.

As he got out of the car, he noticed Vic opening the glove box and removing an inhaler. He put the inhaler in his pocket and strolled toward the house. It had been a long time since Vic had had a violent attack, but Jack knew that the dust in the air was a serious threat to him. He wanted to say something to Vic but knew better. Vic noticed the concerned look on Jack’s face and tossed him a back-off glower.

Steve Wellington was presently the county sheriff. Jack had not before now, had an occasion to meet him. He had replaced Bud Neilson when he dropped his bid for re-election and unexpectedly retired. Bud gave no formal reason for his early retirement. The unsubstantiated scuttlebutt was that his wife had been behind this. She was ill and wanted to spend her remaining days nearer to her children who lived in Texas. None of this was true. Jack and Neilson had, over time, worked on many cases together. Bud Neilson was a man whom Jack had deeply admired and respected and a difficult man to replace. He told Jack that it was time for him to go. He was being impeded by politics and didn’t want to carry on his duties any longer. He had given as much as he was willing to give and it was time to move on. Wellington, as deputy, had stepped in and was now running for election.

Ducking underneath the yellow tape that had been strung around the house, Jack approached Wellington with an amiable smile, introduced himself. So what have you got?

Sheriff Wellington was a huge man, not in height but in girth. All measurements being taken, Jack guessed him to be as wide as he was tall. He would not hold this against him, but he would notice that if there was an opposite of Neilson in physical form, Wellington was glaringly so. Neilson, trim, fit, well-muscled and with a robust nature stood in sharp contrast to his replacement. Jack could only hope the ugly scowl on Wellington’s fat face wasn’t a permanent fixture. His hopes would be dashed soon enough.

There were four steps leading up to the front porch that sprawled across the length of the house. Jack wasn’t impatient with Wellington as he carried his hefty body, huffing and puffing up each step toward the front door. Jack liked to take things slow and easy and grant himself the opportunity to study all the miniscule details of his surroundings. In his job, it wasn’t what you do see, that which is obvious, but those things that get missed at first glance.

He was studying the door frame when he heard Vic state to Wellington, I’m heading over to the out buildings and see what your boys are up to. They’re walking in circles and look like they could use some help.

If Wellington didn’t catch the cutting remark, Jack did.

The sheriff responded with a grunt. He was sweating profusely and by this time Jack was more worried about Wellington than he was Melton, who was walking away from him with his inhaler in hand.

He twisted his head back and forth to release some tension, turned to Wellington and said with an amiable smile, Shall we proceed?

Wellington did little but growl and nod. Jack glanced at him and said, You’re not wearing gloves.

He huffed and said blithely, I don’t intend to touch anything, Ireland, and therefore I don’t need them. They make my hands sweat and break out into blisters. I avoid them as much as possible.

He then proceeded into the house. He left a palm print on the doorjamb as he entered. He strolled straight forward to the kitchen counter; he picked up the coffee pot, waved it in the air, and shouted, Doesn’t anyone around here know how to make coffee? We have a team of working men out there and they need coffee to stay awake!

The kitchen by most standards would be considered large for this sized house. It took up a third or better of the bottom floor. There was a kitchen table in the middle of the room, with four matching chairs. The white, porcelain kitchen sink, though extremely outdated, matched its surroundings and was spotless. The floor was only remarkable in that it was linoleum and looked as though it had never been walked on.

The flooring throughout the rest of the house was hardwood and in all likelihoods, the original that was put in place the day the house was built. The highly polished floor was unscarred and unmarred. There were no rugs to be seen anywhere. There were few pictures adorning the walls and those that were, were ancestral. The furniture was a mixture of antique and new. That which was an antique was centered mostly in the dining area. The living room was modern—one oversized brown leather sofa took up available space on one wall and two matching recliners faced a fifty-two inch flat screened television.

Jack was no stranger to antiquities; he had been collecting for years. His favorite pastime was attending auctions, and he did so when he was afforded the opportunity. He had a storage unit packed with items that he had collected over the years and was in the process of rebuilding the house that had been destroyed several back. The new house would be identical to the one that he had lost and the style and vintages were quite similar to the one he was standing in now.

To his left his eye caught sight of something that caused him to come to a complete halt. Jack strolled over to take a look. He wanted to take a closer look at the gun cabinet, a very special gun cabinet. He had never seen anything like it before. The wood matched the floor to perfection. The glass doors were beautifully etched with wildlife scenes. The artistries of the etchings were amazingly exact. Jack was also no newcomer to guns and when he viewed the contents of the gun cabinet all he could offer was an appreciative, Hmmm.

Enclosed in the cabinet were three vintage rifles: a model 1875 Trapdoor long range rifle, a model 1881 US Trapdoor long range rifle, and a model 1881 long ranged rifle. Next to these almost impossible to find rifles was a Browning BT-99, a Franchi Trap 2000 series, and a Remington model 1100 with gold inlay. On the shelf above them were an original Yankee Civil War cap and a sword that was also Civil War vintage. Jack was not a man to be easily distracted, but he was by this.

He was beginning to feel a connection with the person or persons that lived in this house—in the past and in the present.

Getting in touch with the victims was a useful tool in determining the elements of a crime scene. These rifles were worth a small fortune on the open market. They were almost impossible to find. Collectors would pay a premium to own any one of the articles encased so neatly in this ornate cabinet. They were originals and more than likely heirlooms that had been passed on down from one generation to the next. That they were openly displayed indicated to Jack that the owner had no concerns about public trust. And if this crime had been committed during the process of a robbery, the thief had to be dumber than a box of rocks.

His concentration was broken by a ah hum coming from behind him. Wellington was standing at the foot of the stairs with his fat arms crossed over his corpulent belly, tapping his foot impatiently.

If you don’t mind, he scoffed, there are those of us who would like to keep this investigation moving along and have other things to do besides wait on you.

Ignoring the barb, Jack gave Wellington a courteous smile and said with reserved conviviality, Of course, lead the way, my man, lead the way.

Wellington drew back and looked up the long stair well and snidely replied, While you were sleeping comfortably in your bed, I was up there doing my job. Have at it, Ireland. These boys were killed by some unknown assailants commencing to rob the place. You’ll get the picture once you have seen for yourself. In the meantime, I have other duties to attend to. And with that said, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Jack Ireland was getting a general idea of what it was going to be like working with Sheriff Wellington, and he didn’t like it. Wellington’s pomposity was starting to irritate him, but because this was his territory and his jurisdiction, Jack had no choice but to grin and bear it.

* * *

Chapter Two

A Double Homicide

The Investigation

Present time

This would be to Jack’s relief.

Jack counted the steps as he ascended to the second floor. When he reached the top step, he was greeted by a man whom he knew very well. He had bright red hair that was cropped short. His large round eyes were as blue as the sky and encased in a face that was speckled with freckles. On their first meeting, many years ago, Jack had nicknamed Garrison, Opie, and it had stuck.

When Jack’s feet were planted firmly on the landing, Mitch Garrison grabbed his hand and with an eager grin, said, Damn it, if it ain’t the man himself, Detective Jack Ireland. Where in the hell have you been, Ireland? I was beginning to believe that the powers that be put you out to pasture.

Mitch gave Jack a once over from top to bottom and added, There ought to be a law against you, Ireland. You get better looking with age, that isn’t supposed to happen. If I had your looks and your smarts, I wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.

Garrison was now the head honcho of the Dakota County Medical Examiner’s office. His youthful, wide-eyed innocent appearance disguised the steel that lay beneath. Mitch Garrison could be harsh, critical, and demanding to the point of excess. He had a fearsome temper. He was a stickler for detail and demanded no less of his co-workers. He was notorious for his ability to rant for hours on end, over a botched lab test. Contaminated evidence could cause him to go into a tantrum that could last for days. For someone like Jack, Garrison was a dream.

For cops who thought they could slide by without paying attention to the forensic procedure, he could and would be their worst nightmare. Because of his reputation, he had become one of the most sought after forensic scientists in the state; and because of this, Jack was actually surprised to see him.

Jack laughed applicably and stepped back. He looked him over from head to toe and said, And damn it all to hell, if it isn’t Opie himself, as I live and breathe. I thought you had graduated beyond all this crime scene stuff and were on to bigger and better things.

I have, however, I was informed that you and Vic were going to be working on this one so decided that I’d come on down and take a look for myself. If Buchanan brought you in on this one, there had to be a good reason. And by the way, I have to offer you some congratulations on bringing in the killers of the mayor’s son. I heard that this has been a very difficult case for you.

It was, Jack said with straightforwardness. The kid died a grisly death.

Garrison shook his head sadly and said, His murderers deserve nothing less than the death penalty for what they did to him. It should be that simple, but it isn’t. I’m the medical examiner, so I know exactly how you feel. I have had, in the past few years, far too many young people, coming my direction, who have died because of drug-related reasons and the numbers seem to be doubling with each passing year. I’m no authority, nor am I an advocate of legalization, but I can state for a fact that what we are doing or not doing now is not working to stave off the drug trafficking in this country. With that said, should we get started on what we have on our plate right now?

Jack afforded Mitch a grim smile and said, Where thouest leads me, I shall follow.

Jack hesitated before he entered the first bedroom containing victim number one. He took one step into the room and stopped. He could see the victim lying face up on the bed. Mitch fell behind Jack as he entered the room.

Jack glanced around the room, mentally absorbing its contents. The bed was king-sized and took up the majority of space in the room and the wall facing him. There were two large windows on either side of the bed. The heavy drapes were slung to the side. There was an upright four drawer dresser leaning up against the wall to the left of the bed and a closet, with doors slung open to the right of the bed. The closet was orderly. The shirts were hung in military style, all facing one direction, and by color; the same applied to the pants and suit jackets. The single shelf contained neatly folded sweaters and polo shirts, also sorted by color. There was a ceiling fan above directly above the bed. It was presently turned on and spinning on low.

Notable was the dusting that the forensics had done on the surfaces of the room. The hardwood floors were like new and showed no signs of blood traces but that didn’t mean there weren’t any, so he treaded lightly.

Mitch chuckled at Jack’s caution and said, I handled it myself, Jack. You’re safe to walk around as freely as you like.

And so he did.

Peter Grayson was lying on his back, and from first glance, he could very well have been caught sleeping in the middle of the morning. His eyes were shut, and he seemed at peace. Other than the pallor of his complexion, few would have known otherwise. He was undressed from the waist up, revealing superior muscle tone throughout his upper body. His arms, even in repose, were well formed and solid. The lower half of his body was covered with a white sheet, while the rest of the blankets and bed spread had been pulled aside and were lying in a heap at the foot of the bed. When Jack pulled back the sheet, he found that Peter was wearing a pair of lightweight pajama bottoms, elastic waist with a tie that was knotted in a haphazard bow. They were of a lightweight cotton material and solid dark blue in color.

Jack took this all in and asked Garrison, Was this the position of the body when you found him?

Mitch said, This is the exact position of his body when we found him.

With Garrison at the helm, Jack knew that the entire area had been vacuumed for hair and any other traces of evidence that might have been left behind, but he had to ask anyway. Mitch expected nothing less from Jack and nodded an affirmative.

Peter had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead and another one in his chest. The pillow and the sheets underneath his head were saturated with blood. There was very little blood to be seen around the chest wound. Jack surmised cautiously that he had been shot through the head first and then through the chest.

He turned to Garrison, What do you make of that? He was pointing to the chest wound.

In that there is no blood?

Jack nodded.

It means that his heart had already stopped pumping blood when he was shot through the chest.

Jack stepped back from the body. Uh huh.

Garrison viewed Jack over his wire-rimmed glasses. What do you mean ‘uh huh?’ I know what I mean when I say ‘uh huh,’ What do you mean when you say ‘uh huh?’

Jack glanced around the room, first at the walls and then at the floor. No spatters and no tracks?

No. We picked up one or two fingerprints in out of the way places but none where they should have been. I’ll venture to say that whoever was behind this did a bit of house cleaning before they left. You’ll see what I mean when we move on down the hallway to our next victim.

Meaning that perhaps there was more than one person involved?

I’m just telling you that there is an absence of prints, which generally indicates and almost always suggests that someone cleaned up after themselves.

Jack picked up Peter’s left hand and said, He’s wearing a wedding ring. Where’s his wife?

Garrison shrugged his shoulders and said, That’s a question for Wellington. And then lifting Peter’s right hand, he said, I can tell you that he graduated from Northfield High School in 1988, which makes him, roughly guessing, forty-two years old.

Jack looked down at Peter again and remarked, He’s a nice-looking man isn’t he? I’d say he’s a bit above average in the looks department. Strong, healthy, very fit. How come his eyes are closed, Mitch?

Now, that’s a good question, Ireland. I’ve been asking myself the exact same question.

Jack stepped back from the body, glanced around the room one more time and said, Okay, do you have a time frame?

Mitch without hesitation said, Gauging from the levity of the blood, I’d say he died about one o’clock this morning, give or take a few hours or minutes.

The caliber of the gun I need to be looking for?

Well, said Mitch, I’m guessing, at this point, maybe a .38 caliber pistol. The bullet passed through his skull and is buried somewhere beneath him. The one that was sent through his chest and heart also passed through the body. The back of his head is a real mess. The gun was fired at close range and judging from the angle of the entry, the assailant stood directly above him when he shot.

Garrison, you’ve been involved in this business almost as long as I have. Did you or anyone else maneuver him?

Possibly, said Garrison, but only before he died, not after.

Jack glanced at Garrison and inquired, Did you happen to notice when you came up the stairs that number three, seven and nine squeak when you stepped on them?

Garrison grinned and said, Yes, I did notice that. It’s hard to sneak up on someone with squeaky steps, isn’t it? However, they don’t if you stick to the edges. Are you ready to move on?

Jack allowed Garrison to lead him down the dim hall to where there was no other alternative but to turn right or turn left. Garrison stopped at the end of the corridor and said, This one is tougher, Jack. I know that you don’t appreciate the sight of blood, so you had better brace yourself. He was kidding and yet he wasn’t. He was looking at the partially open door to the left.

Jack decided to turn right. The door of bedroom number two was open. After the first glance, he stepped in and asked, Did they have a daughter?

The question was honest enough. The room was glaringly bright in comparison to what Jack had seen so far. The canopied bed was the centerpiece of the room. There were lacy pillows spread over the bed and music boxes of all shapes and sizes sitting on the dressers and vanity. When Jack searched further, he found that the closet was bare and the dresser drawers were empty. It then occurred to him that he had seen no female clothing in Peter’s closet.

What the hell, he said, this doesn’t make any sense. Did they have separate bedrooms? Were they separated?

Considering the inquiries as rhetorical, Garrison replied anyway, "That’s not my department, Ireland. Wellington is the man you need to talk to about that.

Matthew Grayson was lying in the same exact position as his brother with a bloodied sheet pulled up to his chin. Like his brother, he had a bullet hole placed squarely in the middle of his forehead. The scene was nearly identical; the room was nearly identical, and it would have come out the same had everything been identical, but it wasn’t. This time Jack had to step carefully. The floor was covered with markings left by forensics.

As Jack gently and carefully pulled back the sheet from Matthew’s upper torso to his waist, he noticed something that would make him stand up straight and glare at Garrison, as though he had the duty to have forewarned him.

He had anticipated that because Peter had been shot through the middle of the forehead and then through the chest, the same would be for Matthew. There was the bullet through the forehead which leads him to think this and actually relax a bit. What he hadn’t expected was to see was the multiple stab wound in the chest that had been applied with such ferocity as to sever and split the bones, muscle and tendons that surrounded the heart. And unlike Peter, there was blood and lots of it. The killer didn’t wait this time for the heart to stop thumping. The sheets underneath Matthew’s body were soaked with his blood. The top sheet was also saturated with his blood and so was the area under his head.

Whew, said Jack, speaking of gruesome, this one is downright vicious.

The knife that was used was still embedded in the body. Jack studied the floor and could not see any visible signs of blood but according to forensics, there was plenty.

Oh, said Garrison, whoever did this tried their best to clean up after their dastardly deed but never do they do a good enough job. I’d say it sort of eliminates the thought of a professional, now doesn’t it?

Jack said offhandedly, Not necessarily.

Picking up Matthew’s left hand, he said more to himself than Garrison, He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

This is true but hardly meaningful. I know many married men who don’t wear wedding rings, Ireland.

If Jack thought Peter Grayson to be a handsome man, Matthew outdid him by double. He had a thick head of black curly hair, perfect facial features and a hard muscled body. Jack turned Matthew’s hand over to study the palm; he was looking for calluses such as Peter had and found none. He didn’t get that body from working in the fields. His hands are soft, no calluses. How old would you say he is?

He’s twenty-five. We found his billfold on the dresser, along with a set of keys and some change.

But you haven’t found Peter’s?

Not yet.

Jack took one last look at Matthew and commented, His eyes are open and Peter’s are shut, what do you make of that?

Garrison tittered dryly and replied, I think I’ll leave that up to you to figure out. I’m a scientist, we don’t speculate.

The hell you don’t. That’s what makes our job so exciting.

Jack laughed quietly and said, Okay, Mr. Nonspeculator, I think I’m about finished here. I’ll let you get back to work. When do you think you’ll have your report done?

I’ll need a few days. I’ll try to put the heat on the lab folks, but they’re not easy to hasten. They insist on being accurate, for some reason or another.

I suppose I don’t have to ask why that would be.

Jack backed out of the room as cautiously as he had entered.

Before he left he said, When you have your report done, send it directly to me, and I’ll want to get a closer look at that knife because I believe it’s one of a kind. My dad had one quite similar to this one. They’re handcrafted in Norway and have a specific genealogical meaning to the owner.

I think you’re right, Ireland.

Garrison gave Jack a hard look and reiterated, If this is a professional job, I’ll eat my hat.

You don’t wear hats. Would you like to borrow one of mine per chance you should wind up having to eat one?

With a grin, Garrison replied, You can leave now.

And you don’t know anything about Peter’s marital status?

No, nor do I have a clue about Matthew’s or even yours for that matter.

Well, all right then, I think I’ll leave you to your task and head back down stairs to see what Wellington and his band of men have come up with. Maybe he knows where the wife is. How long did you say it would be before you’ll have the autopsies done?

Not ever if you don’t get the hell out of here and good luck with Wellington! He’s a peach of a fella. You’re going to love working with him, Ireland.

Jack stopped in his tracks. Is that some sort of warning, Garrison? It’s more than that, my friend. That man should never have been allowed to step in for Bud. He’s nine-tenth of the reason why I came out here. If you get any cooperation out of him, you’ll be the first. You’re going to have to ride him hard or he is going to screw this one up as sure as my name is Mitch Garrison. If he wins the election, I’m quitting. If he had been able to climb stairs this one would already be off to a bad start. There has yet to be a time when I have worked with him that he has managed to mess up a crime scene. He has no respect for forensic procedures or for any one other than himself. So, allow me to repeat myself. Good luck with Wellington."

* * *

Chapter Three

The Absence of

The Investigation

Present time

More often than not, what an investigator finds absent from a crime scene is as important as that which is apparent. As he made his way back down to the first floor, he rechecked the stairs that squeaked. He unlocked and opened the door at the bottom of the stairway and stepped out onto a rectangular deck. The railing and base appeared to have been recently painted. The wrought-iron table and four matching chairs still had the price tags on them. Off to the far end was a gas grill which was also new and unused. The back yard was covered with freshly fallen leaves that had blown in from a grove of trees that surrounded the house on three sides. There was no scratch marks around the lock or jams which might indicate forced entry, nor did he see any broken glass; the large windows in the dining room were intact. He went back inside the house and strolled slowly, casually through the living room and dining room; everything was oh so very orderly—tidy, spotless, undisturbed. These were but a few descriptive thoughts that crossed Jack’s mind as he made his way back to the kitchen.

Posted at the front door was an officer from the sheriff’s department. It was his duty to guard against unwanted interlopers. He was watching the activities going on around him with idle curiosity. Off to Jack’s right was a small room. The door was partially open but not open wide enough for him to see inside. He asked the officer if the room had been swept and got an affirmative response. At the same time, two other officers from the sheriff’s department came up from the basement.

Did you find anything of interest down there? Jack asked.

Lots of hunting gear. Other than that it’s clean, and I mean that literally. I’ve never seen a crime scene this spotless.

Troublesome isn’t it? Any guns, like in revolvers of the .38 caliber variety down there?

Nope—there are no guns, no broken windows, no tracks, and no prints.

What about cleaning supplies, like mops and buckets, etc.?

There are no mops or buckets. There are some cleaning supplies though, the usual stuff. Forensics is still at it. They were hoping to find something in the washing machine but so far no such luck. All the water pipes have been flushed with bleach; so was the washing machine.

Ah ha, well that says something, doesn’t it?

Jack turned his attention to the small room that he had noticed earlier. It was an office. It contained a desk, chair, computer, shelves, file cabinets, and medium sized safe. With gloved hands, he began opening and closing the drawers in the desk and found nothing of real interest. He pulled on the handle of the safe; it was locked. This wasn’t surprising. The file cabinet was also locked. He was going to turn on the computer, but changed his mind. He’d leave that to the experts.

Jack caught a whiff of pine permeating the air. He glanced at the linoleum floors in the office and in the kitchen. They were polished to a high shine. The kitchen cupboards smelled of freshly applied oil based cleaner, probably Pledge or some similar product.

There were too many oddities to suit Jack. The house was cold and impersonal. It contained no pictures of family. There were no feminine frills to indicate the presence of a woman. The bedroom upstairs puzzled him. It was girlish but more in keeping with a child than with a female adult. Jack had been married once. It took Kirsti all of about a week to rearrange his place to her satisfaction. By the time she was through there was little evidence remaining of his masculine approach to interior decorating. Why were there no traces of a female presence to this scenario?

He snapped off his gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket. These answers would come in due course. About this time, Garrison came plodding down the stairs. He was deep in thought. He started when he saw Jack. I’m just about finished upstairs. We’re about to remove the bodies unless you have a reason for us not to.

Nope, I’ve gone as far as I can in here too. I was just about to head outside and see if I can find Wellington. I see that Melton’s heading this direction. He’s been outside beating the brush.

Jack turned to the officer standing by the door. Please make sure that room gets sealed and when I say sealed, I mean triple sealed. don’t want anyone to go in there without my authorization and see if you can find Wellington for me. I need to have chat with him.

He’s gone. He left about a half an hour ago.

Gone where?

He told me he was going to have a conversation with the wife?

So there was a wife. And where would she be?

I’m not sure, the only thing I know is that her aunt and uncle have a farm about a mile that direction. he was pointing north.

Well, when you see him, tell him I need to have a word with him.

Yes, sir.

Melton plopped himself down on the edge of the porch. He was having difficulty catching his breath. Jack sat down next to him.

Damn it, Vic, you don’t look so good and you sound worse than you look. Maybe you should cut out of here now, I can finish up. You can’t help me if you’re dead!

I’ll be fine, just give me a minute. There’s something I want to show you and then maybe I’ll take you up on your suggestion. He put his inhaler in his mouth and pumped it three times.

Jack and Vic had been together