Hindsight

By Eleanor Dineen

Adelaide St. James is a Probation and Parole Officer with a hidden past and a strong will. Brad Fortune is a Homicide Detective who stands for the victims in every case that he works. When a violent murder has Adelaide and Brad crossing paths, Adelaide's past ends up front and center. Brad's focus becomes how to keep her safe as bodies start to pile up. Was someone trying to get Adelaide's attention with the murders? Brad must focus on the case and not his growing feelings for Adelaide, to make sure that she is not the final victim of what could be a serial killer. Can Adelaide set aside her past and accept help from a man she just met, but who dominates her thoughts? When Brad's partner finds evidence linking Adelaide to the crime, the case is turned on end. Will Adelaide survive long enough to clear her name?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eleanor Dineen
• Release date: Aug 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301015566

Eleanor Dineen

I worked as a police officer for a little more than four years. I am currently working as a Probation and Parole Officer which has what I call "mommy hours." I loved being a police officer and even enjoyed dispatching while pregnant, but my growing family needed more of my time. My wonderful husband is a Detective and busy, busy, busy. My passion has always been writing. My mother passed this on to me. She even got a book published once when I was a kid. She was (and still is) my hero. I love and encourage conversation about my line of work. If you have questions or you are just curious, do not hesitate to contact me.

Book preview

Hindsight

By Eleanor Dineen

Copyright Eleanor Dineen 2013

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction. I have drawn upon my own experiences for much of the content. However, I have invoked an artistic license and have embellished for the sake of the storyline. No part of this book is intended to be reference or source material. Any relation to a real person or story is purely coincidence.

"Women are never stronger than when they arm themselves with their weaknesses."

-Madame Marie du Deffand

CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY

The printer groaned loudly as it spit out page after page of law enforcement hits. Adelaide watched it, counting along with each page as it hit the tray. Soon her own groaning drowned out the printer. Twelve hits in one weekend. It was as though her clients all conspired together to get into trouble at the same time. Monday morning wasn’t starting off so well. Yet, it was pretty standard. Regardless of the fact that many of her clients were unemployed, Friday and Saturday were still the prime times for them to get into trouble. She gathered the hits off the printer and started flipping through them. Several of the names were not news to her. They were repeat customers with law enforcement. She would have to call them and confront them, per policy, yet it was almost unnecessary. She could do the entire conversation on her own now. It would entail a lot of stories about police corruption with a healthy dose of assuring her that they would never lie to her.

Adelaide looked at the clock above her desk. It was 9:00 in the morning. She had only been at work for a half hour and she was already counting down until 4:30. She blew out a sigh as she split the pile of hits into two; priority and second call. A split second after reaching for her phone to make the first call, the printer groaned to life again. Adelaide dropped her elbows to her desk and held her head in her hands until the printer was silent again. Make that thirteen hits. She took a cleansing breath and ran her hand across her ponytail, tugging on it. It was a habit she had for as long as she could remember. Her mother used to tug on her hair to get her attention and the action had bled into her adult life. She used it to calm herself and focus.

The page on the printer was a name she wished she wasn’t reading. She had been having problems with that client lately which really pissed her off because he had been on the right path just prior. She had been counting on him to be one of her success stories and then he had to go and fuck it up, damn him. She was going to get him back on track if it took every ounce of skill she had. This kid was worth the time and he just needed to focus again to get back on track. She reached for the phone again when a knock at her door startled her. She was still working on her startle reflex. It wasn’t exactly part of the job description to be jumpy, but she was getting better. She had just recently stopped looking over her shoulder everywhere she went.

Hey, Adelaide. Good morning.

Hi, Jack. How was your weekend? she asked politely.

Her supervisor wasn’t exactly the type to stop by to say hi. He was, however, the type to stop by and make sure his employees were in their office on time. She had been transferred to his team as a temporary move when her supervisor retired. When the new supervisor was hired, Adelaide was supposed to be transferred along with the rest of her unit but Jack had kept her. It was a well-known fact that if Jack recruited, it meant being on the short list of those getting fired. Adelaide had been more than a little worried at first, but it had been four months. Jack had only recently stopped kicking back her reports for minor corrections and micro managing her caseload. Adelaide wanted to think that she had proven herself to him and that he realized she was not going to be fired. But, in reality, another person in the unit had screwed up and started taking the lion’s share of the animosity.

Weekend was good. How about yours?

Same old thing, she told him with a forced smile.

He nodded toward her desk. Pretty good sized stack there. How many do you have in jail?

I was just setting out to find that out, she replied. Would it sound too optimistic if I said, hopefully none?

Jack laughed. Optimistic could be a way to say it. Naïve would be another way.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. The smile on her face was nowhere near genuine, but Jack’s jokes were nowhere near funny. A girl can hope, she replied.

Well, keep me apprised. I mean, should your hopes not come true, he said with a wink.

He walked away from her office and Adelaide breathed a sigh of relief. Jack wasn’t really that bad, but she always felt awkward making small talk with supervisors. Or anyone for that matter. She was not exactly a social butterfly. But, for her life, she didn’t need to be social. She preferred to be alone. She chose the company of her dog over human interaction. No one ever came to ask her to happy hour after work, mostly because she was largely unapproachable. She wasn’t mean by any definition of the word, but she was awkward and people tended to stay away.

Adelaide tugged on her ponytail again before grabbing the phone. Might as well start with the hardest one first. The phone rang several times before a woman answered it. She was thrown for a second, expecting her client, a man, to answer.

Can I speak with Kyle?

Who is this? the woman asked gruffly.

Adelaide’s instincts were alerted by the tone. Something was not right. Her response, however, was automatic. This is Adelaide St. James, Nevada State Probation and Parole. I need to speak with Kyle.

He’s unavailable.

Adelaide started to reply but the phone went dead. Well, that was unusual. Adelaide shook her head and flagged Kyle for a home visit. She had twelve more to deal with and most likely half of those would need home visits for avoiding her as well.

******

Brad Fortune was pacing back and forth in the 15x15 box that some called an apartment. He was trying to see the scene from every angle possible. The fact that the room was covered in blood made it seem even smaller. The muggy heat made him feel like the walls were closing in. The body was on the bed in the corner of the room. There was a card table in the opposite corner that held nothing. About four feet away was the kitchen with a refrigerator that was one step up from a college dorm refrigerator. There was a small bathroom off to the side. It contained a toilet that had at one time probably been white but was now more of yellow brown combination. There was also a pedestal sink, a mirror and a stand up shower that rivaled a coffin standing on end. The sink was stained pink, telling Brad that the killer had cleaned himself (or herself) up before leaving the scene. The mirror was so old and decaying that Brad could barely see his reflection in it. It was also covered in tiny specks of blood, backsplash from the killer washing his hands. There was blood on the floor, tracked in by the killer. It was smudged and smeared deliberately in an attempt to disguise footprints. The blood droplets had congealed around the room. This scene was not fresh.

Brad carefully picked his way closer to the body, avoiding the smudges even though his own shoes were encased in blue paper booties to protect the scene. The victim had once been a white male, although he was now blood red from head to toe. He had endured a brutal attack. The amount of blood on the scene indicated the man’s heart had been beating during every blow. He had probably felt every last bone break before the attacker was finished. The victim’s cheek bones had been crushed in making his eyes appear to bulge out from his face in a very unusual manner. The head was caved in on the left side crushing hair, bone, blood and brain matter into a mosh pit in the skull. Hair and skin was nearly scalped from the other half of his head. His arms, which now hung lifeless, were hanging at odd and unnatural angles angles. These were either defensive wounds or torture. The clothing the victim wore was soaked in blood and completely unidentifiable. The metallic smell of the blood gave way to the stinging smell of feces and urine as Brad got closer. The victim had lost control of his bowels at some point during the attack, most likely seconds before death.

Brad looked at the walls, making note of the blood spatter patterns. Above the head of the bed was a spray pattern that contained brain matter and possibly tiny bone fragments. The victim had been sitting on the bed when he was struck in the head. Perhaps he was trying to scoot away from the attacker. There just wasn’t anywhere to go, especially in the shoebox of an apartment. The attacker would have been blocking the doorway.

The scene was being processed by two crime scene technicians. Three was a crowd in that apartment so Brad stepped out of their way onto the front porch. He drew in a deep breath, happy to be out of that blood soaked cage. Living like that should have been completely foreign to him, but it wasn’t. He began to wonder about the victim, about his last moments alive. He had probably been terrified and in excruciating pain. Who would do that to him? The nature of the injuries suggested that the killer knew the victim. It was too personal, too intimate of an attack to be a stranger. What had the victim done to earn such a rage? For a homicide detective in Elko, Nevada, Brad needed to answer those questions to solve the crime. But as a human who had been through way too much in his thirty four years, he asked the questions because he never fully understood the mindset of a murderer. He was truly empathetic toward the victim and never mastered the art of being full detached.

His partner, on the other hand, had mastered that task on day one. She was marching toward him at that very moment, her high heels clicking on the concrete walkway of the apartment complex. She was on the phone, nodding a lot, which Brad found amusing since the caller couldn’t see her. She was saying a lot of yes sirs which meant she was on the phone with a superior. As she walked up to him, several patrolmen and crime scene techs in the area took notice.

Brad’s partner, Detective Jennifer Spring was damn hard to miss. Brad had of course noticed her looks but had never had much of an afterthought about it. Jen was probably the vision for the man who created the word bombshell. She was blonde, impeccably tan, and enticingly thin. She had deep brown eyes and lips that looked as though she had fat injected into them. But she was all natural. She wore tight skirt suits, always with high heels that enhanced her butt and her calves. And, she did it all on purpose. In addition to her good looks, her promiscuity was also the talk of the locker room. Brad couldn’t count how many times he had been asked what Jen looked like naked.

As if he would know. Brad was probably the only detective that had not slept with Jen. And unfortunately most of the detectives were married. Jen had never made a move on Brad. Brad hadn’t thought too much about it. He was not Jen’s type. The only thing he had in common with the men she slept with was height. He was tall, a few inches over six foot. He was built but no one knew that. Brad had never changed in the locker room and he was never seen without a bullet proof vest or a sport coat. He might have been attractive if it hadn’t been for the razor thin scar that ran from the left side of his face, through his cheek to the cupid’s bow of his top lip. People flinched when they looked at him, or so he thought. He deliberately left his brown hair somewhat shaggy hoping that it would fall over part of the scar, but it was useless to try and hide it.

Jen snapped her phone shut and turned to Brad. So, I got the name of the tenant from the landlord. Kyle Alton. Sarge ran the name through and he’s on paper. Burglary, Possession and Assault.

Brad whistled. Hit the trifecta with this one. He glanced back into the apartment. We’ll have to do fingerprints or DNA to make a solid ID. His face isn’t going to tell us anything at this point.

Anybody even care this POS is dead? Jen asked.

Jen! Brad admonished.

Jen was the type of person who had her mind set about everyone she met and there was no changing it no matter what. The second she learned that the victim was on paper, she had dismissed him. Now he was just someone whose death saved the taxpayers a whole lot of money. The way Jen thought should have prevented her from being a decent detective, but she was decent. She had a reputable clearance rate; nowhere near Brad’s but also nothing to spit at. She played bad cop to a T and somehow it all just worked for her.

What? At least he’s not going to be around to rob or assault someone anymore, she muttered.

Brad started to say something when one of the crime scene techs stuck his head out of the apartment. Detectives! he called. There’s a phone ringing in here.

Brad and Jen tried to beat each other to get in the apartment first, much like children. The tech pointed to the phone which had been partially hidden under a blanket near the victim’s feet. Brad grabbed a latex glove and went to answer the phone, taking note the curious absence of blood on it. Jen beat him to the take and snatched up the phone.

Whoever is calling will be expecting a male voice, Brad cautioned her.

Yeah well I’ll be his bitchy girlfriend, she retorted.

Unless his girlfriend is the one calling, he mumbled, but let her answer the phone.

Hello? She paused, listening to the caller. Who is this? Another pause. He’s unavailable. She hung up the phone looking more pissed off than before.

Who was that? Brad asked.

His freaking PO.

Why didn’t you talk to him? We’ll need to talk to him eventually.

Bitch work, she told him, knowing full well that he intended to do it.

Detectives, a patrolman said from the doorway. The ME is here.

They stepped aside as Brad handed Jen an evidence bag so she could bag the cellphone. The ME, Mike Miller gave them a mock salute as he walked in the door and went to the victim.

Yep, he’s dead, Mike said. Mike had a dark sense of humor, a defense mechanism against the horror he saw every day. He wasn’t for everyone but Brad respected him tremendously. He was the best of the best.

Anything preliminary you can hand us to work with? Brad asked.

I’ll see what I can do.

Brad watched as Mike checked the body. He pressed his hands along the arms and abdomen and legs. He checked the fingers. After a couple of seconds watching Mike looking around the room, Brad asked him what he was looking for.

Why is it so hot in here? He didn’t have an air conditioner?

Brad had located a window unit in the bathroom but it was broken. He told Miller such.

For how long? Mike asked.

No telling, Brad replied.

Then I can’t give you an accurate time of death. I’d say under normal conditions you’re looking at 24-32 hours.

So Saturday night, early Sunday morning, Brad said, more to himself.

I’m going to give the info to the patrolmen, have them ask around the complex, Jen said as she walked out of the room.

Brad wanted an excuse to walk out, too. The room was suffocating.

I can’t say for certain which blow caused the death, but one of them broke a rib so hard that it punctured through the skin. From the location, my guess is that it went through a lung, which would have been fatal.

Any idea on the weapon?

Mike leaned in closer to the body. Best guess at this time is something cylindrical.

A pipe or bat or something?

Can’t say for sure, he replied as he motioned for his crew. Let’s bag his hands and get him on the table.

Brad watched as Mike’s assistants who were probably barely twenty three years old loaded up the victim. They did it with such efficiency that Brad started feeling sorry for them. They saw death every day and were expected to act without feeling.

When do you think you’ll get to this autopsy? Brad wanted to know.

I can make room tomorrow at about one.

See you there.

Mike left the same way he came, with a mock salute. Brad gave his position back to the crime scene techs to photograph the bed after the victim had been removed. Brad took note of the mattress that was soaked in blood. He wondered if the victim had lived long enough to bleed to death slowly or if the attacker finished the job before leaving. The amount of blood made Brad believe that death was slow and torturous. Once the sheets were bagged and the room had been gone over with a fine tooth comb, Brad supervised the seal on the door. He and Jen had searched every nook and cranny, including the refrigerator compartments which were all empty. The only thing in the fridge was a package of turkey and a couple beers. When he was assured that the scene was protected, he called Jen who was in the landlord’s office. He met up with her just as the landlord was handing over Kyle Alton’s application.

So it is him, then? the landlord asked.

Mr… Brad paused.

Messer. Abe Messer, he filled in.

Mr. Messer, we can’t confirm identity at this time, he told him. But the victim was in that apartment so we are proceeding as though it is Mr. Alton.

You don’t have any relatives or references listed on this application, Mr. Messer, Jen’s accusing voice said.

Yeah well most of these people don’t have relatives or references. Ninety percent are felons, he snapped at her.

And why the hell are you letting your apartment complex turn into a community jail? Jen snapped back.

Where the fuck else are they supposed to go? he replied, raising his voice.

Brad was all too used to this situation, jumping in to calm a situation that Jen had unnecessarily exasperated. He really resented Jen’s work style but in the last two years, he had learned to live with it. He was the definition of patience; with her and with almost everyone he had ever met, including criminals. Jen was the hothead; Brad was the calm and collected one. If a suspect threw a punch at Jen, the suspect could expect the pounding of a lifetime or her gun in his face. If someone threw a punch at Brad, he just ducked it and calmly placed the suspect in handcuffs whenever possible.

Mr. Messer, Brad said serenely. Is there anything you can tell us about Kyle?

Messer’s face was contorted in anger but he banked it as he answered Brad. I don’t know a thing about him. And that’s telling as it is. The ones who are trouble I know by name.

Brad rose to leave. We appreciate your time, he said, pulling Jen up by her arm and leading her out the door. As soon as they were out of earshot Brad said, Can you please be a little more polite to our witnesses?

What witnesses? We are in the middle of cons R us. No one’s talking Brad. No one has seen anything and no one is talking to a cop in this neighborhood. I’ll tell you what we got here. We got royally fucked by this case because there is no solving it, she riposted.

We owe it to Kyle and his family to try, he replied.

He’s a piece of shit, Brad. His family probably feels the same, she said. Regardless, I didn’t say I wouldn’t work it. I’m just saying don’t be surprised when this hits cold cases.

Brad and Jen went back to their beat up old Ford to head back to the office. The ride back was pleasantly quiet. Back at the office they parted ways at their shared cubicle wall. Brad booted up his computer and proceeded to get a background check on Kyle Alton. He was on parole. As far as Brad could tell he got the Burglary and Possession charges at the same time. He was on parole for those when he caught the Assault case and went back to prison. He had been back out on parole for nearly three years and had been in next to no trouble since. He had a few active traffic warrants but that was to be expected and hardly serious. His parole officer was A. St. James out of the office a couple miles down the road from the police station. Brad would be stopping in there in the next day or two.

Kyle was a 24 year old male with family who were in the system as well. A check on the parents revealed that his father was dead and his mother was in prison along with his step father for cooking meth together. His brother Jake was also on parole out of a different office. Brad located a parole violation warrant for Jake that had been cancelled recently. Jake had run from his supervision but his officer had found him and gotten him back on track. Brad would have to call Jake’s PO, too and see if he could set up an interview with him.

Brad brought the information over the Jen’s cubicle. She had been running recent parole releases that had been in prison the same time as Kyle. Between the two of them, they had a new list of people to interview. Brad would take care of the family and Jen would try to track down some of the releases while they waited for the fingerprints and phone records to come back.

CHAPTER TWO

TUESDAY

Adelaide was at her desk earlier than usual writing a violation report for one of the six of thirteen names from her Monday hits that had been arrested on new charges. She had been hard at work, making sure the Parole Board knew on no uncertain terms that this offender was absolutely not suited to be in the community and if they chose to release him, the public was at risk. Unfortunately the parole board was not exactly motivated by common sense or public safety, although their mission statement said differently. Instead they were motivated politically and constantly blaming over-crowding. Adelaide understood and was sympathetic about over-crowding but parole violators deserved a spot in every prison despite the numbers. She preferred misdemeanors and non-violent felons be released before sending parole violators back in the community. Nothing irked her more than someone who was given a second chance and completely blew it.

The knock on her open door frame startled her again. She looked up to find Jack at her door, looking like something was wrong. Jack, she said.

You have visitors, he told her, his voice dry.

Ok….clients?

He shook his head. Cops.

Adelaide’s heart took a tumble into her stomach. She felt the flush in her cheeks and her body overheated. Her eyes darted all over the office looking for an escape. Cops? How? Why now? She pushed back from her desk, nervously chewing her lip. She tugged on her ponytail and got ahold of her breathing before she spoke. Embarrassed about her reaction, she covered as best as she could.

Who did what in which city? She tried for a smile, but the concern on Jack’s face told her he didn’t miss her little panic attack.

One of your clients was murdered, he told her, moving farther into her office.

Adelaide was startled. She would have been less surprised if they said that one of her clients had murdered someone. Who?

His name was Kyle Alton.

Adelaide’s face fell as well as her hope for Kyle. God damn that kid, he had a chance. I just called him yesterday and spoke to a woman. She wouldn’t let me talk to him, she said wearily, her voice laced