Star-Crossed Murders

By Theresa L. Sondys

Detective-Lieutenant Matt Warners children died in a fire he arrived too late to save them. Shortly afterward, wife committed suicide with his service revolver and took a part of him with her to the grave.

Alone and beaten down by the guilt of always being too late, Matt is handed the most difficult case of his career. Women are being attacked. Theyre beaten and raped, then given flowers and a verse of poetry. Hes sure it means something, but has no idea what it could be, so he turns to the local librarian for help. Shes not only able to recognize a link, but also identify the verses as parts of Shakespearean plays. Weaving together the literary history and character motivation, it becomes apparent someone is after a specific woman and using the attacks to terrorize her.

Finally able to determine the woman in danger, Matt is willing to mobilize the entire police force to protect her. But she doesnt want his help . . .

Will he get to her in time to save her life? Or will her death paralyze him with guilt forever after?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463425111

Theresa L. Sondys

Theresa L. Sondys, author of The Pink Lady, Star-Crossed Murders, and Let the Blessed Be, is the Senior Program Officer at one of metro Detroit’s most highly respected philanthropic agencies where she is responsible for managing the Foundation’s grant-making programs from intake through final reporting, including site visits and evaluations. Theresa does extensive work in the community, bringing a wide variety of people and organizations together to bring about improvement of the overall health of southeastern Michigan. She has served as president and chairman of various non-profit boards and coalitions. Theresa is an experienced speaker who has taught a wide variety of workshops and seminars (Program Planning, Introduction to Proposal Writing, Grant-writing, etc.) She is a widow with two children and one grandchild.

Book preview

 —1—

December 31, 1989

At the sound of tapping against the glass, Matt swivelled his chair toward the window.

Great, he thought, it’s starting to rain. No, not rain, he corrected himself as he noticed the icy coating on the outside surface of the glass. It’s starting to sleet.

The street beneath his window was full of people crowded together under umbrellas to watch the last minutes of the year tick off on the clock in front of city hall across the street. At midnight, a new year, a new decade, would begin, a cheer would go up from the crowd, and people would trade kisses. Matt turned away from the window, back to his paperwork. He had no one to kiss and no reason to cheer.

The jangling of the telephone split the silence of the squad room. The lone detective on duty, Matt snatched the receiver from its resting place. Detective Division, he informed the unknown caller. His voice sounded tired and sad even to his own ears, so he tried to give the rest of the greeting proscribed by regulations some warmth and enthusiasm. Detective-Lieutenant Warner. Can I help you?

Happy New Year, sweetheart! a woman’s voice called out.

A slight smile spread across his weary features as he glanced at his watch. 11:54. Happy New Year, Mom, he replied automatically, wondering why she’d called. It was nice she hadn’t forgotten him, but they’d hardly been on good terms for years.

I thought I’d find you there.

Yeah, well, Matt didn’t know what to say, why his family always made him feel as if he had to explain his choice of profession or his dedication to it, so he let his words trail off into nothingness.

You busy? she asked.

Not really, he shook his head even though he knew she couldn’t see it. Just doing some paperwork.

On a holiday?

Mom, he began, intending to protest her intrusion on his privacy. But something changed his mind. Maybe it was because she was his mother. Maybe it was the fact that it was a holiday. Another holiday he was spending alone. Not sure he wanted to talk to her, but not sure he wanted to hang up, either, he went on. Technically, the holiday doesn’t start until midnight…

Do you get off at midnight? she interrupted.

I’m on duty until two, he told her. Why?

Dad and I were hoping you’d stop over for a drink.

Sighing, he lifted his free hand to rub his tired eyes.

Why not? The tone of her voice demanded an explanation for an answer he hadn’t given.

I don’t want to get into this right now, he said slowly and deliberately, hoping she’d let it drop. But, of course, she didn’t and Matt wished he’d simply told her he was busy and hung up.

You never want to go into it, her voice continued in his ear. Never want to explain why my son hates me.

I don’t hate you, he corrected, the bottom dropping out of his stomach and the muscles in the back of his neck tightening.

Then why don’t you ever visit?

He took another deep breath and blew it out slowly, trying to buy time while his brain raced, desperately trying to think of a way to get out of this conversation. But, instead of an escape route, her face materialized in his mind. Even approaching her seventies, Margaret Warner possessed a genteel beauty. Her once dark blonde hair had turned a silvery gray, the soft brown eyes that had sparkled so gaily during Matt’s childhood now constantly seemed on the verge of tears, and the soft lips that had kissed many a lump, bump, or scrape now seemed to perpetually pout. Matt knew, without being told, that it was his fault.

Matthew, you know better than anyone how it feels to know you’ll never see your children again…

Mom! he barked into the phone on sheer impulse, not able to stop himself from yelling because he’d acted so fast he hadn’t known he was going to do it until he already had. Just as she had when he was eight or nine, she ignored his outburst completely.

But Liz and Lori are dead, so they’re not avoiding you on purpose the way you’re avoiding me. She paused and, unable to think of anything to say in his own defense, Matt waited silently. Please, tell me what I’ve done. I don’t want to start another year not knowing.

The clock across the street began ringing out twelve, but was quickly drowned out by the cheers of the crowd and the various noisemakers they’d brought with them. They’d just begun to sing Auld Lang Syne when he spoke again.

You haven’t done anything, Mom. It’s me. It’s the fact that every time I see you, I hurt you, and I can’t stand it. Can’t stand to see the pain in your face every time I’m around.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, she replied quietly, and Matt swore he heard tears in her voice. He was also sure she was lying.

The telephone rang again. Hold on a minute. I’ve got another call. He switched lines and listened to what the dispatcher had to say, then switched back to talk to his mother. Look, Mom, I have to go.

Why? We were just beginning to make progress. Don’t stop now. Talk to me.

I’m sorry, Mom, but I have to work. We’ll finish this later.

Promise?

He stood and reached for his coat. Yeah, I promise, he told her what she wanted to hear.

I don’t believe you, she said curtly and the line went dead.

Women, he muttered beneath his breath, dropped the receiver into the cradle and headed for the door.

Arriving at the crime scene, Matt pulled to a stop behind the three squad cars already in the parking lot of a restaurant/bar known as The Pier—as much for its location as its decorating scheme. Even before getting out of the car, he heard earsplitting music emanating from inside the popular night spot. Grabbing his flashlight and evidence collection kit he kept in the trunk, Matt headed toward the uniformed officers standing guard outside the yellow tape marking the perimeter of the crime scene.

Whatcha got? he asked, knowing the first officer to arrive on the scene would be the one to fill him in.

D.B., one of the patrolmen answered, the abbreviation for dead body. Not recognizing him, Matt glanced quickly at the name plate above his badge—Cooper—then focused his attention on the man’s face. Single, white female, 21 years of age. Badly beaten, nude from the waist down.

Who found her? He turned up the collar on his watch coat, trying to shield his neck from the blowing sleet, then took out his notebook and began writing. After recording the time, location and weather conditions, he wrote down the information Cooper gave him.

Couple of her friends. They’re waiting inside in the office. Matt nodded; he’d get to them in a minute. Officer Cooper continued, Victim’s name is Patty Preston. Apparently stepped outside for some air around ten-thirty. When she wasn’t back an hour later, friends came looking for her.

Let’s get some extra guys out here to canvas the bar, he ordered. I want names, addresses and phone numbers for everyone in that building. Guests and staff. The ring of blue-clad officers standing around him simultaneously reached into pockets for notebooks and pens and began taking notes of their own. Find the owner, his name’s Ron Makelski, and ask whether tickets were sold in advance. If so, get that list, too. I’ll want to compare that to who’s here now. Nobody leaves until I say so. And don’t tell them anything they don’t already know. Just get contact information, ask them what time they got here, and what was going on outside. I’ll want to talk to anybody that saw even the slightest thing out of the ordinary. He paused. Questions? There were none. Okay then, he waived them off, let’s take a look. Matt lifted the crime scene tape, stepped under it, and slowly passed the flashlight’s beam over the dead woman’s body, carefully noting the position of her legs, arms, head, and the bouquet of flowers lying next to her. Her face had been badly beaten, nose flattened, one cheek caved in. All on the left side of her face. Attacker was most likely right-handed. Blood formed a puddle beneath her head, and Matt crouched down next to it for a better look.

Hi, handsome, a familiar voice called out over the music, and Matt looked up to see the medical examiner duck under the tape.

Hey, Sheila. How you doing?

If you’d come give me a great big kiss, I’d be starting my new year off just fine.

He chuckled softly and shook his head, but stood nonetheless and crossed the short distance between them to reward her upturned face with a small peck on the cheek.

That’s it? That’s all I get?

I’m on duty, he teased.

Yeah, like that makes a difference, she laughed. Sheila Walker was built like a fire plug—short, stout and solid. Parkinson’s Disease had caused the doctor’s hands to shake and brought an early end to a brilliant surgical career. Taking it in stride, she’d turned to pathology—corpses didn’t mind if the hand dissecting them wasn’t steady—and had been a medical examiner ever since. Medication and sheer will-power kept her going, but she was getting worse and Matt couldn’t help wondering how much longer she could continue working. Matt learned most of what he knew about determining cause of death from her and grown quite fond of her in the process. As she approached the corpse to begin her examination, Matt continued his own. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a Polaroid camera and took two photos of the victim—one a head shot, the other her full body. He then traded the instant camera for a .35 mm and systematically took photos of the entire area, making notes of the number of the picture and what was in it. He took measurements of the crime scene and sketched it on a fresh sheet of paper.

About thirty feet away, the victim’s torn skirt and panties lay in the weeds near the northeast corner of the wall. After taking the requisite photographs, Matt carefully picked them up, dropped each of them into brown paper evidence bags, then filled out the labels and sealed the clothing inside. As he stood up, he noticed a bloody mark on the rough-hewn timber of the bar’s outer wall. Moving closer, he spied several strands of hair stuck to the wood. Matt quickly snapped off several pictures, and then took samples of the blood and hair on the wall before the freezing rain could totally obliterate the evidence.

Matt, Sheila called to him, you’d better take a look at this.

What? he returned to crouch next to her, straining his eyes in the darkness to see what she pointed at. A crumbled piece of paper had been stuffed inside the victim’s bra. Matt snapped a photo, then carefully tugged the tan parchment out of its resting place, gently pulled the paper flat and held it up in the beam of the flashlight.

What is it? she asked.

Not sure, he answered, then quickly read it aloud to her.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks.

Within his bending pickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

Shrugging, Sheila returned her attention to the corpse while Matt stared off into the dark, his mind racing, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.

Won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but my guess on cause of death is…

Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, Matt finished her sentence for her. Something he often did.

Sheila gave a single nod. Occipital is crushed. Appears to be a tear in the epidural artery which probably means brain compression and some major clot formation.

Sexual assault? he interrupted again.

Position of the body, bruises coming up on the legs seem to indicate it, but…

We won’t know for sure until the post mortem, he finished her sentence again. Can you put a rush on it? After securing her promise to do all she could to cut through the red tape necessary to make the autopsy a top priority, Matt left Sheila and the uniformed officers to finish up and headed for the main entrance of the bar.

As he opened the door and stepped through, Matt was engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He coughed twice as his lungs protested the intrusion, then quickly scanned the room. There was nothing new or different from the many other times he’d been here over the years except for the uniformed officers systematically working their way through the crowd. The short entry hall opened into a seating area with tables and chairs jammed together for maximum capacity. The dance floor was crowded with bodies writhing to the pulsating music pumped out by a grungy looking band on the platform to his left. The bar took up most of the wall to his right, the kitchen behind it. Opposite the dance floor more tables were arranged along the glass wall at the rear of the restaurant that overlooked the actual pier and the river it jutted out into. In warmer months, food and drinks were served outside on a patio at the edge of the water, but tonight the action was restricted to the smoky room inside.

A burly bouncer, whose duty it was to sit at the door checking identification and collecting the cover charge, began to greet him but stopped short at the sight of Matt’s badge. In here, he said, and pointed toward the owner’s office. The small room held a desk, a file cabinet, and a short couch where two young women sat huddled together, holding hands and crying softly, dabbing at their red and puffy eyes with shredded tissues. The bar’s owner, Ron Makelski, stood up from behind the desk and met Matt at the door. Crowd’s getting restless, he said. Last call’s already been served and the band quits in ten minutes. If you’re not going to let them leave… I mean, you’ve gotta tell them something.

The less they know, the better, Matt told him. We need to find out what they know, not what we’ve told them.

Ron left, muttering under his breath. Matt introduced himself to the two crying girls, then perched on the edge of the desk to ask his questions. The interview was difficult, with both women repeatedly breaking into tears. It took close to an hour for him to determine that the three girls were from nearby Rockford; had come into Riverton to celebrate not only New Year’s Eve, but also Patty’s birthday—she’d turned twenty-one on the thirty-first; Patty apparently had too much to drink and went outside hoping the cold air would ease her nausea. The girls had not come with dates and Patty had gone outside alone—not with anyone she’d met at the bar. Patty wasn’t seeing anybody at the present time; she and her boyfriend, Russ Richards, had broken up recently. According to one of the girls, Russ wasn’t taking it well, and had been calling Patty night and day, following her around, and begging her to get back together. As far as Matt was concerned, Russ Richards was the number one suspect in Patty’s murder.

The uniforms had done their job well. As soon as Matt emerged from the office, he was greeted by Sergeant Bryson, who had arrived on the scene and taken command. Majority of the crowd arrived between nine and ten, he told Matt. Nobody saw nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

Matt swore under his breath. Okay. Let ’em go. He then turned his attention back to Patty’s friends. They’d come in Patty’s car, the keys to which were nowhere to be found. Matt drove the girls home, then made the trip to the Preston residence where he performed the unpleasant task of informing Tom and Amy Preston their daughter was dead. When he stepped back outside, the rain had stopped, the sky had begun to clear and the sun to rise.

Matt’s heart went out to the Preston family. He knew exactly how they felt. His daughters had died in a fire years earlier. He carried the pain of their loss with him constantly.

Mrs. Preston gave him Russ’ address, and Matt headed straight there. He arrived shortly after six, climbed out of the car and headed for the dark house. He pushed the doorbell three times in quick succession, then pounded on the door with the side of his fist. He waited two minutes, then pounded again.

Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, an angry voice shouted from inside. A woman scowled at him as she pulled the door open. The expression on her face changed from anger to shear terror when she saw his badge. Oh, my God. What happened?

Mrs. Richards? he guessed. She nodded. I’m looking for your son, Russell.

Russ? He nodded. Why?

Is he here?

Yes, sir. She looked puzzled as she pushed the storm door open, invited him in, then told him to follow her as she headed for the back of the house. I’ll take you to him.

Matt stopped in the center of the living room. Could you ask him to come out here, ma’am?

Okay, but you might as well have a seat. It’ll take a bit.

She disappeared down the hallway, leaving Matt alone to stuff his hands in his pockets and study the contents of the tiny room. If there’d been any kind of New Year celebration there, someone had removed all traces of it before going to bed. Or maybe they didn’t have anything to celebrate, either, he thought. A fake Christmas tree stood in one corner, but there were no presents underneath it. Matt turned his attention to the numerous framed photographs hanging on the wall and was staring at one of Mrs. Richards with a young state trooper when she came back into the room.

My oldest son, Josh, she explained. When I saw your badge, I thought he was hurt…

No, Matt shook his head. I just need to ask Russ a few questions.

What about?

I’m sure it’s nothing, Mom. A young man on crutches appeared in the hallway, his right leg encased in plaster from the upper thigh down to his ankle. He slowly made his way to where Matt stood waiting.

Knee? Matt guessed.

Spoken like a man who’s been there, done that, Russ smiled.

Both of them, couple of times, Matt nodded and stepped back to let him pass, already fairly certain Russ couldn’t have had anything to do with Patty’s death. After lowering himself onto the couch, Russ reached down to grab the bottom of the cast, lift his leg up and rest it on the coffee table. Once settled, he repeated his mother’s invitation for Matt to have a seat.

In answer to Matt’s inquiries, Russ explained that he’d torn his ACL in an accident at the foundry where he worked. After that, Matt learned that Russ and Patty had been going together since the tenth grade. Russ first proposed at the senior prom, but Patty wanted to wait until he finished his apprenticeship. Two years later, after he’d gotten his journeyman’s card, she said she wanted to wait until she’d finished her nursing degree. Russ didn’t want to wait and worried he’d lose her to the college boys he said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. In mid-November, Patty told him she was pregnant. That may have been a factor in her nausea, Matt thought.

Russ went on to say he was thrilled at the news, and proposed yet again, but Patty shocked him again by breaking up with him completely. The young man openly admitted to calling Patty several times, and showing up places he knew she’d be. He was trying to convince her not to have the abortion she was thinking about and beg her to either get back together or have the baby and let him take it, he explained. When he finally stopped to ask why a Riverton police lieutenant was so interested in their problems, Matt was forced to tell him that Patty—and his baby—were dead.

Back in his car, Matt checked in with the dispatcher as he headed for the station. The lively chatter on the radio reminded him that just about every other officer on duty that morning had gotten a good night’s sleep, but he had a murder to solve. He was making a mental list of things he needed to do when the voice of the dispatcher called him once again.

Roger, dispatch, he spoke into the mike. This is Six-King-Three. Whatcha got?

Apparent 10-56, Lieutenant. You want it, or should I bring Snyder in early?

Matt took a deep breath and blew it out. An apparent suicide. Great, he thought. Just what I need. Last evening he’d been reminded of the death of his daughters and the empty place it left in his heart. Now, one single word—suicide—brought back the horror of the night his wife ended her life with his service revolver.

Lieutenant? the radio called, apparently wondering why it took so long for him to answer.

Matt keyed the mike. I’ll take it. Where to? he asked, then headed for the address given.

As soon as he turned the corner, Matt saw the flashing red and blue lights of a police cruiser dancing around the neighborhood, adding their glimmering statement to the splendor of the colorful holiday displays delineating roof lines and decorating shrubbery. Matt parked and climbed out of the car, pulled his gold and blue detective’s shield out of his pocket, then flipped the leather wallet open and tucked the flap into his belt so the badge was on permanent display. Briefcase in hand, Matt carefully made his way up the icy sidewalk to the open door.

Officer Roger Benedetti opened the door for him and, after exchanging greetings, pointed toward the middle-aged couple sitting on the couch and began his explanation. This is Mr. and Mrs. Harriman. The house belongs to Mrs. Harriman’s mother, Roberta Barr, age 83. Matt glanced at the seated couple and gave a nod, then pulled out his pad and pen, flipped to a blank page, and began taking notes. The Harrimans went out for breakfast, then came by to wish Mrs. Barr ‘Happy New Year,’ entering the premises with their own key. They found her unresponsive in the bedroom and dialed nine-one-one. EMTs arrived same time as I did, pronounced her dead, called for the M.E., then took off on another call. M.E. should be here any minute.

Good, Matt nodded his approval and headed for the back of the house.

The smell of death assaulted his nostrils as he headed down the hallway. As a rookie, he’d tried to hold his breath or breathe through his hand to avoid the stench. It was Sheila who’d taught him that the olfactory senses adjust after a fairly short time, and if he just ignored the smell and concentrated on the business at hand, before long the odor would seem to vanish.

Stepping through the door into the small bedroom, he found Mrs. Barr lying in bed on her back, hands clasped on her stomach. The funerary position, he thought. Common in suicide. That was probably why the EMTs had called the police. Once again, Matt began documenting the scene on film. When he bent to study her face, something there made him think she’d been ill. She was pale, very thin, and looked as if she’d been sick a long time. After staring for several moments, it occurred to him she had no eyebrows. He noted both the location of the body, its position, and the lack of facial hair in his notes. Her jaw had dropped open, something that often happened as the body began going through rigor mortis. His attention moved downward to her hands. Gingerly, he picked up her right wrist, watching to see whether the hand dropped downward. It didn’t. At the foot of the bed, Matt pulled the bed clothes away from her lower extremities to check her feet. They were stiff as well.

Turning his attention away from the corpse, Matt scanned the room. On the night stand next to the bed, he found a glass with approximately one-half inch of clear liquid in the bottom, and three prescription bottles—all empty.

We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Sheila’s voice called to him from the doorway.

Matt smiled. Somehow it eased his mind to have her working with him on this investigation. With his melancholy mood, it was nice to have a friend nearby. As usual, he suppressed his emotions and concentrated on his job. Hey, Sheila. She seems to be in full rigor, so she’s probably been dead at least six hours.

Okay. She moved to the opposite side of the bed and began unpacking her gear.

I’ve got three scripts over here. Filled Thursday, but all empty now. Demerol, Lithium and Peridol, he read the bottle labels to her. Thirty each. Demerol to be taken three times a day; Lithium and Peridol, one a day. He paused, sighing deeply as he stood back up. I think she was dying. He snapped several photographs, then lifted the glass and sniffed the contents; it appeared to be water.

Cancer? Sheila wondered aloud.

That’s my guess, Matt said. I noticed a complete lack of facial hair. He stood at the head of the bed, bending forward from the waist to study Mrs. Barr’s hair. This look like a wig to you?

Sheila extended a gloved hand to examine the hair then nodded. Yup. Nice one. Expensive.

Matt looked at the bottles again. Would that be what these were for? Cancer?

Demerol’s for pain. The other two are used to correct chemical imbalances in the brain that cause mood swings. Essentially, they’re both antidepressants.

And taken together?

Intense tranquilizing effect at first, I think. Knock her out. I’m pretty sure after that it would be toxic.

Be right back, he told her, then walked out of the room and down the hall. Mrs. Harriman?

Yes? her voice was hushed.

When was the last time you saw your mother?

Thursday morning. I took her to the doctor, then to the pharmacy to fill her prescriptions.

Was she ill?

Yes.

Cancer?

Yes, she repeated, her voice breaking as her shoulders began to shake and tears flowed freely down her face. It struck Matt how different her reaction was to the death of her mother than his wife’s reaction at hearing their children were gone. It was Matt who dissolved into tears while Diane remained dry eyed. Her father, a psychiatrist, assured Matt she was in shock; that it would be the calm before the storm. The storm turned out to be the gunfire that ended her life, and, in many ways he supposed, his too.

How bad? he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the matters at hand and shake off the memories of the past that had haunted him since his mother’s telephone call.

Ruth Harriman laid her head against her husband’s fleshy shoulder. Bad, he answered for her. She’s had several operations over the last couple years, plus radiation and chemotherapy, but it just won’t go away. Every time they think they’ve gotten rid of it, it shows up somewhere else. Thursday was more bad news.

How so?

Tests revealed small tumors in a number of different places. Including her lymph nodes.

How’d she take it?

How would you take it? Mrs. Harriman snapped at him.

He ignored her outburst. Was she angry, depressed…

Of course she was depressed, she cried. She’d just been given a death sentence.

Do you think it’s possible she just gave up? he asked.

No! Mrs. Harriman protested, only to have her husband disagree.

She was old, and she was tired, he explained. Each day was a struggle. Her body has been so ravaged that she’s a shell of what she once was. We have nurses coming in… she was in constant pain and she’d completely lost her dignity.

I’m so sorry, Matt told them, and meant it.

But, I didn’t get to say good-bye; tell her I loved her, Mrs. Harriman sobbed.

She knew it, Ruth. He put one arm around her and reached over with his other hand to hold both of hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

But I didn’t get to say… oh, Fred there’s so many things I’ll never be able to tell her!

Matt returned to the bedroom and told Sheila what he’d learned.

I looked at the bottles, Matt. I know the prescribing physician. Good man. My guess is he gave her the drugs, knowing how they’d interact so she could…

So what you’re saying, he interrupted, only to have her cut him off.

Is that, unless I find something completely unexpected in the autopsy results, I’m going to list this as suicide.

Doctor assisted?

What are you getting at? she raised an eyebrow.

Doctor assisted suicide is illegal in this state.

All he did was write a couple prescriptions to ease the suffering of one of his patients.

Knowing the patient was extremely depressed, he prescribed medications that can be toxic if taken together. Isn’t that like handing somebody a loaded gun? Once again, the image of Diane and his service revolver made an unwelcome visit into his consciousness.

"Just because you hand someone a loaded gun doesn’t mean you point it at them and pull the trigger, Matt. It’s still their choice. And believe me, darling, if a person really wants to kill themselves, there’s very little anybody else can do about it—either to help them or stop them."

So what you’re saying, he began again, this time intent on letting her finish the sentence.

What I’m saying is that there’s no crime here for you to investigate, big boy, so go find some beautiful woman that deserves you and welcome the new year with a roll between the sheets.

I’d do that, he told her with a wink and a smile. But you’re not off work yet.

You’re nothing but a big tease, Matt Warner! she shouted after him as he made his way down the hall. That’s not a nice thing to do to an old woman.

Matt explained Sheila’s ruling to the Harriman’s, then directed Roger to wait until the body had been removed before resuming patrol duties. He stepped out of the house, pausing on the porch to take a deep breath of fresh air while he buttoned his jacket and glanced up and down the quiet residential street. The sleet of the night before had coated the trees and grass in ice, and the rising sun reflected off of every surface, giving the entire area a surreal, fairyland feeling, as if everything were made of glass. His first impulse was to go straight home and drop his exhausted body into bed. But another part of him didn’t want to go home to his empty house. Not today.

Standing there on Mrs. Barr’s front porch, the only person visible as far as the eye could see, he was painfully aware of just how alone he was. He checked his watch—11:46 a.m.—then descended the steps and headed across the yard to his car. He thought of Ruth Harriman who—although she still had her husband, and perhaps children and grandchildren as well—was probably feeling lonely right now, too. But there was a difference. Mrs. Harriman could never visit her mother again; she was gone. His wasn’t. In fact, she was only a few blocks away. She’d reached out to him last night. Made the first move toward reconciliation. Maybe the next move should be his. After climbing into the car, he started the engine and drove toward his childhood home.

January 1, 1990

As he pulled the car to a stop in front of the small bungalow, Matt’s stomach filled with butterflies. While he sat staring at the house where he’d grown up, it seemed that hundreds of long-buried memories bubbled up toward his consciousness. There was the yard where he and his brother, Paul, played together back in the days when they got along. There was the mail box that had held his draft notice—the one Paul begged him to dodge—and the thing that drove the first wedge between them.

Matt could almost see himself climbing into his parents’ car for the trip to the airport to return from leave and ship out for Vietnam; almost hear a sixteen-year-old Paul screaming at him from the porch, If you go, I’ll never forgive you. But what choice had he had?

It was this house he dreamed of coming back to after the war. Especially when taken prisoner by a group of malicious Vietnamese soldiers who got some sick enjoyment out of torturing U.S. servicemen. They were ostensibly attempting to gain information about troop movements, but it was clear they enjoyed inflicting terrible pain on boys like Matt who knew nothing more than they wanted to go home. But his hopes for a happy homecoming after his escape were dashed when he arrived to find a group of antiwar protesters marching back and forth in front of the house—his younger brother carrying a sign that read Welcome Home, Baby Killer.

Matt had been shoveling snow off this very driveway when the neighbor, Sergeant Clancey, had come out to give him a police department recruiting speech. And where, after hearing Clancey assure Matt that if accepted to the force, they’d teach him everything he needed to know, Paul yelled from the back door that Matt didn’t need any training because he already knew how to kill people.

The house where the two brothers played together harmoniously as children turned into a place of argument, harsh words, and hurt feelings. Matt got his own apartment as quickly as possible, and the pattern of avoiding his brother began. Again and again he’d made efforts to patch things up, and invariably Paul would attack him for carrying a gun—even when he was on duty and wearing his uniform. Paul was married with children, and a seminary graduate, before their mother brokered a tentative peace. But, when Matt met Diane, Paul took an instant dislike to her, and their parents sided with him. That was when Matt began avoiding them, too. Even so, when Diane filed for divorce several years later, it was this house he’d come back to. His mother accepted him with open arms and no questions.

The following week, the house he’d just moved out of caught fire. Matt heard the call on the radio late one night, hurried there and raced into the flames in time to carry Diane to safety. Firefighters and police officers tried to hold him back, but he pulled free from their grasp and dashed back into the house. Smoke blurred his vision and burned his lungs as he made his way to the back of the house where he snatched Liz and Lori out of their beds, carried them outside and gingerly laid them on the lawn. It was too late; they were already dead.

Diane had been treated for smoke inhalation and released from the hospital, and Matt had brought her back here. After the funeral, Matt mourned the loss of his children by crying in his mother’s arms. And it was here, sitting on the bed he’d slept in the majority of his life, that Diane used his service revolver to end her life. Matt had jumped up and yelled for someone to dial 911, and ran down the hall. He took one look and knew he couldn’t do anything to help her. His parents’ home was quickly crowded with emergency personnel. He’d shown Lieutenant Timmons the way, then headed back toward his mother’s normally warm and cheery kitchen. Just in time to hear Paul say If he’s going to leave the damn thing laying around, he might as well shoot them himself.

Matt took his things and left, and hadn’t been back since. Almost eight years. Tears began to well up in his tired eyes yet again and he began to doubt whether coming here now was a good idea. He’d seen his parents, of course. Riverton wasn’t that big a town, and they ran into each other now and then. But he didn’t visit them and they’d never been to the little house he’d called home for the last five years. They remembered each others’ birthdays, but they never ‘did lunch.’ Instead, he sent cards and gifts through the mail, and they did the same for him. The Christmas tree was visible in the front window, in the exact same place it had been every year of his life, and he couldn’t help wondering whether his mother liked the robe he’d sent this year.

Tears clouded his vision, Matt decided he couldn’t do it. Sadly shaking his head, Matt lifted his hand to the ignition. But, before he could turn the key, the front door opened and his mother leaned out to grab the paper off the front porch. Her hair had been cropped even shorter than usual. She looked tired, he thought. And sad. He hoped it wasn’t because of him, but knew that at least part of it was. As a little voice in his head told him to start the car and go home to bed, a stronger force deep within him he neither understood or had any power to control, made him open the