Who Did It?: Samantha Barclay Mystery, #5

By Suzanne M. Hurley

Who killed the beloved principal of St. Michael's High School?

Newly minted FBI agent Samantha Barclay's first case is to find the murderer.

Only one problem. Everyone she meets has a reason to see him dead.

Will she uncover who did it - before he or she strikes again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613091548

Book preview

Prologue

Snip. Snip. Snip.

I stared at the man meticulously cutting his hedge, pausing every few seconds to check out his work, making sure he had gotten it just right.

Humming away, looking the picture of peace, he was sporting green khaki shorts, a sweat-soaked grey tee-shirt, straw hat and sunglasses. I could even see evidence of white sunscreen on his arms, making sure he was well taken care of, hidden away from cancer-ridden rays.

Too bad he didn’t take care of others the same way he did himself.

Too bad he had no regard for anyone else.

Too bad he was such a dirty, rotten scumbag!

Little did he know, he was about to die. Today, as a matter of fact. In just a few minutes.

I knew.

Because I was the one pulling the trigger.

My breath quickened as red-hot anger burned through me. I felt like attacking him, taking great pleasure as my fists ripped him apart, limb by limb, punishing him, torturing him for all the hurt and devastation he had caused. I had too many sleepless nights and the pain, oh, the pain, was all the result of his actions. I’d soon be ridding the world of this hideous man. Forever.

I felt my face flush with excitement as I crept closer, glad I had worn the softest sneakers I owned and grateful for the grass that kept my footsteps quiet. Holding my gun with two hands to stop the shaking, I pointed it right at his head.

Maybe I should do it now, before he noticed me. Let him die, not knowing who masterminded his execution. One minute he’d be doing mundane gardening, the next he’d be dead. I liked the whole shock effect.

No way! Not a chance.

I wanted to look into his eyes.

To see the panic when he saw the gun.

That would be my ultimate satisfaction. A power play. The perfect end to this horror story. Just before I finished him off forever.

A grin stretched across my face at the thought, as I struggled to stay in control.

Just the sight of him made me lose it, made me want to scream my head off. But I wanted to savor the moment. Revel in it.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

More hedge trimming. How dare he act as if it were just another day, when he’d thrown my whole life in hell!

I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I needed to face him. To get this over with. To do what I came to do.

It was time. I’d had my fill of watching him.

You bastard, I hissed, somewhat quietly but loud enough for him to hear, not wanting to alert anyone who’d run for help. Except my target, of course. Not that he’d be able to get away. I’d fix that.

I saw his shoulders stiffen as he swung his head to the side at the sound of my voice, trying to figure out where it came from. Then he turned towards me, holding the clippers out in front like a weapon.

What the... ? he asked, forehead furled, creating deep lines of stress as recognition flooded his eyes. He took a step back when he saw the gun. What’s going on?

Drop the clippers.

He didn’t move.

I said, drop them. I waved the gun in the air. Now.

Whoa! Almost dropped the gun. Better hang on tighter.

Clunk. The clippers fell to the ground.

Now, hands up in the air so I can see them. Make sure you’re not doing anything funny.

He did as I asked, but looked so confused, I almost felt sorry for him. Not! I was still waiting for the look of panic to descend. Right then, all I saw was shock.

Now kick the clippers towards me. I wanted them out of reach, just in case.

His booted foot hit them hard and they shot off to the side. Perfect.

What’s going on? he asked, seemingly calm, but I could see beads of sweat dripping down his face.

I stayed quiet. Just watching. His eyes darted back and forth, as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. Then he looked right at me.

And...there it was.

Finally.

The panic.

Ahhhh...bliss.

I smiled, reveling in his fear, enjoying the show. Watching him feel exactly what his victims felt when he tortured them for his own amusement.

He was vermin to the nth degree and this was payoff time.

I continued to say nothing. Letting him squirm. Letting him suffer. Letting him feel the heat.

He took a step forward.

Stop right there, I yelled. Don’t move.

But what do you want? I’ll give you anything, he cried out, not so calm this time, obviously agitated by my silence. "Money, computers, televisions? Just ask, it’s all yours.

Don’t play dumb with me, I barked out, annoyed that he thought impersonal objects or money would make up for all the harm he’d done.

I’m not. I just don’t understand why you’re here. I wasn’t expecting you.

I watched him closely. Principal Armstrong. Big, strong man, looking like a scared little puppy or, what was that saying? A deer caught in the headlights? That was how he came across. I enjoyed it. Immensely.

Day after day, he ruled St. Michael’s High School. Everyone thought he was a semi-god or something. Like they felt they should bow down when he walked by. Or genuflect. He was also known as the good family man with high morals. An esteemed person who attended church every Sunday. The pillar of society.

Right now, he looked completely innocent. Like a little baby. Someone who was so wronged.

I wasn’t fooled. In the least. But many were.

Little did they know how dirty he was. Harboring lots of horrid, despicable secrets. A bona fide badass. The worst kind of human being ever.

I did, though.

I knew the truth.

He was worse than dirt under my feet.

I hated him. With all my heart.

Why’d you do it? I shouted out, not even caring if anyone heard. After all, I was the one in control here. I had the gun. What could possibly make a man like you do what you did? I couldn’t even bear to spell it out, but he knew what I meant. He knew what he had done.

Do what? Please. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Don’t play innocent with me.

But I am innocent.

I stared at him. Waiting for a full confession.

But he said nothing more.

Not only that, he sounded sincere and completely stunned at my accusations.

Sweat dripped down my back.

For the first time since I arrived, I felt a moment of indecision. After all, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was the perpetrator. I’d just guessed.

Oh, oh!

Was I wrong? Mistaken, somehow?

I moved closer and studied his face.

His eyes appeared baffled as if he really did have no clue whatsoever as to what I was saying. I saw nothing but bewilderment. Not even a hint of guilt and I was pretty good at reading truth from people’s faces. Had to be after what’d happened to me. I’d learned to differentiate between good and evil people.

I took a step back, my mind racing.

He was starting to look like one of the good guys.

Was I wrong?

Nah! No way. He was just the perfect con. Smooth as anything. Trying to convince me of his innocence. It was probably what he told himself. That his actions were normal. Helpful. Wonderful, even. That was how he justified them. I wasn’t going to fall for his innocent act.

I waved the gun menacingly, trying to instill more fear into him. You know exactly what you did.

No, I don’t. Please, tell me, he pleaded. Let me understand why you’re so upset. Put the gun down and let’s talk.

I liked him like this. Scared and in full-out begging mode.

You should have led with an apology, I barked out, clicking the safety off, ignoring alarm bells sounding off in the back of my head.

Good! This would frighten him even more.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry," he cried out, catching me off guard with how sincere he sounded.

Once again, I was struck by how genuinely confused he looked and sounded.

A shiver of hesitation rippled through me. More doubt followed, wrapping me up in sheets of confusion.

Should I?

Should I listen to his explanation? Find out what really made him do it? After all, I did ask for a reason.

I glanced down at the gun.

What in hell was I doing with this anyway?

I’d never even used it. Gotten it from some guy off the street years ago to protect myself and it’d been gathering dust all these years in the back of my closet.

Could I actually pull the trigger?

Could I really kill him?

Of course not.

What was I thinking?

I’d just lost it. Immersed myself in rage. That was it. I wasn’t in my right mind. I was so angry I’d just grabbed the gun and came here, wanting to kill him, wanting him gone and not thinking through a strategy. Not thinking about the actual act of murder. About watching the life drain out of someone all because of my actions.

No way could I do this.

I stared again at the man I used to admire.

At one time, I looked up to him and thought he was the greatest guy ever. The kindest, most compassionate person, who was quick to sense other people’s needs.

Part of me was really tempted to drop the gun and talk.

I mean, what created such evil in a human being? How did it grow and thrive when it was all so wrong? Why did he do it? What made him become a monster? Would he be open to turning himself in? To getting help?

On the other hand, what if I were wrong somehow?

What if he really was harmless?

No way. He couldn’t be.

You should own up to what you did, I barked out, my mind twisting back and forth. Stop playing innocent with me.

I am innocent, he said quietly. You must be mistaking me for someone else.

Had I done that? Had I really made an error?

No. He was playing me. He was a sick, twisted man. Absolutely despicable. It was a waste of my time even conversing with him. Seeing him like this, acting all naive-like, made me nauseous. I was a damn fool for asking him in the first place. I should have just taken him out the first moment I saw him.

But no matter how hard I tried to stop it, I couldn’t seem to prevent the trickle of uncertainty leaking through my thoughts. I shook my head. It was all in a confused muddle.

Please, he said again. Put the gun down and let’s talk. You can trust me. You always have in the past.

My hands shook even more, making the gun wobble back and forth.

Well, could I?

Could I do it? Could I really kill him?

You asked for an explanation, he said softly. At least give me the time to understand what you’re upset about. And explain.

Dammit.

The hurt look in his eyes did me in.

I knew hurt like that. I lived with it every single day of my life.

My shoulders slumped.

I couldn’t do it.

No matter what, I couldn’t pull that trigger.

As a matter of fact, I felt quite foolish standing here holding a gun. He was possibly a bad, dreadful man but I wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t go through with this.

My head started to clear. Reason tamped down my rage. I couldn’t believe I ever even entertained the thought that I could actually kill someone. I couldn’t. No way. Not when it got right down to it.

I sighed.

All right. I slowly lowered my arms, tears rolling down my cheeks. Explain yourself. I’ll give you five minutes. Then I was going to make a run for it. Get rid of this gun. Forget I was ever here. If he complained to the police, it was his word against mine. And I would deny every bit of it.

A rustle of clothing. A body flying through the air.

Oh no!

What the...?

Before I could even pull myself together, something hit me.

In a split second from hell, Jake Armstrong leaped at me, knocking me to the ground.

Bastard’d conned me. Convinced me we’d have a talk. A discussion. When all along he was planning his escape, to take me out.

As we fell, I felt him trying to grab the gun that’d hit the ground.

Nooooooo, I screamed, as I reached for it too. He was going to kill me. I just knew it.

I missed.

Flailing, I punched at his arms.

Bang!

It went off. The noise deafened me.

Was I shot? Was I hurt?

Nope. I felt okay.

His body went limp.

Damn.

I pushed and clawed until I was somehow able to crawl out from under him.

It was then I saw the blood.

Sickening. Putrid.

And the bullet hole right through his heart.

I hadn’t pulled the trigger. He must have done it when he got hold of it. But why would he shoot himself?

No, of course he didn’t shoot himself on purpose. Don’t be ridiculous. It must have gone off when we both scrambled for it.

An accident.

But why did he have to jump me?

I said I’d give him a chance.

A door slammed in the distance. I heard footsteps.

Someone was coming. Someone was screaming Jake’s name.

What should I do?

They wouldn’t believe my story. That I couldn’t shoot him in the end. That it was a fluke, a mishap, an accident.

They’d lock me away for good.

No way was I spending time in jail.

I had people depending on me.

I needed to get out of here quickly.

I pried the gun out of his hand, stuck it into the waistband of my pants and took off running.

I didn’t stop to look back.

No way.

I was out of there.

Pronto.

One

So did Jayson Armstrong kill his father, or not?

Many would say ‘yes,’ still believing Jayson pulled the trigger, even though he was acquitted for reasonable doubt. I was trying to keep an open mind. I’d stayed up late for days, poring over court documents on the trial and memorizing every piece of evidence the police had. That was easy to do. There wasn’t much. At all.

I paced back and forth in front of the window, fiddling with my hair, clasping and unclasping my hands, stopping in front of the small mirror on the wall to see if I had anything embarrassing caught between my teeth. I glanced down to make sure the Pepto Bismol stain was gone, left over from having chugged down a mouthful after eating a whole bag of Cheezies. The large size. I should know not to do that when I’m nervous. Heartburn is not pleasant, in the least. But good. No obvious pink tinge. Those handy spot removal sticks worked well.

Today was my day to meet Jayson for the very first time and I was anxious as anything.

I always imagined FBI agents to be calm and in control at all times. At least they were on TV and in fiction books. Yeah, right. I was one of them and I was far from that. I took a deep breath. Would my heart rate ever fall to normal range? Doubt it. I paced even faster.

Agent Ryan Leam was the one who had recommended me for the job, saying they wanted a fresh set of eyes on the case. And I was fresh as anything as I’d just completed a grueling twenty week training session at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Now I could add special agent to my resume along with high school psychologist.

This case was my first assignment and it was a doozy. A real, glorified mystery.

I’d been instructed to find out who killed ex-FBI agent Jake Armstrong, beloved principal of St. Michael’s High School in Erie, Pennsylvania. My hand brushed against the gun I wore strapped to my belt. A brand new Glock 22. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to wearing one, but had to admit I’d become quite adept at using it during the intense weeks of target practice. Hitting the bull’s eye almost every single time. Who’da figured that? Certainly not me.

A loud knock startled me out of my mini panic attack.

After one last glance in the mirror and a thumbs up for good luck, I quickly opened the door to a tall, thin man who wore a scowl almost as big as the Joker’s mouth in Batman. Huge as anything. He also had a shock of dark black hair that stood on end, instantly making me think of a Chia pet. I stifled an automatic giggle.

You must be Jayson, I said cheerily, planting a smile on my face. Come on in. I moved out of the way, as I beckoned him past the doorway.

Yeah, he grunted, giving me the once over, then storming past, looking around the room. Where’s this Sam guy who’s interviewing me and by the way I’d like a coffee. Black.

He must think I’m the secretary.

I quickly said, I’m Samantha Barclay, FBI agent. I’ll be conducting this interview. There’s coffee over there if you want any. Help yourself. I sat down behind the desk and waited.

Sam as in Samantha? he asked, looking shocked.

I nodded.

I’m being interviewed by a woman? His scowl deepened, if that were even possible.

Welcome to the twentieth century, Mr. Armstrong. Please take a seat when you’re ready, I said coolly, hopefully dripping icicles. I motioned to the one on the other side of my desk.

Well, it wasn’t really my desk. Ryan had set up this interview in the FBI field office in Richmond, Virginia, figuring it would be a neutral place to hold our first meeting. Apparently, Jayson had arrived yesterday and had met with Leam, having flown in from Erie, while I drove over from my hometown Paxton, West Virginia. The pretense was to interview Jayson to see if he had any knowledge of who killed his dad, when all along I was trying to size up whether he was the killer himself. As I mentioned. A real doozy.

Usually I preferred sitting across from someone I was interviewing without a desk as a barrier, but after his rude comment, I decided to establish rank. I needed to show him who was in charge. Getting him coffee? Nope. That would never happen. Not in this lifetime.

I crossed my arms and waited.

He stomped over to the coffeepot and took his time pouring the black brew into a mug, then grabbed one of the oatmeal muffins I’d brought and chewed slowly, staring off into space, making no eye contact whatsoever.

Staring intently, I flicked my eyes up and down, focusing on his lack of expression and body language, searching for more clues to his personality. Trying to read him. To at least get a baseline estimate. I knew he was rude, but what else could I discern?

I took in how pale, skinny and wired up he appeared. His whole body twitched constantly as if he had Parkinson’s, or was a drug addict or something. Maybe he was. But then again, being locked up in jail for months on end could sure mess with your head, let alone your body.

But was he a liar? Hiding the fact he had killed someone? Attempting to fool us all? To come out the victor?

Suspicions crowded my mind, easy to do when the guy was so obnoxious, as I took another sip of my coffee, waiting for him to sit down. He certainly didn’t exude any wide-eyed innocence.

Who are you again? he barked out, finally dropping down on a chair, a suspicious look on his face.

A slice of compassion rippled through me as I noted the weariness in his red-rimmed eyes. After all, he’d just been released from prison a week ago, and as far as he was concerned, he was wrongfully accused. No wonder he didn’t trust anyone. I wouldn’t, either. Especially when he knew the general consensus was that he was the right guy—the murderer. Just got lucky and got off.

Samantha Barclay, I repeated, keeping my voice soft and quiet. Judging from how fidgety he was, with his toes tapping and his fingers beating a drum on the table, he needed to relax. Badly. Maybe I could help that along by diffusing the situation with calmness. At least, it was worth a try.

And you’re an FBI agent? A woman? For real?

His eyebrows rose and the look on his face could only be termed disdainful. My compassion evaporated and I worked hard to prevent rolling my eyes but hey, how archaic was this?

Finding myself getting riled up and wanting to jump on a feminist crusade, I took a deep breath and let it out. This time I was the one who needed to calm down.

Yes, I am, I answered firmly, leaving no room for arguments. Now let’s get down to business. Do you mind if I tape this conversation?

If you have to.

I do.

Then why’d you ask me?

I ignored him as I leaned over and clicked on the start button, said my name, who was with me and the date and time.

So why were you arrested in the first place? I asked.

Damn cops. Idiots, if you ask me. Just trying to tie up a case and become heroes for finding a killer so quickly.

Did you really threaten your father?

I roughly knew the timeline, but wanted to hear his own version of events where I could observe him as well as catch his tone of voice.

Sure, I threatened him, he barked out, slamming his coffee cup down hard on the table. Don’t regret it one bit. Discovered he was cheating on my mother and I was angry as hell.

What exactly did you say?

Silence.

I watched as he continued to drink, looking everywhere else but at me. He had lousy eye contact. That was a fact. And often a sign of guilt. Not always, but worth taking note.

I thought again about what I knew about him. Hell, I probably had lots of time to reflect, as this interview might last all day, judging by the rocky start we’d had so far.

I knew he was a divorce and divorced lawyer, known as a cutthroat ally, especially if your mate had cheated on you. He was the go-to guy if you wanted to literally screw your deceiving spouse out of everything he or she owned. Hence, he was really busy, or at least he was before the arrest.

This your office?

I almost jumped hearing his voice. Seemed like eons since he’d said anything.

No. Just using the room to talk to you. So what did you say to your father? I said firmly, trying to get him back on track. That silence had gone on way too long.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked away.

Mr. Armstrong, I would appreciate it if you answer me, I clipped out.

He turned his head and glared for a few agonizing moments, but finally opened his mouth.

I told him if he didn’t break ties with that other woman, I’d kill him.

Did you mean it?

Of course not.

His stare gave truth to the saying, ‘if looks could kill.’

It was just a false threat, he added. We all say them. You can’t tell me you never have.

How did the police even know you threatened him? I’m sure your mother didn’t say anything. I ignored his attempt to drag me into his little scenario.

From the pizza delivery boy. It was a family tradition. Every Friday my parents ordered in and I happened to pop over to see them on my way to Pittsburg for a conference. I walked in to find my mother accusing my father of an affair and he was storming out the door. I yelled out the threat just as Jimmy Nelson was coming down the walk with supper. He heard my rant and told the police later, when my father was found dead.

I noticed his eyes were on fire. Guilt? Anger? Embarrassment?

Was he killed the same night?

No, the next day. He grimaced. He clenched his fists, looking on the verge of exploding. What are you doing? Playing dumb? You should know all this from the reports.

Ryan warned me that Jayson had a very explosive temperament. Apparently, his fits of rage often came out of nowhere and his mantra these days was ‘I’m going to hunt down the killer and make sure he’s put away for good.’ That was why Leam felt this case was urgent. He wanted me to find out who murdered Jake Armstrong ASAP before Jayson got himself into a heap more trouble. Or...we had a new victim. Especially if he were indeed the murderer.

What was your dad like?

Hard worker. Not home much. Lived life in a paranoid state.

He was paranoid? What makes you think that?

Oh, he was always worried someone was out to get him. He rolled his eyes. In hindsight, maybe concerned about his FBI days. That a convicted criminal would seek revenge. I don’t know. It was just damn annoying.

Sounds like you didn’t respect him much.

I hated him.

I blinked at his honesty.

No good times at all?

None.

Could you elaborate a bit more?

Nothing to elaborate about. He was an idiot.

So he couldn’t stand his dad and made no secret of that fact. It was definitely a good motive for murder and certainly worked against him.

How did you come about owning a gun? I asked quickly, trying to hurry him along before he shut down again. I knew his father had been shot last May while out gardening. Gruesome, but true.

Silence.

So was this how he won cases? Because I knew he had a high success rate. Did he just bore the hell out of them by taking long pauses in between his words? So much so that everyone just let him win to get the whole thing finished? I mean, I could go off and get my nails done, or take a jog and still arrive back for more of a pause before he spoke. It was like—what’s that saying—‘watching paint dry.’ I wanted to get up and start dancing around the room. Anything to relieve the stagnant interview going nowhere. Maybe it’d wake him up.

I sneaked a peek at my watch. Yep, lots of time to get back home for my meeting with Father O'Donnell. Thank goodness. I’d hate to miss it.

He took another sip of his coffee.

I wanted to scream ‘hurry up,’ but those huge bags under his eyes signaled little sleep and I was sure his patience was nil. Maybe that was the whole problem. He was just worn out. But I also couldn’t forget he could be a cold-blooded killer. Didn’t want to piss him off and have him going after me as his next