Not One of Us Read online

  “You ready for this?” Joe paused at the open bedroom door, and I nodded, squaring my shoulders and then following him into the room.

  My mouth tingled with the metallic odor of blood and decay. I registered the details up close—the pattern of blood and brain splayed on the white bedsheets and the beige wall behind the bed. Bullet holes grazed the torn flesh of his scalp. A half glass of water undisturbed on the nightstand, a worn Bible open beside it. Scuffed leather motorcycle boots neatly tucked under the bed’s edge. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt folded onto a rocking chair in the corner.

  “Jesus,” Oliver muttered, scurrying to the body.

  No one could have survived this devastation, and the cops had already checked, but Oliver’s large hand touched the side of the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. In the heartbeat of silence that followed, I continued scanning the room, searching for a discarded gun or anything the killer might have dropped. On the dresser was an empty whiskey bottle and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. A pair of dirty socks lay on the linoleum floor. A cardboard table in the far corner sported a baggie of what appeared to be marijuana and several prescription pill bottles. I picked my way over and bent close, reading the labels for opiates prescribed to Letitia Strickland. I glanced again at the baggie, distaste shuddering through me as I remembered that night and the one time I’d indulged in smoking weed, at Jackson’s urging. Look where that had got me.

  Joe straightened and removed his hand. “Don’t touch anything,” he said, turning to address me.

  I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes. “Gee, thanks, I wouldn’t have known that. I don’t see any wound other than the obvious gunshot to the head,” I noted, proud of my level tone. “No sign of a struggle. Wonder if he was shot in his sleep?” That would be the most merciful way to go. To never see it coming. I’d rather go that way, to not have to face the horror of a killer pointing a gun at my face. I wouldn’t want to be sentient in my last moments, impotent and frightened as I stared into the hate-filled eyes that would be my last sight on earth.

  Oliver’s take was different, immediately homing in on the killer and his mindset. “Cowardly, cold, and calculating.”

  “Just the way he shot his victim in the back of the head all those years ago,” I mused aloud.

  “Poetic justice.”

  “A revenge killing, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” he agreed grimly.

  More voices rose from outside, drifting in from the open window. I strolled over and looked into the yard. “Forensics has arrived.”

  Two men and a woman cut through the gathering spectators. They carried evidence kits and cameras, their hands already gloved, their hair covered in nets to prevent shedding and adding to the proliferation of DNA the old house was bound to contain.

  “Take a good, long, last-second look around. It’s about to get chaotic,” Oliver advised.

  Involuntarily, my attention drifted to the nightstand and the open Bible. I walked to it and leaned over, curious as to what might have been the last thing the victim ever read. A dirty crocheted cross lay across the thin, yellowed pages. A few verses were underlined. My eyes drifted over the markings, settling on the verse underlined twice in a bold black pen:

  Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly. Deuteronomy 32:35.

  Vengeance. Calamity. Doom. The printed words rumbled through my mind, and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck bristled.

  The kitchen’s storm door opened and banged shut. Footsteps approached down the hallway. An older man dressed head to toe in a white suit stood in the doorway and cast a quick, impassive glance at the scene, then gave a low whistle. “Bad one, eh?”

  “Worst I’ve seen in years,” Oliver agreed, then gestured at me. “This is Deputy Blackwell. She’ll be assisting me in the investigation.”

  Despite the horror of the body only a few feet away from us, I couldn’t help the burst of pride and excitement Oliver’s words sent through me. I wouldn’t let him down.

  The rest of the forensics team entered the room and immediately set to work. Camera flashes strobed the room, highlighting the gore in vivid detail.

  Dempsey nudged my elbow as I swept past him to go speak with Reba Tankersley. He leaned into me, keeping his voice low and confidential. “Hey there . . . Big Easy.”

  I’d had a long, long time to learn how to mask my reaction at the old nickname. I didn’t blink or tense a single muscle. “At least I had the good taste not to screw you,” I answered with a practiced, slightly contemptuous upturn of my lips.

  Anger flushed his already-ruddy face, and he barked a laugh that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Touché,” he grumbled.

  Oliver entered the hallway, and we both turned.

  “There’s justice for ya,” Dempsey said. “The man Ray killed years ago was a rough son of a bitch by all accounts, but he was only sixteen. A kid. Someone around here figured an eye for an eye. That Ray should suffer the same fate as his victim.”

  “Vigilante justice will get you the death penalty same as a random murder,” I noted drily. “Nothing we can ever condone. Murder is murder.”

  “Course,” Dempsey agreed, but his back stiffened, and he drew away. “Just sayin’ Ray might have had this coming to him, that’s all. He was a low-life scum who lived life on the edge.”

  I didn’t respond. If Dempsey had even the slightest peek inside my mind, he’d be shocked. Because as far as I was concerned, Raymond Strickland was a fucking hero.

  For a microsecond, displeasure crossed Oliver’s face, but he quickly suppressed it, and I doubted Dempsey even noticed. My estimation of Joe Oliver grew. Whether or not Strickland was considered a scumbag victim by others in law enforcement, Oliver sincerely believed in justice and the sanctity of life. Perhaps the fact that I recognized and approved of his old-fashioned values is why he’d chosen to lift me from property crimes and minor thefts to work alongside him.

  “Why don’t you escort Mrs. Tankersley to her home and interview her further?” Oliver asked me, completely ignoring Dempsey. “I’ll talk to the neighbors gathered outside and then join you over there.”

  “Gotcha,” I agreed, hastily putting space between me and Dempsey. I took a final look at the home’s interior as I entered the den. The furniture was shabby, but brightly colored afghans were draped over tattered cushions. White lace doilies were placed under lamps, and an old-fashioned braided rug centered the area. A small collection of cobalt-blue bottles lined the front window shelf, and two healthy peace lilies anchored either side of the window. Beside a rocking chair was a basket holding skeins of red and yellow yarn, and knitted rows were loaded on the needles, as though waiting for their creator to pick up the project again and finish. A framed counted cross-stitch hung nearby, the serenity prayer painstakingly crafted.

  All was tidy, and the atmosphere cozy and warm—unless you were aware of the grisly scene tucked away in the back bedroom. I imagined Mrs. Letitia Strickland as the kind of older woman who made her guests feel at home with a cup of coffee and freshly baked cookies. Her son Raymond must have been a huge disappointment and a constant source of heartache.

  I thought of my own kids, Linsey and Luke. Fifteen-year-old twins, now sophomores at Erie County High. A vulnerable age, right on the cusp of danger. If I had the money and aptitude, I’d homeschool them, keeping both kiddos tucked safely inside our home under constant supervision. No learner’s permit. And dating? Out of the question until they’d graduated college, at least. My lips curled in a wry smile. Good thing I didn’t have unlimited funds and time—they’d chafe under my overprotective nature.

  I stepped onto the back porch and scanned the crowd for Mrs. Tankersley. She held forth between two other women, dabbing her eyes with the hem of a floral apron and shaking her head. “I just knew something was wrong,” she wailed. “I had a premonition and came straight over this morning.”

&n
bsp; Her words gave me pause. I didn’t believe in premonitions and omens. Either the woman was being dramatic for an audience, or something in the normal routine of this sleepy street had subtly shifted, alerting her that all was not right. I’d dig it out of her.

  “Mrs. Tankersley?” I said, striding up to the little group. “Deputy Blackwell. I’d like to speak with you.”

  She puffed up with importance and lifted her chin. “I expect you do. Seeing as I’m the one who called you out here and all.”

  One of the women standing beside Reba, her head also plastered with sponge hair curlers—who didn’t use hot appliances these days?—patted Mrs. Tankersley’s shoulder. “You call me later, Reba,” she gushed. “I want to hear everything.”

  I bet she did.

  I cocked my head to the right and lifted a thumb, gesturing for us to move away. Reba fell in alongside me. “Let’s walk to your place,” I suggested. “You’ll be more comfortable and perhaps recall some small detail that can help us.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. Never cared much for Ray, God rest his soul, but Letitia was a fine woman. A good neighbor.” Her eyes dried, and she shot me a sidelong glance as we crossed the dirt road. “Ray must not have died of natural causes?” she asked, prodding for information. “I mean, if he had, y’all wouldn’t have sent for those men from Mobile.”

  No harm in telling her the truth about that, at least. “Appears he was murdered,” I conceded.

  Reba licked her lips. “Gunshot?”

  It was time for me to be the one asking questions. “Did you hear anything last night?”

  “Only his motorcycle. Like I told the police earlier, it must have been close to eleven o’clock. I’d finished watching the ten o’clock news, taken a bath, and tidied up in the kitchen, same as always.”

  “Anyone with you?” I pressed.

  “Lawd, no.” She gave a breathless laugh. “My Ralph died near five years ago. Heart attack.” Her tone turned wistful. “I been alone ever since.”

  I understood that tone. Sometimes, when I woke in the middle of the night or the twins had gotten on my last nerve, I missed Josh—until I remembered the final year of our marriage. All the lies, all the betrayals and anger and pain. Then I’d assure myself that I was much better off alone.

  We reached her house, and she invited me inside, urging me to take a seat. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “Just water, if you don’t mind.”

  While Reba bustled about the kitchen, I studied her living room. Her decor was surprisingly modern, with leather furniture and an expensive large-screen TV banked against the opposite wall. Interesting that her choice in personal grooming was not. Besides the pink sponge hair rollers, I noted a jar of old-fashioned cold cream on the coffee table. She returned with a glass of water, and we sat opposite one another on each end of the couch.

  “You stated that you heard Mr. Strickland’s motorcycle about eleven last night. Do you think it could have been another motorcycle? Another driver?”

  Reba shook her head, removed her scarf, and began snatching the rollers from her hair with trembling hands. “I must look a fright. Didn’t realize I’d end up being seen like this by the whole neighborhood.” The rollers fell into the lap of her floral muumuu.

  “This must be difficult for you,” I said. “But I need you to focus on the events of last night. For Mrs. Strickland’s sake.”

  Her eyes filled with tears as she ran a hand through the tight curls. “Of course. Letitia would want her son’s killer caught.” She drew a shaky breath. “It was Ray’s motorcycle. I looked out the window and checked. I get nervous here living alone at night. Ya know?”

  “I understand. Was he alone on the bike? Was another vehicle following him?”

  “Not that I noticed. I only peeked out the window once and then went to bed.” She bit her lip. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

  “Go on,” I urged.

  “I guessed he’d been drinking. The bike weaved a bit on the road, and when he turned in the driveway, he lurched it to a stop.”

  “Did you observe him go into the house?”

  Her face flushed slightly. “I did. Just wanted to make sure he got in safe. The front porch light was on, as always. Ray tripped on the first step but didn’t fall. Took him a minute, but he fished keys out of his pocket and stumbled in the door.”

  This was more than the quick peek out the window she’d originally claimed. “Were there any lights on inside the house before he arrived?” I asked, wondering if someone had been waiting, hidden, for Ray’s return.

  “No, the house was dark. Hadn’t seen or heard anyone pass by, either, except for Tillman Ragsdale and his wife driving by after a night out.”

  “And after that?” I prodded. “Did Mr. Strickland turn on any lights?”

  “I don’t know. Once he went in, I went to bed.”

  “You didn’t hear anything else the rest of the night?”

  “Nothing. I sleep like a well-fed baby,” she admitted. “But when I woke up this morning, I got to thinking. What if Ray had fallen and hurt himself last night in the house? He’s usually up early and sits out on the porch to smoke. Letitia never let him smoke in the house, and I was glad to see he still honored her wish.”

  “But this morning, he wasn’t outside, and that alarmed you.”

  “That, and like I said before, I had a premonition. Just like I had when Letitia had a heart attack, and again when—”

  I cut her off as I pulled out a business card with my contact information. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Tankersley. If you recall anything new, please give us a call.”

  “Of course.” She glanced at the card as she palmed it in her shaking hand. “Don’t mind admitting I’m nervous knowing a killer was so close by. What if he comes back? What if he knows I’ve been talking to you?”

  “You didn’t see anyone. There’s no reason you should be in jeopardy. If it makes you feel better, we’ll have a police patrol make periodic drives by your house the next few nights.”

  She nodded and swiped at the sudden swelling of tears. “I know Ray’s been in lots of trouble. Done some bad things. But I remember when he was just a tiny boy. Always so polite. Full of mischief too—the harmless kind,” she hastened to add.

  It heartened me that someone had a kind word for Raymond Strickland. That another soul besides his dead mother would care that he’d left this world. I exited Reba’s house in time to meet Oliver crossing the street. I filled him in on our conversation, and he nodded thoughtfully.

  “That matches up to what another neighbor relayed. He saw Mr. Strickland drinking last night at Broussard’s Pavilion. Claims Strickland got in a fight there last evening with several men who threatened to kill him.”

  My first murder case might turn out to be easy to solve. With any luck, we’d have an arrest by nightfall. If so, I’d be sure to call Reba and let her know. “Who were these men?” I asked, curious if a name might be familiar.

  Oliver pulled the notes up on his phone. “Tommy Sims, Eddie Yaeger, Jayrod Booker, and Alden Knight. From what I gather, Sims was the ringleader. We’ll check him out first.”

  A ball of dread formed in my gut. As if running into Dempsey this morning hadn’t been bad enough. Now I’d have to face more men I knew from high school, one of whom I had a past with. An intimate past. I shook off my misgivings. This wouldn’t be the first time. And if they were jerks like Dempsey—which they likely were, if they’d been involved in a bar fight—then that was their problem, not mine. I knew when I went into law enforcement that situations like this were bound to happen.

  We climbed in the cruiser, and while Oliver drove, I obtained Tommy’s address: 1649 Mulder Drive. I was familiar with the area, located only a couple blocks past Main Street. We proceeded into the older, historic part of town, neighborhoods that featured charming cottage homes with white picket fences and well-manicured lawns and gardens. But three streets over and down, the older hom
es were ill kempt and falling into various degrees of disrepair and neglect. Peeling paint, broken shutters, and rusted vehicles in the yard were the norm. The more wrecked the house, the greater mass of accumulated junk littered the front porch and driveway.

  Tommy Sims’s place was about the worst of the worst. From the windows hung with ugly sheets as curtains to the unfortunate lime-green shade of the shutters and trim, its general air was one of neglect.

  The doorbell didn’t work—no surprise—and it took several minutes of loud rapping on the front door before a dispirited woman grudgingly opened it. She looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed with her short hair sticking up at awkward angles. Her sleepy eyes instantly widened in alarm at the sight of us.

  “We’re with the Erie County Sheriff’s Department,” Oliver informed her. “Is Mr. Sims available?”

  Without bothering to answer, the woman stepped away, yelling for Tommy. A deep baritone sounded from inside, the words indecipherable.

  But the woman’s shrill voice was not. “Cops are here,” she proclaimed. “What the hell have you done now?”

  More unintelligible mumbling.

  “Tell ’em yourself,” she yelled. A door slammed inside.

  Oliver and I exchanged a wry glance. Marital harmony this was not.

  Tommy appeared at the door, eyes wary and pulling a faded T-shirt over his beer belly. A red welt streaked across the left side of his face. That must have been some bar fight. “Yeah?” he asked by way of greeting.

  The years had not been kind to him. In high school, he’d been a tall, lean baseball pitcher with longish brown hair and a chiseled jaw. I’d been thrilled when he’d paid attention to me one day at school and had foolishly agreed to meet him at the bleachers after his game that night. Turned out he’d been interested in only one thing. I’d discovered this at school the next day when he and his buddies had walked right past me in the hallway as though I were a nobody. Even worse, it became apparent in the days and weeks that followed that he’d run his mouth about what went down between us. I credited Tommy for the “Big Easy” nickname, which had stuck to me like superglue the rest of the year.