Murder Before Dawn

By V.L. Forrester

Detective SARA JENKINS witnesses the murder of her parents as a child. She finds love during the search for the killer while investigating a current murder and learns his shocking identity.
Giving up friendship and love to catch the killer of her parents the conflict of wanting love and a family, is not as strong as wanting to catch the killer. It is this struggle that drives Sara forward.
Since the tragic night on her fifth birthday, Sara has been haunted by flashbacks. She desperately wants to see the face of the killer so he can pay for what he has done. Yet she never sees the face during these episodes. She feels connected to the killer, but doesn't know how the connection applies to her.
Will Sara find love? Will Sara find the killer after twenty-five years? What does Sara learn that turns everything around in her life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.L. Forrester
• Release date: Mar 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476216010

Book preview

MURDER

BEFORE

DAWN

By V. L. Forrester

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 V. L. Forrester

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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PROLOGUE

He stood hidden in the tall hedge, cloaked in darkness at the edge of the property. The white house with green shutters on each side of the windows looked familiar. The red front door, illuminated by two brass lamps on each side, called out to him. There was an eerie silence as he watched the house. He felt strange—like he’d been here before. The house looked similar to a murder in his past. He felt he was back in time.

He felt his heart race with every breath he took. His palms began to sweat. His body was hot and cold at the same time. There was an anxious feeling within him, either because of the thrill of the kill or knowing this was the end of his revenge. The feeling was not new to him. He waited until it went away before he approached the house. He knew he had to finish what he’d started. Five doctors paid for taking his family away. This was the last one to pay.

He looked at his watch with the illuminated numbers and shook his head. It was approaching 5:00 A.M. on June fifth, and he knew it was the last time he would kill. This would be the last rush of excitement: an excitement that can’t be explained—only experienced. It wasn’t like the excitement of a surprise or a happy event. It was euphoria.

In twenty-five years no one had suspected him of the murders. He never left any evidence to link him to the other five. He was careful and he wouldn’t leave any clues this time either. He felt a smile come over his face; sly and crooked when he knows he got away with something. He thought about the past murders and how he’d gotten away with it. Confidence grew from one murder after the other. He felt a sense of pride. Only one person knew of the murders. He knew he would not talk.

His heart stopped racing, and his palms were dry. It was time to complete what he’d started. He always broke in through the front. This time the front light was on. His ego told him no one would see him. He decided not to change his way of entering.

Before leaving the darkness of the hedge, he looked at the houses up and down the street. He ran his hand through his thick, silver-gray hair. He was confident no one would see him. He pulled the ski cap over the top of his head but not down over his face. He walked quickly to the front door. The silence made him nervous as he stood ready to break in.

He dressed in black to blend in with the darkness. On his shoulders he carried a backpack and a rifle. From his right pants pocket he pulled out gloves kept in a plastic bag and pulled them on each hand. He reached up to the light on both sides of the door and loosened the bulbs until the lights went off.

The other pants pocket contained the covering for shoes, the kind worn in operating rooms. These were kept in a second plastic bag. Before pulling on the coverings, he wiped the bottom of his shoes in case any dampness from the grass left a residue. He put the rag back in the backpack and pulled on the shoe coverings. The darkness of the front door would make him invisible as he pulled out a new work jumpsuit from the plastic bag. The jumpsuit was also black.

If there was any evidence left, it would only be from the property, not from him. The backpack would be left behind the hedges by the front door to grab on the way out. He put the backpack in a plastic bag. Now he could enter the house without leaving evidence. He was confident no evidence would be found.

A tool with a short handle, and a slender stem coming out of the handle with a tiny flat end was pulled from his shirt pocket to pick the lock. He heard a click. He pulled the cap over his face before turning the doorknob but the door wouldn’t open. Son-of-a . . . they must have locked the door with the deadbolt lock. He said silently as he shook his head. He picked the deadbolt. Not an easy task. It took another five minutes until he heard another click. The door opened. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder, holding the strap and barrel with a firm grip as he stepped in with it under his arm.

He stood inside the doorway in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He could always see in the dark when no one else could. People always told him he had cat eyes. He listened for footsteps, snoring, or someone moving upstairs. There was nothing. He put one foot in front of the other until he reached the stairs. He looked up to the top—first left than right. Since the house was similar to his first kill, he wondered if the master bedroom was in the same place.

In his head he said, It must be. It’s the same layout. The memory of his daughter came to mind, and the anger was stronger than a minute ago. He thought of how she looked when she was little, and a tear came to his eyes. They’d robbed him of watching her grow, and now the end was near. Anger rose within him.

The one mistake he made was not finding out where the master bedroom was before tonight. There wasn’t enough time to plan this murder. It took longer to locate this doctor than the others. He shook his head as he scolded himself for the lack of planning. He was too involved with his family, and arrogant enough to think he could pull it off without as much planning as the others. Anyway, it was the last murder.

It was taking longer than he anticipated. He looked at his watch. It had taken him ten minutes to get this far. This was not good.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, he looked to the right, and there was a door to a room. He wondered if this was the master bedroom. There was a door just to the left of him, and another door after that. He decided to play his hunch that the master bedroom was the same as the first murder. So he turned to the left. He walked to the end of the landing with quick deliberate steps then stopped.

He stood at the door to listen for any sound coming from the room. Everything was silent. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it, careful not to make any sound. His heart was beating fast and the adrenaline pumping fast in his veins.

The door opened enough for him to see he’d made the right choice. The doctor and his wife were sleeping. No movement was made. They didn’t hear the door open.

He walked to the end of the bed and pulled up the rifle to aim. He felt a strange feeling wash over him, the same as the first time. The doctor made a movement to pull the cover up. He froze, thinking they would wake up. It didn’t matter one way or the other; he would kill them anyway.

It bothered him to look them in the eyes. It only happened on one murder, and he didn’t like it. It made it more real. On the other murders it was as if he was in another world, make- believe, a dream or a fantasy. Like this really wasn’t happening. He didn’t feel that way this time. This was real; there was no fantasy or dream. He shook his head to push the thoughts away.

Once the doctor was still again, and they were facing each other, he put the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the night scope. The excitement of the kill was a rush. Although he felt a rush during the kill, he had a deep low after. He knew it was wrong but he couldn’t let the doctors get away with taking his family away. He took two steps back and fired. Then he fired again and again, until four shots were fired.

He ran from the room, down the stairs, out the front door, and picked up the backpack as he stepped on the pathway from the house. He didn’t know if anyone heard the shots and didn’t want to take any chances. There would be no slip-ups, so he had to be careful. He thought to himself as he ran from the house. Even though no one could give a description of him, they might be able to give a description of his car.

His breath was heavy and rapid. Get away fast. Run. He kept running until he reached his car parked at the corner. He slid behind the steering wheel, put the key in the ignition, and started the car, then sat a minute trying to catch his breath. Boy! Don’t remember being this out of breath before. Must be my age. He didn’t have time to revel in the rush he was feeling. He had to get out of the area.

He was glad it was all over. He could feel the anger and rage leaving his body. He pulled away from the house and went to a wooded area not far from the murder. He removed the jumpsuit and grabbed the ski mask, gloves and shoe coverings, and buried them in a deep hole he’d dug the day before. The rifle and backpack were buried about twenty feet from the first hole.

The time was 5:30 A.M., and his wife would be waking up anytime to make coffee and get the kids off to school. He had to have an excuse why he was up so early. So he stopped to get donuts for breakfast. It would be his reason for being out of the house at this time of the morning.

He also wanted to get an early start for work. He’d drive by the Andersen house to see if anyone reported the incident. He wanted to see how many cop cars were on the scene, if there was any activity, and yellow crime scene tape. Mainly he wanted to see if Sara would be on the case.

CHAPTER 1

The question came to mind on my way to work. Who am I?

I was feeling strange, like I was outside of my body, looking in. I was going through the motions but my mind wasn’t here.

I know I’m Detective Sara Jenkins, thirty years old today, five-feet-seven inches, brown hair, green eyes, and a figure to die for—uh—well, maybe envy. But who am I really? I couldn’t answer the question. There was always a feeling of not belonging when I was little and as I grew older. I would always dismiss it, but this time I couldn’t.

The question brought back a memory of Mom and Dad. I was four years old, and I was sitting on dad’s lap one night when he came home early. I looked up into his green eyes that had a yellow around the pupil as my little hands ran through his black hair. He was tickling me, and I was trying to stop him. Mom came into the living room where we were. As she sat down on the sofa, her long hair fell over her face; then she brushed it back behind her ears—her hair reminded me of the color of chocolate. Then she started to tickle me. I remember laughing so hard tears were running down my face. The memory of her smooth face, blue eyes, and high cheekbones made my eyes water as I pulled into the precinct. My hands could still feel her soft skin. The ache was still in my heart.

As I walked into the Homicide Department, I smelled the sweet fragrance of flowers. The aroma made the room akin to a florist’s. Because the scent was stronger today than in the past, it reminded me of death, a death of twenty-five years ago. Maybe because I was reminiscing before I got here. I don’t know. I like flowers, but today the memory was stronger than on the other birthdays. All I want is to go on with my life. Another thing: why did the question come to mind, Who am I?

Happy Birthday, Sunshine. Well, the big Three-O today. Time is creeping up there, girl. Larry calls me ‘Sunshine’ because I don’t laugh much. There was only one thing on my mind—an obsession I can’t let go. I’m almost ready to let go, but not yet.

I stood looking at the flowers Larry brought me and a humorous card. There was also another arrangement of flowers. Who sent them? There was no card with the flowers. I don’t have a boyfriend or lover, so that was out of the question. I had a feeling of being watched. The hair on my arms stood up, and felt as if something was crawling under my skin.

Today is my thirtieth birthday. Thirty and single! I’m ready to let go of the obsession and get married. Before I can let go, something needs to come into my life to help me walk through the door. Otherwise, I would stand on the other side and look at it. Really!

Larry McDonald, my partner, is Irish to the core. His one goal in life, since I came to the division, is to get me married and then retire. I met Larry when I was five. He’s been a father figure to me since my father’s death. Meaning, he watches out for me. I never go to him with my problems. There was only one person I would confide in, my best friend Leslie. We grew up together and had a lot in common: the death of our parents.

When Larry was young, his hair was bright red, hence the nickname ‘Red’. Now he has gray hair, almost bald, with sparkling blue eyes that twinkle when he smiles. His skin is fair, and there is a hint of red in his eyebrows. Not much, but enough so that you could tell he’d had red hair when he was young. He is a romantic at heart.

My birthday was always a somber occasion, and he tries to make me laugh on those days, so he buys funny cards. Sometimes I’ll laugh and other times I won’t. Most of the time I try to throw out a giggle to make him feel good.

Yeah, yeah, I know the famous speech about finding someone to settle down with. When will you ever give up? It’ll happen when it happens. I have too much on my mind to think about falling in love and getting married. Yet it was exactly what I’d been thinking about the past few days.

Thanks for the flowers. You out did yourself this year. Do you know who sent the other flowers? Larry looked disappointed when I asked. In his mind he probably thought I was seeing someone and hadn’t told him. His expression changed to a concerned look. It made me start to worry.

No, I was the first one in this morning, and I didn’t see anyone around. The flowers were already on your desk.

I wonder who sent the other flowers. The goose bumps started forming on my arms and legs again. I could feel them through my clothes.

Larry asked with a puzzled look, You have a secret admirer? He smiled a big smile with one eyebrow raised and looked over the top of his reading glasses.

No, at least I don’t think so. Isn’t it why it’s called ‘secret’? He doesn’t want you to know who he is. But I’m going to find out who sent them. I knew it would be hard to find out the name of the florist without a card. Larry’s look changed from puzzled to hopeful. Poor guy! It seems he has been trying to marry me off for the longest time.

Larry and I were sitting at our desk when a call came in of a double homicide. Time was 7:00 A.M.

The weather was hot and humid. I wanted to wear something lightweight; therefore I’d decided on a navy blue cotton blazer today, a cotton blouse with blue pin stripes, and navy blue cotton slacks. I opted for short-sleeve instead of no sleeves. It’s my standard dress for work. Larry always wore a suit, no tie, but always a bow tie, and a crisp white dress shirt. The bow ties always made me laugh. I would chuckle every morning when I saw him. I think it’s why he wears them.

He had his top button unbuttoned with the bow tie hanging loose on one collar while he sat at his desk. As he stood up from his chair, he buttoned the top button of his shirt with one hand and clipped the bow-tie to the collar. He is always neat and tidy. That is his motto. His desk is never messy like mine, though I have an organized mess on my desk. He was always after me to clean it up.

We grabbed our jackets from the back of our chairs as Larry grabbed the sheet of paper with the address of the homicide. We weren’t given any specifics, only the address, but my stomach was turning flips. I felt there was something about this case that tied in to my past.

In my five years as a detective, I’d been called early in the morning dozens of times to investigate a homicide. My intuition brought back thoughts of twenty-five years to the day because of the time the call came in. There haven’t been any thoughts about the murder on any of the other cases connecting them to the memory of my fateful day. No case came close to the same M.O. Were the victims murdered in bed? Was a rifle used? Was the male victim a doctor?

My sister Jessica and brother Robert did not witness the murder. The sight of the intruder and the blood from Mom and Dad haunts me to this day. Jessica and Robert got over it. I did not.

Sara, stay with me? Don’t get lost in the past. Larry knew my thoughts went back to when I was little. He always seemed to know when I backtracked. No one at the department knew about my past or how connected I was to Larry.

I had always been a happy and inquisitive child, full of energy and loved life. After that horrific day, my innocence was gone. I no longer laughed. The death of my parents seemed to suck the life out of me, and for most of my life, no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t be happy.

I tried—believe me I tried—to be happy and laugh. I couldn’t find anything to make me happy. As the years passed, I wanted the killer caught, but the police had no evidence. The only thing they had was a hair found at the scene, just one tiny strand. There were no leads. No one hated my parents that they could find. They were both physicians, in different fields, and dad volunteered at a free clinic. The most frustrating part of all is I can’t do anything about it until a case comes along for me to open up the cold case file.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Larry staring at me. Did you have breakfast this morning? You look pale, like you’re going to pass out? Larry was the one who questioned me twenty-five years ago, on the morning of the murder. He was kind and thoughtful as he asked me questions, something I never forgot.

Larry kept in touch with me through the years, keeping me informed about any developments on my parents’ murder. In fact, he was the one who steered me to become a homicide detective.

What does it matter if I had breakfast or not? You know I don’t eat sometime. And yes, I had breakfast. Why?

I tried to think of anyone the police might have missed as they questioned my parents’ acquaintances about the murder. I didn’t know all the people my parents had contact with. I know I will get my chance to investigate one day. I know I will catch the perp, and see him behind bars. I had to do it for me, because I need justice for losing my parents so early in life. I had to do this for the children of the victims.

I went on to college, and happiness was still not found. It was in my sophomore year I decided to be a homicide detective. I was going to find the killer if no one else could.

As I said, you look pale, like you’re about to pass out. What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re off in another world. There was something about Larry’s demeanor that made me wonder if he knew more about this murder than he let on. I thought I knew him, but I’m beginning to have my doubts. He changed when we got the call. What does he know about this murder that I don’t?

I was off in another world, and I wondered what his problem was. I know I’m not my usual self today, and my intuition was in overdrive, but he was acting weird. Getting the flowers from someone unknown, being the anniversary of my parent’s death, and Larry acting strange brought my nerves to the surface of my skin. Since Larry investigated and questioned me twenty-five years ago, he knows more than he was telling me.

Larry and I pulled up to the address. The house was a carbon copy of the one I lived in until the age of five. I’m sure Larry noticed the same thing. He had to. It was impossible to miss.

We both sat in the car without moving for a few minutes. Larry looked over at me the same time I looked at him. We must have had the same thought and the same look on our faces. Yup, he noticed the resemblance. I could tell he didn’t want to go in.

Then he said with a deep sigh, Well, I guess we better get in there to see what happened. He reached for the door handle and got out of the car. I opened the door at the same time, and as I got out my stomach flipped. My heart started racing. I felt shaky, weak, and dizzy. My mind was numb.

The yellow crime scene tape was around the perimeter of the yard. It stretched along the hedges on the right side of the house, along the front, and up the driveway on the left side. We had to duck under the tape to make our way up the walk.

The path leading to the front door was old brick in a herringbone pattern. Walking on the bricks reminded me when my dad had laid a similar path in late spring when I was four. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Dad always did things around the house and in the garden. Dad also had a way with plants, which I, of course, did not inherit.

My body felt numb as I walked to the front door. I was in a dream yet wide awake. I had a woozy sensation and knew at any moment I would throw up. I felt the bile move from my stomach to my throat and swallowed to push it back down. My head started to spin, but I had to keep going. I had to put the memory of twenty-five years ago out of my mind.

It was déjà vu, and I didn’t want to walk into