Ghost: An Angela Masters Detective Novel

By Mike Worley

A young couple have what seems to be a comfortable life until one day when the husband returns home from work to find his wife brutally murdered in their apartment. Police find no signs of a break-in and the husband assures investigators that his wife was extremely cautious about home security. She wouldn’t open the door to someone she didn't know.
Witnesses report an unknown man in the area but efforts to locate him are frustrated. The case goes cold until a year later when another woman is similarly attacked and new information causes Detective Angela Masters to re-examine old theories. The pressure is on for her to locate the killer before he can strike again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Worley
• Release date: Mar 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310992674

Mike Worley

Police officer, investigations commander, chief of police, university instructor, national consultant. Mike Worley brings a varied background to his development of detective mysteries. On top of that, each of his stories contains elements of real cases, so there is built-in realism even though the stories themselves are fiction.Mike is a veteran of 34 years in law enforcement. His career spanned the ranks from patrol officer to captain in the Boise Idaho Police Department. He served as an investigative commander in both criminal investigations and in internal affairs. He was later selected to serve at chief of police in suburban Meridian, Idaho.Upon his retirement from active law enforcement, Mike continued to serve the law enforcement community for six years as an instructor and course coordinator for the Southern Police Institute, the in-service training arm of the Justice Administration Department of the University of Louisville. He also owned a national consulting practice focusing on issues regarding police policy.He is retired and lives in Louisville, KY with his wife, Nancy. When he's not writing, he is active with University of Louisville athletics, serving as the official scorer for Louisville Volleyball. He was also selected by the NCAA to score the 2010 Division II and 2012 Division I women's volleyball national championship matches. Additionally, he assists with media relations for basketball and football.He has written five novels in the "Angela Masters Detective Novel" series. The titles are "Retribution", "Grand Jeté", "Entitlement", "Ghost", and "Fire Storm." A sixth addition to the series, "Proven," is in development.

Book preview

Chapter One

Dee-Dah-Deeee. The Santa Rosa, California, Police dispatcher pressed a red button on the dispatch console which sent the three-note tone alert across all four radio channels. The tone told all officers that an emergency message was about to be broadcast.

Santa Rosa 225 and SR 221, see the man, a possible 187, Zinfandel Fields apartments, unit Frank 2. 225 and 221, your call is code three.

SR 225 enroute, Officer Jared Hagen acknowledged the assignment as he flicked on the emergency lights and siren.

221 copy and enroute, Officer Max Rapacon acknowledged as he also lit up his cruiser.

A 187 call, the California Penal Code designation for homicide, was a rare event in Santa Rosa so it spiked every officer’s attention level. 220 copy and enroute, Sgt. Ted Simmons spoke over the airwaves without prompting. A field supervisor was required to respond to such emergency calls.

The officers responded with emergency lights flashing and sirens knifing through the late afternoon hum. Even though the call was reported as a homicide, there was always the possibility that the victim might still be alive and medical attention could be urgently needed.

Hagen arrived first, parking in front of the G building, next to the F building. A few seconds later, Officer Rapacon arrived, parking in front of the E complex. The two officers cautiously approached the F building. The officers, familiar with the complex, knew that apartment F2 would be on the ground floor closest to the E building.

Standing in the parking lot outside apartment F2 was a 30-ish man with obviously fresh blood staining his white dress shirt and tie, and splattered on his hands and face. Two other people consoled him. As the officers approached, an older man, casually dressed, broke away from the group and approached them.

I’m Steve Beaudoin, Officers. I live in apartment E3. I came out when I heard a commotion outside and found Bob on his knees, screaming and crying in front of his apartment. That’s Bob Jensen there. He said he came home from work and found his wife murdered in their apartment.

Thank you, Mr. Beaudoin. Wait here please while we talk to Mr. Jensen, Hagen said. Beaudoin nodded his acknowledgement.

Mr. Jensen, I’m Officer Jared Hagen. Can you tell me what happened? Hagen placed his hand on the sobbing man’s shoulder, while Rapacon discretely stood watch. Seconds later, Rapacon saw the supervisor’s car wheel sharply into the parking lot and motioned for Sgt. Simmons to join them.

As Simmons approached, Rapacon moved to the woman who had been with Jensen. Can I ask you to step over here, ma’am? he said, leading the woman a short distance away. Simmons assumed the discrete observation of the area.

Oh my God, Officer. I can’t believe this has happened, Jensen said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Where is your wife, sir? Hagen prompted.

She’s … she’s in our bedroom in the back of the apartment. She’s on the bed and … Jensen broke into heaving sobs.

Hagen motioned to Rapacon to join him. Wait here, please, ma’am, Rapacon said to the woman.

Let’s check it out, Max. The sarge will stay with the vic’s husband.

Hagen and Rapacon entered the open front door of apartment F2, their guns drawn. The door opened into a living room which spanned the front of the apartment. Pale green carpet covered the floor. To the right of the front door, against the wall adjoining apartment F1, sat a couch upholstered in red velvet with white and black accents, clashing with the carpet.

A matching love seat sat against the back wall at right angles to the couch. A faux-wood coffee table rested in front of the couch, its narrow end almost reaching the love seat. An inexpensive print of Monet’s Impression, Soleil Levant in a chintzy frame hung on the back wall over the loveseat.

Across the room against the outside wall, a moderately sized television sat on another coffee table, which matched its counterpart. A few photographs in metal frames sat on the table near the TV.

This room looks clean, Hagen said, referring to the lack of evidence of criminal activity rather than the victim’s housekeeping skills.

Rapacon nodded and moved to a doorway next to the loveseat which opened to a hall. A short distance down the hall on the right, another doorway opened into the kitchen, the only room with a light on.

Hagen stood guard while Rapacon inspected the kitchen. He saw no one in the room, which seemed very warm to him. To the right, a small table topped with white Formica and its two matching chairs filled a tight corner of the room.

The young officer noted a tray of raw cookie dough overturned on the floor near the still-lit oven. A woman’s shoe rested on the floor near the cookie tray. Another sheet tray, this one holding baked cookies, rested precariously on the edge of the counter. Beyond the kitchen area was a small pantry and, further down a narrow passageway, a door which opened to the parking lot. No one else was present.

Clear, Rapacon said as he returned to the hallway.

On the left side of the hall, a door opened into a bathroom, which Hagen checked. The medicine cabinet was open and appeared to be in disarray, but otherwise the room was clear.

A few feet further, another doorway on the left opened into the bedroom. A few threads of the afternoon sun, peeking through the closed venetian blinds hanging at the lone window, provided the room’s only light.

Even in the dim light, the body of the woman on the bed was clearly visible. She was nude except for a pink bra pulled up above her breasts. She lay on top of the bedcover, a tan quilt, her baby-blue eyes staring blankly at the flocked ceiling. At least four stab wounds marred her torso, although no knife was readily visible. A disorganized pile of women’s clothes rested on the beige carpet near the side of the bed.

The woman’s arms and left leg had been tied to the corners of the bed frame with lengths of rough sisal rope. Her right leg was loose, but a length of rope leading from the bed corner and abrasions on her right ankle suggested that leg had been tied too, leaving her nearly immobile on the bed. A man’s necktie, red silk with a blue diagonal striped pattern, was looped loosely around her neck. Her neck showed signs of bruising.

The sight was bad enough for Rapacon, who had never before seen a violent death. Then his gaze drifted to something that seemed exponentially worse — a souvenir miniature baseball bat protruded from the victim’s vagina, a ‘Louisville Slugger’ embossed logo clearly visible on the bat’s exposed barrel.

Rapacon coughed and covered his mouth, willing himself to hold down the bile that surged in his throat as the sights mixed with the sickly smell of blood filling his nostrils.

Hagen placed two fingers on the side of the woman’s neck, checking for a pulse. There was none and the body was cold to his touch.

She’s been dead for a while. Then keying his portable radio, he said, Dispatch, 225. Confirmed 187 at my location. Request detectives and lab.

Hagen and Rapacon carefully retraced their path out of the room. Further examination of the victim and the scene would wait for the investigators.

Chapter Two

Detective Angela Masters was no stranger to death, even though Santa Rosa was a relatively safe town and homicide was still a rare occurrence. At 38, the tall blonde looked as fit as she did as a college athlete nearly 20 years earlier. She had been an investigator in the Violent Crimes Unit for more than five years.

And today, August 20, 1986, marked her fifteenth anniversary as a police officer. Some of her fellow officers had planned an anniversary party at O’Halloran’s Ale House. At 6:00 p.m., she was about to leave for the party when the voice of her supervisor, Sgt. Michael Garrison, boomed from his office.

Angi, Julie, we have a call. The life of an investigator is not a nine-to-five job, and Masters’ new destination would be the furthest thing from a party.

187 at the Zinfandel Fields apartments, number F2. Primary officer on scene is Hagen. Angi, you take lead, the supervisor said.

Julie Phelps had been a violent crimes detective for only a few months less than Angi. Either of the women was qualified to serve as the primary investigator on a homicide. In Santa Rosa, it was customary for the supervisor to assign different investigators as the lead detective. On this case, Masters would be in charge, with Phelps assigned to assist her. The detectives drove separately to the Zinfandel Fields apartments.

Zinfandel Fields was a middle class housing complex on the east side of Santa Rosa. Officers occasionally responded to the complex on minor theft and domestic squabbles, but it was generally considered to be in a safe area. Neither detective knew of a single homicide previously occurring in the complex or even in its surrounding area.

When the detectives arrived, parking in the front lot near the F building, Angi noted a gathering crowd of a hundred or so. The detectives approached Officer Hagen together to get a preliminary briefing.

It’s nasty — nothing like I’ve ever seen before, Angi. Hagen nodded to Phelps in acknowledgement.

What do we have, Jared? Are all these people witnesses?

No. At least not that I know of. Word spread like a Santa Ana wind that there had been a murder and people started coming out of their apartments to see what was going on. There were only a couple people here when we arrived. He pointed out Beaudoin and the woman who had been standing with Bob Jensen when he arrived.

That’s the victim’s husband, standing there with Sgt. Simmons. Name’s Jensen, Bob Jensen. Says he came home from work and found his wife murdered. That’s about all I got from him before Max and I cleared the apartment. Afterwards, I thought it was best to stay away from him so he wouldn’t be pressing me with questions until you got here.

Thanks, Jared. Could you make sure we have video?

I’ll take care of it myself.

Video? Rapacon asked.

We always videotape crowds of onlookers at violent crime scenes. It is not unusual for the perpetrator to return to the scene, blending in with the curious throng to see what is being done in the investigation. Many suspects have been identified through those videos, Hagen replied.

Rapacon nodded.

Jules, why don’t you take the witnesses and I’ll talk to the victim’s husband, Angi said.

Julie nodded and moved towards Beaudoin and the unidentified woman.

Sgt. Simmons nodded an acknowledgement to Angi and then moved away.

Mr. Jensen, I’m Detective Angela Masters, Angi said, extending her hand as she approached the man.

Struggling to contain his emotions, Jensen shook Angi’s hand weakly. I’m Bob Jensen, Detective.

I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Jensen. Is there someone I can call for you? The questions could wait for a few minutes.

Thank you, Detective. The sergeant already called Amanda’s sis … Jensen’s voice cracked and he broke into heaving sobs.

Let it out, Mr. Jensen. Our questions can wait for a while. Angi’s concern was real but she was also carefully watching Jensen’s reactions. In a homicide, the spouse is always considered a suspect. Angi was alert for any sign that Jensen might not be the grieving husband he was portraying.

No. No, Jensen said as he choked back his tears. I want you to catch the bastard who did this. What can I tell you?

Tell me about your wife, sir.

Her name is … was … Amanda. Amanda Michelle Janes Jensen. She was only 27 years old. We’ve been married for three years.

Do you have children?

No. We’ve talked about adopting but now … The thought sent the man back into heaving sobs.

Tell me about Amanda, Angi encouraged as Jensen composed himself.

She is … was very careful. That’s why I don’t know how this could have happened. She always kept the doors locked even when she was home. Jensen paused, his face a mask of reflection and sadness. I was worried from the moment I got home because the front door was standing part way open. Amanda would never have left the door that way unless something was wrong or she was right there letting someone in or out.

We’ll check for any sign of a break-in, Mr. Jensen. Tell me, is there anyone who might want to hurt Amanda?

No, not at all. She worked part time for a bank – United Federal — but this was one of her days off. She was just planning on doing stuff around the house and then we were going to go out for dinner when I got home.

Has she mentioned having problems with anyone? Maybe a bank customer or someone else she may have met?

She never mentioned anything like that. She was a great girl and everyone who knew her loved her. Why would anyone do that to her?

Is there anything else that you can think of that might help us, Mr. Jensen?

No, ma’am. I have no idea who would do something like this, but please find him.

I think I have a good picture of Amanda and her day. That’s all I need for now. I’ll be talking to you again soon, and feel free to call me anytime. Angi had seen nothing yet which put Jensen on her radar as a suspect.

Just as Angi handed Jensen her business card, a car screeched to a stop in the middle of the parking lot. A woman about Jensen’s age emerged from the car, leaving the engine running and the driver’s door open. She sprinted across the parking lot, tear-soaked mascara streaming down her face, and embraced Jensen.

What happened, Bob? How could someone do this?

This is Amanda’s twin sister, Anne, Jensen told Angi.

I’ll leave you two alone for a few minutes while I check out some things. Let Sgt. Simmons know if there’s anything you need.

Bob Jensen nodded as he and Anne held each other, sobbing.

Angi nodded to Simmons, who motioned to another officer to stand by with the couple.

Now it was up to Angi and Julie to analyze the scene for clues – clues which would bring Amanda Jensen’s killer to justice. It would be anything but a TV-show-length case solution.

Chapter Three

Anything from the witnesses? Angi asked as Julie approached her.

Nothing useful. They both heard the husband screaming and came to see what was going on, but didn’t see anyone else around. The man, Beaudoin, was in his apartment in the next building. He heard the screams through an open window. The woman - her name is Patty Campbell — who lives upstairs in the apartment above the victim’s, was just getting home from shopping and was in the parking lot when she heard it. Neither one has seen anything suspicious today or recently.

OK. Let’s have some unis start knocking on doors. Most people should be home right now. But they can start with them. Angi indicated the group of spectators who had gathered outside the yellow plastic tape, emblazoned with ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Enter’ which uniformed officers had strung to contain the scene.

Angi contacted Sgt. Simmons, who would direct the area canvass. Then she joined Julie at the front door of the victim’s apartment. In the Zinfandel Fields apartments, the ‘front door’ actually faced away from the front on the complex and toward the interior of the group of buildings.

The idea of the builders was that the arrangement provided a view of the common spaces rather than the street and parking lot. It also was intended to provide a measure of security in that the front of almost any apartment was visible from any other.

Julie knelt and inspected the door and its frame for any signs of forced entry.

Anything?

No, not a mark. If this is how the killer got in, either the door was unlocked or the vic let him in. The knob is locked now, though.

From what the husband told me, the vic was very cautious. He claims she always kept the door locked and wouldn’t open it for anyone she didn’t know. So, maybe she knew her killer.

Angi nodded and Julie entered the apartment. Angi stepped in and both women paused to allow their eyes to acclimate to the dimness which crept through the apartment with the setting sun. As yet, they didn’t want to turn on any lights nor otherwise disturb the scene.

I don’t see anything that looks out of place here, Angi said.

Julie nodded. If she struggled with her attacker, it wasn’t in this room, echoing the assessment of the uniformed officers.

The investigators moved through the doorway and into the central hallway, alert for any signs of a struggle or any other bookmarks pointing to what had happened in the unpretentious apartment.

The kitchen caught their attention first as it was the only room with lights burning. Phelps moved cautiously toward the overturned cookie tray, noting blobs of raw cookie dough littering the floor. The oven door was partially open and Phelps noted that its temperature dial was set to 350 degrees.

Looks to me like she was baking cookies and was about to place a fresh batch in the oven when she was attacked.

Angi nodded in agreement, pointing to the single woman’s shoe on the floor near the overturned cookie tray. "I also don’t think