Two for the Price of One: A Billy Michaels Mystery

By David Spence and Jim Spence

A young woman is found murdered in an expensive apartment near the top of a New York City high rise. Her name was DeeDee Miller, the daughter of a West Virginia coal mine owner. She was a friend to everyone and appeared to have no enemiesso who would want her dead? Young detective Billy Michaels is given her casehis first assignment.

As he begins to consider the evidence, Billy receives a visit from a private investigator named Walter Gumm. Walter used to be a detective, and twenty years before DeeDees murder he investigated a similar crime with equally mysterious circumstances. The killer was never found, and Walter has a feeling Billys perpetrator might be the same man from twenty years ago.

For some reason, Billy is blocked on all sides. His investigation stalls as he is thwarted by politicians, socialites, and even his own police force. Who would want to cover up the murder of DeeDee Miller? It must be someone with something to hide. Billy wont let this case remain unsolved. Failure is not an option but Billys ambition might cost him his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475918601

David Spence

Jim and David Spence, two of a set of three brothers, have written individually for many years. They have been previously published in novel form as well as in periodicals, newsprint, and on websites. This is their first collaborative effort, and it won’t be their last.

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Copyright © 2012 by Jim and David Spence.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-1859-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1861-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1860-1 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 05/09/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

New Year’s Eve

December 31st

New Year’s Day

January

1st

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Monday

January

2nd

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Tuesday

January

3rd

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Wednesday

January

4th

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Thursday

January 5th

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Friday

January 6th

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Sat urday

January 7th

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sunday

January 8th

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Tuesday

January 10th

Eighty

Wednesday

January 11th

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Sleep Well, DeeDee

Eighty-Three

About the Authors

For our mother, Jewell Vivian Chapman,

who made all of this possible.

We love you, Mom.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Tyler Jacob for keeping the child in me alive, to Nichole for keeping me grounded, to Brad and Chet for rocking my world, to John and Stella and Walter and Mildred for passing on such incredible genes, to my father for loving me in spite of myself, and to Correy for always believing in me.

And thanks to David and Johnny for allowing me the incredible honor of being their big brother.

I love you all.

Jim

* * *

Thanks to my loving wife Neva, who proves every day that I at least did one thing right… I married the best woman in the world. Even more, she gave me my beloved daughter, Lynsey, who takes my breath away every time I think of her. You both will never know how much I love you.

My thanks also to Dee, for giving me the push to actually do this.

To Jimi and Johnnie… I am never really sure if we are Athos, Porthos and Aramis or Moe, Larry and Curly… but what I am sure of is I’m glad you are my brothers, and I will love you forever.

David

Introduction

By John Spence

It’s hard for me to imagine how difficult it is to invent a story set in a dreamed up world with characters and circumstances that are figments of the author’s imagination, blended with known facts and locales in a believable and interesting way. I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast, so trying to create a story while maintaining continuity between characters, their locations, and the events that make up the story seems ridiculously difficult. Writers in general, and my brothers here in particular, have to juggle numerous people, places, objects, outcomes and expectations, all in a manner that keeps the reader inside of the story.

They have done that and more. They have carried this out in a way that keeps the reader invested in their characters. I don’t like all of their characters, but the fact that I am thinking of them as people, who I have feelings about, means my brothers have done their job and drawn me into the story.

Some detective novels are not really mysteries and read like copies of TV dramas; some read like the author is following a proven formula and were written purely for profit; some are easily read and easily forgotten.

This novel reads like a labor of love.

New Year’s Eve

December 31st

New Year’s Day

January 1st

One

I have to be the luckiest person in the entire world.

As the cool air from her personal wine chiller washed over her naked body, this thought came to her again. It wasn’t the first time she’d had it; in fact, in the months she had lived there, enjoying the view, she had thought the same thing many times. To come from a small coal town in southern West Virginia to such a wonderful apartment in New York City was certainly a ‘fairy tale’ in the making.

She took the bottle of wine and two glasses to the couch, to watch the city below her, as she waited for him to join her for their celebration. She poured herself a glass and began to reminisce about the first time she’d met him.

Having seen his face on television, she knew who he was before he even got to her desk. He looked more handsome in person then he had on the screen, and when he smiled at her and asked if Johnnie Mac was available, she fell in love instantly. Eventually she was able to pull herself together long enough to buzz Mr. McFarland and get his permission to send him on in.

When he came out he stopped and talked for over an hour. He wanted to know all about her… where she was from, where she went to school, what she did for fun… and then he spent another ten minutes telling her all about himself. When he left, he told her he would see her again soon, but she just thought it was the politician in him talking. She had just started her new position at work, the same week she was to headline a play at NYU, and was surprised to find a bouquet of four-dozen roses backstage on opening night; and he was there to congratulate her.

Eventually he asked her to dinner. She knew he was married, but she couldn’t resist. They talked about themselves, their families, and their plans for the future… just two friends sharing their most secret thoughts and dreams. When he took her home, he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. It was a perfect night.

The next day she had flowers sitting on her desk.

When he first began to talk about getting her an apartment, she resisted. He then began to bring her brochures to browse, but she still said no. Eventually he quit asking. Then one night he picked her up for dinner and took her to a ‘private dining room’. He hadn’t told her it was the dining room in a penthouse apartment overlooking the park, the most beautiful view she had seen since she had moved to the city. She knew she would say yes when he asked again for her to keep the apartment. In a month’s time it felt like home to her; soon after it seemed like home to him as well.

Thanksgiving arrived before she knew it. She flew home for the holidays and didn’t return until the first week of December. She worried the time apart might cool his ardor, but when she returned he met her at the door and took her in his arms, and it was like she had never been away.

Next came the most perfect Christmas day ever. Not only did she awake to breakfast in bed, but he also spent the entire day with her… and the final gift she received that night was the cap to a perfect holiday. As he handed her an engagement ring, he said, I want you to be my wife… to always be there for me, and I will always be there for you. Of course, she said, Yes.

Then came his New Year’s party. Traditionally held on the night of the 30th, he and his wife hosted one of the biggest events in the city, and this year would be no different. He told her this would be his final act, that after the party he would tell his wife he was leaving her, and would then come to spend New Year’s Eve with her. They would welcome in the New Year together, and never be apart again.

This is why she was sitting in the dark, nude, sipping wine and enjoying the view from her window. Her window… she could finally say that.

She heard the door softly open and footsteps walk across the floor toward her. They stopped behind her, and slowly her hair was pulled back, behind her shoulders, removing the only obstruction to a view of her perfect breasts.

Do you like what you see? she asked, but before finishing her question she felt a pull across her throat, and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Bright spots began to flash before her eyes, as the pressure in her chest grew greater and greater. It all happened so quickly, she couldn’t fathom what was happening. Why? was the first thought that crossed her mind… and the last thought she ever had was a modified form of the oft-spoken phrase:

I thought I was the luckiest person in the world.

Two

It could be worse; it could be snowing.

No one listened as Detective Billy Michaels lamented for what must have been the hundredth time that night. He was nursing his third beer, amidst all the noise taking place around him in the pub, and outside on East 49th Street. This New Year’s Eve was mostly similar to previous celebrations, except for one discernible difference: murder. Michaels had previously been in foot patrol, standing in the streets directing traffic, giving directions, getting puke on his shoes. But his recent move up to detective (with a decent bump in pay) meant that he now had to do real police work.

New Year’s Eve two years earlier had seen the population of the city hit a staggering ten million residents, with the corresponding problems that accompany elbow-to-elbow living. Muggings, assaults, rapes and robberies all spiraled virtually out of control, one of the reasons Billy Michaels moved from traffic to foot patrol to detective in less than two years.

Billy had grown up in the city. He’d only been out of the boroughs a few times in his entire life; the city was his home… his security blanket.

His first trip away from the concrete jungle came when he was just nine years old. He went to attend a funeral; the funeral of his mother. She had been found dead in their apartment, murdered, and the killer had never been caught. She was buried in the mountains near her birthplace, and Billy never forgot how it felt to be standing on a quiet hillside, where birds played symphonies and the sounds of city life were non-existent. From that day forward, any time Billy smelled fresh grass, or heard a bird sing, his memory of losing her returned.

Billy carried her death with him like a photo book, something to be opened when life was good, then put away when the memories became too hard to handle.

The loss of his mother was a life-changing event, as it would be for anyone, and the main reason he’d become a cop. And given the events of the day he’d just had, it explained, more than any New Year’s revelry could, why Billy Michaels was sitting in a pub, nursing his third beer, when he rarely drank alcohol at all.

Goodness, me boy, shouted Paddy from behind the bar, over top of the revelry taking place all around them. If your chin drooped any lower, you’d be pourin’ the drink on your shoes.

The detective was used to drinks on his shoes… drinks and vomit and blood, from almost two years of being on the force. He was used to being overlooked and under appreciated, a soulless uniform with a badge.

Yeah, I know it, Paddy. Just ignore me. It was a bad day at the office.

Yeah, murder is a bad day; bad for me, but worse for the woman left lying in her own blood.

The call came in a little after ten o’clock that morning. With a staff meeting behind him, Michaels was walking back to his desk to check his messages before going on to the detectives’ meeting one of his bosses had scheduled for noon. No lunch again, he thought, as he made his way through the pine forest of cheap furniture and coffee stains in the crowded squad room. Being the rookie meant his desk was in the back, between the laser printer and the bathroom.

Yo, Michaels, the boss wants to see you.

He turned to see who had beckoned, but with over thirty people crowded into one wall-less room it was impossible to tell.

Which one? he yelled back, to no one in particular.

Five different people pointed in the same direction: at the door leading into the Chief of Detective’s office.

Billy Michaels worked his way through the crowd, bumping into one chair after another, stubbing his toe on a desk, and knocking a cold cup of coffee over onto a stack of papers.

At least it wasn’t onto my shoes.

He hurried on without looking around to see if anyone had noticed he’d made the mess.

The Chief’s name and title were painted over top of the smoked glass in the door. Michaels noticed it needed a touch up the first time he saw it; the ‘i’ in ‘Chief’ was barely visible, meaning everyone called him the Chef of Detectives. It wasn’t funny the first time he saw it, but Michaels smiled now when he read it for the hundredth time.

He knocked on the glass, heard a gruff, Get in here, and opened the door.

Sitting behind the desk was a tall, thin sixty-something gentleman wearing a decent suit and a bad toupee. It wasn’t the Chief of Ds.

Close the door, Michaels. Sitting in the only other chair in the office was Chief Detective Rossi, all three hundred pounds of him.

This is the lad I’ve been telling you about, Cappy.

The thin man in the Chief’s chair remained seated but reached out a hand. Billy took it as the thin man said, Michaels, I’ve heard great things about you. Great things.

The Chief broke in with, Michaels, this is Captain Capshaw.

Michaels suddenly realized the Chief didn’t call him ‘Cappy’ because of his rank.

A pleasure, Sir, Michaels said, and he stuck his hand out one more time to shake that of the Captain.

But the Captain didn’t take his hand this time. Instead he stood and said, Michaels, sit down. We have an urgent matter to discuss with you.

The young detective looked around the small office for another chair, even though he knew there wasn’t one. Chief Rossi didn’t budge from the lone available seat, and Billy sure as heck wasn’t going to move around the Chief’s desk and sit there, so he said, Thank you, Sir, but I’ll stand.

The Captain paused, glanced at Rossi and said, So be it. Michaels, we’ve had our eye on you. We’re expecting good things from you, good things, my boy. We’ve got an assignment for you. And we’re absolutely certain you’re the man for the job.

And for the next ten minutes, Captain Capshaw and Chief Rossi spelled it out for him. His first real case as a detective. His first murder investigation. His first chance to shine… or to fail.

After they’d laid out the case for him, Detective Michaels had but one thought:

Be careful what you wish for. You just may get it.

And so Billy Michaels sat in Paddy’s pub, late on New Year’s Eve, nursing his beer, complaining to the air, trying desperately to stay positive; and the best he could do was…

It could be worse; it could be snowing.

Three

Whether it was a holiday for everyone hung over from the previous night’s celebrations or for those still on a bender, almost everyone had a vacation day from work. But not Billy Michaels; there is no vacation from murder.

Detective Michaels walked into the squad room shortly before seven o’clock on Sunday morning, ready to tackle the biggest case of his short career. He’d only gotten about five hours sleep, having left the pub where he celebrated the New Year a little after midnight. Of course, calling what he did a ‘celebration’ would stretch the boundaries of the word; Billy had spent the bulk of his evening mulling over what little bit of the case he’d been given the day before by the Chief of Ds and ‘Cappy’, Captain Capshaw.

I’m not sure if I like the cut of that man. Even though everyone in the squad knew who he was, it was the first time Billy had ever met Captain Capshaw, and he somehow knew it wouldn’t be the last. The captain was condescending at best, and thinking the detective didn’t see right through his bullshit was insulting.

We’re expecting good things from you, good things, my boy.

But he was the Captain, and Billy was the low man on the totem pole, so his opinion of the man didn’t matter. He had a job to do.

He made a fresh pot of coffee, poured a cup and sat with the meager folder containing everything he’d been given about the case.

The victim was a young girl from out of state who had been murdered in her apartment during the early morning hours the previous day. Initial interviews at the scene were sketchy at best: the responding patrolman, after calling it in, talked to a few neighbors and to the doorman, but that was about it. The crime scene unit had probably made a cursory inspection of the murder scene and called it a day since it was, after all, the morning of New Year’s Eve. Billy looked through the sparse contents of the folder and realized he didn’t even have the CSU investigation report.

Oh, that’s just great.

How could he begin any investigation when he didn’t even know how she was murdered? The initial report by the patrolman at the scene listed the cause of death as a possible strangulation, because the victim had bruises around her neck, but she had a neck wound as well, which explained the massive amount of blood at the scene. The true cause of death would have to be ascertained by CSU and the medical examiner. The little bit of information he had was perplexing.

Detective Michaels had grown up in the city and knew it well. As a young man, he’d fallen in love with the idea of being a cop, as he watched the men in blue patrol his neighborhood and the surrounding boroughs, and saw how everyone respected and revered them. It was all he had ever wanted to be… especially after the unsolved murder of his mother.

Be careful what you wish for. You just may get it.

At first he thought the address listed in the patrolman’s report was wrong: condos on East 57th Street were normally priced in the millions of dollars. If what little bit they knew about the victim, Debra Miller, was correct, she was a college student; a partial list of inventory from her apartment included current textbooks and college playbills. There was also a driver’s license in her purse with the condo’s address, and a few letters with ‘Engle and Stella Miller’ handwritten in the return address from some little town in West Virginia. Probably her parents. Billy Michaels’ heart dropped when he realized the only relatives of the victim lived out of state.

But the big question: how could she afford a condo in that neighborhood? A college student and she lived in a ten million dollar condo. Rich boyfriend? High priced hooker? Rich parents? Maybe, but from West Virginia? Once he had a chance to check through her financials, he’d have a better idea.

He was beginning to see why Captain Capshaw had singled him out for this case. The amount of work it was going to take was mind-boggling.

The office was beginning to stir, as one detective after another made their way into the squad room. The coffee pot was on its third brew, and Billy Michaels was on his fourth cup. Chief Detective Rossi had been behind his desk for about fifteen minutes before yelling through his open door, Michaels! Get in here!

Now what? Walking into the office of the ‘Chef of Detectives’ was tantamount to walking into a lion’s den.

As he approached the office he noticed another figure sitting in the chair last occupied by Rossi himself. Good lord, not Capshaw again, he thought, but then quickly realized who it was.

Michaels, I’m sure you know Detective Little. Little stood up as Billy entered.

Sure, Chief, I know Paul. How’s it going? he nodded in Little’s direction. Everyone knew Detective First Grade Paul Little. He’d been a detective longer than Michaels had been alive. He was the oldest detective in the squad, and appeared to be waiting for the Grim Reaper before leaving the squad room.

Michaels, Detective Little is going to be your right hand man on this murder investigation. His experience will help you in the field, I’m sure.

Paul Little? What had Little done in his career? Billy had never heard the detective’s name mentioned with any major case in the squad room. The young detective thought his assignment couldn’t possibly get any more difficult.

He was wrong.

That’s great, Chief. I look forward to working with Paul.

Billy Michaels was a lousy liar.

Okay, well, you two get to it. The Captain is expecting this thing to be finished inside of a week. I’ll help you in any way I can.

Chief Detective Rossi was a lousy liar as well. If everything Billy had heard about Paul Little were true, there was no way Rossi was helping him by saddling him with the oldest detective in the squad.

Billy walked back to his desk, Detective Little in tow. Little sat down and reached for the folder.

Uh, if you don’t mind Paul, this is my case. I’d like to finish reading the evidence file before we start the investigation.

Detective Little slid the folder back, stood up, walked over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and then walked over to his own desk and sat down, all without saying a word.

Billy bent back over the file, looking for anything to give him a clue, any clue, as to why this young girl was murdered.

This was Billy’s first real case as a detective, and he knew it was going to take more work to solve this than anything he’d ever done on the force. But he believed if he found out why she was murdered, he’d find out who did it. One of the things that had bothered Billy the most about his mother’s murder was… why? Why was she murdered? If the police had found out why, they would have found out who.

Four

Billy shook his head in disgust after reading what was supposed to be a report. It looked like the newest patrolman on the force may have written it. Who else would be working a holiday weekend? But even the youngest cop should be able to provide some information. Billy couldn’t even tell if she was strangled, shot, stabbed or beaten to death; in fact, the only thing the patrolman seemed to be interested in was that she was slumped over the couch naked. Even with all the great technology in place, there wasn’t a single crime scene photo in the file. But I bet the patrolman has three or four shots on his personal cell phone, Billy thought, as he walked over to Paul Little’s desk. Little looked up as Billy approached him.

As he handed Little the folder he said, Go ahead and skim this while I return some of this coffee I’ve been drinking all morning, then we’ll go to the morgue and see if we can figure out exactly how our victim died. Twenty minutes later both men were riding to the basement in what had to be the oldest working elevator in the city; at least, it worked part of the time.

I never have gotten used to this place, Little said, as the elevator doors opened in the morgue. I always worry that some day it will be me lying on that table.

I figure by then it won’t matter much to me, Billy mumbled by way of reply.

As it happened, Doc Shamblin was just walking out of his office heading toward the workroom. Shamblin had worked in the morgue about as long as Little had been on the force, and had been the chief examiner for over ten years.

Even more, the doc had known Billy all of his young life; Doc Shamblin had been the best man at Billy’s grandfather’s wedding and was godfather to his mother. But more importantly, Doc Shamblin was the person who gave Billy the most strength following his mother’s murder. The doc, as much as anyone in his family, helped him through that time.

It was Doc Shamblin who introduced Billy to the church. Religion had been a rock for the young boy during the first years after his mother’s murder, but as is normal for most teenaged boys, the need had faded, and now Billy rarely attended.

Hey Billy, Shamblin said with a grin, what brings you down to my neck of the woods?

I caught my first murder case… lead detective.

Way to go, Billy-boy. Which vic?

Young, blonde, college girl. She was found strangled in her apartment, sometime on the night of the 30th, Billy replied. ‘First on site’ report was pretty worthless so I thought I’d come see for myself what was going on.

Shamblin paused and looked over the board in the hallway to make sure he hadn’t missed any cases. It was more worthless than you thought, since I don’t have any strangulation cases today. There are three blondes here, but one is an apparent OD and the other is a male. The third one might be the one you want; blonde girl, mid-20’s, but she had her throat cut. Would the name be Miller?

Well, son of a… Billy said, before remembering Doc was a deacon in the family church.

Not much else I can tell you, Billy, Doc said. The only information we got was a copy of the driver’s license and a half-completed report from the morgue driver. We’ve called twice and requested a copy of the initial report and crime scene photos, but no one seems to know where they are. We haven’t completed the autopsy, but I can tell you she has a cut from just below her right ear to her thorax that appears to be the cause of death. The final report may find another cause of death, but whatever else may have been wrong with her, the wound to her neck was more than enough to kill her. After a pause he added, She was alive when her throat was cut, because her heart pumped most of the blood out of her body.

Billy looked at Little and asked, You have any questions? Little shook his head no and started moving toward the door. Doc, if you find out anything else or someone shows up with the file, please give me call, okay?

Sure thing, Billy. It was good seeing you. You should come to church more often.

Billy smiled as he shook his head. He knew Doc wouldn’t let him leave without mentioning church. Well, Doc, I think I may be busy for a little while.

Where to now? Little asked as they headed for the stairs, eschewing the elevator.

Billy thought for a minute and said, We need to talk to the patrolman first on the scene, find out what he saw and what he did. Then we need to find a copy of the CSU report. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since she was killed and we know next to nothing about this girl or this case.

But I know that my ass could be in a sling if I don’t solve this case. Billy knew that Captain Capshaw himself was involved in this investigation, and from everything he’d heard about Capshaw during his short time on the force, the man apparently didn’t accept failure… in any regard.

Five

Ian Thomas was the first cop on the scene the night of the murder. Before going to the crime scene Billy thought it best to interview him, since they had very little information, and none of what they had was from CSU. The detectives walked the flight of stairs down to the patrol office and checked with Desk Sergeant Randall on Thomas’ whereabouts.

Officers Thomas and O’Brien are on foot patrol today. You can find them somewhere north of 40th Street.

Can you radio them and find out their location? Billy didn’t feel like walking half of the city trying to find one foot cop.

Randall looked at Michaels as if he’d said something vulgar, shrugged his shoulders and said to the radio operator, Ben, get me a twenty on Thomas and O’Brien.

The radio operator flipped a switch, picked up the microphone, and called for the officers.

No reply.

He signaled again, and almost a half-minute later got a reply: Division, we’re at Duke’s for ten; is there a problem?

Ben, the radioman, replied, No, just a couple of Ds looking for you.

Sergeant Randall didn’t acknowledge the call either way, the radioman flipped a switch and turned back to what he was doing, while Michaels and Little stood there feeling ignored.

Duke’s. The donut shop on 42nd Street. That figures.

Thanks, Sarge, Billy said, as he and Little made their way outside.

When they exited the front door of the precinct, Little turned to his left, towards the garage and a squad car. Since they were only three blocks from Duke’s, Billy said, Paul, let’s just walk. We’ll come back and get the car before going uptown.

Little turned, with the same look of disgust Sergeant Randall showed just a moment before, then followed the young detective towards the donut shop and the cop they were seeking.

Sure enough, three blocks later, there sat Thomas and his partner, Chris O’Brien, at the counter, empty plates in front of them next to half cups of coffee, and powdered sugar scattered around both.

Thomas? I’m Billy Michaels; this is my partner Paul Little. We’d like to talk to you about the events surrounding the murder on 57th Street. You were the first responder, is that correct?

Patrolman Thomas and his partner both spun on their stools to face the two detectives, and Thomas said, Yes, Detective, I was the first on the scene.

How did you get the call, Patrolman? Dispatch?

Yes, Detective. I got a call about a disturbance at the location from dispatch. I was told it was an anonymous call received about noise, and I responded.

What did you see when you arrived?

Well, I saw the doorman and asked him who lived in the top floor. He gave me the name Miller, I entered the building and took an elevator to the penthouse.

Michaels looked at O’Brien and said, What did you see when you arrived at the crime scene, Patrolman?

O’Brien shifted on his stool and said, I wasn’t at the crime scene.

Wasn’t there? Were you not working patrol with Thomas that evening?

The two patrolmen looked at each other, and O’Brien answered, Yes, Detective, I was, but I had to leave and take care of a personal matter, so Tommy took the call solo.

A personal matter? Did you report this to your desk sergeant? What was the personal matter?

O’Brien sat up straight before speaking. Detective, it was a personal matter, and it’s really none of your business. Suffice it to say, I received a personal call, let Tommy know where I’d be, and left to take care of it. Other than that, if I’m asked to speak more about it, you’ll have to talk to my union rep.

Michaels was taken aback. He wasn’t expecting to be stonewalled by foot patrol. "O’Brien, I apologize. I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal business, but I am investigating the murder of a young woman, and I expect the full cooperation of everyone involved."

O’Brien had but one more thing to say: I wasn’t involved, Detective.

The patrolman stood up, looked at his partner and said, Tommy, I’ll be outside. Shout if you need anything, picked up his hat from the counter and walked out the door, leaving his partner and the two detectives.

Okay, Chris. Thomas turned back to the counter and took a sip of coffee.

Michaels was stunned. Here he was, investigating his first murder, and he was being thwarted at every turn.

He turned back to Thomas. Did you get any information from the doorman? Did he see anything out of the ordinary?

Thomas turned back and replied, Detective, it’s none of my business, but wouldn’t you be better served if you asked this of the doorman yourself?

Thomas was a young police officer, but Michaels estimated the patrolman was probably two or three years older than himself. He wondered if this was a burr under Thomas’ ass, and was the reason he was getting these answers, in the condescending tone of voice anyone could recognize.

Patrolman, I plan on doing exactly that, but for now I’d like for you to answer my questions. What information, if any, did you get from the doorman?

I told you, Detective. He gave me the name of the person living in the apartment in question, and I went up.

You didn’t ask him anything else?

Why would I? I was responding to a noise complaint. From the ground floor, I seriously doubt if the doorman heard a thing.

Michaels realized the patrolman was correct. There would have been no reason to ask any other information of the doorman then.

Well then, when you left the crime scene, after discovering there was a murder, did you take it upon yourself to question the doorman?

He wasn’t there when I left.

Wasn’t there? Where was he?

How should I know? All I know is he wasn’t there. There was an ambulance outside in the street, along with two other units, and a small crowd had gathered by the front door. But the doorman wasn’t there when I left.

In the middle of the night? Where would the doorman be?

But you said in your report you had talked to the doorman.

"I did, as I arrived. But since he wasn’t there when I exited the building I couldn’t interview him any further. I figured that was your job."

Michaels changed direction. I noticed in your report you found the body draped over the couch. You said the body was nude. Is this correct?

My report was correct, Detective.

And there was blood?

Again, my report was correct.

Michaels paused before speaking again. Look, Thomas, I’m not implying any wrongdoing on your part. I’m just trying to get every piece of information I can. After all, a young woman was murdered, and I’ve been given the assignment of finding out who did it.

Thomas reached down for his recently topped off cup of coffee, took a sip and said, Detective, there was a large amount of blood, both on the couch and the floor. There was blood splattered on the window directly in front of the couch. Yes, there was blood.

Also in your report you stated you found her driver’s license and a few other personal items in the room.

Yes, her purse was sitting on an end table in the bedroom. At least, I assumed it was her purse. The contents are listed in my report.

Is there anything, other than what you put into your report, you can remember from that night? Any little bit of information jump out at you that perhaps you neglected to write down?

With this question, Thomas stiffened up. He took another sip of coffee before answering, "Detective, I have to get back out onto the beat. If