Justifiable Homicide: Detective Ben Miller

By Jerald M. North

Detective Ben Miller, and his new associate Gail Hopkins, of homicide are called in to investigate the murder of a real estate agent. She was found beaten to death in a home in which she had an appointment to show. The obvious suspect was her client but he is quickly ruled out by Miller since he had no actual motive. He also had what appeared to be a solid alibi for his whereabouts during the time of the murder.
Shockingly, soon after Miller and Gail begin their investigation another agent is found massacred in another home listed by the same Realtor. Miller now senses that the murderer is somehow connected to the real estate office where both agents worked. As such, he concentrates his efforts on interviewing the co-workers of the two slain agents, while sending his associate out to do the grunt work, that he doesnt have the time or energy for. In doing so, although he desperately needs her help, his ulterior motive was to keep his inexperienced associate as far away from any real danger as possible.
Unfortunately though, while Miller is closing in on a possible suspect, he receives word that his associate has been taken hostage by the real murderer who threatens to let her die unless Miller follows all his demands to the letter. Suddenly, Miller is on a pursuit that takes him all the way to Rome and will change his life forever. Will he be able to save her life or will he go to his grave marked as an accomplice to her death? With only forty-eight hours to save her his chances are slim to none.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 10, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465329530

Jerald M. North

Jerald M. North is the author of two previous novels, Voracity and Justin and Jin. He was born in Hyden, Kentucky and now lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. Before beginning his writing career he was active in the recycling industry for more than thirty-five years. His experience in recycling is in fact, the basis of his first novel - Voracity. After retiring from the recycling industry he worked as a real estate agent for eight years where he obtained the knowledge to write his current novel, Justifiable Homicide. He can be reached through his e-mail address at: [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Monday Morning 8:15 A.M.

Margaret put her electronic keypad into the lockbox and punched in her personal four digit code. Within moments the lockbox dropped the key from the bottom of the unit and Margaret had the key to enter the home she hoped to sell to her potential buyer. She needed this sale to top her last month’s record of more than one hundred thousand dollars. No doubt about it, she was on a roll.

After entering, closing and locking the door behind her, she sighed with relief knowing that she had once again beaten her prospective buyer by more than half an hour. This gave her time to check the house over for any untidiness that might take away from the showing of the house. Sometimes people were in a hurry during the morning rush, especially on Mondays. They usually didn’t have the time to put in the finishing touches that made a house show well.

She always turned on all the lights and made sure the temperature inside the house was comfortable. She wanted her clients to feel as welcome in the house as if it were their own. This she thought, was the key to making a sale. She hated trying to sell an unoccupied property, as there was no way without furnishings, to make it feel warm and alive.

The prospects in this case were like most of her clients—young, above average income and professionals. This time however, the prospects were a single professional man, with a special girlfriend that he hoped to make his wife in the near future. He wanted to surprise her with the home as a sort of pre engagement gift. And, to impress her even more, he wanted the home to be in an upscale suburb that would complement their combined income, as well as satisfy his and hopefully their desire, for the proper area to raise their future children.

This suited Margaret just fine. She would much prefer all her clients to be in this category as the upscale neighborhoods were usually entirely safe. She was like most women real estate agents—always a little leery in some of the more neglected neighborhoods—even though there had, in fact, been only one assault on a real estate agent locally in the past few years.

Unfortunately, that incident involved a woman agent who was murdered hosting an open house. Regrettably, this scenario fit the general characteristics of most of the real estate agents in the industry—a female working alone to supplement the family income.

The victim was discovered by the family that owned the home when they returned from a Sunday outing and found her brutally beaten to death in an upstairs bedroom. The crime was never solved but all real estate agents in the tri-state area of Cincinnati, as well as across the nation were still warned to be careful. Most of the women who now host an open house take a male companion along to serve as an assistant host as well as a bodyguard.

Margaret had always been careful. She wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, but at forty years old she still was attractive. Maybe not to the arrogant younger men, but she still turned the heads of most of the mature males. She was tall for a female—five foot ten, but had the figure that would envy any woman her age or younger out there today. She worked out every day and although some parts might sag a little here and there—she was still physically fit, with long tone shaped legs and knew in spite of herself, a damn good looking woman.

She thought of herself as an older version of Madonna, if Madonna should live so long. Her long blonde hair was full, luxuriant and enhanced her large pale blue eyes perfectly. Was she a natural blond? Nah. But . . . hell, neither was Madonna.

She then slowly and methodically made her way around the two story house, going up to check the upstairs bedrooms first and turning on the lights in every room as she went. This was the first time Margaret had ever shown this house so she took her time familiarizing herself with the layout of the floor plan. This was a very nice home—nothing too flashy in paint or decor. Every bedroom was done in excellent taste with furnishings from the best. Definitely—No K-Mart or Wal-Mart here. This house may not have been her listing but she could tell by the look and feel of class here that the current owners were making a big buck. Perhaps she could make a big impression on them at the closing and gain their confidence for the future as well. Especially if the man of the house was like all the other males she came into contact with.

As she checked the last bedroom, which she figured was a young boy’s room by the look of the football and baseball posters mounted on the walls, she heard a slight thump that came from somewhere downstairs.

She turned her head and stood perfectly still and listened to see if it might be the wind, the groan of an older home, or perhaps her client arriving early. Nothing. However, strange noises were common. She even heard them in her own home from time to time.

She continued back down the hallway to the stairs that led down to the entryway of the first floor. As she was halfway down the stairs, she heard something bang again, only this time it was much closer and louder. She stopped on the steps and called out, Hello. Who’s there? Still no answer, only silence. Probably only a loose shutter or something reacting to the wind.

Arriving at the bottom of the steps, she decides to call out once more just to be sure she was alone. Mr. Robertson, are you here already? You’re early. Still, no response.

Regardless, her heartbeat began to increase slightly. Suddenly, she was feeling edgy. It was as if she could almost sense the presence of someone in the house other than herself, even though no one had responded. She also smelled the faint scent of perfume or cologne, as if someone had just passed the area where she presently stood. There was something about the scent that seemed familiar. Or, maybe she was just imagining things. One thing for sure she was getting spooked.

Mr. Robertson. If you’re here, please answer me, she asked as loudly as she could.

Still, no answer. She stopped and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. What was she thinking? Regaining her composure she decided to stop creating monsters in her mind and get back to the task at hand . . . selling a home.

She quickly moved through the remaining rooms on the first floor, again turning on all the lights as she moved from room to room. Again, the rooms were expertly furnished. The kitchen itself was a chef’s dream. You had to wonder why anyone would sell such an exquisite home.

Now only one task remained, checking out the basement. Of all the things that spooked her, walking down into the basement of an empty house was the worst. Ever since the murder of little Jon Bene she had never looked at a basement in quite the same manner. The poor little girl lay dead in the basement of her own home for hours before her body was discovered. Margaret also knew that a basement was also the most likely place for an intruder to hide, undetected.

In fact, many years ago an intruder had lived in the basement of her church for a year before he was discovered. Many times she, as well as other members, had been alone inside Wesley Chapel Methodist Church doing voluntary cleaning, not knowing they weren’t alone. The old church on Fifth Street had numerous rooms in the basement that were used for storage as well as classrooms for Sunday School. The vagrant had been sleeping in the furnace/boiler room during the day but at night roamed the church at will. Being that the kitchen was fully equipped and the refrigerator was usually well stocked with the necessities, he had all the comforts of home.

There had always been something uncanny about the old church due to the fact, that it had been built on top of a graveyard. In one of the old storage rooms off the kitchen there were outlines of caskets and in fact several bones protruding through the wall. If someone had ever actually been confronted by the intruder at night while alone, they surely would have died of fright. Fortunately, he was harmless and no harm came to anyone, but his discovery had been shocking to the whole congregation.

The maintenance man, an old fellow by the name of Capy who worked for the church finally caught him. After discovering numerous clues left around the kitchen area such as left over bread crumbs, a saucer and an empty glass of what appeared to have contained milk, he’d became more and more suspicious that someone was invading the church.

The vagrant became bolder and more careless as time went by without being discovered. Capp, set a trap one early Sunday morning using a homemade chocolate cake he left on the kitchen table while hiding in a pantry where he could observe the thief. The old guy almost fainted when he was confronted by Capp. Capp kept him at bay until the leaders of the parish arrived later that morning. After talking with him for an hour the Reverend decided he was harmless and decided to try to convert him rather than convict him. They never pressed charges against the old homeless guy but he soon disappeared and was never heard from again

Margaret slowly opened the basement door and stared into the dark stairwell. She then nervously turned on the light from the switch at the top of the stairs and stood still, straining to see or hear anything out of the ordinary. She was upset at herself for this foolishness but she couldn’t help it. But, now at least while on the main floor, since she saw nor heard anything, she felt confident that she was alone and finally made her way down the stairs.

The basement was finished and made into a very comfortable family room. There was a pool table off to one side as well as a complete bar with a large screen TV—seemingly built right into the wall. There was a door to the left which housed the furnace and water heater. Everything was immaculate. This house wouldn’t stay on the market long. It should be ideal for anyone needing space to raise a family. Mr. Robertson should love it.

Just as she started up the first step, the thump came again directly above her head. This time she was sure it was a door closing, but she had locked the front door. She knew that the couple that owned the home both worked, so the house was supposedly empty. According to the listing agency it was vacant until six o’clock each evening during the weekdays. Maybe one of them had taken ill or something and came home early. But . . . surely they would have noticed her car in the driveway and know she was here. The owners always knew when a showing was taking place and were encouraged to leave the home during this time, so the potential buyers felt more at ease to evaluate the home openly.

Hello? She called. I’m down here. I’ll be right up. She took a few more steps up and stopped. No one responded. Hello? Who’s up there? Nothing. This was starting to go too far. Either she was letting her imagination run away or someone was deliberately trying to scare her.

She decided to walk the rest of the way up the stairs and face whatever or whoever was up there. Just as she made it to the top of the landing she heard movement to the left of the door. There was no doubt this time that someone was in the house with her. She called out again.

Hello? . . . I’m a real estate agent here to show this house to a client. Mr. Robertson are you here? Who’s here? Still, nothing. Her heart was starting to race and she felt somewhat faint.

She stepped out farther into the house and looked where she last heard movement. This was an open archway that led to the kitchen area. She started to walk in that direction but then thought it would be smarter to get the hell out of the house instead. She turned and made a dash for the front door. Just as her hand reached the door handle she felt her head being snapped back by someone grabbing her long blonde hair and wrenching it back violently. It was the last thought she ever had. She never felt the fatal solid blow of the hammer that caved in the front of her head.

CHAPTER 2

Monday Afternoon 1:30 P.M.

By the time detective Miller pulled up to the house at 1508 Hill Street, he could see that a city analyst car from the coroner’s office had arrived as well as the city wagon that would eventually escort the body to the morgue. Two attendants from the wagon were standing outside the tail gate smoking, talking—more than likely seeing which one could out bullshit the other. His first thought was Where in the hell are the lab techs.

There were also two patrol cars parked on either side of the small dead end street. As usual homicide was the last to get involved which was disastrous if the responding officers to the crime scene didn’t preserve the scene with extreme caution. Some crime scenes were so botched up by the time homicide arrived that it was almost impossible to reconstruct and collect the evidence needed in the investigation.

Miller noticed that the homes in the area probably cost upward to two or three hundred thousand dollars. Not the kind of neighborhood—from what he currently knew—you’d expect to find a murder of this severity.

So far this was about all Miller knew about this particular case. It was about all he ever knew going into any investigation. But, hell that’s why it’s called homicide, it was the killing of one person by another with unknown facts involved that had to be flushed out into the open.

Miller rolled out of his car and struggled to stand erect. At five feet nine inches tall and two hundred and ninety pounds he was almost as wide as he was tall. His fellow officer’s nick-named him Cannon from an old Detective series. It was true they may have been the same size and wore the same dark suits with the shinny neckties, but the resemblance ended there. Millers’ hair was a thick bushy red as was his moustache. He still had an abundant amount of freckles that covered almost all his body. His complexion was ruddy and gave him the appearance of being ready to explode. But, there was a kindness in his light-blue eyes that expressed an inner compassion that those who knew him well, admired deeply.

Walking up to the front door, a handsome looking young officer smiles and nods at him warmly. Seems as if everyone knows him and he hardly ever has to identify himself to anyone on the entire force of the Cincinnati Police Department. He stops in front of the officer with his large hands stuffed inside his pockets and lets out a deep sigh.

Detective Miller, I’m patrolman Bishop. It’s good to meet you sir.

Miller smiles genuinely and asks, Who’s inside officer?

One of the city’s analysts. Why? . . . I don’t know. I didn’t know they ever came out anymore. He’s some older guy who ignored homicide protocol but seemed to know what he was doing so Abbey let him in before I got here. I know that’s not acceptable but according to Abbey this guy seemed to know the routine. Usually it’s our own lab tech’s and they’ll be here at any time. Patrolman Abbey was also here for a while, but he went next door to speak with the owner who went there after discovering the body. He was first on the scene. I arrived shortly after and no one else has entered the house since the analyst.

Have you been inside yourself?

No sir. Abbey filled me in when I arrived and I stationed myself here at the door to protect the scene as well take the sign in’s.

Good thinking Bishop. It’s nice to know that some of you young rookies have common sense. Make sure you stay here and don’t let anyone other than our crime scene boys enter without my approval.

Yes sir, Bishop says, and blushes like a teenager.

I take it the owner has stayed next door with a neighbor since discovering the body?

Yes sir. The husband arrived a short time ago and he’s also over there. He says, pointing to the house directly to the right.

Good. I’ll get to them after I speak with the analyst and do a prelim on the scene. He signs the chart for Bishop and starts for the front entrance, stops and turns around to face the young patrolman.

Oh . . . Bishop?

Yes, sir?

I assume you’ve got crime scene tape, so how about taping the area off for me while you’re out here.

I’ll get right to it, he says and eagerly heads for his patrol car.

Three feet in from the front threshold Miller has to step around to the left of the entryway. It’s the only way to enter the house without stepping in blood. There are flecks of blood sprayed outward from a large pool in the center of the entryway. From their blood is smeared in a wavy line heading into another doorway to the left. Millers can hear noises coming from that area of the house.

He carefully steps around and into the doorway where the body has obviously been dragged. Miller sees the analyst tossing his gloves in and closing up his medical bag. He appears to be finished with his examination.

All done Paul? Miller asks.

Oh . . . Hi Ben, Paul says somewhat startled. Didn’t hear you come in. Big man like you shouldn’t be so light on his feet.

Yeah, Arthur Murray works wonders for people like me. How about you Paul? You still taking those square dance lessons?

"Nah. Getting too old to do those loop de loop’s. Marie still