Homicidal Suicide

By Trent J. Vanaria

Meet Kenneth Wise: owner of his own private investigation agency. He is recently requested by the police captain (Joseph Mahan) to work along side detective on the force. Together they investigate a number of found suicides. As the body count rises, new developments take form for the investigating team in this metropolis. Join them in this mental struggle to understand what is happening to everyone. Remember, investigators are required to treat all suicides as a potential homicide: homicidal suicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496911902

Trent J. Vanaria

Trent has been writing as long as he could remember. Originally he invented tales using characters from comic books & Saturday morning cartoons. He then began inventing characters and developing short stories intertwined in the comic universe. His first original short stories was for personal enjoyment. During his senior year in high school, he took a Mystery English class. Combined with his love for horror films and mystery books, he decided to write something more 'full-length.' Trent completed his first original mystery novel. Later found was characters to like and a genre to enjoy. Trent self-developed his skills further since then. Writing and escaping into pages of black and white is what he did for fun. Now pleased to say it is also a profession.

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© 2014 Trent J. Vanaria. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/13/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1192-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1191-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1190-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908823

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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Prologue

Glen Carter

Joe Pastore

Paul DiCanio

Back to K. Wise Private Eye

67 Brookside, Revisited

Laura Hunter

Unidentified

Anthony Andrews

Mark Nelson

Anthony’s Aftermath

New Development

Back with Emily

Chain Reaction

Closing In

Yolanda Cumming

Dark Heart of Pat Kelly

Elliana Kelly

Epilogue

Prologue

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I walked up to the precinct with an uneasy feeling. I was a private eye, not a cop. However, when you run your own detective agency, the immense problems come your way. I actually was asked for by name on this assignment. I had to accept. I heard someone call to me that I could not park my Jaguar directly in front of the building. I showed my identification card, and he replied, My mistake, Detective. Thanks for coming.

I clutched my briefcase tightly in my right hand and walked up the stairs. There was a quiver in my legs as they started to weaken. My conscience knew I did not belong here. I had other investigators who could have taken this job. I had employees who would rather have taken this job. Why did they have to ask for the superior?

Chris received the demand in the first place. He actually was certified to be an officer of the law. He was a cop for three years. He would have been more qualified to work with the police. He also got into a few fights with his trusty nightstick. Now he works for me as one of my best investigators. I would even comply with the idea of sending my muscle, Chuck, for this job.

Chuck was usually my partner in the field. I had always needed his brute force to get myself out of tight situations. He is not half bad at attention to detail either. Originally he did not notice any tells. He has gotten the hang of things now. After a few years working by my side, he is one of the best at my agency. He still has the strength to back me up, as well. Although I keep myself fit, I lack any sort of strength.

Chuck was a bounty hunter, so he needed to be tough. If nothing else, he looks intimidating. That kept me out of danger. Chuck, although a six-foot-two weight lifter, is also quick and agile. I had watched him rush an armed gunman, dodging a bullet before tackling him to the ground. Thanks to him, I had rarely pulled my gun. He had been a perfect second to me.

I wish I could have him by my side here. The police captain told me he had a partner already assigned to me. He wanted one of his own—some guy named Kelly. Sounded like a typical Irish policeman. I entered the main hall and looked for someone to greet with my purpose.

Good day to you, sir, some blue shirt said as he walked past me.

Excuse me, I said, stopping him in his tracks. Can you tell me where I can find Captain Mahan?

I’d have to get you an escort. Wait right here, he instructed.

While he walked through a corridor to my left, I switched my briefcase from my right hand to my left. I reached into my right outside coat pocket and felt for my pen and pad. I did not take it out. I was only making sure I had remembered it. I switched hands again and looked around at the awards and mantels on the walls. Mostly there were medals congratulating officers for their accomplishments. Stopping criminals is a job. They should not be awarded for doing their jobs. Then I saw one for my partner-to-be, Patrick Kelly. He stopped a drug dealer after a forty-five-minute high-speed chase. I guess a long pursuit is an accomplishment for an officer. I think it is taking too much time to seize someone. But I cannot argue with success. He has an award, and I do not.

Mr. Wise? I heard a voice call my name from behind me.

I turned to see a policeman. I was able to see curly blond locks on his naked head as he held his cap in his hand. His skin was yellow. He appeared to be ill. His blue eyes were bloodshot and squinted. You must be Patrick Kelly?

No, I’m Ryan, the man replied. Pat will be your partner. Just follow me.

Together the officer and I walked down the corridor. We walked past three courtroom doors to my right and one bathroom to my left, and we finally turned the corner. We walked around the other side of the courtrooms to Mahan’s office. Mr. Wise, the captain said as I entered, it’s so nice of you to join us. Mahan was being sarcastic, as I was a few minutes behind.

I was waiting in the—

Don’t sweat it. No harm done. Take a seat. Captain Mahan turned his attention to my escort. Thanks for getting him, Ryan. The blond officer nodded as he placed the cap atop his head and walked out.

I stood in the captain’s office. There were hundreds of newspaper clippings pinned on his walls. Even more papers were scattered about on his desk. He was a stocky man with salt-and-pepper-colored hair. There were two seats in front of his desk. The one on the right was taken by a redheaded officer with his hat on the desk. I sat to the left of him.

Name’s Joseph Mahan. I’m the one that called you.

Nice to officially meet you, I said, putting my hand out to shake his before sitting down.

After shaking hands with the captain, I turned my hand to the other gentleman in the room. How ya doin’? he asked rhetorically as he squeezed my hand in a firm grip.

Captain Joseph Mahan started. So tell me, Mr. Wise—

Please, I interrupted, call me Kenny.

Okay… Kenny. Meet your partner, Detective Kelly. The person in command held out his left hand, palm up, pointing at the man to my right.

You’re Patrick? I asked, putting out my hand to shake his again.

Pat actually, he responded with the shorter version of his full name.

Let me inform you ’bout the case. Mahan started his briefing. Are you familiar with the big house on Union Ave?

Not really, I answered. I mean, I pass it every day, but I can’t see over the stone walls… or the metal gates.

Well, the master of the house was killed. We received the call an hour ago. But that family has big money, and we need our best on the job.

If it’s all right with you, Captain, Pat said, I’d like to stop home and change out of my uniform. It might be better to appear in civilian clothes.

You’re right, Mahan agreed. I’d also recommend you don’t arrive in a police vehicle.

I’ve got a car. I jumped at the opportunity to take my car.

Good, Mahan continued. Pat, have him drive you to the house. It’s on the way to the Carter residence anyway.

Carter? I asked, taking my pad out of my pocket to write it down.

Yes, Captain Mahan answered. The victim’s name is Glen Carter.

Glen Carter

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I reached for the intercom, keeping my right hand on the steering wheel. I pressed the button. Who—who is it? Who’s there? I smirked at Pat, who was in the passenger seat, as I heard the nervous voice coming from the speaker box.

He shrugged back at me as I turned again to respond. This is Detective Wise and Officer Kelly. Are you Ms. Carter? We received a call from a Mrs. Carter.

No—I mean yes. We called, but I’m not… I’m… just drive up. I’ll meet you at the front.

The large gunmetal gates swung open, revealing a clear view of the blacktop driveway surrounded by three-foot-high stone walls. Nice pad, Detective Kelly said to me as he looked around the landscape.

It was too dark for me to see up to the house. There were lights framing the driveway that I followed around the turns and curves of the path to the front door. I agreed with a sense of humor. Yeah, you don’t get a place like this on my salary. So, what do you think of this hostess? I asked, knowing from our previous gestures we had the same idea.

I think she’s a total flake. Some bundle of nerves.

Nerves of guilt?

We’ll find out. There she is.

Pat pointed past the small island of flowers set in the center of the driveway before the front door. The hostess was standing outside with two large mahogany doors closed behind her. The house was all solid stone. It was easy to see by the construction and natural color that it was not stucco. The entrance had narrow and yet tall windows that allowed me to glimpse inside. You ready for this? Pat asked, holding out my nine-millimeter pistol in his hand.

I leaned over, took the gun with my right hand, unclipped my seat belt with my left, and lifted my peacoat, stuffing the gun in my holster under my left arm. Let’s do it.

Before exiting the car, Kelly lifted the left side of his trench to show me his gun. I loved his coat. His wife, Elle, bought it for him seven years earlier. He told me it was in his closet, collecting dust. I complimented it at the stopover to his house. He put it on that instant. It was tan on the outside, Burberry lining inside. It remained pin straight, without a stain on it. I wished he took my compliment and responded, Take it, it’s yours. I’d look better in it anyway.

I do not know why I met Pat in blues. Usually a detective earns the right to carry a shield. That usually means the blues come off. I guess I respected him if he was pulling double duty. I guess on his off days he put on the uniform for standard patrol. Today he was a detective on investigation.

He wore polished black dress shoes and tan pants with a pleat ironed into them, making them less casual than they actually were. He had a nice-looking black sweater revealing his white undershirt above the collar. His newly worn coat topped it off beautifully. A pop of the collar really made the coat stand out.

I knew he was ready to begin with the investigation, because he showed me his gun. I got out of the car and approached the hostess. I reached into my left outer coat pocket, feeling for my identification card. I did not pull it out until Pat was by my side. Together, we proved our professions. I’m Private Eye Kenneth Wise. This is Detective Patrick Kelly.

Call me Pat, he inserted to the introduction.

We’re here to investigate the murder called in by Mrs. Carter.

Please follow me, the hostess instructed as she opened the doors behind her and held her hand out, allowing us to walk past her into the hall.

Just as I predicted, the house was immaculate. Spotless white tile floors, black-and-white marble walls, and countertops of green granite on the dressers all enhanced the impeccable decor. There was a small door made of oak and golden knobs in the hall. The hostess then offered to take our coats as she opened the closet.

No, thank you, I responded.

I’ll keep mine, as well, Pat said.

I knew very well Pat wanted to take his coat off. He could not, or he would reveal his gun. In the two years that I had been in the business, I had pulled my gun out only once. He, being a cop for three years prior to being a detective, never did. Neither of us had ever fired a shot. Even when I pulled my pistol, it was for shock value. I never had the intention of using it. Thanks to my old muscle-bound partner, Chuck, I had a pretty safe job. I wonder what he’s up to right now.

The hostess was more than just a maid. She was not wearing the black-and-white costume you may expect. A powder-blue apron, with pockets filled, was tossed over a flowered gown cascading past the knee. There were stains of a red sauce on the apron from previous use. She was lightly applied with blush and eye shadow. She had no wedding band, but a faint tan line showed there was once something there. The only jewelry worn was a charmed white gold bracelet.

Her shoes were jagged. The fronts looked overly worn. There was polish upon them, but it did not hide damage. The backs were scuffed. They obviously were something the hostess wore more for comfort than style, though she tried desperately to make them look more presentable. They made a loud tap sound as we walked through the tile corridor.

Let me first ask, Pat started to the hostess as he entered the house. Is there anyone else in the house currently?

Yes, she responded. There’s Mrs. Carter, whom you know. I mean you already mentioned her. She is the… well, the one who called you. Pat was nodding, becoming more annoyed by the dim-witted hostess. There’s me… of course. Mr. Carter’s brother and his wife are in the living room with their son. Lastly, Mr. Carter’s sister is downstairs. I wrote everything she said down on a pad that I held in my left hand.

Okay, don’t alarm anyone of our presence. Show us where the victim was found. Then get everyone into the living room. The hostess began to follow Pat’s orders, proceeding to the room, passing the upward staircase to the end of the hall.

Ma’am, what’s your name? I asked, wanting to add everyone’s name to my notes.

Ashley.

And everyone else in the house?

Ashley stopped, turning to me. She looked up with her closed eyes, making a mental picture in her head. Then she began to use her left index finger to count the fingers on her right hand. Mrs. Carter’s first name is Carmella. The brother is Neil. His wife is Kathy… she’s the blonde. The brunette, Mr. Carter’s sister, is Agnes.

She did not mention the name of Neil and Kathy’s son. I dismissed it, thinking it irrelevant. Mr. Carter’s first name? Pat asked, forgetting from the time we left the precinct.

Ask ’em, Ashley said as we reached a closed wooden door at the end of the hall. She held out her hand, allowing us to walk in ourselves.

Answer the question, Pat said, not seeing the humor in a murder case.

Glen Carter, I said from memory while writing it at the top of my notes.

Pat entered behind me as Ashley walked away. Where’s she going? Pat asked, knowing full well what he asked of her. He was simply looking for a reason to dislike Ashley more.

She’s bringing everyone into the living room, I started. I don’t know why.

You don’t think that was a good idea?

Why not? I replied sarcastically. Now the possible criminal is fully aware of our arrival. That gives them plenty of time to get their story straight. Don’t worry, that’s better than catching ’em off guard.

Pat dropped his shoulders, blowing air out of his nose. Okay, so what do I do now?

You can’t do much about it at this point. We gotta do a really in-depth scrutiny of the murder.

Then we’d better get to work, my partner said with little care for my contemplation.

The corpse before us was younger than middle age. The victim had a receding hairline, but no gray. It may have been dyed. I thought he might be in his midforties. He was a heavyset man, with thick arms and legs and a slight gut that was still visible even though he was lying on his stomach.

I walked over to the body. After walking circles around it, I continued to survey the rest of the dimly lit room. Books and papers were on shelving of pine, the same as the U-shaped desk under the typewriter. An Apple computer sat to the left, an iron stack organizer to the right. We were in the study. However, there was not enough evidence to make a final conclusion on the murder.

The body of Glen Carter was facedown. Flat on the floor, the corpse lay with his feet closer to the front of the desk with his head toward