The Perfect Socialite in Pacific Heights: A Novel

By Rosanna Brand

The Perfect Socialite in Pacific Heights 1976 is the second novel in the Hill Series trilogy, with the first being The Perfect Tenant in Nob Hill.

Cassandra Nelson and Captain Daniel Fritz attend a swanky soiree in a Pacific Heights mansion of a local politician, only to discover later that a murder occurred during the course of the party. Dan is the lead detective on the case. Several more husbands are murdered at Pacific Heights parties with their wedding bands missing, prompting the police to announce that it is the work of a serial killer. The police are baffled as to how the killer gets in and out of parties without detection, so they begin to conduct stakeouts, undercover, and sting operations in Pacific Heights.

Wives in Pacific Heights are up in arms and fearful of losing their husbands to the Wedding Band Killer. Meanwhile, amateur sleuth Cassandra assists her fianc, Dan, with undercover operations but suddenly begins to be taunted herself in uncanny ways. She also becomes the target in a company affirmative action grievance for getting an advanced position that she has to defend on her own, even getting accosted at work by activists.

A femme fatale is arrested as the Wedding Band Killer with evidence of trophies. Despite this arrest, Cassandra continues to be tormented and ultimately attacked. Has the real Wedding Band Killer been adjudicated, or will Cassandras intuitions thrust her into a kill-or-be-killed challenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524675479

Rosanna Brand

ROSANNA BRAND, the daughter of a Navy Veteran and homemaker, was born in San Francisco and raised in Marin County. She began a traditional career as a stenographer then shifted to the male-dominated career of civil engineering in road design, surveying, inspection, and ultimately construction, paving the way for future women in civil engineering in the 1970’s. She gave up her hardhat to be a stay-at-home mom and is now a proud grandmother of a grandson and hopefully more down the road. She divides her time between a historical town below the Sierras and Marin County. She is currently working on a present-day novel about a serial arsonist in Northern California. It is entitled, Ghost Mountain. Readers may contact her at: [e-mail].

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The Perfect Socialite

in Pacific Heights

A Novel

ROSANNA BRAND

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2017 Rosanna Brand. 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 07/14/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7548-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7546-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7547-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903652

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

Prologue

Part I   The Party

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Part II   The Trial

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Epilogue

About The Author

Dedicate

d to:

In loving memory of my parents Glenn and Rosemary

And my first grandson

Many thanks to:

Autumn Conley, Book Editor

Jeff Brand, Cover Artist

Well, I thought that I was a strong woman until I met you I belonged to living.

But you took all that I had to give and you called it giving.

And the war you left inside my heart is like a small child weeping.

by

Toni Brown

The War You Left

Joy of Cooking, 1970

PROLOGUE

Lucas Valley 1975

C ASSANDRA’S SURVIVAL INSTINCT WAS IN high gear. A burst of adrenaline began to give her much needed strength to get herself off the bottom of the ravine—that; and the knowledge that if she stayed there, the only one to find her would be a hungry turkey-neck vulture who would call in his flock and make a meal out of her without a second thought. I have to get back up there and warn the lady cop, she thought. Or is it already too late? How long have I been down here anyway? No sooner had she begun to pull herself uphill, a bolt of pain speared through her leg. Ignoring it the best she could, she grabbed a bush or rock with one hand and used her good leg to scoot herself up the hill. Her other hand held her bum leg intact at the knee as best she could. It was excruciating, but she managed to inchworm her way up the hillside.

The closer she got to the crest, the more she began to run out of strength. But all the more excited she became. The pain and exhaustion was unfathomable, but she got a bit of a second wind when she reached the pinnacle and peeked over the top of the slope. She was shocked to see a dim light coming from her bedroom window. Had someone turned on her lava lamp? But the power’s out, isn’t it?

She needed to take action now. God help me for what I’m about to try. She dragged her lower body across her lawn with every inch of her throbbing in pulsating pain. Once in the dining area, she came upon her tennis racket on the floor. Thank God! Her trusted Davis racket, no finer weapon at the moment.

The electricity was still out, but she knew the layout of her apartment well, which worked to her advantage as she scooted across the dining area. She wanted to scream from the convulsing pain, but she couldn’t alert Nick. Although she was in shock, which sedated some of her pain, it was of little solace as she couldn’t fathom it any worse than it was. She inched herself over to the wall phone and used the racket to knock the receiver off of its cradle. Her reflexes were surprisingly still intact and she caught it in midair.

She heard the dial tone again. Thank goodness for small favors! But still, it didn’t allay her nerves, which were already fried. She reached up and pressed zero for the operator and whispered barely audible, Connect me to the police. It’s an emergency. Now!

In a matter of seconds, she heard, San Rafael PD. What’s your emergency?

Send the police, fast, but no sirens, please. And we’ll need some ambulances and lights too, please, she whispered.

The dispatcher knew right away who Cassandra Nelson was; she had been following the trial. After notifying the police on duty, she put a call through to the San Francisco PD. The dispatcher, a hopeful romantic in her own right, had heard testimony of the alleged affair between Cassandra and Dan and was happy to grease the wheels while simultaneously saving a damsel in distress.

Cassandra had done her job the best she could and all she could do now was wait for help from the cavalry. She waited in the dark with her phone in her left hand and racket in the right. She sat there as still as a church mouse. Her upper body was propped up against the wall, her fractured leg and heart throbbing in unison. The mire her life had become would soon be over.

By hook or by crook, it would soon come to a head; she’d live or she’d die. It was the moment of truth. She was panting raggedly trying to stay conscious. She could hear the sounds of an animal in her bedroom and prayed for his victim. It was still pitch-black inside her apartment, which was to her advantage at this point since she couldn’t walk!

She wondered where Matt was or if he was even still alive. She made a silent prayer for his safety. The guy had come to save her, proving himself classy after all. Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought, but there was no time for crying. She could be in for the fight of her life. Snap out of it. Dan will be here soon. Dan, Dan, Dan. Where are you? Please some quick. She wished he would hear her calls through mental telepathy.

From a distance she heard sirens coming up the freeway, and she was none too happy that they’d ignored her warning to be quiet.

Nick disengaged himself from the unconscious cop when he heard the sirens blaring. He ran into the living room to look through the slider and plan his escape, but noticed the silhouette of a large mound on the floor of the dining area. He came in for a closer look and his face went grim, his eyebrows pulled together.

When the face of her predator appeared before her, she held her breath. She lay as still as a deer in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. She was his prey. Her face drained of any color she had left. Please don’t see me. Please, God, make me invisible or make him blind. But her scared white face seemed to glow in the dark.

PART I

The Party

Six months later, 1976

CHAPTER ONE

Pacific Heights

H E HATED FOGGY MORNINGS AND at times they haunted him with an unsettling feeling, as if something evil and sinister was about to occur like in those old movies when a werewolf or Jack the Ripper inescapably jumped right out of the London fog. Damn. Too many horror pics as a kid, he scorned himself. Or hangin’ with Cassandra with her premonitions and all. This morning was no different, as evidenced by his nervous, quick breaths that lingered in front of his face. His only solace was that not every morning in San Francisco was foggy. Thank God!

Captain Daniel Fritz flipped up the collar on his jacket, in the hopes of allaying some of the crisp cold and dread that seemed so pervasive this morning. He walked stiffly into an abnormally busy precinct, where officers were darting and buzzing around like corralled coyotes. It appeared he was out of the loop; obviously, as there was news from the previous night that he had not been privy to. As it turned out, an emergency call had come in during the wee hours from a Pacific Heights couple after a neighbor was found dead in their guestroom.

When Dan finally got up to speed, it certainly gave him pause. Hmm. I attended a party in Pacific Heights last evening. Why didn’t I get called? he chimed in.

We tried to reach you at your place, but you didn’t answer, the desk sergeant replied.

Oh, I was at my fiancé’s, he replied sheepishly.

Dan recruited Detective Jim Carr from his team and immediately left to investigate the crime scene and interview the homeowners. Jim knew the way, as he’d already crossed the yellow tape the prior evening with the medical examiner and crime scene investigators before the deceased was removed by the coroner. As they drove ever closer, Dan grew ever more troubled; that concern was visible on his face.

What’s the problem, Dan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, asked Jim. He’d always been able to read Dan like a book and didn’t like the way this chapter was unfolding. Dan was his partner and his friend, as they had worked long grueling hours on the last serial case.

I don’t like where we’re headed. Whose house is it? Dan inquired.

Councilman Warner’s.

"What?! No way! I was at his party last night with Cassandra! I-I can’t believe this. Who went and got himself killed?"

*     *     *

Four Days Earlier

SHE SAT AT HER DRAFTING table and contemplated her tumultuous life—all she’d gone through over the last few years. She had endured years of stalking and torment, ending in serious injuries last year. Although her wounds had all healed on the outside, her inside would always bear the scars of what he had done to her, the relentless acts of a psychotic mind that could only be stopped by incarceration or death. In his case, it turned out to be death at the hands of Cassandra Nelson, his prey; fighting for her life against a sexual sadist and predator. She would always be known as the girl who killed the serial killer.

After the predator’s death, Detective Daniel Fritz professed his love to Cassandra and received his promotion to captain in the Homicide Department of the San Francisco Police Department. She and Dan had been seeing each other steadily now for five months. They were unofficially engaged; and, as far as twenty-five-year-old Cassandra was concerned, their relationship was everything she ever dreamt of. No more did she have to wonder if Dan was seeing anyone else. She had him to all herself now, and he had proven that in many ways; once he even popped into her department, where prying eyes could see him. That impromptu and shameless appearance quashed some of the scuttlebutt that she was in love with a detective who had moved on after his case had been solved. In reality, it was quite the contrary. She became the center of his attention. He even cared for her throughout her recovery while she was a prisoner of crutches, gallantly driving her to and from work. Remarkably and ironically, her injuries brought them closer together, as Dan felt somewhat responsible for not protecting her after the monster was released from jail. They saw each other almost every night, either at her hilltop apartment in Lucas Valley or his downtown bungalow in Sausalito.

That night after work, Dan showed up at her place and let himself in with his key. Hey, Cass, I’m here! he yelled.

Hi, Dan, she answered, already in the kitchen preparing a chicken dinner on her new Farberware she received for Christmas. Her favorite way to grill meat—indoors and smokeless. She also had some Folgers percolating in her pot on the stove; Dan loved his coffee. Did you see those awful gas lines this morning? she queried when she recalled that she’d seen his tank hovering near the E last evening.

Yeah. I went into Terra Linda, and the line was down the street and around the corner, clear into the Holiday Inn parking lot! I hope we aren’t headed for another gas rationing. If so, we’re gonna have to move to the city, he warned. As neither of them was really politically savvy and didn’t follow the national news, they weren’t sure what was causing the gas shortage. They assumed it had something to do with sketchy characters in the Middle East or the president, if not both.

"Today, I drove all the way to Lincoln Avenue to fill up, then turned around to go back to work. I actually had to waste gas to find gas! I just don’t have the patience for those lines in Terra Linda. Some of the drivers are so rude, especially those housewives in bathrobes and sponge rollers. Surely they could wait till rush hour was over. It’s almost like they enjoy the attention, negative or not," said Cassandra facetiously.

Hey, good news. I got invited to a bitchin’ party in Pacific Heights Saturday night, by the mayor. It’s supposed to be a pretty fancy shindig at the home of one of the councilmen, a real hoity-toity affair, Dan said, changing the subject.

Far out! I’ve haven’t worn a formal gown since my senior ball and that gown will clearly not fit me any longer plus it’s too childish. I’ll go to Emporium after work and try on some new threads.

And I’m sure you’ll look bangin’ in them despite the larger size, he kibitzed. Dan winked at her, as he checked out his reflection in the small mirror enlaced in macramé; something Cassandra had designed and knotted while she was laid up with her injuries. She had taken up the popular craft, since tennis was out at the time and any sport that involved her legs. The artwork was a six-foot piece, with a mirror centered and entwined within the string, the frame fashioned from an antique wooden Chinese candleholder. It was one of Cassandra’s prize possessions. As Dan gazed into the mirror, he smoothed his mustache with his cupped hand and smiled, obviously liking what he saw.

Cassandra had recently applied for a promotion at work and was awaiting a decision from her superiors, one that she hoped would jump her up the ladder to a Tech IV. She had written a four-page letter summarizing her experience. She’d had to write so many letters explaining why her bills were overdue while she was laid up in the hospital that she was quickly becoming an expert in a well-composed letter, typed, signed, and placed neatly in an envelope with proper postage. It was priceless; much more effective than the convenient phone call. She had come to realize that the so-called Customer Service Department was just code for getting rid of callers as quickly as possible by reciting things like, I’m sorry, but that is our policy, or I’m sorry we can’t be of more help to you. It was nothing but scripted, unfeeling nonsense, about as valuable as a pile of manure. Changing the world, one letter at a time, she concluded, hoping her newest mantra would serve her well this time too.

She had already been interviewed by the county engineer, and she knew a co-worker had also applied for the promotion. He had been there longer but was very quiet and was probably not a good fit for the job, since it required dealing with demanding civilian land surveyors on a daily basis, either on the phone or at the counter. She wouldn’t mind handling the counter, since her shyness seemed to be fading as the years went by. A second fellow who applied worked in the blueprint room. He’d also been with the county longer, but he had no engineering experience; and that led her to doubt they’d even consider him, affirmative action aside. Regardless, all she could do was cross her fingers and hope her letter would be the icing on the cake.

Later that week, Cassandra received the good news that she got the job. To top it all off, she would have her own office, complete with arched windows, complements of Frank Lloyd Wright since their offices were housed in the famed Civic Center Building. She was stoked as there would now be plenty for her and Dan to toast together at the formal party in Pacific Heights.

The finely dressed couple was politely and formally greeted by the maid as they entered the foyer of the Pacific Heights mansion. Cassandra had settled on a long, black and white print dress, a frock far more suited to her age than the chiffon or velvet gowns worn by most of the other women. The party, held in the three-story Victorian of Councilman Warner, offered stunning views of the sparkling San Francisco Bay.

There was a buffet of food that had her and Dan rummaging like hobos. Even as well dressed as they were, they knew they were definitely out of their league at the exquisite soiree, but it didn’t seem to bother them. Dan conversed with City employees he knew, while Cassandra stood proudly at his side, sipping champagne and laughing at God-knew-what with God-knew-who. The affair was so much classier than her Engineering get-togethers she was accustomed to, which were always a raucous time fueled by a steady flow of beer from a keg, wine in a box, cheese cubes, bowls of Bugles, and the occasional guest who consumed too much alcohol and crashed on the host’s couch.

An older woman in a full-length, gold-sequined gown with ash-blonde hair in an up-do, walked up to Cassandra and whispered, I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room. My name is Hazel. How do I not know you?

Cassandra, a little taken aback, answered glibly, Uh…it’s a big world? Plus, I don’t live around here. I’m from Lucas Valley.

Where, pray tell, is Lucas Valley then, dear one? the petite woman asked snobbishly.

A suburb of San Rafael.

Oh, the woman replied, clearly confused and looking at Cassandra with disdain, as if she had said she was from Mars. Without a moment’s hesitation, Hazel sashayed away with so much purposeful, exaggerated sway in her slim hips that Cassandra feared she might break one.

Most of the other ladies were in their mid-thirties to forties, making Cassandra feel like a young chick. It really wasn’t the worst feeling in the world, but it was still unnerving enough to entice her to empty her champagne flute many times over. Another reason she would never be part of this clique was because most of them were married to politicians; then again, that was not a club she wanted to belong to. She had her new promotion at work and the man of her dreams, and she wouldn’t dare to covet anything more out of life.

Hey, Sunshine, let’s have a toast to your new job, Dan thoughtfully proposed, noticing that his love was lost in thought. He was beginning to learn that was one place he didn’t want Cassandra to be.

Okay, she said, nodding somewhat mindlessly.

Here’s to my gal getting her promotion, the one she so deserved! he complimented, raising his glass. Although half the time he had no idea what she did at work, he was proud of her achievements; especially after all the hurdles she’d had to jump to get there, even while on crutches no less. After they clinked glasses, he lovingly topped off the toast with a soft kiss, with enough hint of tongue to send a few electric sparks of sexual excitement between them both.

From across the room, a green-eyed beauty eyed the two of them. As soon as their kiss ended, she strolled toward them as if the kiss itself had aroused her. Her full-length velvet gown brushed the floor in a way that almost made her look like she was floating. She had a glass of bubbly in her perfectly manicured hand and an odd look in her emerald eyes. Hello. I’m Gwendolyn, and my husband is Attorney William Monroe, she spoke assertively, in a husky voice.

Dan had a known disdain for lawyers and socialites, but he shook her hand regardless, albeit purposely appearing blasé. Cassandra, on the other hand, respected attorneys so she greeted the woman a bit more graciously. Gwendolyn was a stunning brunette wearing a burgundy gown that showcased her pushed-up cleavage. Her eyes were intense and mesmerizing, Cassandra noticed; but paled in comparison to Dan’s aquamarine pools.

Seeing that Dan did not seem the least bit impressed, the likely-former debutant addressed Cassandra. Bill, my husband, said you’re that gal who killed the serial killer last year. What’s it feel like to be in the throes of a killer anyway? What was…your goal? she asked callously.

Throes? Cassandra thought, more like torture. She was more than a little put off by the stranger’s rude and prying question, as it brought up a myriad of unspeakable visions in her mind. My goal was simple: I just wanted to get out of it alive, at all costs, she snapped.

Hmm. Well, since you are here in the flesh, I suppose you achieved that, young lady, Gwendolyn said, a compliment steeped in condescension.

An attractive party planner with a long blonde flip and a brilliant smile, dressed in a slightly flared miniskirt, came by with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, and only then did Dan’s face light up. Hi. What’s your name? he asked as he grabbed a few shrimp off the platter.

Mr. Charismatic, as usual, mused Cassandra.

I’m Ashley, Ashley Kottage, she said as her face illuminated as well.

Nice to meet you, Ashley, Dan said graciously.

Cassandra avoided the urge to look at Dan and make the predictable eye roll, so she took a couple of hors d’oeuvres herself. She noticed the party planner was even younger than she was, and she had to admire the girl’s entrepreneurship.

While Dan conversed with the young woman, Cassandra walked off to take a quick peek at some of the lavish rooms of the mansion. The downstairs bedroom was furnished with a four-post, canopy bed that was topped with an elegant silk bedspread more suited for a king and queen than a mere politician. The canopy was made of a diaphanous material, in a generous portion that draped off the frame. The living room fireplace boasted a hand-carved, marble mantel, with a museum-quality painting of some distinguished dignitary hanging over it, accented with a spotlight. For all Cassandra knew, it was probably Great-Grandfather Warner, holding a pipe and sporting a Hefner-style smoking jacket.

There were velvet Victorian couches in every room, flanked by Tiffany lamps. The kitchen was galley style, with white, beveled-glass cupboard doors and marble countertops that contrasted with the ebony hardwood flooring. It was all very chic in Cassandra’s eyes and something to strive for. Though she was sure it would not be anything attainable in the near future, being the mere civil servants they were. They both liked what they did and were fulfilled in knowing that their work made a difference in their community. Or so they hoped.

Dan suggested they leave the party early, so they made their rounds to bid their obligatory farewells, then headed out for the short drive back to Dan’s place. Sausalito was a unique, hillside community nestled among an abundance of heritage trees, with views of yacht harbors. The hills were covered with colorful, flowering plants and vines, like wisteria and honeysuckle when spring came.

Dan lived in a one-bedroom bungalow off Bridgeway. A cast-iron fireplace was the highlight of the unit, a perfect complement to his admirable collection of antique furniture, including an oak ice chest that doubled as his bar. His place had a very small kitchen with vintage tile counters and pine cupboards, accented by his bin table which he’d recently purchased at the Sausalito Flea Market. The pine tabletop covered aluminum sliding bins below it. In colonial times, they held flour for baking; but Dan used them for more practical needs, like hiding grocery bags on one side and newspapers on the other. Regardless, the old table spoke of another time, less complicated, overly romanticized, but now long gone. Dan didn’t need a gourmet kitchen since he went out to dinner most nights, unless they dined at Cassandra’s place. She was learning to cook—one day at a time. Dan also often stopped in for a drink and a few handfuls of peanuts and pretzels at the historical No Name Bar in town on his way home.

Dan fixed Cassandra a nightcap, and they made their way into his bedroom, peeling off their dressy clothing along the way. His antique wooden pendulum school clock hung prominently on the wall nearby, ticking as he asked, Well? What’d you think of that crowd tonight?

Very classy, rich folks. They certainly weren’t the type I’m used to, but they were still pretty…enjoyable. Besides, those hors d’oeuvres were amazing, and there was plenty of champagne to take the edge off, she said with a grin. Oh…and I loved dressing up for the occasion.

"Hmm. Well, I’m going to like undressing you for this occasion," he slyly uttered as they fell back on his bed together.

I think I’ve seen enough shrimps tonight, Cassandra teased.

Hey! Dan said, then kissed her passionately as she laughed into his mouth.

About an hour later, Cassandra mentioned, Oh sorry to ask this but could you bring me home? You can stay the night. I have to go shopping with my mom early tomorrow morning.

*     *     *

"OUR VICTIM IS ONE OF the male guests who went upstairs to the guestroom. Why is for us to uncover, Dan," Jim answered matter-of-factly.

What ever happened to simple gang shootings, convenience store robberies, kidnapped heiresses, and disruptive war protestors? What is this town coming to anyway? he asked rhetorically.

CHAPTER TWO

D AN AND JIM RANG THE melodious doorbell at the porch of the crime scene as they stood below an ornate, beveled-glass lantern. The massive door was flanked by narrow leaded-glass panels on either side, allowing them a glimpse of the approaching maid. After she dutifully asked for their names and badges, she politely escorted them into the parlor.

Councilman and Mrs. Warner came out of the kitchen, their faces wracked with grief. Dan was greeted where he had been socializing only the last evening, as remarkable and ironic as that was. There were over fifty guests invited to the party, so Dan realized he had his work cut out for him in trying to narrow down the suspect list. Only two people that he knew of could be proclaimed innocent, and that comprised of him and Cassandra.

Captain Daniel Fritz, ma’am, Dan said, shaking Mrs. Warner’s hand. Sorry for what happened here.

It’s nice to meet you, she said, as if they’d never crossed paths before.

Actually, I attended your get-together last evening, albeit under much more pleasant circumstances. Wonderful party, by the way, he said, looking at the woman who was in her mid-forties, of medium height, with short, blonde hair.

Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t get around to meeting everyone, she apologized for her manners.

It’s all right, Dan said as he and Jim pulled out their notepads. Tell me…what do you know about the deceased? Do you recall any events that might have led up to his murder, anything or anyone…out of the ordinary?

Well, his name is…er, uh…was Robert Slate. He was a financial consultant and a married, well-respected family man. We didn’t even know what had happened to him until all the other guests had left and Betsy, his wife, panicked because she couldn’t find him, Mrs. Warner explained solemnly. That poor woman. She became hysterical when we finally found him upstairs. She dabbed at a few tears with a tissue.

Well, I can’t blame the lady, Councilman Warner added. It was a gruesome scene, like something out of a Boris Karloff film. Forensic investigators have already been here and taken crime scene photos and gathered evidence. We’re hoping they found clues as to who committed this heinous crime.

Speaking of that, who is going to clean up that mess? The maid doesn’t want to touch it, and I don’t blame her. It’s…downright disgusting! added a suddenly peeved Mrs. Warner.

It’s okay, ma’am, Dan interrupted. We have a crime scene clean-up crew that specializes in blood and bodily fluid removal, you can call. In fact, we’d like you and your family to stay out of that room until it’s been cleaned by professionals; just in case there is evidence that we missed—which, remarkably, they are trained to uncover. They do a damn good job of it! Let me give you their number. He paused to jot it down on the back of his business card. Now, we’re going to head upstairs to look at the scene, if you don’t mind.

That’s fine, Councilman Warner said. Do whatever you boys have to do.

Dan and Jim walked quietly up the hardwood staircase, holding on to the mahogany bannister. Crime scene tape was strewn across the bedroom door. Dan and Jim put on plastic gloves and booties to protect the integrity of the scene. Dan had a knack for noticing red flags, and he hoped his knack would be intact as the perused the murder scene. Although he’d been promoted to captain in Homicide, he would not allow his rank to prevent him from being right in the thick of it. He’d always had a hands-on approach and wasn’t about to give that up for the sake of any new title.

As soon as they walked through the yellow tape, the acrid, metallic, salty stench of stale blood assaulted their senses. They both coughed and covered their faces with a cloth, trying to rid their noses of the stink. The king-sized waterbed looked more like a bloodbed, because the crimson stains had apparently soaked through the satin coverlet and sheets to the rubber, water-filled mattress below and congealed in the frame. There was an overhead mirror centered in the tray ceiling, so they surmised they were standing in the bedroom intended to bring out one’s wild side. There was a tiger-skin rug on the floor, and the taxidermed heads of various wildlife were unashamedly mounted on the wall, boasting a male chauvinistic ritual. One critter seemed to be staring down at Dan with eyes that seemed to follow him around the room, as if the boar was trying to tell him something. Normally, he would have welcomed any tip from an eyewitness; but under the circumstances, this witness was tongue-tied and a bit glassy-eyed.

Well, he was definitely killed on the bed, since there’s no blood spatter on the floor, and it was all soaked up in the bedframe. There must not have been much of a struggle. Rather, it looks like he was taken by surprise maybe at gunpoint, tied up, silenced, then inflicted with a cool, calculated puncture wound, Dan surmised. The police report says he was found lying supine, with tape on his mouth and hands crossed neatly atop his stomach, like he was in a coffin. Seems the killer restrained him while he was murdered then posed him afterwards, he speculated. The killer wanted him to reflect, possibly, on why he was getting offed. Sort of like watching his life pass by before his bulging eyes. Very sadistic, inhumane. We are dealing with a cold-hearted killer here, Jim.

So our killer enters the room undetected and also leaves that way? Jim asked. There’s no sign of a fight or struggle, like you said; but there’s no trace of blood found in the bathroom sink either.

Yes, it’s the damnedest thing—where’s all the blood?

Plus, there was evidence of wine and cocaine in the room, Jim read from the police report.

So someone left the party to party, eh? Great, Dan said, shaking his head. I guess we should run a drug test on the deceased and see what else the M.E. has to say. Poor fool. Looks like cause of death was exsanguination, Dan observed.

What the hell is that? Jim asked, confused.

He bled out, Dan informed him callously, as if he should have known better than to ask. So our vic goes upstairs for a little drugs and an affair and gets more than he bargained for.

Poor slob. I hope it was worth it! Jim said to the empty, bloodied bed. Anyone could have easily brought in killing props. They would have been easy enough to conceal under all those long frou-frou dresses these rich types insist on wearing. I wonder what the motive was.

Sociopaths don’t always need a motive, Jim. As their name entails, they’re just a disease to everyone. They kill for the thrill, possibly from some kind of faulty wiring in their sexual circuit boards. Many of them get off on pain more than pleasure, Dan speculated.

Could be. They confirmed he was caught with his pants down—literally—so maybe there will be some more specific evidence on his shlong, like lipstick, hairs, or vaginal secretions, Jim mused.

Jim! The animals might hear you, he joked. "Maybe the woman’s husband came in and caught them flagrante delicto, and killed the guy in a jealous rage although the scene does not suggest a violent altercation. Or maybe it was the victim’s wife in a vindictive rage. Jealous women can be horribly violent when pushed to the limit. Hey, when you play with fire. This guy really got it. Let’s go to the morgue next and check out our cheating family man." They shared a brief chuckle at the poor dead man’s expense. Before they left they asked the Warners if Robert Slate was the type to have affairs. The Warners assured them he was not, as far as they knew.

Once at the morgue, the rotund coroner pulled the body out of the mortuary refrigerator, or the stiff cooler as Dan called it. Robert Slate was ashen from head to toe, and there was a visible but small incision on his neck.

Looks a little peaked, if ya ask me, the coroner jested callously.

Dan ignored the insensitive remark. Apparently, the killer has some idea of anatomy, knew to aim for the jugular or the carotid. Either that or he just got lucky.

There were red abrasions on the man’s wrists indicating he fought to get loose and adhesive residue on his mouth, where the duct tape had been removed.

So someone comes to a party with duct tape, small pocket knife, cocaine, and something to restrain a man’s wrists, and they remove the restraints after he dies. What were the restraints, do you think? A scarf, handcuffs, or cord? Dan queried.

I haven’t been able to ascertain that, the coroner answered seriously realizing the cops were not interested in his humor. We’ve found no fibers or other indications to clue us in on how he was tied up.

Well, we’ll need the forensics on the duct tape and a penile swab, Dan reasoned out loud.

It still doesn’t make much sense, Jim questioned, more to himself than anyone. Why would the killer remove the ligatures?

Didn’t fit in with his signature of posing the vic, Dan surmised. Or he may be planning another attack. It wasn’t personal; it was a random act of a psycho. The victim was not chosen with care. He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, apparently. But his arms were neatly placed across his bloody shirt like he was in a coffin already. That may be part of the signature.

Got it, the coroner dismissed Dan’s morbid speculation in a phlegmy voice. Back in the cooler, dude, he said, then slid the sliding shelf back into the refrigerator. He said nothing more to the police before he stepped outside for a cigarette break.

Dan left the coroner’s office feeling an icy chill of dread.