The Christmas Killer

By J.R. Mitchell Fletcher

Detective Jock Mitchell, after serving eight years in the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police Department (DCPD), left DCPD to pursue a career as a homicide detective. He landed in the historic city of Fredericksburg, Virginia, with his wife, Latisha. After being named the sheriff department's only homicide detective, his work was largely relegated to solving B&Es and robberies. Detective Mitchell hadn't found the fulfillment he sought. On a cold winter morning in December, Detective Mitchell found himself at the center of a brutal and terrifying killing. Little did he know, it was just the beginning of a killing spree. How many would face the killer's rath before he was caught, if ever? As the bodies piled up, the city desired a festive Christmas and holiday season, but the killer, aptly named the Christmas Killer, desired revenge and was killing the season's holiday business. The inexperienced detective had no answers, only victims. Was he really cut out to be a homicide detective?

Critics' Views:

Fascinatingly entertaining.

Brilliantly written.

Clever plot and engaging.

Kudos to new mystery author, J. R. Mitchell Fletcher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886548488

Book preview

Chapter 1

He had worked hard the night before, well, really several days and nights in a row. The constant reporting of B&Es, robberies, and assaults had choked his brain and made him ineffective. And when he reported to the victim’s locations, their mindless dribble made it seem as if the crimes were committed by Houdini. No clues, no suspects, and no results.

For the past few weeks, Detective Jock Mitchell had been working sixteen-hour shifts. His days and night had begun to run together. And when he slept, he dreamed about the unsolved crimes and the countless victims. At times, he would talk to himself just to make it through the shift.

When will it end? he had announced aloud in the squad room. It was the Christmas season, and everyone knew that the crime rate would spike upward.

The alarm clock sounded, and Jock rolled over and pressed the off button. Five forty-one, he mumbled as he stared at the red digits. Feels like I just got in bed, he said, as his head fell back on the pillow. Just five more minutes, he whispered to himself as he took a deep breath.

The beeps from the alarm clock sounded again. This time, he opened only one eye and slapped at it, missing it badly. Beep, beep, beep, the alarm chirped, and Jock quickly sat up and turned the alarm off. The five minutes between the alarm clock beeps seemed to have passed in seconds. He glanced out of the bedroom window. It was pitch black outside, and he could hear the winter wind howling. He leaned over toward Latisha and whispered, Time to get up.

Groggy voiced, Latisha moaned, Don’t wake me up, boy. You need to get up without waking everybody else up, she said, as she turned over and pulled the covers around herself.

I’ll give you five more minutes, Jock whispered to Latisha as he slid back down under the covers.

Shh, Jock! she replied with a snap.

Jock lay back. His head hit the pillow, and before he could blink, he had fallen back into a deep sleep, almost comatose. The minutes rolled by as he remained undisturbed. It was a sound from the baby’s room that had awakened him, so he thought.

I’m awake? he said as he sat up and began wiping his eyes.

He looked at the clock. This time, it signaled six ten, but when he glanced out of the window, it seemed as if it was getting darker.

Holy smokes, he grunted as he quickly folded back the covers, gently slipped out of the bed, and raced into the bathroom.

Still, in a semi-dream state, Jock motored through the ritual of expelling his body fluids, brushing his teeth, and shaving. He remained foggy as he opened the shower door.

This is going to do it… This will break the sleeping spell, he whispered to himself as he entered the large shower stall and closed the door.

He turned on the shower and was hit with a blast of cold water, which almost took his breath away. Then the shower head quickly began gushing the semi-warm water over his body. Head to toe, it flowed. He raised his face up toward the showerhead, and the warm water peppered his forehead and cheeks. He lowered his face, and the warm water flowed over his head and shoulders as he looked down at the pebble-stoned shower stall floor.

Blowing the flowing water from his face, he mumbled, Wake up!

No use. The dream state continued. A few seconds later, the coldness of the pebble stone floor grabbed his attention, but it didn’t shake the sleepiness.

Short shower today, he said as he exited the stall, dried off, and quickly got dressed.

Neither the wake-up rituals nor the shower had fully awakened him. He was just sleepwalking. As he made his way down the wide staircase to the first floor, he went to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. As he returned from the kitchen, he opened the front door of his remodeled colonial home and peered out. It was unusually dark for this time of day, Jock thought, as he gazed at the full moon sitting brightly in the dark winter sky and the neighborhood’s Christmas lights adding a special glow to the darkness.

The beautifully remodeled colonial sat in the historic district of Fredericksburg, Virginia. For years, the house had been abandoned and was an eyesore in the community. Jock and Latisha had paid only thirty thousand for the property, with an agreement with the City, to have it remodeled within two years. The two-year process was painfully slow, but the final outcome made it well worth the wait. It had received its official designation as a Historic Property in April, which then upped its value by over 200 percent.

As Jock looked at the cobblestone streets and tree-lined sidewalks, he was slightly amused by the freshly fallen snow.

They finally got it right. He snickered with a smile.

The weather bureau had predicted snowfalls over the past several weeks, but no snow had arrived, just bone-chilling air. Of course, the schoolkids had been disappointed, but the parents had accepted the faulty weather predictions with glee.

Standing in the open doorway in his starched white shirt, pin-striped charcoal gray suit pants, hard-toed black shoes, and cool purple and gray rep tie, he reached down, picked up the newspaper, dusted off the haze of snow from the plastic sleeve, and sighed at the beautiful winter scene before him.

A winter wonderland, he said, as the wind whistled, and he moved back into the house, closing the big red front door behind himself.

Jock reached into the hall closet and pulled out his tweed overcoat and a pair of rubber boots. He placed the cup of coffee on the end table and sat down in his favorite chair in the living room, only steps away from the front door. Still exhausted, he felt something odd in the pocket of the overcoat. He reached into its pocket and pulled out a wad of papers. He unfolded the papers and glanced at them. He realized that the wad of papers was the guest lists for the Sheriff’s Annual Christmas Ball.

How did that get into my pocket? he mumbled.

Over the past few days, in addition to his normal police duties, he had been working with the sheriff’s Christmas ball guest lists to the point that he had almost memorized the stupid thing. He stuffed the wad of papers back into his overcoat’s pocket, laid the overcoat across the back of the chair, and set the rubber boots in front of him. He bent down and slipped the right boot on, leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and drifted off.

Chapter 2

Jock seemed to be awakened by the foot traffic overhead, but he was still overly exhausted. He rose to his feet and started for the kitchen but still in a sleepwalking state. He was just sleepwalking.

Babe, he called. No response. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Again, no response. Babe?

Why are you shouting, Jock? Latisha replied in a whisper as she suddenly appeared at the top of the wide staircase rail and looked down. Brushing the hair off her face, she said, You are the loudest man when you get up. They both just looked at each other for a moment. Can we use our indoor voices, Detective? She gestured with her hand, closing it slowly like a clam shell. Joydan’s still asleep.

Now whispering and looking up at Latisha, Oh, I assumed you guys had already gotten up. I thought I heard you in Joydan’s bedroom.

Now, Detective, let’s not assume, she responded. You know what assuming can do. Make an ass out of you, Latisha said with a smile.

Waving an open hand at her with a smile, I don’t have time, Jock said in a whispering voice. I need to get to work. There was a pause. There are a couple of inches of snow on the ground, and you need to get moving too… Traffic is going to be crazy.

Well, thank you, Detective, she responded, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Gazing at her watch, Oh no, we’re already late! Latisha said as she disappeared from the staircase.

The door of Joydan’s bedroom quickly opened and closed with a thump. Jock left the stairs and ambled toward the kitchen. He heard the baby’s bedroom door reopen and Latisha’s quick footsteps in the hall above.

Jock, she cried, would you fix me a cup of hot chocolate?

Sure, babe, he replied. What flavor of creamer today?

Shouting, Latisha called back, Add a little hazelnut.

Sugar for you, sugar?

Just a couple of teaspoons, she replied.

What happened to our indoor voices? Jock relayed.

Don’t be a wise ass too, she replied.

With a smile on his face, Jock prepared the hot chocolate and sat it on the kitchen table.

Babe, you take the car in the garage, and I’ll take the Camry out front, is that okay? No response. Babe?

Sure, Jock… Don’t forget you’ll have to pick up Joydan from your mom’s.

Really?

Yesss, I’m going to be working a little late… I have the Franklin Case…is that a problem?

Of course not, he said. I got it.

Thanks, Detective. Besides, player, you already have the other baby seat in your car, she said with a laugh.

As the footsteps above his head continued, with doors opening and closing, Jock grabbed his cup of coffee and headed up the narrow hallway toward the front door.

Chapter 3

Robotically, Jock started cleaning the snow from the old Camry while eyeing the baby’s seat strapped in the rear. With each stroke, he smiled, as he recalled when he and Latisha were on their way to the hospital to deliver Joydan over two years ago on a day much like today, snowy.

He sighed, then inhaled deeply to take a gulp of the crisp fresh air and blew it out with a lung-clearing burst. The stream of cold foggy air circled his head and dissipated quickly. Suddenly, Jock heard the slow crunching of footsteps along the sidewalk.

Good morning, Detective, a voice called out as the footsteps stopped.

Looking up quickly and recognizing the man, Jock responded, Good morning, Mr. Christmas.

What a lovely morning, Mr. Christmas responded as he paused beside the old Camry. The snow gives this old town such a wonderful glow…makes everything look fresh and clean. It reminds me of my childhood days in this old town.

Resuming his cleaning, Well, it’s not so much of an old town anymore, Mr. Christmas, Jock announced. It’s a growing city.

Yeah, Mr. Christmas sighed with an exhausting sigh. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Today, you don’t even know your neighbors anymore… Everybody is so busy… Nobody has time. Well, you know, for common courtesy, he said, looking at Jock.

It’s a busy time of year, Mr. Christmas. It’s Christmas, he exclaimed with a smile.

Sure, it’s Christmas all right. Only twelve more shopping days before Christmas, he returned with a laugh.

Quickly gazing at his watch, Jock looked across the hood of the Camry at Mr. Christmas and asked, Where are you headed so early on this snowy winter morning? It’s about seven-twenty.

Early riser, Mr. Christmas replied. From my days in the Army.

Didn’t you retire back in October? Jock shot back.

Sure did.

I thought retired folks slept in on days like this, Jock said with a wink.

Holding up a big Macy’s shopping bag, Mr. Christmas laughed and said, I got me a part-time j-o-b with the Red Kettle folks. I’m Santa, he said, pulling a red Santa’s hat from the shopping bag. I ring my bell and collect money to help the less fortunate.

Smiling, Jock said, Now that’s funny.

Helping the poor is funny, Detective? Mr. Christmas shot back.

No…no, he said, shaking his head. Not that helping the poor is funny. It’s you.

Pardon? Mr. Christmas replied with a slight attitude.

Mr. Christmas is Santa. Jock laughed. Mr. Christmas looked puzzled for a moment and then gave a smile.

That is funny when you think about it, Mr. Christmas replied. Mr. Christmas is Santa! he repeated. Well, have a good day, Detective, Mr. Christmas announced as he laughed and resumed walking slowly down the snow-covered sidewalk.

Mr. Christmas is Santa, he whispered again in a low voice to himself as he continued down the sidewalk. That is funny.

Jock continued removing the snow from the old Camry as he spotted the baby’s car seat, again, in the back seat and remarked, The player has a baby’s car seat in the old chick-mobile! Now that’s funny.

Chapter 4

The gray winter overcast sky covered the early morning across the region but had reluctantly given way to the heavy snowfall. It was darker than normal when Donald Brady reached the kitchen for his early morning cup of joe. As he hurried himself with the details of coffee making, he passed by his rear window and caught sight of an object hanging from his neighbor’s backyard tree. The heavy snow blurred his sight, but he thought it was a scarecrow.

Those stupid kids, he said as he took a sip from the hot cup. Always playing pranks, he continued with a smile as he slid into the chair and opened the paper.

Most of the neighborhood kids were now attending high school and enjoyed pranking one another. Good kids ordinarily, but they were older. Donald had watched them grow from schoolyard kids to now high schoolers. He also knew which kid would lead this type of prank.

That David. He chuckled as he returned to the window. But it’s not Halloween, he mumbled. So why would they hang a scarecrow from Will’s tree.

The heavy snowfall continued to obscure his vision as he looked at the object hanging from the tree’s branch. Why would these stupid kids play a prank like this with Will? Idiots, Donald finally said aloud.

After looking at it for a few more minutes through the thickly falling snow, Donald thought that the scarecrow prank was tiring. So he called Will to let him know that the teenagers were acting up and playing pranks. He wanted to warn him not to be alarmed when he looked out the back window and saw the scarecrow hanging from his tree. But when he called, he got no answer.

Now that’s strange, he grunted. Will doesn’t leave the house before nine o’clock without letting me know.

The two men had been neighbors for over thirty years. Even more than neighbors now. For the first few years, they were just neighbors. They became closer when their kids were born and began playing little league sports. The wives, however, hit it off immediately. They would arrange for joint family pizza parties in each other’s homes. And after little league games, they spent the weekends hauling the kids back and forth to the movies and to the skating rink. The women enjoyed shopping and cooking together. At one point, the two started a neighborhood book club that lasted about ten years.

The men fell into a friendly relationship helping each other with home improvement projects. Will was eleven years older than Donald and knew more about the upkeep requirements of a home. So Will would lend his advice and sweat while Donald passed him the tools and beers as the projects progressed. Their friendship was sealed when Will Junior asked Marie, Donald’s daughter, to be his wife, and she accepted. They were officially in-laws, as well as neighbors and friends.

Over the years, their bonds grew stronger as they celebrated birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries. They watched with sad gladness as their kids left for college, married, and moved into their own homes. Together, they mourned the loss of their wives and comforted each other in brotherhood when needed.

Donald returned to the rear window this time with a pair of binoculars to take a closer view of the scarecrow. The morning winter clouds had cleared and a glimmer of sunlight peeked through the snow clouds just enough to lighten the sky. At one point, Donald had considered going outside and cutting down the stupid thing, but the snow had deterred him. As he focused the binoculars on the scarecrow, the scarecrow’s head was covered with snow, and the clothing appeared soaked. He adjusted the lens and focused on the head and face of the scarecrow. He realized that it wasn’t a scarecrow at all.

Donald ran from the window and immediately dialed the Fredericksburg Sheriff’s Department to report the scene. His lips trembled, and his knees almost buckled as he made his way out of his backdoor. He clutched the snow-covered stair rail, as he descended into the snowy backyard and got close enough to clearly see that the hanging object was actually the body of his friend and in-law, Will.

Oh my god, it’s Will! he mumbled as the cold tears ran down his cheeks. He finally returned to his house and waited for the sheriff’s arrival.

Chapter 5

Detective Jock Mitchell rolled through the morning snow-covered streets of downtown Fredericksburg. Its quaint shops and busy storefronts were dressed in their finest holiday season decor. It was just yesterday without the snow that the streets were hardly worth a glance. Today, with the snow, the downtown area had transformed. It had become memorable, dreamlike.

The little shops were all neatly aligned, side by side, on both sides of the quaint two-lane street, and their front windows were fogged with canned snow spray in a variety of holiday patterns. The buildings were draped with twisted green garland, pinecones, and sprinkled with red-and-white bows. The occasional flickering of an electric candle in a shop’s window added to the charm of the scene. The trees lining the street were peppered with sparkling white lights wrapped around their trunks and limbs and gave a twinkling hue to the streetscape. This scene was truly something out of Rockwell’s American Winter.

This is why Jock had chosen Fredericksburg, after all, for the quaintness of the small city—a slower place in time, a place to continue his career as a first-rate detective and to start a family. The family-friendly environment of the historic city was the right answer. He had done the eight years with the big city cops of the DC Metropolitan Police Department, DCPD, and now sought the comfort of a regular nine-to-five, if there were such a thing.

While at the DCPD, Jock had been promoted from patrol officer to detective. At the time, the promotions were great career moves, so he thought. He had been stationed in Southeast, Seventh District, the toughest precinct in Washington, where the crime of the day was homicide. There were more homicides in Southeast than in any other sector of the city, and Jock desired a career with the homicide division.

The Homicide Detectives were considered the best of the best, the Superstars of the DCPD force, and for eight years, Jock had dedicated himself to becoming one of the best. He had sometimes worked the worst shifts, took on the worst assignments, volunteered to work special details, and even worked public events and holidays, to impress his supervisors. For seven months straight, he had closed more cases and solved more crimes than anyone in his district. However, no one seemed to have noticed. Occasionally, he was assigned to help the homicide detectives, but time after time, when an opening occurred in homicide, he was passed over for the appointment. Politics was the reframe from his commander.

Jock’s departure from the DCPD was hastened when he learned that his commander would never consider him for a permanent appointment to homicide because of his relationship with a civilian employee stationed at the precinct, Latisha Johnson, his future wife.

The solitude of his thoughts was broken when his cell phone barked with a musical tune by Usher.

Detective Mitchell, he announced. After a short pause, he replied, Right, Sheriff…on my way.

Checking to see if it was safe, Jock raced down Caroline Street and made a hard left onto Third Avenue. Racing down Third, he slammed on breaks sliding the Camry almost twenty-five feet on the snowy ground to avoid hitting a dog crossing the street.

Shit, he mumbled, barely missing the animal. Slow down, homeboy, we’ll get there, he said aloud.

Realizing that he was driving the family car that had no flashing red-and-blue lights to warn the traffic or pedestrians that he was en route to a crime scene, Jock slowed down and bounced along Third Avenue onto William. He made a right onto Jeff Davis Highway and a right onto Old Plank Road. He pressed the accelerator and sped up the Camry. He was now only five blocks away from the crime scene.

Jock cruised along Old Plank Road and observed the shop owners sweeping away the cobwebs of snowdrifts from their doorways to allow their customers’ safe passage into their shops.

This is my hometown, he said with a smile as he soaked in the streetscape.

As Jock approached the flashing blue, red, and yellow emergency lights, he could see that the victim’s street and intersection were blocked by police, fire, and rescue vehicles. Instead of proceeding through the messy intersection, Jock took the alley behind the victim’s home to park closer to the crime scene.

When he passed the rear of the house, he could see a body hanging from a tree. He swung the Camry around to the top side of Grove Avenue, parked, turned off the engine, placed his Detective’s Badge around his neck, and got out.

The cold winter wind kicked up, and a sudden gust of snow swept from the ground and peppered his face as he made his way down the street to the victim’s home. As he got closer, the crime scene reminded him of a scene out of a Law & Order episode. He was always amazed at how realistic the TV crime scenes mirrored actual crime scenes.

Over the years, Jock had become familiar with the sights and sounds of various crime scenes, and today, there was only one difference: the snow. The moderate temperatures of Central Virginia didn’t always provide for heavy snowstorms, and he couldn’t remember the last time he was called to a crime scene with this amount of snow.

The crime scene was loaded with usual uniform cops, technicians, and curious civilians. The yellow police tape held back the civilian onlookers, as it always did, while the red-and-blue lights danced against the falling snow. Jock made his way to the backyard of the victim’s home, and there it was. The hanging body was covered with snow, and the clothing was soaked. He could see that the face had turned an unusual shade, a darker black.

Where’s the sheriff? he asked the uniform deputy.

Don’t know, Detective, the deputy replied.

Jock turned from the hanging body and noticed CSI Lead Technician Beth Cartwright near the victim’s backsteps.

What’s the deal, Beth? Jock inquired.

Hi, Detective. We have a seventy-year-old black male. The name’s Will something or other. He’s the owner of the house, she said as she pointed over her shoulder back toward the well-preserved tan frame house behind her. Looks like suicide.

Suicide, Jock responded as the wind whistled again. Are you sure? he said rubbing his ungloved hands together. Let’s not jump the gun, he said, smiling.

Looks like a clear case to me, Detective. Let me show you.

Okay, sell me, Jock replied, and she began to paint the suicide picture.

On the left, the rope is tied to the base of the tree, she said, pointing. The five-rung step ladder is kicked over on its side less than two feet away. She walked closer to the hanging body, as Jock followed. Bending down, she said, You’ll notice there is snow on the side of the ladder, but none under it. The ground beneath his feet is covered with snow, but the soles of his shoes don’t have any snow or mud on them. No footprints have been made in the snow. We’ve kept the space clean. No tracks.

A voice barked, Detective Mitchell!

Craning his neck toward the voice, Sheriff! Jock responded almost without looking.

Where are we? the sheriff inquired.

Beth was just taking me through her initial findings.

Let’s have it, Cartwright, the sheriff snapped. It’s cold as hell out here.

Blowing into her latex glove-covered hands, Beth responded, Okay, Sheriff. The victim secured the rope over the tree branch by tying it off at the base of the tree trunk on the left. He climbed the ladder and placed the rope around his neck and kicked away the ladder as he jumped off. We believe he snapped his neck in the process. No snow or mud on the soles of his shoes and no footprints in the snow. Looks like a one-man suicide operation, Beth submitted.

Did you find any clawing marks around his neck? Jock asked. His hands are not tied. So even if he had planned to kill himself, his natural instincts would have made him grab at the rope before he died.

You’re right, Detective, Beth replied. Except if when he jumped from the ladder, he immediately broke his neck.

Sounds reasonable to me, Sheriff Andy replied as he glanced at Jock. Good work, Cartwright, he said to Beth. Well, Detective? the sheriff asked.

I’m just not sure, Sheriff. It’s a good theory, he said as he rubbed his hands together again for warmth.

Well, let’s get the pictures and get that body down. It’s time to end the carnival. Call the coroner and let’s button this thing up quickly, Sheriff Andy said, briskly walking away. See you, guys, at HQ.

Right, Sheriff, Jock responded.

The sheriff disappeared around the side of the house, and Jock could hear him telling reporters it appears to be a suicide. But Jock wasn’t convinced. He leaned in closer toward the hanging body, making sure his feet didn’t disturb the ground and, looking at the body up and down, conducting a visual examination.

Beth, what time did it start snowing last night?

I’ve already checked, Detective, she replied, pulling her notepad from her jacket. The weather folks placed the start around six twenty, not last night but early this morning.

What time was sunrise?

Again, looking at her notepad, Beth replied, Sunrise was around six fifty-five.

What time was the body discovered? Jock continued.

Again, referring to her notes, Beth responded, The dispatcher got the call at seven fifteen. It was still kinda dark out.

Why would a man get up before six o’clock in the morning, get fully dressed, come outside in this cold weather to hang himself? he said, rubbing his hands together. There are so many other ways to commit suicide indoors, he continued aloud.

Not sure, Detective. Your guess is as good as mine? Beth responded.

Beth, before they cut down the victim, have your CSI team put down some plywood over this area under the tree to preserve any footprints or evidence that might be under the snow. Have them leave up the crime scene tape around the backyard.

Jock bent down again to look at the hanging body from a different angle.

Hmm, he mumbled.

Raising up, quickly and looking at Beth, he said, After you get the victim down, see if you can get one of those big sideline warmers, you know, the kind they use at football games to keep the players warm. I want to melt this snow off the ground, after you remove the plywood, as fast as possible without messing up the crime scene.

Right, Detective.

As Jock walked toward the backdoor of the neatly maintained Frame House, he turned back toward Beth and asked, Has anyone spoken to the person who discovered the body?

I think a couple of uniforms, she replied. It’s his in-law who discovered the body.

In-law? Jock replied. His in-law may be the one who killed him!

Jock continued making his way from the backyard to the backdoor of the victim’s house. Jock noticed, what appeared to be a shoe print in the snow along the fence.

Calling over his shoulder, he said, Beth, take a look over here, pointing to the snowy ground. Looks like a footprint of some kind. Get a plastic cast made of it. Also, get the ME to take a toxic screen from the victim.

Sure, Detective…bag and tag, Beth replied.

I guess my day has just begun. Jock smirked.

Chapter 6

Jock entered the backdoor of the victim’s home. The kitchen was neatly arranged. The black granite countertops were clean and lined with red canisters. A single dish and fork sat in a half inch of water in the kitchen sink. On top of the stove sat a silver kettle. A small glass table, with black wooden chairs, and a red shag rug under it, were in the center of the kitchen. The edge of the red rug, closest to the living room doorway area, was kicked over showing its brown backing.

Decent taste for an old guy, Jock thought.

Two uniformed deputies were milling about in the front room, and they both turned when they heard Jock in the kitchen.

Detective? the first uniformed deputy called. As Jock got closer, he recognized that it was Deputy Bruce Hardy. He had worked with Hardy on other crimes.

Hardy, Jock replied.

This is Deputy Richard Laurel, Hardy announced.

Officer Laurel, Jock responded with a handshake. Has anyone been in the house since you guys arrived?

No one, Hardy answered.

Anything moved.

No, sir, not since we’ve been here, Laurel shot back.

Good.

Looking at the two deputies, Jock laughed softly.

Something funny, Detective? Deputy Hardy inquired.

There’s always something funny at a crime scene, Jock replied. As he looked at the two deputies, with a smile, You guys, Laurel and Hardy, Jock said, pointing at them. That’s funny.

The two looked curiously at Jock. Neither broke a smile. Waving his arm in their direction, Jock repeated, Laurel and Hardy, don’t you get it?

We’ve heard it before. I mean, it’s not that funny, Hardy responded.

Detective, we were told to get the witness when you are ready, Laurel chimed.

Sure, thanks. Jock walked to the other side of the living room, laughing to himself. That’s funny!

Deputy Laurel disappeared through the front door while Deputy Hardy went to secure the backdoor.

Jock surveyed the living room area and was again struck by the neatness of the victim’s home. A smoke gray leather sofa and matching love seat L-shaped configuration occupied the center of the room. A light-gray and powder-blue rug sat beneath the glass cocktail table, covering a portion of the dark hardwood floors. On the right side of the room was a staircase that led up to the bedrooms. Pushed against the staircase wall was a sofa table loaded with family pictures: weddings, birthdays, and children.

Inserted into the wall on the left side of the living room was an old woodburning fireplace and mantel, painted white. The fireplace showed no sign of any recent use. The mantel was also adorned with family pictures. As Jock moved closer to inspect the area, he saw two parallel black tracks that had scuffed the wooden floor by the fireplace. The marks were about ten inches apart and were headed back toward the kitchen. He followed the tracks back into the kitchen, but they disappeared on the kitchen’s black-and-white patterned ceramic tile floor.

At the edge of the red shag rug, beneath the kitchen table, where the corner was turned over, Jock could see a faint black scuff mark no more than six inches long.

How did I miss that? he said to himself. Details.

Jock quickly moved from the kitchen area through the living room and up the steps to the bedrooms. At the top of the steps, he could see that the house was a three-bedroom and one-bathroom layout. He first investigated the smallest bedroom that was painted a faint-pale green and was now being used as an office.

A computer and printer sat near the front window on a tinted green glass desk. The computer was off, and the printer’s paper tray was empty. No visible suicide note. A bookshelf was mounted above the computer and lined with books, many of the classics. Nothing looked disturbed.

Jock moved to the second bedroom. When he peered in, he could see a daybed resting against the wall and a wooden cocktail table sitting in front of it. On the cocktail table was an assortment of magazines, Ebony, Jet, Sports Illustrated, and Coastal Living. The magazines were neatly arranged, and the room again appeared to be undisturbed.

Jock moved to the main bedroom, which was double the size of the two smaller bedrooms. Its soft-blue walls, white trim molding, and navy-blue rug, which sat under the king-size bed, provided a soothing and calming environment. On the six-drawer dresser was a picture of a younger Will Partridge and his wife standing on a white sandy beach. A matching oval mirror hung in the center of the dresser and opposite the picture was a small black jewelry box that was half opened with a watchband hanging over its edge. To the right side of the bed was the nightstand that held a broken CD Radio clock, with the time fixed at twelve-twelve.

Neat until the end, Jock thought.

Focusing on the massive bed, Jock noticed that the covers on the bed were pulled back as if someone had gotten up in a hurry and left the bed unmade. The linen on the bed was twisted, and the corners were pulled up from the mattress.

Now that’s strange, he said softly. Why would you leave your bed so disheveled after planning your suicide so carefully?

Jock exited the main bedroom and entered the bathroom. The skinny white ceramic tub and sink were spotless. The white tiled walls and checked black-and-white tile floor were also clean. Above the sink was a mirrored medicine cabinet. Jock opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the medicines stored.

Detective, a voice rang out.

Yeah, Jock replied, still looking in the cabinet.

We have the neighbor down here, Mr. Donald Brady.

Thanks. I’ll be down in a few seconds.

Deputy Hardy escorted Donald Brady to the sofa and asked him to take a seat. He explained that Detective Mitchell would conduct a formal interview with him. Taking the seat slowly, both deputies observed that the man was clearly shaken by today’s events and was still somewhat frightened by the proceedings.

Would you like some water? Deputy Laurel asked.

No thanks, Donald replied. Shaking his head and wiping away a tear, he spoke softly, I’m just not sure why Will would hang himself.

Well, Mr. Brady, we’re not sure either, Deputy Laurel responded.

Detective Mitchell is trying to find out if that’s what truly happened. Deputy Hardy added.

Jock made his way down the steps, realizing nothing significant was discovered in the bedrooms and bathroom. As he approached the sitting man, he could see the man was distraught. His face was puffy and his eyes red and swollen. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks, and his hair was wet and matted to his head.

I’m Detective Mitchell, speaking softly and reaching out to shake Mr. Brady’s hand.

Donald Brady Detective, he replied, standing and shaking Jock’s hand with a cold grip.

Please have a seat, Mr. Brady.

Jock and Donald Brady sat, and the deputies stationed themselves in the room.

Please call me Donald.

Okay, Donald, he said, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving his notepad. What can you tell me about your neighbor?

Well, Will Partridge and I were more than neighbors… We are, were, in-laws. His son married my daughter.

Okay, so you knew him very well, he said, scribbling on the notepad.

For over thirty years, Donald Brady replied as he wiped away a tear. We started off as neighbors and well, over time, we became best friends and then in-laws. Our wives got along with each other from the start, and so, well, Will and I had to catch up on their friendship. Our families were almost inseparable. We vacationed together and celebrated the holidays together. The other families on the block joked with us saying that the Partridge Family was living next door to the Brady Bunch. Kind of funny when you think about it. It was all in good humor.

Yeah, that is funny, Jock replied with a smile. Did your in-law, Will, have a reason to kill himself?

No, Detective. Will was the most carefree person you could ever meet.

Did he have any enemies?

We all have enemies… We just may not know who they are?

I understand, Jock replied with a slight smile. Maybe he had a disagreement with someone recently and spoke with you about it?

No, Detective, he didn’t. Will’s not the kind of guy who you disagree with.

Why not?

Well, Will, would never let the conversation get to that point. He’d tell you a joke and make you laugh before he’d let you get riled up. Plus Will was a former boxer, and everybody around here knew it. Not many people wanted to tangle with him, even at his age.

Mr. Brady, can you tell me what you observed this morning?

Donald launched into a recap of the morning events starting with noticing the scarecrow-like figure hanging from the tree, getting the binoculars