Murder On The Mind Page 7

  “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Resnick, I want to put this whole unpleasant ordeal behind me. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “What about his friends? Wouldn’t they—?”

  “I telephoned those people I deemed necessary. The church was full of our friends and his colleagues. There was no need to subject my family to a media circus.”

  A plausible explanation. Yet how could she know of all the people whose lives her husband had touched? How many would’ve showed up to pay their respects, people who were genuinely sorry to hear of his passing?

  I tried a different tack. “I understand you’ll be selling the house.”

  She called my bluff without blinking. “As a matter of fact, a real estate agent will be here later today.”

  She really was eager to move on.

  And then my mind went completely blank. I couldn’t think of a single question that didn’t involve finding the body and the entire grotesque situation. She picked up on my hesitation.

  “I’m curious about the insurance policy, Mr. Resnick. Can you tell me how much it’s worth, and who the beneficiary is?”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. “I’m just the investigator, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters.”

  “But surely you have an idea? Can you give me the policy number, or the date it was issued—anything to help me trace it?”

  “I’d be glad to get back to you on that.”

  Her gaze was steely. “I’d appreciate it.”

  It was time for me to get to the real reason for my visit. I pretended to consult my notes, posing the question as though it had no real relevance. “May I have a look in the garage?”

  Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “I suppose. Although there’s really not much to see. I had a cleaning service come through this morning.”

  I followed her through the house to a utility area. She pointed to the door. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t follow you.”

  “I quite understand.”

  Besides, I didn’t need a companion for this phase of my investigation.

  The double garage was cold, the only light coming through the frosted glass on the door to the back yard. I flipped the light switch to my left, and a lone bulb illuminated a room I was already familiar with. I’d heard crime scenes, especially where a homicide had been committed, are filled with an aura of anger, desperation, and pain. This place was no different, but Sumner’s murder had not been committed here.

  With no cars parked inside, the garage seemed cavernous and unnaturally tidy. The police had probably gone over every inch of it in search of evidence. Still, Claudia Sumner had been correct; there was little out of the ordinary to see.

  Matching bicycles hung from laminated hooks near built-in storage cupboards. No gardening equipment cluttered walls or shelves, yet I suspected that under the remaining snow the yard was perfectly landscaped and attended to by experts. A garage door opener stood silent vigil over the room. The newspaper stressed there’d been no forced entry. The killer could’ve used the remote to get in. No mention was made of it being found.

  Except for rope marks on the joist where the body had hung, and a brown stain on the concrete, now scrubbed almost clean, there was nothing of interest to see. But the lack of visible evidence didn’t mean there was nothing for me to experience.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to relax, to open myself to whatever psychic pipeline was feeding me information. In seconds that sick wave of anger and triumph filled me. Fear and a strong sense of revulsion swirled in the mix, but the queasy feelings I received were not from Matt Sumner. From the start, I’d gotten next to nothing from the victim.

  Clearing my mind of distracting thoughts, I concentrated, trying to conjure up the image of the deer running across a barren field.

  Instead, the vision that appeared before my mind’s eye wasn’t the tawny buck, but a naked, middle-aged man in bare feet, stumbling across the snow, racing for his life. The pronounced thwack of the arrow leaving the bow jarred me. Sumner’s anguished grunt of shock as the arrow connected with its target left my stomach reeling.

  The vision winked out. I let go of the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It wasn’t so bad now. I was already learning to distance myself from the other’s fear—to experience it, but not make it my own.

  But maybe that wasn’t the way to go. Maybe I needed to delve deeper, immerse myself in that sense of terror to truly understand what the witness had seen, felt. Yet my own sense of fear—survival instinct—kicked in. Someone had literally butchered Sumner, while another terrified someone had watched. I wasn’t willing to experience that first-hand.

  I remembered that god-awful feeling of despair I’d gotten from the invitation in Sumner’s office, muted now that I had no catalyst to reignite it. What was it . . . ?

  And then it hit me: Betrayal. Stark, maddening betrayal.

  Why?

  Because the same thing could happen to me.

  A thrill of horror washed through me, leaving me clammy with cold sweat.

  Needing to do something, I dragged a stepladder across the floor. Once positioned, I climbed. Hauling my left arm and cast onto the joist helped me maintain balance as I reached the top rung. Looking down at the beam, I examined the rope marks. Minute fibers, embedded in the wood, still remained.

  I shut my eyes, rubbed the fibers between my thumb and forefinger, making it a Zen experience to become one with the rope. Stupid as it sounds, it worked. The killer’s rope was old, had sat coiled in a dark, dank place for a long time before being used—same impression I’d gotten at the hardware store.

  Replacing the ladder against the wall, I pulled out my tape measure and checked the height of the joist from the floor. Sumner was five-eleven, so his feet would’ve hung anywhere from six to ten inches above the ground.

  I had no need of the police photographs. With only a little effort I could see a mental picture of every detail. I forced myself to confront the image of Sumner, hanging.

  He looked so . . . dead, his skin tone a flat, bluish white. Yet his opened, unseeing, cloudy eyes seemed to follow me. I looked away.

  Heart pounding, I circled the phantom body. Sumner’s neck had been broken, probably after death. The rope around his throat had rubbed against his ears and dug a visible groove into his skin. A bruise darkened his left temple, and I found myself absently touching my own, where the baseball bat had collided with bone. We’d both been attacked by a right-handed assailant.

  The entrance wound in Sumner’s back was puckered and blood-blackened. My gaze traveled the length of his body; his genitals were missing, all right. Had the killer kept them as a souvenir?

  Sumner’s chest cavity was empty, his sternum gouged and every organ gone. The ribs were totally exposed, reminding me of a rack of barbecue ribs ready for the grill. Bruises marred his shins, and both feet were crisscrossed with cuts, probably received while attempting to escape his murderer across the crusted snow. The bottoms of his heels showed scrape marks, and dust particles clung to his back and buttocks. Had the cops found skin cells on the floor where he’d been dragged across the concrete?

  I looked away and the vision was gone. The bloodstained floor drew my attention. The murderer would have to be pretty strong to haul Sumner around, transferring him from the crime scene to his home, hoisting his rigor-stiffened body to hang, and all without leaving a single fingerprint or other clue. There was cruelty in leaving the body for his wife to discover, as though the killer were rubbing her nose in the crime.

  The light bulb was missing from the garage door opener. After the murderer strung up the body, he’d probably wanted the garage dark when he opened it to leave. Had the lamppost been on that night? Surely someone had to have seen something.

  I turned. Claudia Sumner stood behind the storm door. She’d waited for me—watched me—her arms crossed over her chest in annoyance.

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Sumner.”

  She
opened the door, reached to touch the garage door control. With a hum and a jerk, the door slowly rose.

  “Good day, Mr. Resnick.”

  As I crossed onto the driveway, the door started its slow, steady descent.

  I was glad to reach the car and Richard’s friendly face.

  CHAPTER 9

  “The pot’s empty.”

  Brenda and I looked over our sections of newspaper to stare at Richard.

  He turned his coffee cup over to show us it, too, was empty.

  “I made supper,” Brenda said, her voice flat. “And washed up.”

  “I can’t get the filters out with only one set of fingers,” I said, showing him the limited range of motion my cast allowed.

  Richard scowled, let out a breath, and got up to make a fresh pot.

  Evenings had fallen into a pattern. After dinner, we’d sit around the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the paper. Later, I’d try to stay out of Richard’s and Brenda’s way. Things seemed strained between them, and no doubt my presence was a contributing factor. Then, for as long as I could concentrate, I’d reread the newspaper articles on the murder, or maybe glance at the library books, before going to bed. A boring lifestyle, but I wasn’t up to much more.

  The coffeemaker chugged and Richard took his seat again.

  The front doorbell rang.

  We glared at one another for long seconds, daring each other to answer it.

  It rang again.

  Without a word, Richard pushed back his chair and disappeared down the hall.

  I turned my attention back to the financial page and felt sorry for old Rich. It seemed like he was doing all the fetching and carrying lately. Did a man as well-educated and professionally situated as my brother feel degraded by such trivial matters?

  Brenda got up to pour herself another cup of coffee, as Richard returned with another man.

  “Jeff, this is Detective Carl Hayden. He’d like to speak with you.” He didn’t bother to introduce the plainclothes cop to Brenda.

  My stomach knotted. I recognized the name from the newspaper articles. Hayden was the lead investigator on the Sumner murder. He was big—about six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds—and he looked pissed. Crew-cut and heavy-featured, he reminded me of a slow-moving freight train—deadly, not to be underestimated.

  “Detective Hayden.” I offered my hand, which he ignored.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Brenda asked politely, but her body language belied her solicitous words as she eyed the cop with suspicion.

  Hayden shook his head, all business, turning his full attention to me. “Sir, Mrs. Claudia Sumner called Orchard Park Police Department this afternoon. Said you’d paid her a visit.”

  “Yes, sir.” I figured I’d better be as polite as he was. After all, I didn’t want to be charged with obstructing justice, if that’s what he ultimately had in mind.

  “You told her you were an insurance investigator. But she doesn’t deal with The Travelers.”

  Neither did I, any more.

  “Sir, do you now work for Travelers?”

  I carefully considered my answer.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever worked for that company?”

  “Yes.”

  “In Buffalo?”

  “No.”

  I hoped my curt answers wouldn’t bug him, but I didn’t want to give him any more information than I had to.

  “Mr. Resnick, just what is your interest in Mr. Sumner’s death?”

  “How did you track me down?”

  “DMV. Mrs. Sumner’s security guard took down the license plate number. Please answer my question.”

  Polite but firm.

  “Like everybody else, I just want to know what happened to him.”

  “Everybody else doesn’t pass themselves off as insurance investigators and visit the bereaved,” Hayden said. “Where were you on Thursday evening between four and eight o’clock?”

  “You can’t suspect Jeff,” Brenda cried.

  “I was with them.” I nodded toward Richard and Brenda. “All day, all evening.”

  “We can vouch for him,” Richard added. “Detective Hayden—” He turned the cop aside and spoke quietly. “My brother recently suffered a rather severe head injury, which can account for—”

  “Richard!”

  Just what I needed—to be branded a nut.

  Listening intently to Richard, Hayden looked at me over his shoulder, his expression grim. He turned back to me with no hint of sympathy.

  “Mr. Resnick, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from visiting the Sumner family; they’ve suffered enough. And it would be unfortunate for you if they decided to press harassment charges. Besides, the Orchard Park PD is capable of solving this murder without outside interference.”

  Defiance flashed through me, but I kept my mouth shut.

  Hayden nodded at Richard and Brenda, then headed back the way he’d come, with Richard struggling to keep up.

  “Of all the nerve,” Brenda said.

  “I haven’t stepped on anyone’s toes,” I said, but she wasn’t the one I needed to convince. I was out of the hospital on Richard’s say-so. As my next of kin, and a physician besides, Richard held all the power. I wasn’t sure of my rights should he decide to have me committed, or—

  I forced myself to breathe evenly. No way could I let paranoia get the better of me. It made me react like those brain-injury case studies in the pamphlets.

  Footsteps approached. I must’ve looked panicked, because Brenda moved closer, put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Jeffy. Everything’s okay.”

  Richard’s face betrayed no emotion. “We need to talk,” he said, voice calm, his attention fixed only on me. He took his seat at the table across from me.

  I felt like a kid who’d been caught spying on a skinny dipper. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. Certainly nothing too illegal.

  He composed himself, and I wondered if he assumed that stance before telling patients they had only weeks to live.

  “Something’s not right with you, and I don’t believe it’s physical.”

  “Why? Because I know about this murder?”

  He nodded. “I’m having trouble dealing with this whole situation.”

  “You’re having trouble? What about me? I feel like I’m going crazy. It’s like the inside of my brain itches and I can’t scratch it. My whole life is fucked, because a couple of street punks needed crack money.”

  Richard remained controlled, rational. “Just what do you know that you didn’t read in the paper?”

  My voice rose. “I know that a man was murdered.”

  “Everybody knows that.”

  “I know he was killed in a field. I know that a little kid witnessed it.”

  “What little kid?” Brenda asked.

  “Jackie.”

  “The kid on the invitation you saw in Sumner’s office?” Richard asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And how did she witness it?”

  “I don’t know—he just did.”

  They were both staring at me; Brenda aghast, Richard incredulous. But the impact of my words had only just hit me. Until that moment, I hadn’t known Jackie was a boy or what he’d seen, but I was as sure of it as I was about my own name.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me or Brenda, I think you should talk to someone else,” Richard said, his voice deadly calm. “You need professional help to get over the trauma of your . . . accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident—it was an unprovoked attack. A robbery. And they got a whole lot more than just my money. They took my life!”

  “Which proves my point. You need to work through this anger. Until you do, your subconscious is going to keep harping on it, which is why you’re obsessing on this murder.”

  “No.” Our gazes locked. “I know what I know. I had those dreams in the hospital before Sumner was murdered.”

  “Do you actually believe you have psychi
c power?”

  “Whatever’s happening to me is real. It’s not a psychotic reaction, or a delusion, or something I’m making up to get attention.”

  “You must admit your behavior has been a little strange.”

  “How so?”

  “The fact that you can’t go upstairs, for one.”

  Just thinking about it filled me with dread. “It’s because of your grandmother.”

  “Oh, so now you think the house is haunted?”

  “Richard!” Brenda chided.

  He whirled on her, eyes blazing. “Stay out of this.”

  “Just who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Him!” He turned back to me. “Well?”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts—but there’s something of her up there. It’s leftover anger—rage. I don’t understand it, but it’s there and it hurts like hell.”

  I changed the subject. “What happened to the sympathetic doctor I spoke to the other day, the one who wanted to help me? Now, because the police got wind of my investigation, you want to shut me down, hide me in a closet, and pass me off as some kind of brain-damaged fool!”

  I bolted from my chair. I didn’t have the stamina for an extended battle with Richard.

  “Where’re you going?” Richard demanded, following me through the house.

  “Out.” I grabbed my coat from the hall closet, struggled to get it over my cast, and opened the front door.

  “Jeff.”

  “Let him go,” Brenda said, as I stormed out into the cold.

  “Jeff, come back!” Richard called after me again.

  I stalked off toward Main Street, my breath coming out in foggy wisps. The cold air felt good, cleansing. With every step I felt empowered, even though I hadn’t won the argument.

  The Snyder business district was to the right. I headed for it.

  Biting my lip in frustration, I faced the reality of my situation: Richard had lost all patience with me. That meant no more lifts around town. No more getting me in places like the bank. The strings were now firmly attached, and I would either have to play the game his way . . . or get back on my feet. To do that, I needed a job.