Chapter 7

Jones and I watched Calhoun practically run out of the room. We both sat there and just looked at each other, and we both began to laugh. It really wasn’t funny, but it was funny.

“So, what do you think? We’ve met with mother and son now,” I asked Jones.

“I really can’t make heads or tails of this circus so far.”

“Did you get a feeling toward either one that they were hiding something, or lying, or maybe even should be bumped up on the suspect list?”

“I swear to you, I got a funny vibe from Calhoun, but it wasn’t one of those ‘he did it’ vibes. The guy seems shady, really shady. But a murderer? I don’t know. I can’t say yes, and yet I can’t rule him out completely,” Jones said.

“I feel the same way about him. He hated Effridge, that’s for sure. He made no attempt to cover up how much he disliked him.” I tapped my fingertips on the desk. “What about his mother?”

“If she killed her husband, I’d be shocked. She was hurt by what he did, but you would think if she were going to kill him she would have done it a while back. Why would she wait until now?”

“Good question. I have a hard time seeing her pulling the trigger to put a slug in the guy’s twisted, cheating brain,” I said.

Jones rubbed his hand across his forehead, then our eyes locked. “Let’s just think about the possible scenario a little differently. Maybe we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. What if our sweet little Carlotta was getting ready to leave Friday morning, but Effridge wasn’t at home? Instead, while she was in the kitchen getting that morning cup of joe, in he strolls with Larissa on his breath. He walks in, they argue, she pulls a gun, and lets him have it,” Jones said.

We just looked at each other with blank expressions on our faces. I couldn’t believe Jones had concocted such an insane story.

“Um, no.” I laughed, and Jones joined in.

“You’re right; it was pretty far-fetched.”

“You think? Come on, we have to go dig up some information, then make a couple phone calls to convince these other two women to come in and talk to us. Hopefully one of them can give us something we can use.”

We spent the better part of the morning with our eyes glued to the computer monitors, trying to see what we could find on our two remaining interviewees. They weren’t very lively types. Either of them.

Larissa was no more than a typical girl-next-door type who happened to be the daughter of a surgeon. Her mother had passed away a few years back. Daddy seemed to check out with nothing glaring in his history. Not even a slap on the wrist.

How respectable.

Larissa had a couple of misdemeanors, but nothing she served any time for. Public intoxication while in college … typical. Trespassing – probably happened while she was drunk. A month of probation for each charge and nothing else. Those charges hardly seemed like she was ready to make the jump to the big time and commit murder.

I leaned back in my chair, placed my hands behind my head, and kicked my feet up onto my desk. It seemed like Jones and I really had our work cut out for us. We began the investigation with one suspect, the victim’s wife. Then, after our conversation with her, we had two more names. We talked to Calhoun and managed to add a new name to our collection of suspects.

My eyes closed as I mulled over our lack of information. And just like that I sat up, my feet hitting the floor hard. Jones looked as if he were going blind or falling asleep staring into his computer.

“Come on, let’s go see what the lab has to say.”

He stood from his chair, grabbed his badge and we walked out of the small area we had been sharing.

*****

We walked through the doors of the lab, in search of Skip.

“Ah, my friends in blue. I just tried to call you at your desks,” he called from across the room. “I was just getting ready to try your cell phones. You saved me the trouble.”

“What do you have for us, Skip, my man?” Jones asked.

“I can’t say you’ll be terribly happy with what I have so far, but let’s go over what our not so talkative friend, Mr. Effridge, had to tell me.”

We followed Skip over to the meat locker in the wall. After scanning down a column of three doors, he chose the middle one. He yanked the handle and pulled the cold metal slab out, with our victim completely covered. He unzipped the body bag, then peeled it back to uncover his head and torso.

“Let’s start with the head,” Skip said. He pointed at the cleaned-up bullet hole in Effridge’s skull before shoving his hands into his pockets. “That little wound in particular.”

That was no wound. A wound could be covered with a Band-Aid, like the scrapes my nieces and nephews got on their knees from playing in the yard or falling off their bikes. When part of your skull has been shot off and left in tiny fragments along with brain particles, that wasn’t something you could attach a small plastic strip to, kiss the boo-boo, and send someone on their way.

“The fatal shot came from the front. He was facing his killer. It must have happened quickly because there are no scrapes, scratches, or defensive wounds of any kind on his hands or arms. Whoever put this slug, a .22 by the way, in his brain caught him completely off guard.”

“Is there any way he could have committed suicide?” I asked.

“Not a chance. There’s no gun powder residue on his face or hands to indicate the barrel of the gun was against his skin,” Skip said. He pointed at Effridge’s eyes. “See his eyes? No raccooning.”

“No what?”

“Raccooning. Sorry, it’s what we call it when a victim has a close-range shot to the head. The blood seems to pool around the eyes. Since the shadowing isn’t present, it’s safe to say there was a decent amount of distance between the shooter and Effridge. Probably at least ten feet.”

He pulled the sheet back further to reveal his chest. “This one is more confusing.” Skip ran his fingers through his dirty-blond hair.

“Why is that? He got sliced up pretty good. Right?” Jones asked.

“Actually, yeah. He was stabbed thirty-five times. The majority were significantly more than just flesh wounds. Coincidence?”

“He’s thirty-five years old,” I mumbled.

“Yup. A murderer with a sense of humor. And see this here?” Skip rolled the victim to expose his back to us then pointed to a small hole about six inches below Effridge’s left shoulder blade.

“What the …” My mouth hung open at the small hole.

“Exactly. I was wondering the same thing. Then I looked at him a little closer. This shot wasn’t fatal. It missed all his major organs. It didn’t go all the way through him, and it didn’t kill him. There’s no residue on him, so it wasn’t close-range either.”

“Could there have been two shooters?” Jones asked.

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m thinking he got popped in the back first, which startled him. When he turned around, he was shot in the head. The calibers of the bullets are identical according to the size of the holes. We dug this one out of the rib it lodged in.” He held up a spent bullet. “We’ll still need to run tests to determine if the shots were fired from the same weapon, if the shell can be found from the head shot. That one did go through, and that’s what makes me think the shooter was a couple feet closer for that one. Speaking of the gun, any luck on finding it?”

“We have to figure out who shot him first, and then who went stab-happy on his chest.”

“I thought the wife shot him.”

“No, or at least I don’t think so. I don’t know. Not yet.”

“One more thing. Notice the stabbing took place primarily on the right side of his chest.”

“Yeah. What does that mean?” I asked.

“When you have a right-handed attacker, the stab wounds are typically on the left side of the chest. Most people stab straight out or down. Like this.” He made a fist and moved his arm back and forth in the air like he was stabbing someone. “It’s too awkward to stab across your body. You’d lose leverage and power,” Skip said.

“So we’re looking for a lefty?”

“I’d say so,” Skip said.

“Interesting. It seems we’re looking for a lot of different things. Mainly a weapon,” Jones said.

“Fellas, it sounds like you may have your work cut out for you.”

“Tell me about it. I’m hoping like hell you can help some more,” I said.

“So far, of all the evidence that was brought in, nothing stands out, but we’re still processing it. The fingerprints we’ve identified so far either match the wife or her son. There was a single blonde hair and, according to what I know, the wife is a brunette … unless it’s a dye job.”

“I’m betting it’s the best damn dye job money can buy, but you’re right; Dupree’s not blonde,” Jones said.

“Oh, and one more thing we found that you may be interested in. Have you come across any redheads during your questioning?” Skip asked.

“No redheads. Why? What did you find?”

“A single red hair. Not a dye job, either. So you’re on the lookout for a blonde and a red-headed female.”

“Why do you say specifically a female?” I asked.

“Because of the length of the hair, and the blonde hair was found in his crotch.” Skip smiled at us. “Also, typically stabbings like this are from someone with some pent-up anger and emotion. A whole lot of anger. If you’re thinking the wife isn’t the primary suspect, there might be another woman.”

“Fuck,” I huffed out. “Dupree has a secretary who has a key, according to her son. She may be blonde; we haven’t talked to her yet. I guess we’ll have to see where that conversation takes us. We do know she was romantically involved with Effridge.”

“Let me know what you find out, and I’ll keep working on what I have. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.” He covered Effridge back up and zipped the body bag. “Oh, and there’s an envelope for you on my desk. I had a second set of the crime scene photos made for you guys.”

“Thanks, Skip.”

He pushed the slab back in, then shut and locked the door. “Anytime. Good luck. It sounds like you guys are going to need it.”