S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Holy, shit.” Mick motioned for the clerical staff to get down. The brunette approached to within twenty feet of Brandon Carter, who was bending over a cute blond seated in front of a computer. The blond took off for the safety of the filing cabinets. Brandon looked up, slightly annoyed.

“I warned you, Brandon,” she cried out. Camille, Brandon’s wife of ten years and mother of his four children, pointed a. 357 Magnum at him.

“Camille, you don’t want to do this,” Scofield called out.

“Get away,” she screamed, “all of you.”

“I’m not moving, just stay cool.” Scofield stopped in his tracks sending his bifocals bouncing to the tip of his nose.

“You lousy son of a bitch,” Camille yelled, a rush of tears streaking down her face.

Sam didn’t know Brandon but she knew his type. He had Hollywood good looks and a swagger to his walk. She had seen him earlier in the break room hanging over one of the part-time clerical workers, a petite redhead with green eyes and dimples.

He was a beat cop with aspirations for Internal Affairs. Unfortunately, no one had told him affairs didn’t mean his own. Seeing Brandon sweat gave Sam a perverse pleasure. She cautiously approached Camille eager to get a front row seat.

Brandon, his face red from embarrassment and anger, slowly raised his hands in front of him. Gone was the arrogant, self-assured smile, the cocky tilt to his head. Even his hair, which was never out of place, lay matted to his forehead by beads of perspiration.

“Just take it easy, Camille. You know you haven’t been feeling well lately. Just a little PMS.” He tried a nervous laugh to ease the tension. But the room was silent, except for the droning of the ceiling fans.

Camille raised her left hand to help steady the gun. “How the hell should I feel after your high school girlfriend called to tell me the results of her pregnancy test?”

Gasps could be heard from some of the women crouched behind their desks. Scofield maneuvered himself to where he could be seen to Camille’s right while Sam approached on Camille’s left.

“I’ve been true to you, Camille.” Camille’s voice mimicked him. “I’ve been faithful, Camille.” Several sobs escaped her throat. “You lying sack of shit.” She squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet directly over Brandon’s shoulder and into a picture hanging on the wall. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions.

“Are you nuts?” Brandon yelled, moving away from the desk with sudden boldness.

Sam smiled and casually walked up to Camille, first looking at the gun and then Brandon’s nervous face. She placed her left hand on Camille’s wrist and lowered the gun until it pointed well below Brandon’s waist. “That was a little too high, Camille. I bet if you spend some time at the range, you could improve your aim dramatically.”

Some of the observers couldn’t contain their laughter. She could hear Frank’s deep, resonant chuckle somewhere behind her. Camille’s hands began shaking as she started sobbing uncontrollably. Sam took the gun away from her.

Brandon walked over, smoothing his hair down. “Baby, she’s lying. You know how these teenagers are,” he whispered.

Sam handed the gun to Scofield and turned to Brandon. “All she asks for is a little honesty. You’ve slept with half the women in this building. Why don’t you just admit it?”

Camille let out another sob and sank into the nearest chair.“Sarge, what are you doing?” Jake asked.

“Stay out of this,” Brandon yelled at both Sam and Jake.

“Why don’t you just divorce the jerk?” Sam asked.

Camille shook her head, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I still love him.”

Sam threw up her hands in disgust as Murphy approached, his overpowering scent of aftershave trailing behind.

He shook his head at Sam saying, “You’re not even here a week, Sergeant, and already you’re causing us grief.”

Jake and Frank stood on the front steps of Sam’s house looking back at the three-hundred-foot-long brick drive.

The home, nestled in a partially wooded area near Lake Michigan was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence with a remote control gate, which Abby rarely closed.

A variety of colors welcomed them in the shape of peonies, potentillas, roses, and spireas. Flowering magnolias and red buds hugged the fence along the brick drive.

Frank let out a long whistle and said, “Shit, I never knew the sarge lived in a mansion.”

The house had been constructed with flagstone and a concrete mixture that gave it a stucco appearance. A large overhang by the front door protected them from the noon sun.

“It certainly didn’t look this huge last night.”

Frank gave him a puzzled look. “You were here last night?”

Suddenly, the door pulled open and Jake found himself staring into the mysterious eyes he had met on the patio.

“Jacob.” Abby greeted him warmly.

“Frank Travis, Abby. My partner.”

Abby reached out and shook Frank’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Frank said.

She turned and led them into the house. Her patterned skirt hung to within inches of her moccasins and her printed blouse was accented by some of the most eye-catching turquoise jewelry they had ever seen.

“I’m sorry, Abby. I probably should have called first,” Jake said.

“No problem,” she replied. “I was expecting you.”

Frank gave Jake another puzzled look. He then inhaled deeply. “Damn, somethin’ smells good.”

“I’ve been baking.”

“This REALLY isn’t a good time,” Jake apologized.

Abby patted his arm. “I just finished. And besides, I prepared lunch for you.”

Jake could feel Frank’s quizzical eyes on him. And Jake had no way to explain how Abby knew they would be by for lunch.

The two detectives gave a quick glance up a slightly curved staircase which led from the quarry tile foyer to the second floor.

“I’ll just make it a quick nickel tour.” Abby led them through four-thousand square feet of pottery, sand paintings, area rugs, Navajo-style upholstered furniture, and windows with remote control blinds. She moved gracefully, as reserved as a First Lady giving a tour of the White House, yet had a casual air about her that made them feel comfortable.

The house had been built thirty years earlier when solid oak flooring and trim were standard. All four fireplaces had been recently converted from wood-burning to gas.

The men marveled at the intricate hand-carved designs on the fifteen-foot-long dining room table, the huge bay windows in the dining room, the restful ambiance of the Florida room.

A fragrant breeze swept through the kitchen from the opened patio door. Jake slid open the screen and walked out onto the massive flagstone patio surrounded by a three-foot high brick wall.

“So this is where I was last night.”

“How much land do you have here?” Frank gasped.

“I’m not sure. Maybe seventy-five, one hundred acres. Alex knows the exact figure. There’s a pond out back which Alex has surrounded with a variety of wild flowers and natural settings. It’s also nice that we are bordered on two sides by forest preserves and one side by the lake, so we have maximum privacy.”

Jake turned and faced the house, wondering just why they needed so much privacy. He gazed up at the long balcony which shaded part of the patio.

Frank whistled. “It certainly isn’t a house you could buy on a sergeant’s salary.”

Abby led them back into the kitchen as she explained, “Mrs. Casey’s father built this house as a wedding gift. When Samuel and Melinda died, Sam inherited the house. The only expenses are insurance, upkeep and taxes.”