Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

Roger resumed. “My guess is that he ordered Marsha to face the counter, place her hands on it like so, then proceeded to enter her from the rear. We found fresh fingerprints, Marsha’s, where she’d grasped the overhang of the counter, so that pretty much corroborates that theory.”

Sam found it hard to conceive that Marsha Bradley could allow this to happen without putting up some resistance. Either she was the most iron-willed woman imaginable, or there was more to all of this than met the eye… As a matter of fact, none of this was making much sense the more he thought about it.

“After he was done in here,” Roger resumed, “Marsha’s assailant apparently ordered her to go into the living room-why the living room is anyone’s guess. At any rate, not long afterwards, he strangled her to death. Again, from behind.”

“How do you know she was strangled from behind?”

“The coroner’s report. He determined from the angle and size of the wound on her neck along with all that other technical shit that the murder weapon had been a fairly thin cord of some kind-about the same gauge as ordinary lamp cord-that had been pulled around her neck from behind.”

“Suggesting that she was unaware of what the killer was doing-like she was taken by surprise,” Sam said.

“Exactly. You’re really catching on to all this police work, Watson. I’m proud of you,” Roger chuckled.

Sam forced a weak smile, but for the moment had lost his sense of humor. There was one thing about Roger Hagstrom that he found annoying at times, and it was one of the reasons he was there right now with him at the Bradley house. He didn’t know if it was the effects of alcoholism or just plain lethargy, but his friend had a real problem with following through on things. He’d seen it happen on a few occasions before when he had tagged along with Roger during an investigation. If a crime wasn’t solved quickly and easily, he tended to just give it up, or simply let it get away from him. It wasn’t intentional, of course. It just seemed to sort of happen that way sometimes.

But this wasn’t an auto theft or a burglary. This was a murder case-and the victim just happened to be a very close friend of his and Ann’s. He was going to lean on Roger Hagstrom all the way through this investigation until the murderer was caught and convicted-even if it strained their friendship in the process.

“How long was the murderer in this house?” Sam asked.

Roger sipped and replied, “It’s hard to say exactly. Dave left at six-thirty to go to Matt Timmonds’ and returned at about nine-fifty. The autopsy indicates that the time of death was between eight and eight-thirty. My guess is that he didn’t stay long-just long enough to get Tommy out of the way, rape Marsha and strangle her; all of which could have taken between fifteen minutes and half and hour-depending on how quickly he worked, if you know what I mean. Tack that time onto her approximate time of death and that would put him in the house somewhere between the hours of seven-forty-five and eight-thirty.”

“Again, a lot of speculation, I see. What about the lipstick and the message he left? Where did he get the lipstick, anyway?”

“From Marsha’s purse-we know that for a fact. Her purse was found, opened, lying on the end table on the other side of the sofa. That was one of the first indications that the killer wasn’t interested in taking anything because all of Marsha’s credit cards and money-around $150.00 in cash-was untouched. Dave confirmed that the lipstick was hers and that she always carried it in her purse.”

“Is that where Marsha normally kept her purse?” Sam inquired.

“I knew you were going to ask that. The answer is no, it isn’t, and yes, I’ve already asked Dave where she usually kept it-no doubt your next question. She usually kept it on the dining room table. Now, go ahead and say what I think you’re going to say.”

Sam was undaunted by Roger’s brashness. “That definitely strengthens my theory, doesn’t it? The dining room table is completely out of sight from the living room and the kitchen. The killer would never have spent precious time searching for a tube of lipstick after having just murdered Marsha and no doubt wanting to split the scene ASAP. But he didn’t have to, because he already knew where Marsha kept her purse. Which indicates that her assailant knew this house and Marsha’s habits quite well. She had to have known this bastard, Rog! Either that, or he sure did a bang-up job of casing out this house and its occupants before coming here that night to carry out his crime.”

Roger drained the last of his Jack Daniels and stared at Sam. “I’m actually starting to think you may be absolutely right, buddy-you’re making me a believer. The question now is: which is it? And either way, which ever it is, we still don’t have jack shit to go on.”

Sam sighed. “I realize that. But it does give us a little insight into this prick. We know that he’s a clever sonofabitch beyond question-not to mention meticulous.”

“That’s a fact,” Roger agreed.

“What about the message? Any guesses?”

Roger shook his head. “Nope. “May Day…” The only thing that comes to mind is the international distress call for help. And the first of May-that spring celebration or whatever the fuck it is. The killer’s writing of that on Marsha’s tits after murdering her makes no sense at all, in light of the former-she was already beyond help. The first of May could be significant, though. But in what way? Who the fuck knows? Nope, buddy. That’s got me completely stymied.”

“Still think he could be a serial killer?”

“Fuck if I know. I’ll tell you the truth, and I’ve been saying it all along. Until Tommy Bradley talks to us, we’re just pissin’ in the wind on this case. All we have is a bunch of goddamn theories and two items of physical evidence: hair and cum. Big deal! We don’t even have a concrete motive yet, unless we want to believe that this was sheer rape and murder for the fucking fun of it-something for some sick ass to do on a lonely Wednesday evening. We need that kid to talk, Sam. That’s all there is to it.”

“Which could be weeks from now, you’ve been informed. What are you going to do in the meantime, Roger?” Sam asked purposefully, just to put him on the spot.

Roger felt the pressure and looked at his friend determinedly. “Well, we’re going to have to ask some people some more questions, for one thing. Canvass the neighbors again, just in case they’ve recalled something that might have slipped their minds when we last spoke to them. We’ll check and see if there have been any reports of prowlers in a twenty-block radius of this neighborhood in the last couple of weeks, too. And, it looks like I’m going to have to ask Dave some painfully personal questions about his wife-which I really hate to do. Find out if she was truly as faithful to him as he’s been leading us to believe, and ask him if she ever had any opportunities to play around on him that he can think of. He’s probably going to hate my ass for doing it, but we’ve got to check out every possibility, eh buddy?”

Sam grinned, pleased to hear that his friend wasn’t going to let him down. Roger was a man of his word, if nothing else. “That’s right, Detective Hagstrom. And if you need any help with the legwork, I’ll gladly offer my services.”

“I’ll let you know.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Why don’t you take your pictures so we can get the hell out of here. I’m getting thirsty.”

Sam looked around the room and said, “Fuck it. Let’s just go.”

Roger was tempted to rib him, but decided not to. “Want to hit the tavern and tie one on?”

It only took Sam a second to think about it. “Lead the way.”