Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

Ann had felt really sorry for him and when one of the other cheerleaders asked her what Stanley had wanted, she had fibbed that he had asked about an assignment that their English class was working on. Yes, she had actually felt that bad for poor Stanley.

Leave it to that crazy Roger Hagstrom and the Smithtown P.D. to come up with something as far-fetched as this, Ann thought. She tried to imagine what they might have dug up on Stanley that could possibly point the finger at him of all people. Even Sam had admitted they had no evidence, which didn’t surprise her in the least. Her hunch was that they were beginning to grab at straws now because they were too damn inept to find who the true murderer was.

Christ! she thought. Was she ever glad she was out of that stupid, narrow-minded town! You can have it, Sam, with my blessing. And may you and Shelley-the-slut-Hatcher live happily ever after!

Her thoughts suddenly turned to Jerry Rankin. She didn’t want to admit it to herself but she already missed him and it had been only twenty-four hours. In a way, she wished that she hadn’t come on so strong with the “friendship” rap to him. She realized now that she could have put a swift end to everything had Jerry not been so understanding. Any other guy would have backed off under similar circumstances, not wanting to continue pursuing someone who had just basically confessed having no intentions whatsoever of sleeping with them-which is what it all really boiled down to. But Jerry Rankin was different-he could see beyond the sexual aspect and respected her enough both as a woman and a person to accept her terms.

If he could be here, right this very moment, she just might have let him have his way with her. She knew she wouldn’t feel that way tomorrow or the next day, but at this very moment, yes. She could just picture Sam and the whore together, rolling around in bed, and that image made her want to somehow get even with him. She would allow Jerry to join her in the tub and she would enjoy every wonderful second of it. The mere thought of his trim, muscular body pressed hard against hers made her skin suddenly tingle all over…

But Jerry wasn’t here. He was meeting with one of his clients. He had offered to call her when he was done, but she had told him not to bother-that she was going to turn in early. She hadn’t slept very well the night before and she needed to catch up so she wouldn’t be too tired to cook tomorrow.

Ann reached for the soap, lathered her hands and began washing herself. If Jerry were here, right this moment, he could be doing this for her, she thought.

When was the last time she had made love? she wondered. She thought back. It had been in April, with Sam of course. It had been the night before she had caught him with Shelley Hatcher, in fact. It had been wonderful…

Damn you, Sam!

It was around 5:30 Monday afternoon when the telephone rang in Sam Middleton’s office. Praying it wasn’t McNary again, he picked up the phone.

“Sam Middleton.”

“I’m glad I caught you before you split,” Roger Hagstom said. “How soon can you come down to the station?”

“I was just getting ready to call it a day. What’s up?”

“Your presence is being requested here. Pronto, in fact.”

Sam was stunned. “Did I hear you say what I think I heard you say?”

“You heard me right, buddy. Hold on a second…”

Sam could hear someone speaking in the background.

“Chief Thompson says he hopes there’s no hard feelings.” Roger said.

“Roger, what in the fuck is going on?” Sam demanded, his sense of humor waning.

The detective laughed. “We hit pay dirt, man! That’s what’s going on!”

“You caught the murderer?” Sam asked incredulously.

“No, but we now sure as fuck know who he is, without a doubt. Listen, get your ass down here and I’ll tell you all about it.” Lowering his voice to a near whisper he added, “The chief knows everything.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Sam hated suspense and Roger knew it. Swearing under his breath, he quickly put his papers in order and left the office.

When he arrived at the police station, Sam noticed that nearly every police cruiser was parked outside, prompting him to sense that what ever was going on was a big deal. He parked the Cherokee and entered the station, feeling the electricity of activity the moment he stepped up to the desk sergeant.

“Go on in,” Mark O’Brien said, obviously expecting him.

Roger Hagstrom and the chief were standing outside Thompson’s office as Roger spotted him and gestured Sam over.

“Hi Rog, Chief.”

“Hello Sam,” Thompson said, extending his hand. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Sam shook the black man’s hand and glanced over at Roger imploringly.

“Come on in,” the chief said, holding his office door open.

“Thanks,” Sam replied as he followed Roger into the office. Roger showed him a chair across from Thompson’s desk and Sam sat down.

“You like some coffee?” Roger asked, stepping over to the coffee machine.

“Yes, thanks,” Sam replied.

Chief Thompson sat down at his desk and waited until everyone had his coffee before speaking.

“I’m going to be up front with you, Sam. Lieutenant Hagstrom has informed me that you’ve already been shall we say, ‘enlightened’ on the Bradley murder case, so I don’t feel any need to go over the background information. Therefore, we’ll skip directly to the business at hand.”

Sam felt like a school kid being lectured to as he sat across the desk from the chief of police. He’d never particularly liked Frank Thompson but had to admit that he respected the man. He was scathingly blunt and had that kind of authoritarian demeanor that demanded one’s attention whenever caught in his presence.

“Hagstrom tells me that you have a fairly extensive background in photography,” Thompson continued.

Sam nodded. “Yes, I guess you could say that. Photography was my original career choice until I learned that newspaper reporting paid better,” he replied sarcastically.

Chief Thompson held up a transparent plastic bag with a label marked “Evidence” stuck to it. “Then perhaps you could tell me what you make of this.”

He handed the plastic bag over to Sam. Inside the bag he saw a blank Polaroid print.

“David Bradley’s housekeeper found that print this morning in Tommy Bradley’s bedroom,” the chief explained. “It had apparently fallen and wedged itself inside one of Tommy’s toys and out of plain view. At any rate, Hagstrom’s men somehow missed this during their investigation but fortunately for us, the Bradley housekeeper’s eyesight is still in good working order,” he added with a sardonic glance toward Roger.

Sam eyed the Polaroid. “Do you think the murderer dropped this?”

Thompson grinned. “We know that the murderer dropped it. In fact, we now know who the murderer is-again, thanks to the Bradley’s housekeeper.”

Roger Hagstrom took over from there. “Mary Willis, the housekeeper, wisely refrained from touching the print and immediately called Dave Bradley to tell him what she’d found. Dave then called me and I went over to check it out. And lo and behold, we dusted for prints and actually got some. Our hunch was right, Sam! We compared them against Stanley Jenkins’ prints and they’re a match.”

“Jesus!” Sam exclaimed. “So Stanley really is Marsha’s murderer?”

Roger nodded. “Yup. We finally have the hard evidence we need to charge him.”

“But how did you get Stanley Jenkins’ fingerprints?” Sam asked.

“He’s got a police record, remember? The Epson, Indiana P.D. had mugged and fingerprinted him when he was booked on the arson charge at the college. We just received his mug sheet from them earlier today.”