Thomas Amo: An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken

James stopped writing. "Wait a minute, are you telling me, you arrived at seven a.m. and this room was empty. Then fifteen minutes later she was in here?"

"That's correct," said the funeral director as he shifted in his chair.

"How is that possible? How can you be sure she wasn't there, when you arrived? I mean this place is dark even with the lights on," commented James.

Blackstone looked at James with a slight smirk. "Yes, it is a bit of a haunted house isn't it?"

James didn't care for the funeral director's joke. It seemed to be a bland attempt at masking what normally was arrogant behavior.

"Then you understand Mr. Blackstone that means the murderer was still in the building when you arrived this morning."

"It would appear so, wouldn't it inspector."

"Doesn't that frighten you?" asked James.

"Why should I? Obviously his intent was to dazzle us with the girl. If he had wanted me dead, then I believe I wouldn't be sitting here talking with you."

As much as the funeral director's statement annoyed James, he had to agree with him. The girl was his focus. Yet he took a huge risk of being caught by Blackstone. Was that also his intention? To stay long enough to move her into place and slip away completely unnoticed. But given the crime scene, that doesn't seem to fit. He needs to see... James stopped in mid-thought. He quickly left the funeral director's side and returned to the slumber room. He looked the room over. The French doors were open, inviting all to step inside. Two brown leather wing chairs sat at opposite ends of the casket. A small hunter green love seat was placed against one wall. Hidden by the darkness next to the love seat was a small-framed oak door. It's woodcarvings dated back easily over a hundred years. It was ornate and intricate and the brass doorknob reflected the pale flames of the candles in the room.

Stepping into the room Max Blackstone observed James with an intense curiosity. James felt Blackstone's presence.

"What's this?" asked James pointing to the small door.

"It's a storage closet," said Blackstone.

"For what?" asked James?

"It's where we keep the Catholic set up. Like you see now. The candle pedestals, the crucifix behind the casket, and the kneeler in front."

James looked at the religious contents placed as Blackstone had stated. "All of this fits into that tiny closet?" asked James.

"Absolutely, I'll show you," he said as he passed James, and reached to open the door to show him the contents. James grabbed Blackstone's hand stopping him. Looking at James, the funeral director's face showed his growing agitation.

James silently pointed at the door and then at the funeral director. Blackstone's eyes suddenly widened, announcing to James that he understood. The director replied in a hollow voice, his fear was evident.

"He watched me?"

James nodded in agreement. "He needed to see you Max. You were his audience."

For the first time that morning James saw fear on Max Blackstone's face.

"I need some air, inspector," he said as he backed out of the room and made his way to the cold rain soaked stone steps of the mortuary entrance. Watching him leave, Inspector James called to Bobby Stillwell, the CSI, who was setting his kit up in the foyer.

"Bobby, have you dusted this door yet?"

The young fresh-faced Stillwell joined James inside the slumber room. The two men greeted each other shaking gloved hands.

"Hey Tom, good to see you. Which door are you talking about?" James pointed into the darkness leaving Stillwell puzzled.

"Damn, Tom, you know I never even knew there was a door there. It's so freaking dark in this place; a guy would need a set of floodlights to see anything. Shine your flashlight on the door handle a second for me."

James retrieved his flashlight from the pocket of his raincoat and clicked it on. The brightness gleamed off the brass finish of the old world handle. Stillwell worked quickly, dipping his brush into the chemical that would reveal any latent fingerprints.

Both men looked close at the doorknob. As expected the men found satisfaction at the sight of several clear fingerprints.

"Oh yeah, and fresh too. Do you want me to print the funeral director for elimination prints?"

"Yeah, just to be on the safe side."

In a matter of moments Stillwell had secured the prints from the door. "Okay Tom, all clear, shall we see what's hiding behind door number one?"

James reached over and gently twisted the knob, hearing the latch free itself from the strike plate. Pulling the door open the blackness of the room revealed nothing. James raised his flashlight and clicked it on once more.

"Oh my God!" shouted the CSI. In unison James and Stillwell stepped away from the closet. James dropped the flashlight and with lightning reaction pulled his Colt 9mm from its holster.

"Freeze!" shouted James.

"Guys, get in here!" called Stillwell to the officers standing in the doorway of the funeral home. In seconds three officers were at their sides, guns drawn along with James.

"Bobby, get the flashlight," ordered James.

Stillwell leaned down and grabbed the light and aimed it into the closet. Hanging from an electrical cord was the dead body of a man.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said one of the officers.

"Blackstone! Close the doors," shouted James as he moved closer to the dead man.

Reporters began converging on the steps and attempting to make their way inside, snapping photos trying to get an image of the latest twist in Thomas James' morning.

One of the three officers joined with Blackstone at pushing the reporters out and closing the door.

"So, what do you think, Tom? You think it's a murder-suicide?" asked Stillwell.

"God, I hope so," said James as he peered closer. He could see something was pinned to the lapel of the dead mans jacket. "Bobby, get a shot of this."

"What is it?"

"I think it's a note. Looks like this just might be a murder-suicide after all."

Collecting himself, Stillwell raised his camera and aimed it and clicked off several shots. His attention then turned to a gleaming reflection from the flash of his camera.

"Tom, wait, I see something else."

Moving closer, Stillwell reached for James' flashlight. Responding without hesitation James handed it to him. Illuminating the body, Stillwell could see that the man's arms were behind his back as he brought the light up to reveal yet another shock.

"Oh man, Tom you're not going to believe this," said Stillwell as he stepped away.

James furrowed his brow at the CSI and returned his gun to its holster as he took the flashlight to see for himself. Kneeling down in the small space James could now see the dead man's hands were tightly bound together with barbed wire.

"Jesus." muttered James to himself. Carefully he stood up reached for the man's lapel and removed the note. Holding it in a way, that would later allow Stillwell to dust it for prints.

"So, is it a suicide note? What's it say?" asked Stillwell.

James swallowed hard as he looked at the note written in the same scrawl as the Amanda love note. His blood ran cold.

"It says, 'Pretty Ballerina'."

October 11, 1969, seemed just like all the other Octobers that had come before it. The cool breeze billowed the soft white curtains of Julie Jackson's bedroom window. Lying on her bed, Julie's long brown hair fell across her tanned shoulder. Deep, rich eyebrows accentuated her glistening brown eyes, as she stared deeply into Tommy James' smile. At 14 years old, could she really be this happy? No boy had ever turned her head like Tommy did. She had boyfriends before, but not like this. This was no idle puppy love, this was different. Tommy was different. He wasn't like other boys, who only wanted to see her boobs. He talked of romantic things, and unlike other boys he didn't treat her differently when his friends came around and Julie loved him for it.