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15
Sherlock
Sherlock left the lights off as she walked through the downstairs—a living room, dining room, family room added on in the back of the house, and Dr. Madison’s study, all dignified burgundy leather with an art deco vibe. She saw labeled and numbered bloody shoe prints, black now, smeared into one another, as if the supposed robbers were confused about where to go, or wanted to seem so. She backtracked along the bloody prints to the kitchen where three people had died. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen was newly remodeled, starkly modern. She’d seen photos of Mrs. Madison, both alive and dead. She’d been a comfortably plump older woman, rolling out dough for an apple pie at the counter, maybe hoping the crust would turn out flaky enough, when she turned at a sound, a voice perhaps, and Storin shot her in the face. Or had she? Had they argued before Storin shot her? Erased her face, erased her?
Sherlock saw Mrs. Madison had hit the counter as she fell, and the flour spewed upward. She bounced back and crashed to the ocher tiles, on her back, her face covered with bloody flour. She looked down to see gobs of flour still mixed with dried blood on the tiles where the wife had lain. A bowl of rotten apple slices still stood on the counter next to the blood-spattered pie dough. It looked obscene.
The frigid air still carried the taint of copper from all the blood, not surprising given the murders had happened only four weeks before, but the chemical smell that overlay it was heavier. How long would it take for those smells to sink into the walls and the floor, into the very bones of the house? Who would ever want to live here again? But of course, the horrific crime would either fade away or gain more gruesome proportions in the years to come.
Sherlock looked down at the chalk outlines of the three bodies, Mrs. Madison on her back, arms flung away from the body, Dr. Madison’s and Mr. La Shea’s bodies twisted because they’d hit either the center island or the stove when they’d fallen, both on their sides.
All that was left of three human beings were their white chalk outlines and the bloody flour. There wasn’t much near the two men. Sherlock knew Mrs. Madison was murdered before Dr. Madison had come home. Had Storin known Mrs. Madison was alone in the house?
Sherlock backed up and stood quietly in the doorway studying the kitchen. Who was first to die of the men and why? Happenstance? A picture of what had happened didn’t come together for her. She knew only that the conclusion reached by the ME and the Brickson detectives and Kelly didn’t work for her. She walked out of the kitchen, then walked back in, looked with fresh eyes, and she noticed a kitchen chair was pulled away from the small kitchen nook table, its three brothers still tucked in. All right, the chair could have been moved by the crime scene techs, but she knew they wouldn’t do that, no reason to. She then started to see it, nearly clear in her mind. Storin had turned the chair to face the body of Mrs. Madison, and the kitchen doorway, to wait for Dr. Madison to come in. Of course she’d planned all along to kill him as well.
Sherlock smiled as the pieces began to slot themselves together. Yes, Storin pulled out the chair after she killed Mrs. Madison, sat down, and waited. How long had she sat near where Mrs. Madison’s body lay on its back, face destroyed, blood all around her head? Kelly had described Storin as emotionless, a psychopath, and that’s what she’d have to be. She’d accepted Dr. Madison wasn’t coming back to her and it enraged her, sent her over the edge, set her to planning the murder of both him and his wife. Otherwise why wait for him in the kitchen with his dead wife? To make a point. She wondered again if the two women had spoken before Storin shot her. Had Mrs. Madison told her he’d confessed the affair to her and sworn he’d never go back to Storin? When Storin had faced her, had Mrs. Madison insulted her, called her a slut? Is that when Storin shot her? Did Storin even feel a moment of regret? No, Sherlock didn’t think so. If anything, Storin had felt justified and excited for the betraying bastard to come home. Soon he would learn what she was made of, that no one screwed around with her, just as those other two bastards had learned their lessons. What were you feeling when you sat there, Angela? Excited when you heard Dr. Madison call out to his wife because you were about to kill another man who’d left you, betrayed you? Were you eager to see his shock when he saw his dead cow of a wife? Did you preen, laugh, imagine that when he saw her and then saw you he would know he was a dead man? Did he yell at you? Plead for his life, swear he hadn’t meant to break it off with you? He loved you and no one else?
If he’d said anything, it hadn’t been enough. She’d killed him and his unfortunate neighbor. And she’d thought sorry, no apple pie for anyone.
Sherlock walked carefully around the chalk outlines and sat down in the chair where Storin had waited. Did she know exactly when Dr. Madison was coming home? It turned out not to be long. The ME had said the killings were no longer than thirty minutes apart.
Thirty minutes sitting in that chair. After she shot Dr. Madison in his forehead, did Mr. La Shea hear the shot, come running in? Or had he been standing with Dr. Madison? And she’d shot Madison, then him. No, that didn’t feel right. She didn’t think La Shea was in the kitchen when Storin shot Dr. Madison.
Odd how Storin shot Mrs. Madison in the face rather than the forehead. Why? Because she was pissed off to lose? So many questions that would never be answered.
Sherlock knew the ballistics showed Storin had to have been standing when she shot the men, so Sherlock stood up. The investigating team believed Storin had approached Madison with her gun, the supposedly stolen Walther PPK, held in front of her, tracking through Mrs. Madison’s blood, and shot him up close. And when La Shea had run in, she fired again, both men shot in the center of the forehead. Steady, steady hand. The team thought she’d already taken Mrs. Madison’s jewelry, including her wedding ring, and emptied her jewelry case upstairs, and then she took the men’s wallets and their watches to make it all look like a robbery. Then she ran from the kitchen out through the side door, mixing up the bloody footprints, took off her shoes, and left the house. The side door, the team believed, because Storin wouldn’t take the chance of going through the front door and being seen. She’d dumped her shoes, her clothes, in case there was blood splatter, and of course the Walther.
The ME determined she’d shot the two men from no more than four or five feet away, any closer and there’d have been gunpowder residue. But that wasn’t right. Sherlock looked back at the chair. It stood at least twelve feet from the chalk outlines showing where the men’s bodies had fallen. Sherlock sat again in the chair, willed the scene to come clear. Storin heard Madison, and she stood up. But she hadn’t moved toward Madison. The jumble of bloody footprints came later.
You stood up and shot them, Angela, which means you’re a very fine shot. Twelve feet away and you shot both men in the forehead. With a handgun. You’re beyond good, you’re excellent.
Sherlock dialed Kelly. “You told me Storin denied she’d shot the Walther, right?”
“Only one time, she said. She claimed she barely knew how it worked, said she only noticed it was gone when she went looking for some papers in her garage safe. Why?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” and Sherlock hung up. She stood, looked down again at the chair. I’ll bet you like to shoot, it gives you a rush. I’m an excellent shot but I doubt I could have made two such perfect kill shots from twelve feet away, all hopped up on adrenaline and rage like you were.
Sherlock walked out of the house, locked the front door, reattached the crime scene tape, and walked quickly back to Kelly’s Fiat. She got in and quickly closed the door. Thankfully, the heater was going full blast. She said, “Verify for me, Kelly. How far away from the victims did the ME say the kill shots were fired?”
“Mrs. Madison, really close. The two men maybe four to five feet.”
Sherlock said, “Kelly, Storin pulled out a chair from the kitchen nook table after she shot Mrs. Madison and she sat there, waited for Dr. Madison to come home. When he and Mr. La Shea came into the kitchen, she simply stood up and shot them both. She shot them from twelve feet away, I counted it off.”
Kelly stared at her. “The chair—no one noticed. Twelve feet? Are you sure?”
“It’s what makes the most sense to me. Twelve feet. Everyone assumed that with such perfect kill shots, she had to be close, within five feet, but she wasn’t. Kelly, could you fire two fast rounds into two foreheads from twelve feet?”
Kelly said slowly, “Maybe, but I’m really good. If I was hyped up, in a real firefight, with people juking around, it’d be iffy.”
“It means she’s a shooter, maybe even competed. Shooting is something she does often, so she needs a gun range to practice. I can’t imagine she’d pick one that far away from Brickson. Let’s find it.”
Kelly threw herself at Sherlock, hugged her tight. “Would you marry me?”
“What about Cal and Dillon?”
“I’m sure we can find them other duties at which they’ll excel.”
