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Chapter3
THE RICHARDSES’ HOME.The scene of the crime thirteen years ago.
It was down a rutted crushed-gravel road. Two houses on the left and two on the right, with the Richardses’ now-dilapidated dwelling smack at the end of the cul-de-sac on an acre lot of dead grass crammed with fat, overgrown bushes.
It had been lonely and creepy back then, and it was more so over a decade later.
They pulled to a stop in front of the house and climbed out of Decker’s car. Lancaster shivered slightly, and it was not entirely due to the coolness of the night.
“Hasn’t changed all that much,” said Decker.
“Well, the family that was living here fixed it up some before they left. It needed it. Mostly on the interior. Paint and carpet, things like that. The place had been abandoned for a long time. Nobody wanted to live here after what happened.”
“You’d think a banker would have lived in something nicer.”
“He was a loan officer. They make squat, especially in a town like this. And this house is a lot bigger than mine, Decker, with a lot more land.”
They walked up to the front porch of the home. Decker tried the door.
“Locked.”
“Well, why don’t you unlock it?” said Lancaster.
“Are you giving me permission to break and enter?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. And it’s not like we’re screwing up a crime scene.”
Decker broke the side glass, reached through, and unlocked the door. He switched on his Maglite and led her inside.
“Do you remember?” said Lancaster. “That’s a rhetorical question, of course.”
Decker didn’t appear to be listening. In his mind’s eye, he was a recently minted homicide investigator after riding a beat for ten years and then working robbery, burglary, and drugs for several years as a detective. He and Lancaster had been called to the Richardses’ house after the report of a disturbance and the discovery of bodies inside by the first responders. This being their maiden homicide investigation, neither wanted to screw it up.
As a rookie uniformed cop, Lancaster had worn no makeup, as though to make herself less conspicuously female. She was the only woman on the entire force who didn’t sit behind a desk and type or go make coffee for the guys. The only one authorized to carry a gun, arrest people, and read them their rights. And to take their lives if it was absolutely necessary.
She hadn’t taken up her smoking habit yet. That would come when she began working as a detective with Decker, and spent more and more of her time with dead bodies and trying to catch the killers who had violently snatched away those lives. She was also heavier back then. But it was a healthy weight. Lancaster had gained the rep of a calm, methodical cop who went into every situation with three or four different plans on how to manage it. Nothing rattled her. As a beat cop she’d earned numerous commendations for how she handled herself. And everyone had come out of those situations alive. She’d conducted herself the same way while working as a detective.
Decker, on the other hand, had a reputation as the quirkiest son of a bitch who’d ever worn the Burlington police uniform. Yet no one could deny his vast potential in law enforcement. And that potential had been fully realized when he became a detective and partnered with Mary Lancaster. They’d never failed to solve a case to which they’d been assigned. It was a record of which any other police department, large or small, would have been envious.
They had known each other previously, having come up in the same rookie class, but hadn’t had much interaction professionally until they exchanged their uniforms for the civilian clothes of a detective.
Now Decker went step by step in his memory from that night as Lancaster watched him from a corner of the living room.
“Cops were radioed in about a disturbance here. Call came in at nine-thirty-five. Two squad cars arrived in five minutes. They entered the house a minute later after checking the perimeter. The front door was unlocked.”
He moved over to another part of the room.
“Vic number one, David Katz, was found here,” he said, pointing to a spot at the doorway into the kitchen. “Age thirty-five. Two taps. First gunshot to the left temple. Second to the back of the head. Instant death with either shot.” He pointed to another spot right next to the door. “Beer bottle found here. His prints on it. Didn’t break, but the beer was all over the floor.”
“Katz owned a local restaurant, the American Grill,” added Lancaster. “He was over here visiting.”
“And no evidence that he could have been the target,” stated Decker.
“None,” confirmed Lancaster. “Wrong place, wrong time. Like Ron Goldman in the O. J. Simpson case. Really shitty luck on his part.”
They moved into the kitchen. It was all dirty linoleum, scarred cabinets, and a rust-stained sink.
“Victim number two, Donald Richards—everyone called him Don. Forty-four. Bank loan officer. Single GSW through the heart and fell here. Again, dead when he dropped.”
