Chapter 8
8
Jeremy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as his eyes darted over the evidence board on the wall. Terry was nearby, his hip leaning against a desk. Four photographs stared back at him, each with a name neatly printed below.
Helen McCarthy. Age 72. Lived alone. Died at home. Found the next day by her neighbor. No foul play suspected. But when the police checked her house, they found her empty prescription bottles on the kitchen counter. There were no fingerprints on the bottles other than her own. No meds in her system at death.
Robert Stewart. Age 76. Lived alone, although his son and his family lived nearby on the shore. Died at home, found that evening by his son. No foul play suspected. But when the son and the police checked his medication, his prescription bottles were found empty in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. No fingerprints on the bottles other than his own. No meds in his system at death.
Henry Miller. Age 81. Lived alone, although his wife was down the road in the nursing home’s memory care wing. Died alone, found by the visiting home nurse the following morning. No foul play suspected. There were no prescription bottles in his home at all even though the doctor’s records indicated he was on five prescription medications. No meds in his system at death.
Fred Rudolph. Age 77. Lived alone. Died in a car crash. Suspicious death due to bag of prescription pills in the truck that included many more that were not his. No meds in his system at death.
The connections, or lack thereof, were maddening. Red and blue lines snaked across the board, tracing tenuous links between the individuals.
“Robert and Henry—American Legion members,” Jeremy muttered, tapping a marker against the board. “Helen and Fred—Praise House of God Church. Henry also has ties to Baytown Methodist Church. Robert... no church affiliation.”
Pete, seated beside him, scowled at his notepad, flipping through pages of chicken-scratch notes. “Don’t forget their prescriptions,” he said, adding another line to the web. “Fred and Henry use Stuart’s Pharmacy in Baytown. Robert’s on the Shop Mart list over in Acawmacke. And Helen’s were filled at Walters’ Pharmacy by the hospital.”
Terry looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got a meeting across the bay with the Chesapeake Area DTF. Keep working what you know, and I’ll ask my cohorts if they have any knowledge of something similar happening there. You can go over anything new you get when I return.”
Jeremy and Pete nodded, thanking him for his assistance which he waved away. “We always work best in teams,” Terry said. With a nod, he walked out, leaving the detectives to continue to stare at the board.
Jeremy grunted in frustration. “What about their backstories? Any common ground there?”
Pete listed them off without looking up. “Fred and Robert are lifelong Eastern Shore locals. Henry’s a transplant—moved here from North Carolina two decades ago. Helen retired from Arlington with her husband nine years back. He passed away five years ago, but she stayed in the dream home they’d built.”
The narrative swirled in Jeremy’s mind like puzzle pieces stubbornly refusing to fit. He reached for his coffee, the bitter dregs cold and uninviting. Leaning back further, he groaned. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Pete swiped a hand over his face and let out a long sigh. “I swear, my eyes are starting to cross from all this. These lines might as well be spaghetti.”
“Detective Pickett?”
Both men turned to see Cybil approaching, her notebook in hand. The young deputy was sharp, ambitious, and determined to earn her detective badge. Jeremy couldn’t help but appreciate her diligence. “What’ve you got for us, Cybil?” he asked.
“I followed up on the list of medications you gave me,” she said, flipping open her notebook. “I contacted every pharmacy in the two counties. I’ll spare you the raw numbers, but most of the prescriptions came from Stuart’s Pharmacy in Baytown and Walters’ Pharmacy near the hospital. Shop Mart was close but still fell behind the other two.”
Jeremy straightened, his interest piqued. “So Stuart’s and Walters’ are the heavy hitters?”
She glanced at the information on the board, looked around, and then grabbed a red highlighter and underlined the name of the pharmacy for each of the four patients whose prescriptions had been filled.
“While we don’t know exactly whose pills were in the bag, we can at least surmise that whoever is getting them is local,” Pete said.
Cybil nodded. “I know I’m new at this, but I would have to say that makes sense, Detective Bolton.”
“In here, we’re just Jeremy and Pete,” Jeremy said.
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.” She looked back at the board and asked, “What would you like me to check on next?”
“Pete and I are about to head out to talk to the minister of one of the churches two belonged to,” Jeremy said. “If you were working this case, Cybil, what other connections come to mind?”
Cybil stared at the board, then snapped her fingers. “Bingo.”
Pete’s brow furrowed, his head whipping toward the board. “Did you see something?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of hope and exhaustion.
Cybil turned back toward them, a wry grin spreading across her face. “Not on the board. I mean actual bingo . The game.”
Pete blinked, confused. “You lost me.”
She leaned against the desk. “Several fire stations and churches around here host bingo nights. My grandmother used to go all the time before she passed. She loved it. I remember asking her why she bothered with a boring game like bingo, and you know what she told me? She said it wasn’t about the game. It was about friendship and fellowship—getting together with other people, especially for older folks. She said it was a cheap, easy way to socialize.”
Jeremy, halfway through sliding his holster into place, froze mid-motion. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as the pieces clicked together. “That’s interesting. If bingo draws a lot of older residents, it could be another connection we haven’t looked at yet.”
Cybil nodded, her smile turning serious as she caught onto his train of thought. “Exactly. If they all played—or even just a couple of them—it might give us another tie.”
“Can you follow up on that?” Jeremy asked with an edge of urgency in his tone. “Start calling around, determine which churches and fire stations host bingo nights, and see if any of our four were regulars. Especially if more than one of them was—it could be the link we’ve been missing.”
“You got it,” Cybil replied, already pulling out her phone and flipping to her notes.
Pete smirked, the faintest hint of energy returning to his tired features. “Bingo. Who would’ve thought?”
Jeremy allowed himself a slight grin as well. “Let’s just hope it leads to more than a lucky card.” For the first time in hours, the static tension of the case seemed to shift as if a fresh breeze had swept through the room.
“Let’s get to that church,” Jeremy said, grabbing his keys. Pete followed, a renewed sense of determination fueling their steps. The two men headed out to the SUV. Their first stop was the Praise House of God.
Half an hour later, they were ushered into the room that the pastor used as an office by his wife, Donna. The smile she’d had on her face when she’d answered the door dropped immediately when her eyes widened, taking in their uniforms. While body armor and the full gear they normally wore might seem like overkill at a church, it was what he and Pete wore.
“Um… Buford… my husband… um… he’s the pastor. He’ll be right back. Um… he just ran over to meet with the family of a recently deceased member.” She jumped slightly and pulled an older-model cell phone from her pocket. “Let me send him a text to let him know you’re here.” She then gasped and looked up at them. “Is that all right to do?”
They assured her it was fine, and she sent the text. Jeremy was surprised she was able, considering how her fingers shook.
Donna looked up and offered a wobbly smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear as her gaze darted nervously around the room. “Um… would you like something to drink? Buford likes us to keep water here for our members. We also have coffee?—”
“Thank you, but we’re fine, ma’am.” Jeremy smiled.
She blushed and ducked her head, her hands now clasped in front of her.
Jeremy hoped charming a pastor’s wife to get what they needed was worth it. He caught Pete’s slight eye roll but continued, “You must know all the parishioners. I’d assume that in your capacity as a pastor’s wife, they would come to you for advice or assistance.”
“Well, yes, many of them do. I do like to help.” She smiled, then unease crossed her face as she rushed, “But I don’t take over my husband’s position, you understand. My job is to assist my husband. To… um… be a benefit to our members and to help take the heavy load off his shoulders when I can.”
“Absolutely,” Jeremy agreed, nodding emphatically.
“So,” Pete butted in, “have any of the older members come to you for advice when they’re lonely or don’t have family around?”
“Oh yes,” Donna exuded. “We have an outreach program where we visit their homes and check on them if they like.”
“What about Helen McCarthy or Fred Rudolph? Were they two who needed assistance?”
Donna scrunched her face as she thought. “Helen? No, she never came to me. From what I could tell, she was very independent. She didn’t join in much—mostly just came to service on Sunday mornings. Now, Fred, he was a sweetie. He would ask for help if he needed it. Our ladies provided him with a hot meal each Sunday after church, and one would usually check on him weekly. He also came to our Wednesday night mission group.”
“And Helen never came to those?”
Donna’s expression fell as though she were delivering sad news. “No, I’m afraid not. Some members just like the music and preaching on Sunday mornings but don’t feel the calling to participate more.” She shrugged as her gaze moved between Jeremy and Pete. “Buford says we must try to meet everyone’s needs, so I would keep inviting her even though I think Helen got a little perturbed with me.”
Jeremy studied her closely. Donna’s demeanor was polite but guarded, and her answers were careful. He wondered if her personality leaned more toward passivity or if she was simply conditioned to avoid stepping on toes. “Did anyone ever take Fred to appointments or help him with errands?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly. “Not that I know. I guess it’s possible, but not that I was ever made aware.” Her expression brightened. “But our members are such good people. Someone could have helped him on their own. God likes it if we do good deeds without trying to get glory by telling others. That’s how it should be, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Jeremy nodded, offering a smile that he hoped continued to make her feel at ease. “So if we go by that indication, then Helen could also have received some assistance from someone who wasn’t letting anyone know.”
Donna blinked, confusion filling her face. “Um… well, I guess so. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Jeremy wondered if her husband was the one who told her what to think and what to do. Before he could consider his uncharitable thought, the outer door opened. A portly man stepped inside, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. His gaze took in their imposing uniforms, and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he rushed forward.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, his voice booming with practiced authority. He cast a brief, pointed glance at Donna. “I’m Buford Grissley. I trust my wife offered you something to drink?”
“They didn’t want anything,” Donna said in a rush, her hands twisting together.
Buford glared her way, but Jeremy jumped in. “Mrs. Grissley was the perfect hostess as we waited.”
Buford jerked his gaze toward Jeremy but smiled widely and nodded. “Thank you. She’s a good minister’s wife.”
“Yes, I’d have to agree,” Pete added, his tone smooth. Donna blushed faintly before excusing herself, slipping from the room as though eager to escape.
Buford turned back to the detectives, his chest still heaving slightly. “Now then, how may I be of service?”
“We have some questions about a few members of your congregation who have died recently.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Buford said, waving his hand toward the door. “I don’t have much seating here. Let’s go into the worship room to sit comfortably.”
“Thank you, Pastor Grissley.” Jeremy and Pete followed Buford into the multipurpose room that could be made into a worship center or a fellowship hall, depending on the needs. The folding chairs were lined in rows, with a podium and microphone on a small stage in the front. An old piano sat to the side, and a table in front of the rostrum held a bouquet.
“We won’t take up much of your time, Pastor Grissley,” Jeremy began, his tone measured and professional. “But we wanted to ask about the older members of your congregation. Are there any activities they all seem to participate in regularly?”
Buford leaned back in his chair, his portly frame settling onto the metal chair as his brows drew together. His jowls quivered slightly as he shook his head. “Other than Sunday service, I’d have to say no. Some of our older folks can’t make it to services anymore. My wife, one of our elders, and I try to visit them during the week. We also run a van service for those who can’t drive themselves, and a handful of them join our Wednesday evening mission group.”
Jeremy exchanged a glance with Pete before steering the conversation. “We’re particularly interested in Helen McCarthy and Fred Rudolph.”
Buford’s expression softened. “Ah, my dear Fred,” he said, clasping his hands together. “He recently passed, as I’m sure you know. That’s who I was meeting with earlier at the funeral home. His son, Christopher, is in town, making arrangements for the service.”
“Yes, we’re aware,” Jeremy replied carefully. “Although ‘passed away’ isn’t quite accurate. He was killed in an automobile accident.”
Buford’s expression remained serene, but his tone took on a rehearsed righteousness. “Yes, but the Lord takes us when He’s ready.”
Jeremy’s jaw tightened, but Pete stepped in with a sharp edge. “And was the Lord ready for the other victim, Mrs. Adams?”
Buford blinked, his composure wavering for a moment. “I’m sorry?”
Jeremy cut Pete a warning glance before refocusing on Buford, his voice calm. “Never mind. We’re just looking for connections between Helen and Fred or any patterns among the deaths we’re investigating. Since they both attended this church, we thought you might have some insight.”
Buford’s brow furrowed deeply. “Connections? Between Fred and Helen?” He chuckled, the sound low and skeptical. “I never even saw them sit in the same row on Sundays. Are you suggesting there was something between them?”
“No, not at all,” Jeremy reassured him quickly. “We’re simply following up on all possible ties.”
Buford nodded slowly, his gaze contemplative. “I don’t encourage my members to watch much television, but occasionally, I’ll tune in to police shows just to understand what tempts the youth these days.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if confiding in them. “I know what you’re doing. Investigating connections—it’s just like on those programs.”
Jeremy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sighing. He nodded instead, letting Buford ramble.
“But in this case,” Buford continued, “I can’t say I ever noticed anything between them. Fred was a faithful Wednesday night mission group member, but Helen never joined. We even offered to send the van for her, just like on Sundays, but she never took us up on it.”
Jeremy seized the opportunity. “How did Fred get to church on Sunday mornings? Did he drive?”
Buford’s face clouded as he thought. “Not recently, no. He used to drive himself, but a couple of months ago, he mentioned his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. That’s when he started using the van service occasionally.”
He paused, then straightened as if struck by an idea. “Come to think of it, that van service might be their only connection. If Helen was using it too, they could’ve met there. But other than that, I don’t believe they interacted.”
Jeremy nodded, though the pastor’s words stirred little hope. Rising, he extended his hand. “Thank you, Pastor Grissley. You’ve been very helpful.”
Buford gripped Jeremy’s hand firmly, his smile broad and self-assured. “Happy to serve, gentlemen.”
Pete and Jeremy exchanged polite farewells before heading back to their SUV. Once inside, Pete exhaled heavily and slumped against the seat. “I don’t think we learned a damn thing, except maybe that Donna Grissley has the spine of a wet noodle.”
Jeremy smirked faintly, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he stared ahead. “Yeah, that dynamic wasn’t hard to pick up on. And if Fred only started using the van service recently, their paths would’ve barely crossed before Helen died. It’s a stretch to call that a connection, but we’ll add it to the board.”
Pete let out a low groan. “This case is like chasing shadows.”
Jeremy nodded in agreement, his mind already turning over the next steps. Despite the dead ends, he wasn’t ready to let the shadows win.