Chapter 19
Against advice, Madelyn decided to remain alone on her sailboat.
Something told me she didn’t like authority or being told what to do.
I was pretty sure we weren’t followed to her location.
But I wondered about Sebastian’s motives.
If what she said was true, he couldn’t meet the Consortium’s demands without her.
I pulled to the curb behind the medical examiner’s van. JD and I hopped out and made our way to the scene. Emergency vehicles and squad cars lined the streets. Red and blue lights flickered.
By that time, Paris Delaney and her crew were soaking up footage and interviewing onlookers. A crowd of curious neighbors had gathered, gawking and gossiping.
We followed the trail of responders up the driveway and around to the back patio.
The home was a nice French Colonial in Whispering Heights. It had a large veranda and a second-story terrace. The lawn was perfectly manicured, and a white picket fence surrounded the property.
On the patio, wrought-iron furniture surrounded a small pool. A high fence kept the area enclosed—a private oasis.
A man lay face down in the grass by the air conditioning unit. It was unseasonably hot and humid at the moment. Judging by his tool belt, he was making a late-night house call. The panel was off the AC unit—the control board exposed.
In his early 50s, the victim had been shot twice in the back of the head with a small-caliber weapon. Probably a .22. There wasn't an exit wound. The bullets had rattled around his brain, turning it to sludge.
I couldn’t be certain, but this had all the hallmarks of a professional hit. The victim’s fancy watch was still on his wrist. I figured his wallet was still in his pocket. That sparked my curiosity. Who would want to take out an HVAC repairman in the middle of the night?
The sheriff looked on with a grim face. He gave us the side eye when we stepped to the scene. "Glad you could join us,” he quipped.
"Sorry. We were… Nevermind."
Brenda hovered over the remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves. Forensic investigators processed the scene.
The terrified homeowners looked on with tortured faces—a man and woman in their mid-40s.
"Do we have an ID on the victim?" I asked.
"Ray Coleman. RC’s AC and Heating.”
I’d seen the van parked out front on our way in.
It had a colorful yellow wrap with Ray's logo on the side and the statement 24-hour service in bold red lettering. The caricature of Ray on the side of the van was dripping with frost and icicles. It was a cartoon version that resembled Ray quite accurately. He was a fit guy with a friendly face. Disarming. Approachable. A guy’s guy.
His curly brown hair had largely lost the battle against the gray.
"What happened?" I asked.
The sheriff deadpanned, "Somebody shot him."
"I see that.”
"He came out on an emergency call. Went to work on the AC unit. The homeowner went out to check on him and found him like that. Or so they say.”
"Any connection between the homeowner and Ray?" I asked.
“They said he's been out to service the unit a few times.”
"No social connection?”
"Not that they are admitting to.”
"We have a time of death?" I asked.
"I’d say about an hour and a half ago," Brenda replied.
JD and I stepped to the homeowners. I flashed my badge and made introductions. “Tell me what happened.”
"Ray had installed a new unit for us a few years ago,” Mrs. Welling said. “This is the second or third time we've had trouble with it.”
“A power surge knocked out the capacitor,” Mr. Welling added. “But the way they build these units now, you have to replace the entire motherboard. Everything is integrated. Thank God it's under warranty. That motherboard is a $3,000 part!”
Mr. Welling was late 40s with short brown hair, dark eyes, and a bit of a belly. His wife had curly light-brown hair and hazel eyes. Her brow was knitted with sorrow and horror as she glanced at Ray’s body.
"I miss the days when you could just replace a part, and it didn't cost an arm and a leg,” Mr. Welling said. “They build stuff now so you can't fix it. Ought to be illegal."
Mrs. Welling continued. "Anyway, I hadn't heard from Ray in a long time. I went out to check on him and see if he wanted a glass of water or something." She choked up, and her eyes filled. "I found him like that.”
"Did you hear any gunshots?” I asked.
Mrs. Welling exchanged a look with her husband. They both shook their heads.
"No," she said. "I didn't hear anything. That's what’s so strange. You’d think I would have heard something.”
"The assailant could have used a suppressor. It would have sounded like a snap or pop. Probably around 90 dB.”
She exchanged another look with her husband. "No. I don't recall hearing anything like that.”
"Do you have any surveillance cameras around the property?”
"Just a video doorbell," Mrs. Welling said.
“How long had Ray been in the backyard working on the air conditioning?" I asked.
The couple exchanged another glance.
"I don't know. Maybe half an hour," Mrs. Welling said.
"And you didn't see anyone else come or go?”
They both shook their heads.
"I take it neither one of you shot him?”
"Oh, God no!" Mrs. Welling said.
"I don't even own a gun," Mr. Welling said.
They didn’t look like the type to execute a man in cold blood, but you never knew.
"Did Mr. Coleman express any concerns to you when he arrived this evening?”
"No," Mrs. Welling said. "We were just grateful that he showed up.
He was friendly and talkative as usual. Didn't seem to have a care in the world.
He was really such a nice guy. It wasn't his fault the unit gave us so much trouble.
And I have to say, he was always willing to come out and fix it, no matter what time of day or night.
It was still under warranty." She frowned.
I gave them both a card and asked them to get in touch if they remembered any details that might be helpful.
"Do you think we're safe here tonight?” Mrs. Welling asked.
"This looks like a targeted hit, ma'am," I said. "Nothing was stolen from the victim. I think you’re probably safe.”
I asked her to show me the doorbell footage. She pulled the history up on her phone. The camera had recorded a clip when Ray pulled the repair van to the curb. He strolled up the walkway and rang the bell.
That was the last recorded clip in the timeline.
Brenda and her crew bagged the body and transferred it to her van.
Paris and her crew grabbed footage.
JD and I talked to the crowd and banged on neighboring doors, hoping to acquire more doorbell footage.
The sensitivity of the neighbors’ cameras was low. None had picked up any movement at the Welling residence.
We wrapped up at the scene and returned to the station to fill out paperwork.
I called in another favor with Isabella and asked her to see if any other phones pinged the tower from the Welling’s residence at the time of the murder.
I didn’t expect her to find anything other than Ray’s phone and those of the Wellings.
The killer was a pro. Pros turn off their cellular devices when doing heinous things.
After we finished at the station, we set out to give the bad news to Dana Coleman.