One Detective Olivia Newhouse #3
The headache is raging now. My vision is starting to blur, damn it.
I’ve never had one of these headaches on duty.
Why, after all this time, are they back?
After years of no migraines, I can’t believe another one is happening scarcely forty-eight hours after the last. I close my eyes for a moment and try to slow my plunge toward hell.
The dank odor of human filth and the underlying metallic scent of blood have my gut roiling in protest.
“You okay, Liv?”
I snap my eyes open and bring my partner’s worried face into focus. “Migraine. I’ll muddle through.”
“The volume on the TV was turned all the way up when I got here,” Little says.
“I turned it down. The guy who lives here didn’t show up for an appointment with his attorney.
” He flips to a different page in his field notebook.
“One Alexander Cagle. So Cagle called in and asked for a welfare check. Back door was ajar when we arrived. There’s a bedroom with nothing but a mattress on the floor and a small bathroom down the hall.
Kitchen’s straight through that doorway.
” Little gestures to the cased opening beyond the sofa.
Walt and I enter the kitchen where a crime scene investigator is doing his thing. A sizable pattern of blood has coagulated on the faded blue linoleum. There’s a wad of cloth, maybe a washcloth or a hand towel, in the middle of it. No other readily visible signs of a struggle.
“Obvious forced entry at the back door,” Little says. “The perp appears to have encountered the victim at the sink. Since none of the neighbors heard a gunshot and we haven’t found any indication a weapon was discharged in the room, I’m thinking he used a knife. But we haven’t found one so far.”
“Could be the perp had a gun,” Walt offers.
“If the vic was washing dishes, he may have tried to defend himself with a knife or some other sharp object readily available.” He gestures to the dishes soaking in the cold, cloudy water in the sink.
“Perp didn’t want to fire the weapon and risk disturbing the neighbors, so they battled it out. Someone was injured.”
As the two discuss the possible scenarios, their words keep time with the pounding in my skull, and the events play out in my brain like snatches of some low-budget slasher film showing in a dark, sketchy theater.
Walt asks, “You have an ID on the possible vic?”
“We’re assuming it’s the guy who lives here. Just moved in about a month ago. Carl Fanning, that pedophile who was released last month. He was all over the news for a couple of days.”
“You should go back to the car,” my partner murmurs.
I realize Walt is speaking to me, and I force my eyes open. Hadn’t noticed they had closed. “I’m okay.” Except I’m not—not really.
In fact, I’m a long-ass way from okay. I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke any second, and the smell of blood isn’t helping.
Staying vertical is growing more questionable by the second.
I can only see half of my partner’s face as he stares at me, worry marring his features.
The visual disturbances have begun in earnest. There will be no slowing down the inevitable or the momentum now.
“Officer Little, make sure Detective Newhouse gets back to my vehicle. I’ll take care of things in here.”
If I wasn’t afraid the coffee I drank this morning would spew out all over my partner’s beloved boots, I would open my mouth and argue with him. Instead, I stumble back outside, puke halfway across the driveway for all the nosy neighbors to see, and then lean against the Tahoe.
A few deep breaths and I feel fractionally better. Enough so that I opt not to abandon my partner. “I need to talk to the neighbor.” I say this to Little, who is still watching me. He likely finds this seriously weird, but whatever.
“Well . . . okay,” he says with a glance at the crime scene house before leading the way.
I push off the Tahoe and follow him across the lawn and into the next. The neighboring house is about the size of the one we just left, but with a bit of a homier feel. Officer Little knocks on the door while I struggle to focus my vision. I will not let this damned headache win.
The door opens and an elderly woman looks from Little to me.
“Ms. Scoggins, this is Detective Newhouse. She has a few questions for you related to the statement you gave earlier.”
The woman eyeballs me. “You ain’t sick, are you?”
“No, ma’am. Just a raging headache.”
She nods and then backs away to allow me inside. Little follows, evidently concerned I may need his help before this is done.
Once we’re seated in the living room, I ask, “Did you know Mr. . . . ?” I look to Little. How the hell could I have forgotten the potential vic’s name?
“Fanning. Your missing neighbor,” he explains to the woman.
“No.” She wags her head side to side. “I saw that news report about him. I don’t know him, but I know what he is.
” Disgust paints a sneer on her lips, but I can see only one side.
“We’ve got little girls in this neighborhood.
So I’ve been watching. That’s how come I saw those two women driving by.
Every day, sometimes twice. They drive by real slow like they’re watching for him to be outside or for something to happen. ”
“Did they ever stop?” I ask.
She does that side-to-side wag of her head again. “No. Just driving by real slow in that fancy SUV. One of them Land Rovers or Range Rovers.”
“Did you get a good look at either of the women?” I glance at Little as I ask this, thankful he’s taking notes.
“White women, in their thirties, I guess. Maybe forties. One of them was blond—the one driving. The other one had dark hair.”
“But you didn’t see them talk to anyone on the street or anything like that?”
“Nope, they just drove by day after day. Most times twice, like I said.”
“Did you notice the license plate?” The taste of bile makes me want to puke again.
“I didn’t get the numbers, but it was one of those state parks ones. I like those tags.”
At least that’s something. “You have Ms. Scoggins’s details?” I ask Little.
He nods.
I struggle to retrieve a card from my jacket pocket and pass it to the lady. “Please call me if you think of anything else. Or if you hear anything from anyone that might help us figure out what happened here.”
She looks at my card, then at me. “I will,” she says, “but God knows that monster don’t deserve no help from the police or anyone else.”
I thank her and manage to walk out of the house on my own. I go straight to Walt’s Tahoe and climb in. Little says something to me, but I can’t respond.
Instead, I close my eyes and slip into the darkness closing in on me.
Sleep is the only way to escape this hellish nightmare.