Death Knocks on Halloween - Ch 1 pt 1

Saturday November 1, 11:35 a.m.

         The telephone’s shrill ring shot Matthew Wheeler to the surface of consciousness.  Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for the bedside receiver.

         "Hello?"

         "Matt?"  Steve Dunne’s voice rattled across the line.  "Sorry to call you on your day off."

         "Yeah," yawned Wheeler, checking his alarm clock.  "What's up?"

         "There’s a dead woman at 280 Clarence Street."

         Wheeler frowned.

         "Suspicious circumstances?"

         "Very."

         "All right.  280 Clarence.  I'll meet you there."

         "Roger."

         Wheeler shifted the blanket of Saturday paper from his chest.  Normally he wouldn't have been in bed at this hour, but the weekend with his son had been cancelled by a snap assignment from Ian's Contract Law professor.  So Wheeler, with nothing better to do, had breakfasted and dozed off with the paper.

         He cracked his eyelids a few more millimeters as he filled the coffee machine in the kitchen.  Frances had done the shopping, but had gone out again.

         In the bathroom, he splashed himself with cold water and made a face at himself in the mirror, a daily ritual that stopped him from taking himself too seriously.  He quickly buzzed the razor over his face and trimmed a few stray whiskers from his moustache.  He'd grown it to give his plain features some character, but there were times when it was more trouble than it was worth.  While staring at the reflection of his stomach stretching his T-shirt he made a thousandth vow to lose weight.

        Once he’d dressed and was sipping his steaming coffee, he flipped over the wall calendar.  November.  Wheeler hated November.  He looked out the window and remembered why.  The lowering sky drizzled and the maple tree's branches flopped about enduring a wind chill.  Yesterday had been unseasonably warm and gloriously sunny but with November’s arrival came the cold, the damp and the promise of a month of greyness.  The clocks had been put back the week before and the nights now came in at five-thirty.  It did little to make Wheeler cheerful.

         He threw on his raincoat, popped some leftover Halloween candy into his pocket and hurried to his car.

         The drizzle had stopped when he reached 280 Clarence.  One of Rutherton’s older neighborhoods, it was an area real estate agents would point out as perfect for families, quiet and with a low crime rate.  The tree-lined street had numerous examples of attractive Victorian houses, all with two or three floors, no fewer than four bedrooms and, in the summertime, well-manicured lawns.  Wheeler pulled up behind the two squad cars parked in front of the brick house, avoiding a slick of flattened pumpkin on the road.

         Curiosity had already seized the neighbors.  Across the street, a father and his young son replaced their Halloween decorations with Christmas lights, but paused to regard Wheeler's arrival with interest.  The curtains of the next house jiggled slightly as its inhabitants struggled for a good look.

         Wheeler climbed the front steps which were flanked by two small jack o’lanterns with snarling faces.  They had avoided the fate of the one in the street.  Dunne met Wheeler on the verandah and took him inside.  Off of a small entrance hall branched a dining room to the right, a staircase straight ahead and to the left, the living room.  A large glass bowl filled with Halloween candy ornamented an antique mahogany table in the hall.  The pale pink runner on the floor was a high quality Oriental.

         Dunne, a handsome thirty-two year old with thick black hair and dark eyes to match, nodded toward the living room and stepped aside so Wheeler could view the scene.

         It wasn't pretty.  Although Wheeler had seen his share of horrific accident casualties, an exceptionally grisly tableau lay before him.  All was blood.  He could even smell it.  When attacked, the elderly woman fell face forward.  A marble table lamp lay on the floor near her, having cratered the back of her skull into a jumbled mass of blood-soaked hair, bone and brain matter.  Her right cheek rested on the bloodied carpet, a sightless eye staring in permanent disbelief across the floor.  Blood confettied the walls and ceiling and Wheeler had to swallow to keep his coffee down.

         The room's curtains were pulled and a table lamp glowed.  A doorway in the back wall led to the kitchen.

         "She was Mrs. Margaret Fleming, eighty-one," offered Dunne.

         "Any relation to the car dealership?"

         "Mother, I think."

         Officer Lindquist came downstairs. He was a cheerful thirtysomething with a marked resemblance to a young Paul Newman, but with Irish Setter red hair and the pale skin that goes with it.

        "Hello, sir," he said.  "Nothing's out of order up there."

         "Who's been in here other than you two?" Wheeler asked.

         "Just Monica Cartwright, the next door neighbor who found her."  Lindquist jerked his thumb in the neighbor's direction.  "Groskopf and I were the first here."

         "Okay, what's the story?"

         Lindquist pushed back his cap.

         "Mrs. Cartwright had a date to go out with the victim at ten o'clock.  When she knocked on the back door and got no answer, she used a key the victim kept under a flower pot.  Mrs. Cartwright was worried because the curtains weren't open.  When she found the mess, she had hysterics.  Groskopf's with her now, taking her story."

         Wheeler tugged his moustache.  "Did this Monica Cartwright touch much?"

         "I don't know."

         Wheeler turned to the door.  "No forced entry?"

         "No.  No signs of a struggle, either."

         Doctor MacGregor strode through the front door, his bag in hand.  He and Wheeler had never seen eye to eye literally or figuratively.  Although well on in his seventies, MacGregor's posture remained ramrod straight and he carried his six foot two frame with a distinguished air.  Wheeler always suspected MacGregor disguised a childhood spent on the wrong side of the tracks with a soft Scottish brogue, an annoying arrogance and an air of superiority.  Wheeler once witnessed the veneer of sophistication crack wide open when MacGregor lost his temper and resorted to an accent as thick as molasses.  Since Wheeler wasn't one of the town's establishment (or the "country club mafia" as they were referred to behind their backs) and since he also refused to play politics, the two men merely tolerated one another.  Wheeler firmly believed the 75 year-old medical examiner should have hung up his stethoscope years before, but his connections had kept him in the prestigious position.

         "Not out on the course this morning, Doc?" asked Wheeler as they barely hid their mutual contempt.

         "It's easy to tell that you don't golf, Detective.  It's too cold, old boy, too cold."  His eyes under their bushy eyebrows shifted nervously to the living room.  "It's not Margaret Fleming, is it?"

         "It is," Wheeler replied.

         MacGregor's face fell.  His mouth moved, but it took a moment for words to come.  "This - this is certainly a shock."

         Wheeler nodded.

         MacGregor stepped into the room.  He shuddered visibly.  "Oh my God," he whispered as he took in the violence of the scene.

         "We'll leave you to it," said Wheeler and turned to Lindquist.  "Dunne and I are going next door.”

         The Cartwright house had a similar center hall plan.  Officer Jenny Groskopf answered their knock, her notebook and pen in hand.  She'd taken off her cap, exposing her short brown hair and wordlessly escorted the detectives into the living room.  A sobbing woman who was pushing forty sat on the chesterfield, a Kleenex box before her on the coffee table, several used tissues scattered around her and wadded in her chubby hands.

         "Mrs. Cartwright, this is Detective Wheeler and Detective Dunne.  I know they want to hear your story.  Detectives, this is Mrs. Cartwright, who discovered Mrs. Fleming and called us."

         Wheeler sat down next to the woman as Dunne pulled up an armchair.

         Wheeler spoke gently.  "It's Monica, isn't it?"

         She blinked her red eyes and sniffed.  "Yes."

         "I'm sorry I have to meet you under these circumstances, Monica.  Are you all right now?"

         Officer Groskopf spoke up.  "I've got the kettle on for a cup of tea."  As if on cue, the kettle's whistle sang in the kitchen and the officer left to take care of it.

         "My - my husband should be home soon."

         "That's fine," replied Wheeler.  "I think he'll be able to help us, too.  Now, we have to ask you some questions - some you may have answered for Officer Groskopf already - but we know how you're feeling right now so we'll try to make it as easy as possible."

         "Thank you."  She reached for another tissue.

         "You were supposed to go out with Mrs. Fleming this morning.  What happened?"

         The woman drew a long breath to calm down.  "We had an arrangement that I'd drive Mrs. Fleming to the market every Saturday morning at ten.  Usually I'd be running late and Mrs. Fleming would come over here."

         "Were you late this morning?"

         "Yes.  But when Mrs. Fleming hadn't come over by a quarter after, I thought, you know, maybe she'd got a phone call or something.  I got my things together and went over to her back door.  When I got there, I was a little worried because her living room curtains were drawn.  Usually she's up at seven every morning."

         "You saw nothing else?"

         "No," she replied.  "I knocked on the back door and when I didn't get an answer, I used the key she keeps under a flower pot there."

         "The back door was locked?"

         "Yes."

         "How did you know about the key?"

         "Whenever she went away, I'd water her plants for her.  I have to admit I was nervous going in this morning because she was eighty-one, after all.  Naturally I felt something had happened to her."

         "Do you still have the key?" Dunne continued.

         "No, I put it back after I'd unlocked the door."

         "Who else would know about it?"

         "My husband does."  She puckered her brow.  "And my son, come to think of it.  Once I had him water the plants."

         "Anyone else?"

         "Maybe her family.  I don't know.  I don't think anyone else in the neighborhood knew."

         Officer Groskopf returned with the mug of tea which she handed to Mrs. Cartwright.

         "Just a drop of milk, right?"

         "Yes, thanks."

         Jenny Groskopf picked up her notebook and pen off of the coffee table.

         Wheeler turned back to Mrs. Cartwright.  "Once you opened the door, what did you see?"

         "It's like our house.  The back door opens into the kitchen and there's a doorway between the kitchen and the living room.  The - the lights were on in the living room and when I got to the doorway - I - I found her!  All that blood!"  A fresh torrent of tears spilled down her face.  Wheeler put a comforting hand on her shoulder and waited patiently for her to regain her composure.

         "I - I don't know what happened to me," she sobbed, "but I felt woozy and ran from the house.  When I got outside, I threw up.  I'm sorry."

         Wheeler patted her shoulder.  "Understandable," he murmured.

         "When m-my head cleared, I rushed back here and called you."

         "Thank you.  That's all we'll ask you this morning.  Oh, except when did you last see Mrs. Fleming alive?"

         "Oh dear."  She blew her nose.  "Um, it must have been about four-thirty yesterday afternoon.  She was raking her lawn - getting ready for the trick-or-treaters.  I'd just come home from work and we said hello and confirmed our trip to the market this morning."

         "How did she seem then?" asked Dunne.

         "Fine.  Perfectly normal."

         The back door creaked open and a couple of pairs of feet rang in the kitchen.

         "Hi, honey," called a man's deep voice.  "What's with all the cop cars?"  He clomped to the door of the living room and upon seeing the three visitors, the burly man's jaw dropped open.  Behind him came a teenaged boy who was his younger image except he had a healthy crop of acne pimples on his face.  The boy wore a hooded sweatshirt with NORTH emblazoned across the chest.
"Honey, what happened?"

         Mrs. Cartwright's composure crumbled once again.  Mr. Cartwright rushed to his wife's side, taking the place Wheeler had vacated for him.  The sofa springs gave a protesting squeak at his weight.

         "It's all right, honey."  He held her tight.

         "Oh, Al, it's Mrs. Fleming.  I found her."

         "What happened?"

         "She - she was dead and her head - it was crushed!  And the blood!"  She sobbed into his shoulder.

         Al Cartwright looked wide-eyed at the trio and they nodded.  He rocked his wife back and forth while she calmed down.

      "Wow, that's rough, honey.  But it's all right.  Shhh!"  He caressed her hair.  That the big man could be so tender touched and amazed Wheeler.

         "Mr. Cartwright, I'm Detective Matthew Wheeler and this is my partner, Detective Dunne. This is Officer Groskopf."

         "Yes," he replied, as if he just realized they were there.  His wife had calmed down enough that he unwrapped his thick arms from around her, but draped one protectively across her shoulders.

         "This is my boy, Brandon.  We were at hockey practice."

         "Hi," the teen grunted in the doorway, staring down at his shoes.

         "Mr. Cartwright, your wife told us about finding Mrs. Fleming and the last time
she saw her alive.  Did you see her last night?"

         "No.  If I saw her, it was a few days ago."

         "And your son?"

         "The same," Brandon mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

         "You don't trick or treat, Brandon?"

         "I'm fifteen.  I'm a little old for that."

         "Brandon was at a school dance last night," said Mrs. Cartwright.

         "That's good to know," replied Wheeler.  "Did you see anything next door, Brandon?  When you went out or came home?"

         The sullen teenager scratched the back of his neck and shifted his gaze to the ceiling.  "I got picked up about seven-thirty.  My curfew was twelve-thirty, so I got home at twelve-thirty.  There were lots of cars parked then.  Someone up the street was having a big party."

         "Okay."  Wheeler looked to Groskopf, whose pen flew over her notebook.  "Mr. Cartwright, did you or Mrs. Cartwright notice anything strange?"

         Husband and wife shared a glance and shook their heads.

         "Nothing out of the ordinary for Halloween," replied Mrs. Cartwright.

         "Yeah," added her husband.  "We turned off the porch light a little after nine because there hadn't been any kids for a while.  Later there were some teens yelling and smashing pumpkins, but that was about it."

         "Can you remember what time?"

         "I don't know - oh yes, I do.  I turned on the TV for the news.  It was just before ten.  They were yelling their heads off outside.  After that it was quiet and I went to bed when Brandon came in."

         "Could you remember the kids who came to your door?"

         "I think I could.  There weren't as many out this year.  Usually we get about thirty and I think we only had fifteen or so."

         "Mr. Cartwright," asked Dunne, "What sort of a person was Mrs. Fleming?"

         "A good neighbor," he answered.  "She was willing to lend a hand, but not someone who would hang around our kitchen, if you know what I mean.  And we were the same with her.  She was really involved with her church and volunteer work.  She seemed healthy as a horse and feisty.  I hope I'm like that at eighty-one.  She was pretty strong-willed, though."

         "She was here long before we came," interjected Mrs. Cartwright.  "Her kids grew up in that house."

         "How many children did she have?" asked Wheeler.

         "Three.  Art, he took over his father's dealership, Brian and Valerie.  They all live in town."

         Wheeler stood up.  "I think that's all we need for now.  Officer Groskopf has a few more questions."

         "Sure, Detective," replied Cartwright.  "Anything you want."

        Lindquist unfurled police tape along the sidewalk from a tree to a telephone pole.  As Wheeler and Dunne passed, he nodded towards the small congregation of the curious that whispered amongst itself, oblivious to the intermittent drizzle.  A chunk of pumpkin that had survived the traffic squelched as Danny Fournier, the police photographer, pulled up in a cruiser.

         Back inside Mrs. Fleming’s house, MacGregor was pulling on his Burberry.  The mournful expression on his face aged him ten years.

         "I'm finished," he said to Wheeler and Dunne.  “Murder.”

         "I take it you knew her well, Doc?" asked Wheeler.

         "Yes, yes.  Not a close friend, mind, but she did a tremendous amount of work for the community.  She didn't deserve this."

         The policemen nodded.  Dunne broke the short, respectful silence.

         "What did you find, Doc?"

         "Blunt force trauma to the back of the head.  The skull shattered like an eggshell.  It was almost as if the assailant snuck up on her from behind."

         "So no marks of a struggle on the body?" asked Dunne.

         "None whatsoever."

         "Time of death?"

         MacGregor sighed.  "You know without a post mortem any guess I make is merely that - a guess."

         "We could probably get an autopsy by Monday, couldn't we?" asked Wheeler.

         MacGregor nodded and continued.  "Taking into consideration that the body was near a heating vent and the state of rigor, I'd estimate between midnight and two a.m."

         "But off the record," said Wheeler, "would you say closer to midnight or closer to two?"

         "You know I don't make it a practice to say."

         "Please."  Wheeler had gone through this little dance with MacGregor three years ago, the last time Rutherton had had a murder.

         "One o'clock - but that's off the record and if anyone asks me, I'll deny I ever said it.  I can't say definitely because of the stage of rigor."

         "Is it possible that death wasn't instantaneous?"

         MacGregor bristled.  Wheeler smiled inwardly because he'd struck a nerve.

         "It is possible," MacGregor snapped.  "Given the amount of blood, she probably bled to death, but the blood loss was swift.  The blow crushed one of the arteries.  That's why I'm saying it was between midnight and two.  Even the most experienced doctors can only make an estimate.  You'll just have to wait for the autopsy results."

         He turned on his heel and left through the front door, pushing past Lindquist who was coming in.  The officer had finished taping off the property.  Fournier followed him with his camera equipment.

         Wheeler pointed to the crime scene.  "Fournier, take care of this room first, then get some shots of the rest of the house."

         "Yes, sir."

         He started snapping at the living room.

         Erdmann and Hughes bustled in in their "clean suits," carrying their forensics cases.  Wheeler and Dunne parted to let them through, watching them open their boxes and pull out their tools of the trade.

         Dunne followed Wheeler down the hall to the kitchen.  Wheeler's eyes scoured the room.  From the avocado green stove to the orange tile backsplash, the kitchen would have been a housewife’s dream in 1973.  Now it was merely a sad and worn museum piece, the first renovation project for the next owners.  A tired coat of yellow paint didn’t disguise the cracks in the plaster, but otherwise the room had been kept very neat and tidy.

         "What do you think?" asked Dunne.

         "No forced entry.  No overturned furniture.  I think she knew the person."

         "But it was Halloween.  Pretty much the only night of the year when everyone throws open their doors without thinking about it."

         "Yes, but once a stranger got inside, you'd expect a struggle."

         "I don't understand why she would have opened her door at one in the morning."

         "Her guest could have been here for hours.  They could have had a cup of tea and washed the dishes together.  Then maybe her guest lost his or her temper and did her in.  Look at this."

         Wheeler pointed to a jumbo-sized pickle jar filled with coins and bills - a piggy bank of sorts.

         "It wasn't petty robbery."

         "Matt," said Dunne with a nervous laugh, "I'll bet that jar weighs fifty pounds.  You couldn't carry it out that easy.  They would have passed it up."

         "They would have taken the bills."

         "I don't think -"

         "They would have taken the bills," Wheeler repeated firmly.  "Take a look at the corpse.  She's still wearing her rings and watch."

         Dunne held his tongue.

         Wheeler furrowed his brow as he considered the wall phone.

         "Erdmann, can you dust this first?"

         "Yes, sir," he called from the living room.

         Wheeler waited while Erdmann worked.

         "All done, sir."

         A jumble of fingerprints dirtied the yellow receiver.

         "Lindquist?" called Wheeler through the house, "Have there been any phone calls while you've been here?"

         The officer came into the kitchen.  "No, none, sir."

         Wheeler picked up the phone and dialled *69.  He scribbled the number down in his notebook, tore out the page and handed it to Lindquist.

         "Run a check on this.  It's a local number.  Ten to one it's nothing, but I'd like to know."

         Lindquist nodded.

         Officer Groskopf arrived at the back door.  She smiled at the three men.

         "All done with the Cartwrights.  They didn't have much more to add."

         "Lindquist," said Wheeler, "get a couple more officers and start asking the neighbors if they saw anything last night."

         "Right away."

         "The Cartwrights gave me the addresses of Mrs. Fleming's children," offered Groskopf.

         "We'd better get on it.  Steve, I'll go with Groskopf.  Call me later."

         "Sure, Matt," replied Dunne.

         In the cruiser, Wheeler gloomily watched the windshield wipers swish away the drizzle.

         "Terrible day, isn't it?"

         Wheeler snapped out of his reverie.  Groskopf must have been reading his mind.

         "Yeah."

         Jenny Groskopf had been with the force only three years, but she had evolved into a local celebrity of sorts.  As "Officer Jenny," she'd become a hit on the public school circuit teaching the kids about traffic safety, but she was an effective officer to boot.  Wheeler had seen her subdue a two hundred and fifty pound drunk and disorderly without so much as breaking a sweat.  When she'd manipulated his wrist he'd crumpled to his knees.

         Wheeler wouldn’t deny that his decision to take her to the next of kin was blatantly sexist.  Breaking the news to the children that their mother had been bludgeoned required the woman's touch that Jenny Groskopf could provide.

         He flipped through her meticulous notes and looked forward to the report she’d write.  Wheeler couldn't fault anyone on his team and he trusted all of them to do a thorough job.  Although Rutherton had a small force, each member had been fully trained and probably could have put some of the city's men to shame.  Many smaller forces lacked discipline and formality and although many of the Rutherton squad socialized with each other, during working hours it was strictly “Yes, sir.  No, Detective” and a last name basis depending on rank.

         Wheeler read about the victim's three children.  Art, the eldest, who had inherited his father's car dealership, was another local celebrity.  The television station scattered his face all through their programming with his car commercials.  The other son, Brian, Wheeler knew from his reputation as part of Rutherton's establishment.  Wheeler recalled that he was a real estate developer.  Mrs. Fleming's youngest, a daughter named Valerie Wagner, was an unknown.

         At the moment, they were heading for Brian's house, as his was the closest to his mother's.  Located in Belvedere Lanes, a swishy neighborhood populated by many of the country club mafia, but called "The Bowling Alley" by the ninety percent of Rutherton that owned ten percent of the wealth.  Brian Fleming lived in a tasteless monster home of what looked like 4000 square feet.

         No cars sat in front of the three car garage and when they rang the doorbell, there was no answer.

         "Next address, Detective?"  Groskopf smiled good-naturedly.

         "That'll be the daughter's."

         A few minutes later Groskopf pulled the cruiser behind a late model BMW in the Wagner driveway.  This house was of the same overpowering style as Brian Fleming's, yet less ostentatious and it seemed slightly smaller, as if it could sleep only ten.

         The woman who answered had threads of white shot through her short brown hair.  In her early forties, she seemed fit and she presented a tasteful sense of style even in her simple sweater and jeans.  When she spotted Groskopf’s police uniform, her inquisitive look faded to fear.  Wheeler had seen it every time as he stood on people’s doorsteps.

         "Mrs. Valerie Wagner?" asked Wheeler.

         "Yes?" she replied nervously.  Wheeler knew to be merciful, as if ripping off a band-aid.

         "I'm Detective Matthew Wheeler and this is Officer Groskopf.  I was wondering if we could come in?"

         "What is it about?"

         "Your mother, Margaret Fleming."

         Wordlessly, she stepped back to let them into the marble-floored foyer.

         "It's bad news, isn't it?"

         Groskopf took her by the arm.

         "Unfortunately it is, Mrs. Wagner.  Please, let's sit down."

         Groskopf steered her into the cavernous living room.  Wheeler briefly noted that the expensive decor matched Valerie’s sense of style.

         "She's dead, isn't she?"

         "I'm afraid so, yes," he said.

         She swayed slightly; her face grew white with emotion.  "Oh no," she said quietly.  "What?  Where?  Was it a heart attack?"

         Wheeler took a deep breath.  He hated this.  "No, it's a murder investigation."

         The woman's dark eyes looked as if they’d been drawn by a Japanese animator.  "Murder?"

         Officer Groskopf took her hand and led her to the sofa.  Wheeler continued.

         "She was discovered almost two hours ago.  She'd been beaten."  There was no use going into detail.  "I'm sorry."

        Tears welled up in Valerie's eyes.

        Groskopf spoke slowly.  "Her neighbor, Mrs. Cartwright, found her in her living room and she called us."

         "Her living room - her home?"  A tear slid out of her eye.  "When did it happen?  Have - have you arrested anyone?"

         "The medical examiner believes it happened very late last night," offered Wheeler.  "And no, we haven't apprehended anyone yet."

         Valerie looked as if she was drowning and trying to grab at any piece of flotsam to stop her from going under.

         "Is your husband home?" asked Groskopf.

         "No, he's out with our children."

         "Is there anyone you'd like us to call?  Your clergyman?  A friend?"

         She was crying now.

         "There's a box of tissues in the powder room," she sniffed.

         "I'll get it,” said Wheeler.  He wanted to escape.  Rarely did a policeman have happy news to deliver.  Occasionally it was the "we've found your lost child/car/television safe and sound" type, but more often than not it brought misery.  Questions about people's whereabouts, disrupting households to take a suspect in for questioning or delivering bad news Wheeler used to take in stride, but lately it had really started to nettle him.

         When he returned with the tissues, Valerie had the portable phone and seemed to have pulled herself together.

         "Mrs. Wagner's calling her brother, Art," said Groskopf.

         "He lives a few minutes away," said Valerie wearily.  "Oh, hello, Art.  Not good.  Brace yourself.  Mom died.  Yes, yes, I know.  But there's more to it.  She was murdered."

         Even at his distance, Wheeler heard Art's incredulous "What?" over the phone.

         "In her house," continued Valerie.  "Can you come over?  The police are here and Glen's taken the kids out somewhere.  Oh, thank you.  See you soon."

         She hung up and turned her red eyes to Wheeler.

         "Do you have any idea who did this?"

         "Not yet," he replied.  "But it won't be long before we do."

         "I'll bet it was some kids pulling a Halloween prank."

         "That's certainly an angle we’re considering."

         Wheeler's cell phone rang.  "Excuse me."

         He got up and disappeared into the foyer, leaving Groskopf to comfort her.

         "Wheeler here."

         "Hey, Matt."  It was Dunne.  "Where are you?"

         "At the daughter's.  What's happening?"

         "Doc's released the body and the boys from the city are coming to pick it up.  I've got two officers making inquiries along the street and now I'm starting to think about lunch."

         "Art Fleming's on his way over, so give me about half an hour.  It's 42 Primrose Court."

         "Roger."

         Wheeler sat down and watched Groskopf as she ministered to Valerie’s grief.  Several minutes later, the doorbell rang.

         "I'll get that for you," offered Groskopf.

         "Thank you," said Valerie as she took a Kleenex and blew her nose.

         Art Fleming hurried in, followed by a statuesque woman whose blonde hair was
not entirely due to nature.  It looked as if this visit was a tremendous inconvenience for her.

        Art turned to his sister.  He was a dark man of about 50 or so and in need of a few months at the gym.  His high-end buttoned-down shirt and trousers had been crisply ironed, the leg creases razor-sharp.

      "Oh, Val!" he exclaimed solemnly.

        Suddenly Valerie became the strong one, comforting him.  His facial muscles twisted in the manner of a grown man who wants to cry but has forgotten how.  The full impact hadn't hit him yet and probably wouldn't for a while.

         "Art, this is Officer Groskopf and Detective - Detective -"

         "Wheeler," he answered.

         "Art Fleming and this is my wife, Carol."

         The sour-faced blonde nodded to them.

         Wheeler spotted an obvious strain between the husband and wife.  Perhaps they'd been in the midst of an argument when Valerie had called.  Everything about Carol Fleming was precise.  She was the sort of woman who spent a lot of time and money in beauty salons and had evidently just been at one, although there was a certain puffiness about her face.  Age, Wheeler thought.  Her suit hung well on her skinny frame and the couple reminded Wheeler of the nursery rhyme Jack Spratt, except in reverse.  Art was the one to lick the platter clean.

         "What happened, Detective?" Art asked.

         "Her neighbor, Mrs. Cartwright, found her this morning in her living room.  She'd been beaten."

         "Oh my God!"

         "If it's any consolation, we believe she had no idea what happened.  The coroner’s roughly estimated that it was sometime between midnight and two this morning.  We don’t think there was a robbery, but we'll have to ask one or two family members to confirm it."

         Art sat, his hands clasped between his legs, staring blankly in front of him.

         "Art," said Valerie, "we need to track down Brian and tell him."  She turned to Wheeler.  "There'll have to be an autopsy, I suppose?"

         "Yes," replied Wheeler.  "They're trying to arrange it for Monday and you'll be able to schedule the funeral after that."  Wheeler took a deep breath.  "Now, I know this is a difficult time, but we'll have some routine questions for you and they can be answered later, if you want."

         Art turned his dark eyes on him.  "Ask away," he said flatly.

         "Thank you, but I'll only ask one question for now.  Where were all of you between midnight and two this morning?"

         Valerie stared at Wheeler as if he'd gone mad, her eyes more like saucers than ever.  "You think we did it?"

         "No, this is routine."

         "I was in bed, asleep," she said.  "Glen, my husband, can vouch for me."

         "I was out all evening," said Art, "and I got home at ten after one.  I remember looking at my dashboard clock."

         "That's right," said Carol.  "I was up when he came in."

         "And where were you prior to arriving home, Mr. Fleming?"

         Carol eyed her husband severely.  She was also interested in the answer.

         "Driving."

         "Driving where, sir?  Could anyone have seen you?"

         "Possibly, I don't know."

         Wheeler decided to put it on the back burner for the time being.  Art wouldn't give with the eagle-eye of his wife on him.  "And you, Mrs. Fleming?  You were home all evening?"

         "No, I was out, but I arrived home before midnight.  I think it was a quarter to twelve."

         "Can anyone confirm that?"

         She looked at Wheeler as if he were something disgusting attached to the bottom of her shoe.

         "Unfortunately, no."

         Wheeler felt the chill.

         The corner of his eye caught Dunne's cruiser as it pulled into the driveway.  Wheeler stood up.  "Thank you very much, all of you.  I'm sorry about your loss and I assure you we are using all our resources to solve your mother's murder.  Officer Groskopf will stay with you to help you with your immediate needs.”

         "Thank you, Detective," said Valerie, forcing a smile on her face.

         Wheeler leaned into a strong gust of wind as he walked to Dunne's car.

         "Howdy," said Dunne.  "I guess things are pretty grim in there."

         "You said it," Wheeler replied wearily.  "Let's grab something at Ferguson's and take it back to the station."

         "Roger."  Dunne put the car in gear. 

         Wheeler had known Steve Dunne since he'd been a kid.  His father had been Wheeler's partner and had taken Wheeler under his wing, mentoring him.  Heck Dunne had been two years short of his retirement when he and Wheeler had responded to a call for assistance in a chase.  It was two in the morning when Heck had been laying the spike belt.  The driver of the stolen vehicle never saw him and Wheeler watched helplessly as the car mowed him down.

        Wheeler had taken it upon himself to do for Steve what Heck had done for him.  At the time of his father's death, Steve had been a cadet but he had his father's natural aptitude.  Several years later, when the time was right and the position was available, Wheeler recommended Dunne for his new partner.

         Wheeler and Dunne picked up their lunch at Ferguson's, across from the station.  Although only a greasy spoon, it was the force's favourite restaurant because Mrs. Ferguson supplemented the burger and fries menu with some good home cooking.

         In Wheeler's office, they spread out their burgers and fries.

         "So much for my diet," said Wheeler.

         "You're on a diet?" asked Dunne.

         "I looked fatter this morning."

         "You could have had the salad if you're so concerned."

         "Tomorrow.”

         "So what's the family like?"

         "I only met Valerie Wagner and Art and his wife, Carol.  I think she calls the
shots in that family.  She seems to have me in her crosshairs."

         "Alibis?"

         "Valerie has one, and we might be able to confirm the Wicked Witch of the West's, but between midnight and ten after one, Art was out driving."

         "Driving?"

         "We can talk to him later, if need be.  His wife was just as interested in his whereabouts as I was.  His guard was up so he wasn't talking.  Do you still think the murderer is a thug?"

         "Until someone can prove to me otherwise."

         Wheeler sighed.  "I don't know.  My gut feeling still is that it was someone she knew."

         "Ah, another of your gut feelings."  He grinned at Wheeler.  The senior detective scowled and Dunne continued.  "Well, you've never been wrong yet."

         "The Cartwright kid wasn't too pleased to see us."

         "What, Brandon?"

         "Yeah.  He made me feel like something was up there.  We can check on any property damage last night.  He had the hangdog look as if he’d done something and figured we came to see his parents about him.  If we can connect him to some Halloween prank, at least it'll clear him on our case."

         "He's a kid.  What possible reason would he have to do in the old lady next door?"

         "Another Halloween prank.  Maybe booze or drugs were involved.  She knew him and he was out until twelve-thirty."

         "Yeah, but why would an old woman be opening her door at that hour?"

         Wheeler put on a syrupy voice.  "'Oh please, Mrs. Fleming, it's Brandon.  I've forgotten my key and my cellphone and my parents have gone to bed.  Can I borrow your phone to wake them?'"

         "Oh, come on.  Mrs. Cartwright said Mrs. Fleming was an early riser -"

         "- so why wouldn't she be in bed at midnight?  Or, if she had answered the door that late, why wasn't she in her nightgown?  I don't know, Steve.  Something's not right and the obvious isn't working this time.”  He popped a french fry into his mouth and chewed, contemplating the view from his window.  “So fill me in.  What's happening in the neighborhood?"

         Between bites of cheeseburger Dunne said, "Brandon was right.  There was a party going on up the street, so depending on when it broke up, that'll increase our chances for witnesses."

         "Who's on it?"

         "McGee and DiAngelo.  It'll take a little time, but they'll dig up something."

         "I'd like to know the last time the victim was seen."

         Desk Sergeant Hallam joined them, papers in his hand.  He was a jolly man whose departed hair had left him with only a fringe around his head, like Friar Tuck.  He was the longest serving member of the Rutherton force.

         "Hello, detectives," he said airily.  "I've got a few things for you."

         "Okay," said Dunne.

         "First, that *69 number belongs to Noble Dixon, the lawyer."

         Wheeler raised his eyebrows with interest.  Dixon was another of the Rutherton elite.

         "It's his office," continued Hallam, “and the background on the victim's family?  Well, if we own a TV set, we all know her oldest son, Art, who runs the family car dealership."

         "Tell us something we don't know, sergeant," teased Dunne.

         Hallam sniffed loudly.  "Okay then.  His wife, Carol, doesn't work, but she comes from more money than he does.  No kids.  Brian, the other son, is a real estate developer, currently trying to turn that property near the interstate into a subdivision.  Wife:  Sophie, two kids: Tammy and Clark, aged 16 and 19.  I believe Clark is away at college."

         "You believe?" asked Wheeler.

         "My youngest daughter went to high school with him."

         Wheeler nodded thoughtfully.

         "And Valerie Wagner is the daughter.  Her husband, Glen, is Brian Fleming's business partner."

         "Well, well," remarked Dunne.

         "Three kids:  Glen Jr., Christina and William, 13, 10 and 8."

         "We'll need to talk to Brian Fleming and his wife about their whereabouts," said Wheeler, making some notes.  "Is that it?"

         "For now," replied Hallam.

         A new thought struck him.  "Can you get me a list of last night's vandalism reports?"

         "Yes, sir."

         "And how's Danny doing with those pictures?"

         "He just got back."

         "Okay, thanks."

         The sergeant left as Wheeler bundled the remains of his lunch into its brown paper bag and tossed it into the waste basket.

         "So, if you think it was one of her family, what's the motive?  Money?" asked Dunne.

         "Or sheer anger - someone lost it completely.  Five’ll give you ten it was that, from the violence of the scene.”

         Wheeler pulled the phone directory out of the bottom of his desk and flipped through it. 

      “I'm going to ask Dixon what that call was about."

        He dialled the number.

         "Mr. Dixon, please.  Oh.  And when are you expecting him back?  Dinner time.  I see.  Certainly, his cell number's fine."  Wheeler scribbled it down.  "Thank you."

         He dialled Dixon's cell number, then hung up.

         "It's taking messages.  I'll try him later."

         When they returned to the murder scene, the radio station had already reported sketchy details and the crowd of the curious had swelled, surrounding the coroner's parked hearse, shivering in the cold drizzle, yet determined to witness the course of events as they unfolded.  No doubt most of them would be dining out on their stories.           A short young man sidled up.

         "Detective Wheeler?"

         "Yes?"

         "I'm Sammy Parker, from The Observer."

         Wheeler looked at the kid - that's exactly what he was, probably fresh out of a
Journalism course.  Wheeler had met them before - starting their careers in a small town, expecting the big story that would propel them to bigger and better things like a Pulitzer.

         "You're new?" asked Wheeler.

         "Yep.  Just started last month."

         When Wheeler spotted Jeff Smith, the Observer photographer, hovering nearby with his camera, he realized the kid was legit.  And on close inspection of his face, it looked like the kid didn't even shave yet.

         Sammy continued.  "I was wondering if you have a minute."

         "Well -"

         "I understand there's been a homicide - Mrs. Margaret Fleming.  Do you have a statement?"

         "It sounds like you don't need one," snapped Wheeler.  "How do you know all this?"

         "The police radio gave me the address and the net told me who lived here," Sammy replied smugly.  Butter wouldn't melt in the keener's mouth.

         "You don't go to press until tomorrow night.  Why don't you go back to the newsroom and wait for the rest of the story?"  Wheeler sighed.  This kid would be as annoying as a mosquito.  "Oh, all right.  At 10:30 this morning two Rutherton police officers were called to 280 Clarence Street after the police received a telephone call from a neighbor who reported finding a body."

         The kid scribbled on his pad in shorthand.

         Wheeler continued once he let him catch up.  "The body is female but I can't identify her pending notification of next of kin.  For the same reason, I can only say that the circumstances are suspicious."

         "Where are you with your investigation?"

         "We're making enquiries, especially around the neighborhood.  That's it for now."

         Wheeler and Dunne swept under the police tape before Sammy could ask anything else.  Inside, Lindquist was talking with the two raincoated coroner's assistants.

         "They're ready to go, sir," said Lindquist.

         In the living room, the corpse had been zipped into a body bag and placed on a stretcher.  Since Rutherton was a small town without facilities, all autopsies were handed off to the city boys, making MacGregor's job even sweeter.  Wheeler knew the doctor barely had to get his hands dirty.

      He took the clipboard from one of the two men and signed the paperwork.  As the men wheeled the body down the front walk, the gawkers crowded closer for a better view, their umbrellas jostled by those behind them.  Jeff Smith snapped away with his camera.  Officer DiAngelo, a paunchy forty-five year old with salt and pepper hair and a moustache, arrived from down the street in time to hold the yellow tape up for the coroner's men.  He darted to Wheeler and Dunne on the porch and spoke low, so the audience wouldn't hear him.

         "I've found -"

         "Would you please go away!  Leave me alone!"

         The shout from next door jerked their heads around.

         Unbelievably, Sammy Parker stood on the Cartwright's porch, his foot literally in the door, preventing Mrs. Cartwright from closing it.

         "I told you I have nothing to say!" she cried.

         The crowd on the street turned their attention from the hearse to this new tableau.  Wheeler bounded across the yards with Dunne and DiAngelo in hot pursuit.

         "Parker, leave her alone.  You heard she doesn't want to talk to you."  Wheeler yanked Sammy out of the doorway.

         "We're really sorry about this, Mrs. Cartwright," said Dunne.

         Her hand shook as she swept the hair out of her eyes.  "I shouldn't have opened the door."

         "You go back inside and we'll make sure you're not disturbed."

         "Thank you."  The door closed.

         Sammy masked his humiliation with fury.  "How dare you!  That's police brutality!"

         "Hardly," said Wheeler and let go of Sammy's jacket.  "The lady said go away.  You didn't.  Do you want me to charge you with trespassing?"

         Sammy rearranged his jacket.  "Fuck you.  I won't forget this, Wheeler.  You'll see."

         He stormed down the steps.  Jeff Smith caught Wheeler's eye and smiled.

         "Grandstanding," said Wheeler to DiAngelo and Dunne.  "I only fear the people who don’t threaten me."

         “And that’s only about three people in town, right?”  Dunne smiled wickedly.

End of Chapter One pt. 1