By the time I arrived on the scene, a crime division officer was snapping close-ups of the corpse's nasty wound to the heart. Another officer sketched the location while yet another tagged items, such as the weapon, as evidence. I knew the corpse's face, but I couldn't remember her name. Was she in one of my classes?
The roommate had discovered the body in their Academy dorm room. Gun in hand. No suicide note. I had taught several classes at the Ridgeland Police Academy for five years, and this was the first Academy death I'd encountered.
A woman was stopped at the door. "I have to get in!," she screamed. I recognized her from my Investigative Procedures class. Jordan Thompson. I could see her sitting in the third seat in the fourth row of my classroom. The victim sat to Jordan's right. Alicia Brown was her name.
Walking out into the hall, I asked Ms. Thompson if we could talk. She stood against the wall; leg bent against it. "I came back into the room from my shower and found Alicia on the floor."
"I am sorry about her death, Ms. Thompson." I touched her hand. "I know this is hard."
"She seemed to be happy." Thompson looked straight ahead at the door of her room. "Her boyfriend just proposed, and they had set a date."
I nodded. "It should have been a happy time for her."
She rubbed her nose. "She gave no indications." Wiping tears from her eyes, she gave me a weak smile. She retrieved a key from her front pocket. "Alicia told me to give this to the Police if anything happened to her."
After she handed me the key, I studied it. "Didn't you find that strange?"
Silent for a moment, she finally answered. "I guess so."
"Thanks for the information. You know where to find me if you remember anything else." I pushed my way back into the room. The key probably belonged to a safe deposit box. I sat down at the desk with a gold-framed picture of Ms. Brown and an older gentleman--dressed in a dark blue Police uniform--set on top. With a pair of gloves covering my hands, I searched her drawers. I had to find what the key unlocked. It might be important to my report.
In the middle drawer, I found Ms. Brown's bank book. Most likely, she would keep her safe deposit box at the same institution she banked at. Unless she was hiding something, which so far didn't seem to be the case.
Later, I drove over to the Meraux Square's Bank of America--the bank listed on Ms. Brown's checks. I wondered what a twenty-two year old would need with a safe deposit box.
I ran a background check on Alicia Brown. She was doing well in her classes. That came as no surprise. She had been a lively part of my class discussions. Her family moved here from Washington D.C. Her father was killed at the hand of a drug dealer two years ago. He must have been the older man in the picture on her desk.
I signed my name to the clipboard, took a seat, and waited for the next bank representative to assist me. Of course, I could have marched up to a desk and scared the representative by flashing my badge wallet, but I preferred the subtle approach.
Before I pulled out my badge keeper, the representative hesitated at my request to see Ms. Brown's safe deposit box. Whether or not I wanted to admit it, that badge always changed a hesitant mind.
After going through the necessary channels, I finally was able to unlock the safe deposit box in the company of several curious bank agents. Once I unlocked it, I found a folded letter and another key. Oh great! A dead end.
I opened the letter, noticing that it was addressed to "Whomever It May Concern:." I was shocked by the first line: "By the time you read this letter, I will be dead. And I can lead you to my killer." I learned the key belonged to a safe deposit box at Bank One down the street.
"I'll need to take these for evidence." I took the key and letter out of the box. "Thanks for your time," I commented as I headed out the glass doors.
At Bank One, I went through the same process of waiting, meeting resistance before showing them my badge, and having bank administers oversee my movements. Once I turned the key in the lock, I found photo negatives and a pile of money fastened by a rubber band.
Flipping through the pile, I noted the fifty dollar bills were sandwiched between two one-hundred dollar bills. Putting the negatives up to the light, I noticed two figures kissing. Who were the people in the negatives? It was hard to tell. I needed to get them developed.
After taking the items as evidence and thanking the administer, I drove over to the Police Department. I dropped the negatives off at the photography unit. I tried to keep my mind from assuming Ms. Brown was blackmailing the couple in the picture.
I was sitting at my desk, studying the three typewritten pages, double-spaced, Sandra--our resident handwriting analyst--attached to Ms. Brown's letter. She mentioned the slant to the right indicated discouragement and depression while the uncrossed "T"'s meant preoccupation and carelessness.
Cartel dropped an envelope on my desk, giving me a big smile. "Interesting photos, Kendall." As he headed to the Commissioner's office, I lifted up the flap and removed the pictures. A man was kissing a woman, but I couldn't quite make out the faces.
When Cartel came out of the Commissioner's office, I handed the envelope to him. "Enlarge them. I need to see the faces."
He nodded. "That's going to be harder to do." He put his hands on my desk, leaning forward, "I can create a computer- generated pictures of what the rest of the faces look like."
"Just get me something to go on," I barked at him, blowing hard on the coffee in my monogrammed cup.
"Will do," he grinned as he walked toward the photography department. "Meet me in the photography lab at 1300 hours."
Glancing in his direction, to make sure he was gone, I pulled a photo from underneath my paper pile.
* * * * *After questioning all my students, asking them if they recognized the couple in the picture, I moved to the Academy instructors. The consensus was the picture was too blurry to identify the couple. I was sure I had talked to the couple in question separately, but which two were they?
I stopped by the photography lab. "What did you find out?," I asked Cartel, taking a seat in front of his desk. Using a magnifying glass, he looked at the enlarged photos he had made. Without looking up, he smiled, "You kept one of the photos."
"Never could fool you," I commented as I folded my hands in my lap.
He motioned me to his side of the desk. When I complied, I leaned against the desk. Pointing to his computer screen, he began, "This is the composite I produced of the male."
Rubbing my eyes, I stared at the screen. The composite portrayed a tall man, built like a quarter-back football player, dark hair that was cut too short, and blue eyes.
We watched the screen, each other, and the screen again. I knew he was thinking the same person I was. I took a deep breath. "Officer McKinley."
He reluctantly nodded. Manipulating the keyboard, he called up the composite of the female. The female's top view replaced the male's. "I have no idea who this is."
The woman was petite, probably fifteen years McKinley's junior. Her mousy brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, her face covered by heavy makeup. I didn't recall seeing her before. "It's definitely more to go on than when I walked in here."
I waited while he printed me a hard copy of both composites.
* * * * *My conversation with Officer McKinley didn't go as well as I'd hoped. He still insisted he had never seen the woman in the picture. He was calm, almost too composed, during my interview.
I waited in my car outside the Academy until he left, then tailed him. He drove a 1988 red Ford Tempo. Jotting his license plate number--MCJ-421--on the pad next to me, I stayed three cars behind him at all times. If he knew I was tailing him, he didn't act like it. Maybe he knew and didn't care.
He drove up Semmons Boulevard, weaving in between cars, and tail-gating the rest. Turning on the light at 36th Place, he took 36th Place to Fairview. Passing the Victorian houses, to the more modern-looking dwellings, he parked the car in front of a smoky-gray, two-story apartment complex. He climbed out of the car and hiked up the stairs, to the third door left of the staircase.
Opening the glove compartment, I took out my binoculars and put them to my eyes. Apartment 219. I added the complex name and address to my notes.
I waited for over two hours before I decided to leave.
* * * * *After returning from the Motor Vehicle Department with the name of the woman living in apartment 219 at the Fairview Apartment Complex, I confirmed through the Academy records Karen Wright was in Officer McKinley's Crime Scenes class. Most likely they were having an affair, Ms. Brown found out, and blackmailed them.
If that were true, which one killed her? Was it McKinley, Wright, or both? I had to search Ms. Brown's belongings once more.
Ms. Thompson seemed almost please when she opened the door to find me. "I was hoping her things would have been picked up earlier.
"I'm here to find make sense of this case," I corrected her as I walked past her, to Ms. Brown's desk. "I'll have someone pick up her possessions to ship home tomorrow."
I sat down at the desk, pulling on my gloves. More of a habit than a precaution. Sliding back the drawers one by one, I didn't find anything. I took the drawers completely out to look behind them. Behind the center drawer, I found an envelope addressed to Officer McKinley.
Slicing open the envelope with the straight edge of my key, I unfolded the typed letter. A blackmail letter, telling him to meet him at the Forester Cafe with the money. The Forester Cafe was a restaurant at the end of the street where police officers and cadets alike hung out.
I taped up the envelope. Before leaving, I pushed the drawers back in and replaced everything just as I found it. On my way back home, I slid the envelope under Officer McKinley's office door. I would meet him at the cafe.
* * * * *I waited at the counter, ordered a cup of coffee and a B.L.T. sandwich, and watched the door periodically. I pretended to read the Ridgeland Chronicle. Another McDonald's robbery. An officer shot in New York City. A lost song of Elvis' was being released.
McKinley was suppose to be here at exactly eight-thirty. I checked at my watch. Eight-twenty. I expected him to arrive early, to find out who was blackmailing him if Alicia was dead.
Catching a glance of a girl sitting in the corner, I knew she looked familiar. I couldn't place her, though. I hated that feeling. My mind wouldn't let it go as I turned back around to add cream to my coffee.
I looked back several times toward the door and then at the girl. I'd seen her face before, but where? Face--that was it. The computer image. "Frank, keep that sandwich hot for me, please," I called over the counter to the man--clothed in a T-shirt, jeans, and a white apron--flipping hamburgers with a spatula. He winked at me.
I picked up my spoon, combing my fingers through my dark hair. Smoothing out my pink long-sleeved shirt and black dress pants, I strolled over to her table. I slid in the seat facing her. I put on my best smile, extending my hand. "I think you have something for me." I gently unzipped my purse, pulling out my 9 mm with my right hand.
Since I didn't recognize her, I was playing on the fact she wouldn't know me either, or at least, not identify me until it was too late.
She stared at me a moment. No expression in her brown eyes. My heart pounded. Did she realize who I was? I glanced at two men hunched over at the counter.
As if she'd done this before, she seemed perfectly calm, using one finger to push the legal-sized envelope across the table.
When I grabbed her wrist, she flinched. "That was perfect the way you made Alicia's death look like a suicide." I sighed, looking into her eyes. "Brilliant."
"Who are you?" She broke free from my hold.
"Three hundred a month to keep my mouth shut about the murder." I told her, hoping to bypass the identity question. No such luck. She repeated the question. "Alicia hired me several days before her death to keep you in check." I glanced down at the envelope, smiling. "Guess she hired me with your money." I laughed, throwing my head back. I wasn't sure she bought my act.
"I do what has to be done." Her eyes widened. She pulled a 9mm out of her jacket, aiming it at me. "Any last words?"
Oh God, I'm dead, I thought to myself as I looked down the gun's barrel. My heart jumped into my shoes. My palms sweated. Looking into her eyes, I could see her anger burning them up like a fire. I knew she'd shoot. I drew my revolver.
She fired the weapon. The bullet barely missed my arm, piercing the booth.
The two guys at the counter turned around, ran up to our table. "Drop the weapon!," Officer Bryan shouted. Both officers pointed their revolvers at Karen. We flashed our badges. Bryan repeated the question.
Karen reluctantly set the 9mm on the table. After switching his weapon to his other hand, Bryan grabbed Karen's arm. I picked up her gun.
As they cuffed her, I read her the Miranda rights.