Chapter 9

Detective William Harlow is called from his desk to visit a crime scene under strict orders to keep the press at a distance. This is a common enough request, but rarely is it cited. Arriving on the scene, Harlow finds himself in one of Detroit’s most affluent neighborhoods, Palmer Woods. He flashes his badge at the manned gate and drives through the winding boulevard and up the driveway that could easily accommodate ten cars. A good thing too, he thinks, as there is a heavy police presence here already.

He spots two cruisers, a forensics van, another unmarked car like his own, and an ambulance. Uniformed officers, paramedics, and firefighters are busily moving about their vehicles. Harlow was told there had been a murder, but not just a murder; this one had all the signs of becoming something much more. This information intrigues him. This morning, the call came from a distraught son who had found his father deceased on the premises. Harlow had reviewed the 911 call earlier. The voice on the call was experiencing genuine shock. Grief over his find was palpable.

Harlow steps out of his car and asks the paramedics how their day is going as they loiter at the back of the ambulance.

“Another day, another body,” the tall woman tells him. Harlow likes dark humor. It’s something police, firefighters and paramedics share. It helps first responders cope. You’ve got to desensitize yourself to the horrors of the job. It’s not disrespectful. It’s proactive. “When you’re done, we’ll take it to the coroner.” He nods and ducks, moving through the half-open garage door.

The scene is difficult to walk into. He sympathizes with the boy who made the call. A suicide by all accounts, but then that’s the easy call. He was brought in to read the note. What he finds rather than a standard ‘I can’t do it anymore, I’m sorry,’ he would describe more as a calling card than a suicide letter because that’s precisely what it is. Now he understands why his captain reminded him to keep reporters at bay with this one. This wasn’t something they wanted to get out. This was big, and it had the potential to get out of control quickly.

“Detective,” a young constable approaches Harlow with a frown that supports the gravity of the scene. Harlow wonders whether this is his first and how many lines will be carved into his youthful face over the next ten years. “You’ve seen the note.”

Harlow nods, holding the evidence in its plastic baggie. It’s a clear statement. Short and sweet. Confusing? Yes, but it looks like it was created on a digital printer with 100 lb. paper by the feel of it. No handwriting. Maybe there are fingerprints to pull off the paper. Unlikely. They’d know soon enough.

“Thank you for securing the scene, Constable,” Harlow says. The young man grunts his reply. “Is the family here? The boy who made the call?”

“Yes, sir. They’re in the back sunroom. Wife and child.” The constable leads the detective into the expansive sitting room overlooking a pristine, landscaped yard with an inground pool that reminds Harlow more of a resort than a backyard. “We’ve asked some preliminary questions but left it at their whereabouts last night and the usual.”

“Okay, good,” Harlow pats the man on the back and journeys into the space where the wife is comforting her son. The boy looks about 14, and the wife around 50. Even after all these years, he still feels uneasy interviewing victims. He pulls in a quick breath and releases it.

“Ma’am, son,” he approaches them and sits on the coffee table, legs spread. “I’m Detective Harlow. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your husband was a pillar in the community.” He says this assuming the dead man must have contributed in some way living in a house like this. Must have been important. Must have a lot of money too. If this was staged for the life insurance, Harlow would know within a few minutes. He was good at his job and could sense a lie a mile away.

“Thank you for coming,” the woman says, a tissue at her petite nose. A trophy wife perhaps, but shedding real tears. “We’re at a loss. Frederick wasn’t a man who would take his own life. He just wouldn’t.” She says this passionately, her gaze insisting he catch her husband’s murderer. That’s interesting.

“You found your father in the garage this morning at 7:45 am?” He shifts his attention to the boy. He’s still in his pajamas, and his nose and eyes are red. The boy nods, his head down. “I’m sorry you found him like this. Your mother doesn’t believe he would do this himself.”

“Why would he?” The boy agrees. “We have a soccer meet this afternoon. Had. He wouldn’t do… that.” He points angrily behind them toward the front of the house.

“No, of course,” he looks to the wife, “do you have a home security camera? We might discover what happened quickly with the footage.” Harlow is running through the paces. He’d like to think the killer would be stupid, but since they had the forethought to leave a note, he fears that won’t be the case.

“Yes, I’ve been scrolling through the data,” she lifts her phone half-heartedly, “but nothing unusual.”

“Please give your account information to the constable as we may discover something you missed.” Upon closer inspection, something could turn up with experienced forensic eyes on the footage. She nods and turns to speak with the young constable.

“You found your father and called 911 immediately?” He asks the boy.

“Yes,” he says solemnly. He’s fighting back the tears, gulping down air. He’s strong, but that resolve will break soon. Once everyone is gone, and they’re left alone, he’ll be a boy without a father.

“Nothing out of the ordinary last night? No noises you questioned. Shadows. Had your husband gone to bed with you?” Harlow directs his questions to the wife.

She snorts out a reply, “I can’t remember the last time he slept in our bed. It’s been forever.”

“Mom,” the boy says, accompanied by a troubled frown.

“It’s true; we’ve been in a bad way the past year. He’s gone a lot. His work takes him all over the world.”

“So, when did he arrive home?” Harlow feels he is getting somewhere.

“The cameras say 2:30 am,” she replies and blows her nose lightly.

“So, the last time you saw him alive,” he looks at the boy apologetically and continues, “was when?”

The wife considers this and scrolls through her phone. “June 12. He was here for supper. Briefly.”

“Okay, did he mention anything at all? Problems he was having with someone. Having met a stranger. An old friend. Anything you can pinpoint?”

“We didn’t talk much. We text even less if you’d like my phone records.”

“He did talk, mom; you just weren’t listening,” her son breaks in. “he said he was looking forward to the soccer meet today. He was going to come.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know he wouldn’t have made it.”

“He said he would,”

“And how many times have we heard that?”

Harlow is picking up the dynamic in the house. Spurned wife, hopeful kid, absentee husband, and father. Classic. The wife could have killed him, but to end up as he did… doesn’t add up. Besides, poison is the go-to of disgruntled housewives.

He looks at the dead man’s phone in his hand secured in a baggy, curious over the content, and says: “We will want all communications you’ve had with your husband in the last three months, so, please give the constable access to your plans’ account.” He looks kindly at the boy. “We’ll ask for your son’s as well.”

“We want to cooperate in any way we can,” she explains. “He was a better man than I’m making him out to be; I’m sorry.” Emotions run high in these situations, and Harlow understands this. “I loved him; he just didn’t have time for us. This is a big house with a lot of bills. He worked hard to give us all of this.”

“Do you believe he was under a great deal of stress over it?”

She looks Harlow straight in the eye and holds his stare. “I know for a fact he would never do this to himself. We’d discussed the subject several times as my… my sister committed suicide years ago. We would never do that to each other and certainly not to Freddy Jr.”

“I told you,” Junior backs his mom up and blows his nose.

“We’re canvassing your neighborhood, and we’ll see if it produces anything we can use. Your camera footage and phone and email communications will be reviewed over the next few days. Standard procedure. You’ll have a uniformed officer parked outside your house for your protection.” Harlow stands. “For your safety, and if we need to ask more questions, please stay at home. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll do everything in our power.”

Harlow looks at Freddy Jr. and offers him a sympathetic smile and nod. Freddy’s head falls again.

Harlow moves around the house, feeling out the crime scene. He looks at the printer and paper in their home office. He marks down the make and serial number and the thickness of the stock. Next, he looks for signs of a struggle, broken baubles, and scuff marks on the floor. Nothing. The doors, all five of them, weren’t forced open. Windows look clean.

The forensics team is busy in the garage where the body was found and the victim’s car, checking for prints and fibers, hair and spit, and blood. He’ll get their report in a few days. He moves outside and studies the camera placement. The doorbell is one. There is another at the side of the house lacking the four-car garage and another overlooking the beautiful backyard. Motion lights adorn both sides of the house.

Whoever the killer is who left their calling card was a pro. But what is the motive? The rich tend to make more enemies than friends in Harlow’s experience with the elite. It could be a long list. His friends, enemies, partners, and extended family will all be interviewed in their time. The paramedics see this as a suicide, so there shouldn’t be any leaks to the media there. The firefighters left long ago. The press would sensationalize the killing and build their own stories, either scaring the perp into hiding, inflating their ratings, or both. So, the note must be kept a secret. No one can know.

Harlow spends the remainder of the day at the scene, conferring with forensics, making notes, and snapping pictures with his phone. He watches the body be bagged and removed from the premises, and the ambulance slowly leave the scene.

After a brief return to the office, he goes home, where a bottle of bourbon and an empty condo welcome him back. The ex-wife took the dog, Oscar, a dachshund they’d bought five years ago. He loved that dog, but she had a real spitfire for an attorney, and he’d lost more than half of their assets. The condo was a good move for him after the drama; no yard, no maintenance, no nothing.

Harlow pulls the cork from the bourbon and pours himself three fingers over cold stones. Ice weakens the bourbon and robs it of its full flavor. The stones were a gift from his ex-wife. Tiff hadn’t taken these, at least, he thinks. She never was one for the hard stuff, though.

After two of these, Harlow rolls up his sleeve to expose the charred flesh of his left forearm. Then he picks up a lighter next to a set of candles he’s never lit and strikes the flint. The fire burns brightly, and he moves the flame under his tortured forearm.

Pain is a funny thing; he reflects on this as the underside of his forearm screams for him to stop. The smoke stinks of burning flesh, but no hair is left to catch fire. Harlow flinches, taking his thumb off the lighter. Pain can be felt both externally and internally. When his wife left him, he had suffered complications concurrent with someone falling out of love with him internally. The questions, the what-ifs, the heartbreak, and sadness all lived inside him. It was his fault, she’d clarified. He accepted her explanation and allowed her to take what she wanted. They say if you love someone, let them go. They don’t mention the sense of loss that accompanies that decision. Eventually, the sadness dissipated, and he became stoic over it, feeling nothing. That didn’t sit right with him. So, he decided to play out the pain externally; and the self-harm began.

The thing about self-harm is that it’s addictive. Connecting with his pain gives him purpose. It gives him control. A part of him wants the pain back. A part of him wants Tiff back.