I open the front door of Jake’s cabin with Sharon’s key, and we get hit in the face with a blast of putrid air.
“It smells like death,” Erin says as I close the door swiftly.
“I don’t disagree with you.” We stand frozen, almost like thieves debating whether to trespass.
“Are you prepared for what we might see?” she asks.
“I don’t know what to expect other than Mabel telling me that nobody has come here to clean up yet. So, not really, but we are here, and it’s still daylight.” If I were alone, I might turn back, but I asked Erin to accompany me. She had a quick dinner on the table for when her husband, Darren, walked in, then she drove straight to Milford, telling him she was working on a murder investigation with his favorite mother-in-law.
We are hit with the stench again as I reopen the door. Will we ever get this odor out of our clothes? I regret wearing one of my better outfits. We take a step inside and see the source. Congealed blood on the dining table and floor gives off a sickening, sweet metallic scent. It is spattered along the wall and window as well.
“Would’ve been nice to have the scene photos,” she says.
“We will just have to take our own,” I reply.
Beer cans sit on end tables. A pizza box contains one last piece and several crusts. Plates and bowls rest in the drying rack next to the sink in the small kitchen. I notice a few goose feathers on the floor, but otherwise the wooden floors are clean. Dusty, but clean. I see a rehearsal dinner after-party with the guys for one last hurrah.
“Jake didn’t get around to tidying up before pulling the trigger would be the assumption,” she says.
“If you were to believe he did this to himself,” I complete her sentence. “Something else interrupted his revelry is my best guess.”
Erin lifts her phone and videos the interior of the cabin. She gives the time and date and location. She moves through the dining area, to the kitchen, then turns left into a doorway, and a few seconds reappears from another doorway, completing her video tour.
“The kitchen has a doorway to the bathroom, and the bathroom has a door to the bedroom,” she says for me and for the recording before shutting off the video.
She then takes photos as we move closer to the dining table. It is a small hand-me-down with a setting for two. The chairs are mismatched. Blood has dripped off the table into a puddle on the floor. The spray pattern of blood several feet away fans out on the closed window, sill, and wall on the same side of the table as the puddle. I tap the flashlight app on my phone and shine it on the wall to better illuminate the scene for Erin’s photography.
Erin points. “He was probably sitting down in the chair facing the kitchen when he was shot, and his head came to rest on the table.”
“The blood then ran off the table onto the floor,” I add.
“With the blood spatter against that wall—” she starts.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the fatal head wound was on the left side of his head,” I finish her out loud thought.
“One would be led to believe that he shot himself with his left hand,” she concludes. The two of us work well together.
“I can’t remember from school or from when he completed the estimate for my father’s car what hand he uses,” I say. I text Sharon: Was Jake left-handed?
No? comes the reply. Why? comes the obvious question.
Won’t know until I look at the autopsy report, I answer.
“Shot himself with his off hand, hmm? Makes me wonder,” Erin says.
“Me too.”
“Wonder what kind of gun was used.”
“Why?”
“With a revolver, the spent shell would stay in the chamber. With an automatic pistol, the shell would be ejected.”
I take only a few seconds to realize where the shell would have been ejected to. We both look back towards the doorway.
“If it was a pistol, they should have taken a photo of the shell on the ground,” I say hopefully.
“If it was, and they didn’t, then we can assume they had this written off as a death by suicide from the get-go,” Erin replies.
We drift from the dining area along the right wall to the kitchen and the rear of the square-shaped cabin. I put on a dishwashing glove and open the fridge. The guy cooked for himself. I open the freezer. Not much. He went from week to week. Erin takes photos of both openings. In another week or less, this stuff will be removed. We repeat the process with the tabletops and cabinets. Who knows if we will ever need these photos? But it is better to have them?
Next is the bathroom. I go right to the medicine cabinet and see that there are no meds in there. “I’ll get Mabel to sign an authorization to allow me to get Jake’s medical records and pharmacy orders.”
“But there is nothing in there,” she says after taking photos of the toiletries.
“What if someone took them?”
“That’s what Casey or Marsha would ask.” Erin smiles. She is referring to New Haven Police Detective Casey McFadden and FBI agent Marsha O’Shea, whom we worked with last year.
“The absence of something gives us clues, Erin,” I tell her.
She beams. “Spoken like a true sleuth.”
We move to the bedroom. Zoom! Zoom! I tell Erin, “Sharon told me that this was Jake’s childhood bed, and that after the honeymoon they were going to get a queen-size.” The cartoon designs of NASCAR cars with numbers on the doors flying around the racecourse works well with the checkered flags.
I open the bedstand and blush. I am standing next to my daughter as we both look at a collection of sex toys and lubes.
“That looks like the newer model,” Erin says nonchalantly as she takes a few shots.
“Erin!” I feel like such a voyeur.
“What?”
“Those weren’t part of the birds and bees talk, honey.”
She eyerolls me. “Oh, Mom.”
We move to the dresser, and like good burglars, we open the bottom first and move up.
In the top drawer of his dresser, we spot a clip of ammunition.
Erin slips on my other glove and retrieves it. “It’s for an eight shot. .45-caliber. He has a cleaning kit for it too.” She puts the clip back after taking a photo of it on top of the bed.
We both look under the bed. There is no boogeyman, but there are cases for two long guns. I push the dust bunnies aside and find a double-barreled shotgun and a scoped deer rifle, both with ammo.
“Hunting and self-defense will be added to my questions,” I say. I zip up the cases, then put them back under the bed and gaze about the room.
“Something doesn’t feel right, Erin. I just can’t put my finger on it.” We stand in silence. “This room is speaking to me, but—”
“Guns and ammunition?”
“No, something else.” We stand and listen inwardly.
“Look at the photos tomorrow. Maybe it will jog your memory, Mom.”
“Good idea.”
We move to the living area to the left of the dining area. A threadbare couch, a coffee table, and an easy chair are angled towards a TV and a video game console on the floor in front of it. They are both next to the bedroom wall. We pull the cushions off just like they do in the movies, but there are no hidden clues. Somehow, we’ve gotten accustomed to the smell, but I am sure our spouses won’t be so happy when we get home.
“Let’s walk the perimeter before it gets dark,” Erin suggests.
The cabin is nestled along the mountain and state game lands on the edge of town. Jake could walk out his backyard and into legal hunting woodlands for a mile in either direction. We dip into the tree line to look for any signs that someone had watched his cabin. We photograph the cabin from each side while searching for anything that looks suspicious. The sun is now down over the mountain and is throwing the small plot of land and gravel driveway into deep cool shade. I make sure all the doors are locked and leave the windows the way they were.
Sitting in Erin’s car, we stare at the cabin as dusk settles in.
“Can’t wait to see the crime scene photos,” Erin says. “I did the FOI request with the State Police the minute I hung up with you.”
“After yoga tomorrow, I plan to pay a visit to Officer Barney Williams again. I want his report before I talk to other people,” I reply.
“He was a few years behind me in school, but ahead of Wes. Never thought in a million years he’d become a cop.”
“He wouldn’t be my first choice to give a loaded weapon to,” I say.
“Most likely the State Police will have the full coroner's report,” she tells me, then we crunch gravel as we leave the driveway.
In a New York minute, we decide the next course of action is to get the police reports before taking another step. If they stonewall us, I will interview persons furthest away from Jake in relationship first. I don’t want to talk to his closest associates until I see those reports.
“Did you have dinner?” I ask.
“Just a couple of protein bars,” she says.
“Want me to have your father throw on another chicken breast? He’s grilling tonight.”
“Sure, Mom, but…”
“What?” I ask.
“Our clothes.”
“Oh, right, we can put them in the wash. I am sure I have something that will fit you.”
“That will work.”
“What else, baby?” I sense when my daughter has something on her mind.
“We just worked a murder scene, didn’t we, Mommy?”
“Feels that way, doesn’t it?”