Rick Hopkins forced himself through the driving snow. He had a job to do. There had been a murder and he was a homicide detective. He put aside thoughts of his wife and two sons, sitting around the Christmas tree, in the warmth of home fires. He made the transformation complete as he pushed his way through the police barricade and reporters.
Lindville was a mid-sized city and had its share of crime, but not usually of such a violent nature and certainly not on the affluent side of town. He was curious as to why. An officer escorted him into the house, reporting what he knew.
“White male, thirty, two shots to the head. Apparently, he had come home for Christmas. His parents were out shopping. They returned and found him in the living room. Pretty messy, Sarge.”
“Where are the parents now?”
“Next door.”
“Let me take a look here, and then we’ll go next door.”
Hopkins walked over to the body. He looked at it because he had to. He tried to detect some clue to give meaning to the scene. His emotional self cried out, while his logical, trained mind told him it was a robbery gone sour and murder was the result. He looked over the scene, which further convinced him of his first impression. Some things were gone, but to what extent only the family could confirm. That would take a few days in their condition. He knew the Worthys, especially John. His heart went out to them.
Everybody was doing their job, which released Hopkins of momentary responsibility. He called for the officer to escort him next door.
The neighbors were nice and quite concerned for their friends. They were bewildered and shocked, but relieved that they had not also been victims, and a bit guilty for feeling that way. They tried to intercede between their grieving neighbors and the police, which made questioning rather difficult.
After validating a few facts, which confirmed his general direction, Rick asked that, at their convenience, they take an inventory of their home to determine what was missing. They nodded, assuring that matters would be taken care of.
Rick shook hands with both husband and wife but gave John a warm hug. Mrs. Worthy looked up through swollen eyes and, in a quivering voice, asked the detective who could have done such a thing. Hopkins shook his head and reached for her hand.
“Mrs. Worthy, we don’t have any answers now, but I promise you we will.” He patted her hand and motioned for the officer.
As they walked from the house, another officer signaled for their attention.
“Sergeant, another homicide, B&W Liquor Store on Oak Street. You’re needed ASAP. They have an eyewitness. I’ll drive you.”
“Okay. Be with you in a minute.” Hopkins turned and pulled the other officer aside. “In the morning, I want you to pull the Worthys away from their protective neighbors and get a list of what’s missing. Check Austin, the university, and Jeff’s apartment. How did he get home? Find out if anyone drove him.” He paused. “And anything else you can think of.”
Hopkins climbed into Dave’s car. “Busy night, huh, Dave?”
“Someone must hate Christmas.”
“Yeah, or wanted some extra gifts for themselves.”
Sergeant Rick Hopkins, himself only forty years old, looked at the young rookie detective, twenty-two, married with a new baby. First Christmas for all of them, and he’s called out. That’s part of the job, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He and his wife, Linda, and their two sons had had their Christmas disappointments, but nothing like this. He felt for his rookie friend. “What a shame!”
“Two homicides on Christmas Eve. Who would have thought, Sarge?” Dave shook his head. “What do you know about the liquor store?”
“Apparently, someone was in the bathroom while the robbery was going down. The clerk and the alleged robber were killed. I guess we’ll find out the rest real soon,” he said, as Dave turned into the parking lot.
A uniformed officer greeted them. “Sir, it’s awful. The clerk got it point blank, a real mess for the mortician.”
“Where’s the witness?”
“He’s at the station. Too many cameras.” He motioned to the reporters.
“Tell me what you know.” Hopkins turned back to the officer.
“The witness, male Caucasian, mid-thirties, was in the bathroom, during which time a black male, late twenties, attempted a robbery. White male exited the bathroom. Upon seeing the black man with a gun, he hid behind a beer display. Suspect apparently shot the clerk, laid the gun on the counter and reached over the counter for the cash register, knocking the gun to the floor. Witness grabbed the gun and blew away the suspect. Then he ran outside and flagged me down. I rushed inside with the white male and saw the bodies and blood. I told the witness not to touch anything. I then radioed for backup and ambulance. Justice of the Peace is inside.”
“Good job, Tom. Keep everything secure. The coroner is tied up on another homicide, as is everybody else.”
They entered the store. The officer had reported the situation accurately, as far as Hopkins could tell. Both men were shot in the face, dead before they hit the ground. A .38 was on the counter. Hopkins looked up for an explanation.
“The witness said he laid it there after he shot the suspect,” Tom offered. Hopkins was curious about the prints. He would know soon enough.
“Dave, send a few uniforms to check out the route between the two crime scenes. See if we can come up with anything.” He paused. “Any vehicles?”
“Yeah, the clerk’s and the black man’s.”
“Anything?”
“Shotgun in the suspect’s car. We’re checking for prints and registration.”
“Dave, see if the Worthys are missing a shotgun. Impound it as evidence and the witness’ vehicle, as well.”
“He drove it downtown, Sarge.”
Dave looked at the sergeant curiously. Hopkins looked at him and shrugged. Too much was going on with two homicides. Better to be overly cautious than to miss something.
“We need to be alert for any similarities between the two crimes. Ballistics will tell us a lot, tomorrow, once the ME retrieves the bullets. Two homicides on Christmas Eve, we’re going to be very busy.”
Hopkins walked to the restroom in the back of the store. It was more for the employees than the public.
He went in, partially closed the door without touching the knobs or anything else in the room. He attempted to trace what could have been the witness’ path. He squatted behind the display, looked toward the body and made a mental note to ask the witness if he was standing or squatting. He looked at the body in front of the counter, then the body of the clerk behind the counter. Another question: Did the witness know either of the deceased? Could he have been an accomplice? Probably not, probably happened like the witness said, but it didn’t hurt to keep all possibilities in mind.
“Make sure you dust the bathroom and doorknob, also everything around the counter and especially by the beer display,” Hopkins told a forensic officer.
“No problem.”
Hopkins strolled outside to a Cadillac sedan. It had started to snow again.
“We need to cover this vehicle and leave it here until we get prints. I don’t want to take the chance and lose any evidence,” he said emphatically. “Get a patrol around the clock.”
The ME team arrived and started their work. Hopkins left them alone. After a while, they brought in the gurneys. Hopkins followed them.
“Headed back to the morgue, Phil?”
“No, Hopkins. Thought I would take them home and shove them under the Christmas tree.”
Hopkins shook his head. He would never get used to the coroner’s humor.
“What can you tell me?”
“They’re dead.”
“You’re sick.”
“Come by in the morning.” The ME team left, laughing.
Dave looked at Hopkins stoned-faced. “Do they even know it’s Christmas?”
“Not unless Santa Clause came across their table.”
Dave smiled. “Now what?”
“Let’s go back to the Worthys and get my car. We’ll go to the station and talk to the witness. Then you can go play Santa with your new little girl.”
Dave smiled, his mind moving in that direction, but pulled back. “What about all this?”
“Check with night patrol and give your orders. You can pick me up at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Maybe we can clear some of this up in time for Christmas dinner.”
“My wife would appreciate that… and so will my mother-in-law,” he added.
Hopkins didn’t need to explore that line of conversation any further. Mothers-in-law, mothers, wives, and daughters, all thought everything should come to a halt on Thanksgiving, Christmas, their birthdays, and anniversaries, no matter what the situation.
“Well, when you get to the dinner table, there will be a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think I have the stomach for it.”
Hopkins thought about the three victims, all shot in the face. He thought about their families. He suddenly couldn’t wait to get home, take a long look at his boys, and pull his wife close to him.