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Browning was standing on the upper wooden deck of the observatory in the parking lot of the Light House, watching the still-rising sun rise over the horizon. Less than two hundred yards from where the solid concrete World War II bunker used to detect potential Nazi submarines was left abandoned to rot on the beach. The bunker was now an empty relic of a forgotten age, sitting out of place on the beach like the Pyramids in the sand in Egypt as the twelve-foot-high smooth concrete structure was now covered with graffiti.
Down the beach and to the right, a line of yellow caution tape and vehicles surrounded the trunk washed up on the shore and the deceased body of Gilbert Epson. Forensic examiners, detectives, and uniformed officers milled around the crime scene while the coroner’s van was loaded with Epson’s remains. Despite all the movement, Browning was staring past the scurrying men and out to the sea, lost deep in thought as McNamara walked through the protected wetlands trail and up the wooden steps of the large observatory deck approaching Browning, who paid no attention to the visitor.
Browning felt melancholy and numb, ignoring the presence of the visitor on the observatory deck. Time was running out for him here in Cape May and despite the death Gilbert Epson Browning could only think of himself in this moment. It was selfish to think this way, comparing the end of his career with the death of a man he knew for years. But there it was.
“I understand it was Gilbert Epson they found in the box. I am sorry about the loss of your friend.” McNamara said apologetically.
“Friend? That sorry sack of bones hadn’t spoken to me in over ten years. Even when we sat on the council together, we were never that close. Any dealings we had were always mutually beneficial to one another for the benefit of the Township.” Browning added without turning to look at McNamara.
“What now?” McNamara asked.
“Now we let the Mattis and Brown who couldn’t find a lost bicycle do what they were hired to do. Investigate.” Browning said.
“Is there any evidence?” McNamara asked.
“The coroner believes Epson was only out at sea for a day, maybe two days tops, which fits in with his wife’s story about the time he went missing. We’ll have to see her and break the news of his death. I am not looking forward to speaking with her. The old bat wouldn’t stop pestering me yesterday when I went to talk with her. I can only imagine how much blame she’ll assign my way.”
“Did any other evidence turn up on Epson’s body?” McNamara asked.
“There were some obvious puncture marks on Epson’s neck suggesting he might have been drugged. Epson wasn’t shackled inside the trunk, and there were no signs of struggle or damage where Epson was kept. There were sixty-plus pounds of chain link found inside the trunk with him, but he wasn’t bound. The coroner believes he was drugged and possibly coherent about what was happening around him but helpless to defend himself. The coroner will know more after completing an autopsy and full pathology.” Browning said.
Taking a walk and leaning on the rail next to Browning, McNamara looked out at the crime scene and the surrounding beach and sea.
“Enough putting this morning off; let’s go talk to the widow,” Browning sighed.
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MCNAMARA AND BROWNING approached the front wrap-around porch with matching white rocking chairs of the two-story residence belonging to the now deceased Gilbert Epson.
“Are you any good at these?” Browning asked.
“Good at what? Telling people their loved one has died. No.” McNamara said.
“I’ve avoided doing these for a large part of my career. How many have you done on the job?” Browning asked.
“More than I care to remember. One piece of advice I can give you is to get inside the house's front door. Ask to come in. You don’t want her falling down or passing out in the doorway. It’s better if she’s sitting down.” McNamara explained.
“I’ll try to remember that” Browning said, putting his hat on his head and straightening the collar of his shirt under his jacket before ringing the doorbell.
Before the doorbell chiming could cease, Danielle Epson answered the door with her short, curled hair and wearing her pink sweat suit with matching pink slippers. Seeing Browning and McNamara at the door, her expression and the surprised look on her face changed to concern.
“She already knows.” Browning thought to himself before the words could come from him and his mouth opened, but no sounds could come out. It was then McNamara cut in before Browning could speak.
“Mrs. Epson, we have some information concerning your husband. May we come inside for a moment?” McNamara said.
Moving aside, Danielle Epson allowed Chief’s McNamara and Browning inside her home and into the living room. A large round glass table was in the center of the often-used room, while the sofa and matching green and white chairs were covered in plastic. It looked like your typical grandparent's house, Browning thought. Taking a seat in the center of the sofa, Danielle Epson looked at the two men standing.
“Can I offer you two something to drink?” Danielle Epson offered.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Epson. I regret to inform you that your husband was found deceased this morning. I am sorry for your loss.” McNamara apologized. It was better to be out with it, to rip the band-aid off quickly, than to beat around the proverbial bush.
“Gilbert. Not Gilbert, no.” Epson’s hand went to her mouth in shock and sobs of tears as she repeated her dead husband’s name out loud. The two men stood there, and McNamara nodded to Browning. Receiving the not-so-subtle gesture, Browning went and sat down on the plastic next to Danielle, offering his shoulder to cry on, and Mrs. Epson held his jacket, laying her face on his shoulder.
“Why? Why? Why oh, why, my Gilbert.” Danielle Epson continued her sobbing into the jacket of Chief Browning.
“Mrs. Epson, I know this is a terrible moment for you and your family. Is there anyone you would like us to call? Someone like a family member who can be here with you?” McNamara suggested.
“No. Helen, our only daughter, lives with her husband and grandchildren in Galveston, Texas. We were supposed to fly down there in the next few weeks and spend time.” Danielle Epson said, releasing her grip on Browning’s shoulder and wiping the tears from the sides of her deep red eyes.
“I want to write down our number. It’s the Chief’s personal number, our department will have some questions, and I’m sure you’ll have some questions you want answered as well.” McNamara looked around the room for a notepad and saw a yellow packet of sticky notes beside the telephone.
“How did he die? How did my husband die?” Danielle Epson asked.
“Preliminary evidence suggests he drowned Mrs. Epson. I know that doesn’t make things any easier.” Chief Browning answered, leaving out the trunk and injection marks on his neck.
“Drown? But that doesn’t make any sense. My husband practically grew up in the Atlantic Ocean. He was a lifeguard when he was younger. He was a strong swimmer; how could he drown?” Mrs. Epson questioned them.
“You seem to follow what we are not saying to you, Mrs. Epson. We suspect foul play. When was the last time you spoke with your husband?” Browning asked, but before Mrs. Epson could answer, McNamara’s cell phone began to ring.
“I have to take this. If you will excuse me for just a minute.” McNamara excused himself and walked onto the porch, where Browning could see him through the large bay window.
“When I last spoke to my husband, it was Tuesday night. He was working late closing up the marina for the season. He said he had some paperwork to finish up and that his sister was ill, and he was considering seeing her.” Mrs. Epson detailed as McNamara walked back inside the living room.
“Is there anything else you could tell us? Did he have any enemies? Receive any threats? Was there anything preoccupying his mind? You know, stressing him?” Browning asked.
“No, not that I am aware of. Gilbert never was one to stress very much about anything. He had a doctor’s appointment a few months ago, and the doctor told him he was the healthiest sixty-seven-year-old he’d ever met.” Mrs. Epson explained as tears started to swell. “And now he’s gone.”
“I am so sorry, Danielle, I really am. Please call me if there’s anything I can do or something you can remember. A few detectives will follow up in a couple of days.” Browning said, patting her on the back before getting up, trying not to rush for the door.
“I’ll give my Helen a call. No doubt she’ll rush up here in a hurry. I almost wonder if I should let her know at the end of the day. It’s almost polite to break bad news at the end of the day, don’t you think?” Mrs. Epson rhetorically asked as Browning stood silent, not answering, unaware of how early in the morning it still was. Just now realizing his workday had begun hours ago.
“My condolences again, Danielle. I’ll get you more information when we know more.” Browning said as he walked through the front door and a huge weight lifted off his shoulders as the door closed behind him.
Getting into the car with McNamara, the two men were silent for a few minutes neither discussing the conversation with Mrs. Epson until McNamara broke the ice.
“She may have been the last person who spoke with Mr. Epson,” McNamara offered.
“Maybe. Subpoena the phone records for Gilbert Epson’s cell phone and the marina. It would be nice to know who Mr. Epson spoke with or if another call was made after he spoke with his wife.” Browning directed.
“Ok.”
“Who was the call from?” Browning asked.
“Call?” McNamara asked.
“Yes, the call you left to take when we were talking with Mrs. Epson,” Browning asked.
“Sorry. I almost forgot to tell you we need to go to the Cape May County Hospital. We have a hit on our mystery, Jane Doe, in the hospital.” McNamara responded.
“Already? That was quick. She must have been in the system.” Browning replied.
“Kind of sort of. Yesterday, when I left you, I drove to Hamilton's New Jersey State forensics laboratory. At the front desk is a gorgeous blonde; her last name is Christmas. No, I am not making any of this up. Her first name is January, and we get to some small talk, and we both start flirting with each other. I ask her, since when does January come before Christmas. She says, ‘Oh, I’ve never heard that one before,’ and rolls her eyes, but she hangs in there and asks me whether it is usual for a Chief of Police to drop off a DNA and fingerprint set, especially all the way from Cape May. I told her it was an important case and needed to be expedited. She says the fingerprints could come back soon, but the DNA results could take a couple of weeks because there is a waitlist.” McNamara added with a grin.
“And?” Browning asked.
“The call was from January Christmas on her personal cell phone number. She moved us to the front of the waitlist. Next of kin were notified, and they should be able to meet us at the hospital when we get there.”
“Anything else?”
“Yea, before I hung up, I told her Christmas came early in October,” McNamara said.
“That is such a corny line. It’s a cliché of a bad joke. Really, I can’t believe you said that.” Browning said, shaking his head.
“It is a corny line...er...was a corny line, but January responded, ‘Christmas hasn’t come in October yet,” McNamara laughed, smiling and looking at Browning.
“Just drive. I can’t be with you today, I’m inside with a grieving widow, and you’re outside telling dirty jokes. Unreal the luck some guys have.” Browning said as the Interceptor passed over the Cape May County bridge.