Walking Among the Dead

CHAPTER ONE

Rendezvous

The apartment building stood quietly on a small knoll where a grove of trees sauntered with the cool spring breeze stirring the night’s air. Some apartments gave evidence of life with the iridescent glows of light dancing in the windows. Others had long since darkened as the occupants had turned in for the evening in preparation for the day to come. An occasional passing car would wind its way around the main drag, its headlights spilling into the darkened rooms, bringing shadows to life that would convey across the far wall before fading back into the darkness. The breeze stilled and all became quiet in this suburban neighborhood.

Monique found herself lying quietly in bed, staring at the ceiling as she carefully thought through each of her options. She could not believe that she had compromised her values, which placed her in an all too familiar circumstance once again. Nonetheless, she found herself contemplating her next move. It was just too complicated for anyone else to understand how she felt, let alone to expect anyone to intervene and help her by providing a brand new fresh start that she had longed and desired. If I’m going to do this, I better do it now, she thought while quietly lying in bed. Monique remained motionless in the comfort of the bed for just a moment longer as she summoned the strength to accomplish the task that she had set her sights on. In her hesitation, she thought, it’s too quiet, and began doubting that she would ever experience true freedom. Mustering a level of courage from deep within, she decided that she had no choice in the matter and that now was the time to act. After all, the situation was opportune and who knew when another opportunity like this would present itself.

Monique quietly pulled back the covers and slipped off the edge of the bed. She paused for a moment to see if her movement had disturbed the slumber of the man who was lying next to her. A startling short breath and a small shift of his head caused her to wait for a moment longer as she attentively watched him to insure that he had not awakened. The darkness in the room concealed her every move as she cautiously walked towards the foot of the bed. Reaching out her hand and grabbing the foot post, Monique guided herself around the corner of the bed, keeping a vigilant eye on the slumbering menace. Little by little, she strolled across the end of the bed finally reaching the opposite corner on the other side. Latching onto the foot post, she guided herself around to his side and took two more steps before stopping. Monique knelt on her knees, certain that she was at the precise spot that she needed to be. While cautiously devoting her full attention to her slumbering companion, she carefully slipped her hand between the two mattresses and began steadily sliding it back and forth, searching for what she knew was supposed to be there. Not immediately finding it, she could now feel her heart begin to pound harder in her chest as she continued searching. Where is it? she asked herself under her breath fearing that her searching would awaken him. Where did I put it? Feeling the weight of time that had elapsed, her senses heightened as she now frantically quickened the pace of her search. Reaching deeper between the mattresses, she suddenly felt that familiar cold steel pressing against her fingertips. Her hand suddenly stopped atop of it so as not to lose track of it again. Relieved, Monique carefully oriented the palm of her hand over the wooden handle and firmly clenched the revolver. With one slow precisely calculated shift, she slid the Smith & Wesson Saturday Night Special out from its hiding place.

Distracted by the beauty of its dull pristine nickel finish glistening in the soft moonlight, she realized that her eyes had left their task of watching to ensure that he would not wake to find her in this compromising position. Her heart sinking deeper into her chest, she assembled the courage to raise her eyes towards her prey. Oh God, I hope he’s still sleeping, she thought, the pistol shaking in her hand. Her eyes locked back on target, assessing to see if he was really asleep, or, had awaken and was pretending as he had in the past. She remained stationary for what seemed to be an eternity as she tried to determine if she compromised her plan. However, as seconds escaped, her cold dark stare soon determined that he was still asleep; she could move on with the plan. Finding some relief, Monique observed that her nerves did not settle as she had anticipated, an incredible rushing feeling of purpose swept over her—an emotional expression never experienced before.

Clasping both hands around the revolver’s worn wooden handle, she extended her arms and pointed the muzzle directly at his head. She didn’t waiver as she knelt on the floor by his side. Steady, she reassured herself recalling the shooting techniques she had once learned at the pistol range. Then, tilting her head just a little to the right and closing her left eye, she caught the glint of the moonlight on the weapon’s sights and confirmed perfect alignment. With a slight adjustment, Monique wrapped her finger around the firm, stiff trigger. Drawing in a long, deep breath, memories of their life together began to race through her mind. Recollections of their first date, their first kiss, times with friends, family, romance, their daughter, and the dreams of one day being a family, all came flooding back from a dark forgotten corner of her mind. Letting her breath slowly escape, Monique whispered goodbye and squeezed the trigger.

****

He could not sleep. It was always a difficult task when work weighed heavy on his mind. Tonight he found it especially difficult. Reaching over and turning on the light centered on his nightstand, Detective Lang picked up his pager and gave it a hard glance to be certain that this antiquated piece of technological junk was actually functioning. Assigned to him some five years earlier when he was working as a new detective in his local precinct, the black box was well worn and used. Depressing the solitary button on the device, the display shifted to a no pages message before returning to the current time, confirming that the outdated technology was in proper working order.

Sleep was especially difficult to find on this night as Lang found himself anxious about his new job assignment. Selected as the newest member of the homicide unit, Lang found himself pulling a week of on-call duty, searching for new cases, any case, that would begin to give him the experience needed to become a more seasoned investigator.

Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Lang’s mind wandered back a few years earlier when he was employed as a police officer in the rural community of Havre de Grace, Maryland. A small town with equally small politics, his memory evoked a moment when his former Chief of Police had once expressed a lack of confidence in him as an officer, and had laughed at the notion of him being a detective.

Lang brought back the conversation with vivid detail. At the knock on the door, Chief Robert Gambill gave a quick glance up from this matter on his desk and recognized the new officer standing in the doorway. A formality taught early to recruits in the police academy to guarantee that everyone knew their place; Lang continued the traditional sign of respect, knocked on the door and waited for acknowledgement.

Come on in Kenny, said the Chief setting his work off to the side.

Chief, I just wanted to let you know that while I enjoy working here in Havre de Grace, I’ve applied with the county police. They offer more pay and more opportunities for advancement.

Well, Kenny, the Chief said grinning, I appreciate you letting me know that you’ve applied with the county. But, no offense, I think that they’re only looking for the ‘cream of the crop’ if you know what I mean, replied the Chief with a level of arrogance.

Somewhat shocked and disappointed, Lang countered, Well sir, I’ve already submitted my application. I’ll let it go through and we’ll see what happens.

Lang wondered what Chief Gambill would think now about him assigned to work in the homicide unit of one of the most prestigious agencies in the country. Not only was it one of the most reputable agencies in the nation, but the department’s reputation often found applicants flocking from other cities, counties, and states, applying to be a police officer, hoping that their dreams of being allowed to carry a badge and handgun would be fulfilled.

Lang’s countenance became more somber as he now retraced the words spoken to him in a meeting he had with his new commander just that past Friday. It was more of a formality on the commander’s behalf; the age old practice of laying down the ground rules and expectations that every new detective experienced when being selected to work as a homicide investigator.

An old dog at his game, Commander Earl Williams was a skeptical old bastard with those not cut from the aged old cloth of policing which he was accustomed from some twenty-seven years prior. There were certain ways that homicide investigations were to be completed, and it usually did not rely on the modern day technologies or forensics that was now dominating and captivating criminal justice professionals and laypeople alike. No, a detective solved a good old fashion homicide investigation by wearing out the soles on your shoes, knocking on doors, and developing the information from people out on the street. Nonetheless, his ritualistic speech was almost a gauntlet required by each detective selected to the task of finding justice for those who had perished at another’s hand.

Inviting Lang into his office, Commander Williams greeted him with a firm handshake and invited him to rest comfortably in one of the two empty chairs.

Ken. I just wanted to take this opportunity to welcome you to the unit. As you know, your name, along with some other candidates, was considered for selection. Sergeant Phillips selected you to fill the vacancy on his squad. As a detective in the homicide unit, you’ll be expected to— the liturgy went on to describe the demand for the job and the heavy expectations soon to be placed upon his shoulders in carrying his weight when investigating these death scenes. As this welcoming speech was like so many others he had conducted in the past, Williams continued with the usual wrangling, making the required administrative points that he felt necessary before reaching a turning point and taking on a topic he had never addressed before.

There is one thing that concerns me though, Williams said.

What’s that Commander?

"I’m concerned that your deep religious convictions won’t allow you to perform the duties that you need to in this unit. You do realize that there is the possibility that any one of these homicide cases can turn into a capital punishment case—that the sentenced imposed on one of your suspects could be the death sentence?"

Offended that such an issue would even be raised, Lang asked Commander, you do realize that for the past fifteen years I have woke up every morning, pinned on my badge, strapped on my gun, and anticipated that today could be the day that I have to use deadly force in the course of my duties? That today I may have to kill someone? The Commander’s countenance began to reflect the disappointment in his decision to have even raised the question.

And I’ve never hesitated to act when duty called, sir—never, Lang recounted.

With the Commander’s comments beginning to haunt him, Lang situated the covers and wondered if the Commander would even give him a fair shake, or had he already made a presumptuous decision, based on his lack of faith, that would cost him a great deal of grief in the days ahead. So, while Lang struggled to settle his new concerns, he rolled over, turned out the light, and tussled to find sleep.

****

All was still and dark at 1:00 a.m. when the pager suddenly erupted with its deafening alert tones. Startled from a restless slumber, Detective Lang reached over, grabbing the pager placed on the nightstand an hour earlier. Straining to peer through the blur, Lang was able to see that the backlit display confirmed that the communications center was in need of speaking with the heavy-eyed detective. I couldn’t have been asleep too long, thought Lang as he mustered himself to an upright position in bed. Another glance at the alarm clock on the other side of the room confirmed his suspicions. I’ve only had an hour and a half of sleep and I’ve probably got my first murder.

Lifting the cordless handset off its cradle, Lang dialed the communication center’s phone number and waited to see which supervisor had lucked out and was pulling the midnight shift.

Communications, Corporal Erickson, may I help you?

Erickson, it’s Lang—you rang?

Got one for you, replied the Corporal in good cheer at such a late hour. Sarge already called in and is on his way. Let me know when your ready to copy the info.

Anything to it? Lang asked.

All I know is that you got a guy shot in the head in an apartment, answered the Corporal. You’re the detective, you’ll have to fill me in on the details later, he exclaimed with a chuckle.

Half slumped over the kitchen counter and struggling to find some level of consciousness, Lang fumbled for his pen and reporter style notebook that he had so meticulously positioned on the kitchen counter hours earlier. Now that the call was here, Lang paused for a moment and thought, next time, grab the stupid pen and notebook before you call the comm center. Flipping open the cover and placing his pen to paper, Lang noted the address and the other pertinent information that he would need to complete the required reports that the command staff would be barking for by mornings light. Having captured all the information that was available, Lang hung up the phone and quietly navigated his way back down the darkened hall to prepare for his first of many long lost and sleepless nights.

****

Sergeant James Phillips was standing at the third floor apartment’s door along side a uniform officer who ensured that the crime scene would remain intact during the course of the investigation. It was a matter of formal investigative protocol. Jotting down every officer’s name, id number, and the time they had visited the scene into a notebook became routine; transferring the information into an official police report, forever to be remembered. In its own way, it proved to be a deterrent that kept nosey officers, who were not fond of appearing in court, out of and from contaminating the crime scene. It was rudimental, but very effective, especially with curious members of the command staff.

Well, Kenny, it’s your first one—let me show you what we do, the Sergeant said as he turned to escort Lang into the apartment.

He had been in hundreds of apartments before, but Detective Lang could not remember being in one quite like this. Accustomed to apartments that were associated with subsidized housing programs throughout the impoverished area, most apartments had all exemplified similar traits that would leave the most common citizen nauseated. You usually knew, just before stepping in, if you had such an apartment by the foul odor that often escaped through the crevasses, almost as if it were a warning. Having little, if any, furniture, these apartments exploited the benefits of hand-me-downs with the prevailing 1970’s designed couch and chair combo, the required outdated big screen projection television set, and sporadically placed mattresses completed the ensemble in the two empty bedrooms. It was not uncommon to find dirty laundry strewn about the bedroom floors, giving cockroaches ample spaces to secrete themselves during daylight hours.

As Lang walked into this apartment, he was amazed to find how well kept and organized it was compared to so many others. Neatly adorned, the living room bared a luxurious white leather couch, chairs, and matching glass end tables that focused their attention on a modern and up to date big screen television stationed in its usual corner. The dining room area sat ready for the next meal as the place mats and dinnerware awaited their next guest.

Nice place, Lang thought as he situated himself in the middle of the apartment, trying to determine what areas were significant to the investigation and which were not. There was little if any doubt that it was going to be a long night and enjoying some level of comfort while performing his duties would be a welcome he had never experienced before.

So, where is everyone Sarge? Lang asked opening his notebook and jotting down a few notes.

Well, the suspect has been transported back to headquarters. We’ll put her on ice until we’re done here—and crime lab will come after we get the search warrant to process the scene. Flipping between the two pages of notes that he had already managed to take, Sergeant Phillips began searching for the next bit of information that he needed to convey.

District arrived and said they found the suspect and victim alone in the apartment. Evidently, they have a daughter in common who was spending the night at grandma’s house, Phillips paused, browsing his notes for another moment.

Ah, yes. According to the first officers on the scene, the shooter indicated that the victim had raped her and that she had shot him. Something must have happened sexually because he’s naked as a jaybird and they had a pile of porn tapes lying next to the bedroom television, Phillips said while gleaning a smirk.

Corporal Marc Davis walked out from the back bedroom grinning ear to ear, asking, Did anyone see the steak knife conveniently lying in the victim’s hand? Who sleeps with a steak knife in their hand?

What? Phillips said shaking his head in disbelief.

I’m telling you, our dead guy has a steak knife lying in his right hand—and it doesn’t look like he’s been eating any steak back there, cracked the Corporal.

Sure enough, when the three investigators entered the bedroom they found the victim lying nude in bed with the steak knife positioned awkwardly in his right hand; much like an old soup can holding a pen or pencil. There was nothing natural about this part of the scene, nothing at all. Accustomed to finding knives either lying on the floor or impaled into the intended target, it was plainly obvious to the two more experienced detectives that knives were never found in the loose grip of a dead man. The detectives had not been on the scene for more than 30 minutes and the facts were already beginning to look quite suspicious against the victim who was crying ‘rape.’ Phillips gathered the uniform officers and set them out on a new mission, giving specific directions for them to determine whether a confrontation or a struggle occurred between the occupants prior to the shooting.

I don’t care who you wake up. Go and knock on every door and find out who saw and heard what.

****

The flash on the 35mm camera discharged capturing one last picture of the victim’s body.

That should do it. It’s all yours, the crime lab technician said as she looked down at the digital display to ensure that the photo met her satisfaction. Giving a nod of approval, she closed the flash, secured the memory card, and placed the camera back into its hard shell case.

John Radcliffe had been working as a medical examiner for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for so many years that even he had lost track of the years gone by. Just another routine call, Mr. Radcliffe had to complete this examination before moving on to two more bodies that were waiting for him in two different areas of the city. Baltimore City Homicide had already determined the one to be an outright murder; a twenty-six year old male shot in a secluded alley. The other, a middle-aged man who had suddenly died at home while sleeping on his couch. Uncertain if the cause was a bad heart or bad television programming, the bodies were stacking up and Mr. Radcliffe simply accepted that it was going to be a long night requiring several cups of coffee.

Much like a grandfather settling in at a family dinner, Radcliffe found his place at the head of the dining room table. Does this young man have a name?

His name is Johnson, William Francis Johnson; date of birth 02/10/1980, 24 years old, answered Lang, consulting his notes.

Slowly capturing the information on the preformatted form, Radcliffe looked up and pondered, It’s a shame that these kids are dying so young. Life doesn’t mean anything to anybody anymore.

"If they keep killing