Needle and Thread: A Murder Mystery

Chapter 1

Hi darling. It’s so good to see you again. Thank you so much for coming at this late hour," Christian Rookwood, CEO of Rayfield Industries, softly spoke.

I don’t mind, sweetie, that’s what I’m paid for. It really doesn’t matter the hour, as long as you love me for what I’m about to do. My, don’t we look handsome tonight. That is a beautiful suit, the sultry-voiced person replied.

I don’t want to rush you, but it will be morning soon, so please hurry. Anyway, I can’t wait much longer. I’ve been thinking about this all day.

My goodness we are anxious, aren’t we? Sit on the cutting table, because I can do the lollipop so much better when you sit up higher. You still want the lollipop, don’t you, honey?

Yes, yes, and I hope it’s as good as the last time.

Oh it will be. Now sit back and relax, sweetie. You know how much you like me doing this; and I get my fulfillment too.

Christian squirmed and wiggled his butt as he positioned himself comfortably on the hard cutting table. He unbuckled his belt, then hurriedly unzipped his trousers. He promptly removed his member from its warm bondage, and gently pulled and massaged it a few times to make it larger. Almost immediately, in anticipation of the most wonderful sexual pleasure ever received, his member stood tall, at full attention. At his age, he felt proud glancing down at the large muscle as he waited for his lover.

Ummmmmm, that looks soooo good, his guest responded. Then taking a tube of lipstick, his guest highlighted around the already purple-colored head and then down the back of his member.

Christian loved the feel and his member responded. He leaned back, placing his hands behind him, anxiously waiting for that special warm sensation that would eventually flow throughout his entire body. Only a highly-skilled person can provide perfection, and Christian never accepted anything less. That had been Christian’s trademark his entire life.

He sat impatiently on the table, his feet dangling over the side just off the floor. Christian didn’t like paying for sex, since it made him feel second-rate. However, this was an exception; it was the ultimate in sexual gratification.

His guest began the movement, and it didn’t take more than two minutes before Christian began moaning loudly and soon he ejaculated. His eyes were closed and his member began jerking uncontrollably. The spasms took control of his weakened body, and he felt his inward tension being swept away like an gentle ocean wave spreading across a sandy beach. His face was tilted slightly upward, and his smile showed complete ecstasy. The wonderful afterglow that spread over his entire body was beyond description. He opened his eyes slightly, and in dismay, saw a large pair of cutting scissors plunging towards his chest. There wasn’t time to move. He tried to bring a hand up to stop the downward thrust, but was a second too late. His loud scream was heard only by the killer, as the sound reverberated throughout the large open bay.

I’m sure that didn’t hurt too much, sweetie. God knows I am not one of those pacifists you read about. However, I didn’t want to prolong your agony, Christian. But who gives a shit about being a peace lover. Now your lying mouth will be forever closed, you fucking bastard!

The scissor blades were embedded so deep into Christian’s chest that the rivet could barely be seen. Since the blades of the scissors were seven inches long, his death was almost instantaneous.

After his loud scream, the only other sound that was heard was the loud thump of his head striking the cutting table as the force of the blow caused Christian to fall backwards. He was no longer handsome as he lay on his back, eyes wide open, and blood oozing from around the embedded scissors.

Thank you, Christian, that was so nice of you. Now let me make you more comfortable, my love, the killer whispered, lifting the dead man’s heavy legs up onto the table, and turning his body parallel to it. Christian was now laying flat on his back, as if he had placed himself in that position.

Okay now. I want to clean your privates. You wouldn’t want to appear unclean when the police look you over. Don’t you agree? Oh, I almost forgot, I want to make sure you never talk again, you lying, overbearing pervert! The sharp, half-moon shaped needle, normally used in upholstering, easily penetrated his lips. The strong thread was pulled tight, binding his mouth firmly closed. The pucker between the stitches made his mouth look like a small tied pork loin roast. There was thread left over, so his guest meticulously tied a neat bow.

There now, Christian, I’m sure that didn’t hurt very much. You ought to see yourself, sweetie. You look sooo cool.

Chapter 2

William Bear Zebrowski has been the Chief of Police in the metropolitan Raleigh, North Carolina area for over twenty-five years. During his many years on the force, he had encountered almost every type of murder that could be imagined. However, when he was informed that the body of the CEO of Rayfield Industries, Christian Rookwood, was lying dead on one of the cutting tables with his mouth sewn shut, he had to personally see what the hell was going on. He glanced at his watch. It was 7:30 a.m. As Chief, he normally didn’t get to work for another two hours.

Rayfield Industries, a custom suit and trousers clothier, and the largest men’s clothing manufacturer in the United States, had been headquartered in North Carolina since its inception over seventy years ago. Financially it had weathered its ups and downs like most garment companies. When they hired Christian Rookwood in 1995, he was touted to be the company’s savior. He was full of new ideas, and energy, and got along well with the union. Within six months the company was in the black, and Christian was appointed CEO.

The economy flourished, and Rayfield Industries, under Rookwood’s excellent stewardship, grew proportionately.

The Board of Directors thought the company should diversify. They wanted to included other interests to supplement the garment industry. More managers and employees were hired. The overhead kept climbing, along with the CEO’s salary.

Even though Christian Rookwood was an expert in the garment industry, he wasn’t as knowledgeable in the other new business activities A few years later, the economy slowed and Rayfield Industries followed. However, this did not seem to bother Christian Rookwood, since there wasn’t any change in his gambling and track betting. The bevy of beauties still clung to his arms, none resembling his wife, as he strutted around the clubhouses and stables from New York to Miami. Times were changing, but Christian didn’t seem to care. Life was good.

Chief Zebrowski wondered if his death could be related to the demise of the company. It’s a thought, he muttered out loud, looking at Christian laying on the cutting table scissors seemingly growing out of his chest. With his mouth sewn closed, he looked ridiculous. Whoever did away with Christian either wanted to make sure he never spoke again, or was trying to send a message to someone. This killer is sick, mentally sick, the Chief said aloud, turning to look at the officer in charge of the Forensic Department.

Who in the world would take the time to sew their victim’s lips closed? the Chief yelled out to Lieutenant Charles Orman and three other detectives inspecting the body and the murder scene. This was Lt Orman’s last case with the Raleigh Police Department since he had turned in his request for retirement. Lt Sally Michaels, who had worked in the department for almost two years, was selected to take over when he retired.

Does seem a bit strange, the Lt yelled back, not caring if he ever knew. He turned his attention to the other members of the forensic team.

There’s no question he was dead when his lips were sewn shut, because he only bled slightly when the needle passed through one lip to the other, Lt Michaels commented, as she looked for other marks on the body that might give clues as to who killed Mr. Rookwood.

Whoever sewed these lips closed didn’t want them to separate. The stitches must be a quarter of an inch deep, Lt Orman said, motioning for the photographer to take close-up pictures of the victim’s mouth and the scissors protruding from his chest.

Look him over good, guys. I have a feeling this one is going to be tough. Once these tables start to be used again, it’s too late to come back and look for more evidence, the Chief said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

No problem. We’ll tape it off for at least two days. That should give us plenty of time to come back for further investigation, the Lt answered.

When do you think he got it? the Chief asked.

I’d guess sometime around 3:00 a.m. Rigor mortis is already setting in. I understand the air conditioning is computer programmed to come on about thirty minutes before opening at 7:00 a.m., which would slow down the process some, Lt Orman said. No one said anything for a few minutes. The team continued to poke and probe, look and scratch around the body, like a flock of chickens trying to find a worm.

What do you think, Sally? Lt Orman asked.

About what?

When he got it, the Lt said, frowning at Sally.

Maybe 2:30, maybe 3:00 a.m., she said, shaking her head from side to side. Look at this, she said, holding a red hair taken from the inside of the custom-tailored suit the victim was wearing.

"Well, well. That might turn out to be a woman’s hair, Lt. Orman said, smiling at Sally.

I don’t think a woman would have the strength to plunge scissors that deep into his chest. Second, from the angle of the entry, it would seem our murderer was as tall or taller than the victim, which I measured at 73 inches, Sally replied.

That’s earth-shaking news, Orman replied.

Harry, get a photograph of the table, and how the victim was laid out so neatly on it, the Lt almost yelled.

Flashes were popping off every few minutes. Harry DeLuca, the police photographer, tried not to take a picture when anyone was looking in his direction. He had received too many verbal lashings in the past. Harry had been with the police department for six years, but hated it, as he considered freelance photography much more appealing and far less demanding. However, this job did put meat and potatoes on the table.

Sally continued to search everywhere for a clue that might help solve the case. She looked at the victim’s hands, under his fingernails, but found nothing suspicious. She wondered what they would find after opening the victim’s mouth.

I’ve searched his body as best I can here. Might as well cart him off to the morgue so we can take his clothes off and do a more thorough job, Sally said.

You are always wanting to take men’s clothes off. What other kinky thoughts do you have? Lt Orman asked, smiling.

Lt Michaels never liked Orman. He was always injecting snide or off color remarks. Your mind has turned kitschy again, Lieutenant. Plus, it’s none of your damn business, she quickly responded, without looking at him.

Have you checked every inch of the floor and surrounding area? the Chief loudly asked. Every one ignored him, since ninety-nine percent of the time the Chief was never around to give orders. A few minutes later, they all began to tidy-up to leave.

Gary Wilkins, a recent graduate of the Criminology Course at Duke University, was new, but he was as good as any seasoned operative. He had meticulously vacuumed the area, to include around the body and on the cutting table. All the dirt and fine pieces of shavings or lint, would be analyzed when they returned to the lab.

Lt Sally Michaels, the youngest Lieutenant on the force in both years of service and age, started putting her instruments back into her small equipment bag. She was considered one of the best investigators in the state. She was smart, and she would listen, but if she believed in her theory she would not back down.

Sally was thirty, blonde, almost petite, with a striking figure for her size. Sally had divorced her husband a few years ago when she found him in bed with their neighbor. Her untimely return home became a lifetime expense for her husband of six years.

That piece of ass cost him thousands of dollars, and more thousands as time goes on, she said, after a few drinks one evening; though talking about herself was not Sally’s habit.

Chapter 3

Mike Whitehouse had been working for the Raleigh Times for less than two weeks. He was an experienced journalist, coming from the Chicago Tribune, where he had been the senior investigative reporter. He accepted a similar position here at the Times, even though it was a lower paying job due to the size of the newspaper. He was never asked why, nor did he offer an explanation as to the reason he transferred.

Mike was six-foot, and a little lanky. He didn’t fit the character of a typical reporter; a cigarette dangling from his mouth, wearing a cheap wrinkled suit with his tie half undone. Even though lanky, he was solidly built, and most people would agree Mike was handsome, though nothing resembling a Greek God. Yet women flocked to him at large get together. But, up to now, women were not his number one priority.

He picked up a copy of the Special Edition of the Times, which had been dropped off by the copy boy. Not every subscriber of the Times would receive a copy of a special edition, since some carriers would not have access to the copy for another 24 hours. Mike slid into his large, leather chair, and unfolded the paper. The headline spread across the top of page one read: RAYFIELD’S CEO DIES FROM HIS OWN SCISSORS. He hurriedly read the two-column article, grimacing as the writer related his version of the story. I could have written a better article when I was a freshman in college. Wonder if Tom McNulty read this before it went to press? he whispered softly to himself, as he sipped the hot coffee he had just poured.

Another misspelled word, and the sentences are so poorly written, he said, just loud enough to catch the attention of Mary Lou Steiner, whose desk was just in front of his. He had been promised a private office as soon as it was cleared of years of accumulation of papers and junk. He preferred privacy.

What’s your problem, Mike? Is mumbling your style?

Mike looked at MaLu, as she wanted to be called, and wondered if she was as good a lay in bed as she looked. The thought surprised him, since sex had not been on his mind for the past few years. These Southern women must have some hidden magic, he thought to himself. She was pushing forty, but still had plenty of sex appeal. She wore her makeup well, and she had a stride that made a statement when she walked. Her figure was supple, probably envied by a lot of women. Even during his short time here, he had overheard the men talking about her at the water fountain. You know, men’s talk. Like touchable, what a smooth ass, give a month’s pay, great tits; important items of interest like that. He understood, from what little he learned from gossip at the Onion Ring Bar, she had been married to a fireman, but it hadn’t worked out too well. The Onion was where most of the Times staff hang out after they were not working. Maybe her ex couldn’t put out the fire at home. Regardless, MaLu was a good, hard working reporter, and she loved her job, according to Tom McNulty, Assistant Editor, and Mike’s boss. Even though they had only known each other for a few days, MaLu had impressed Mike with her no-nonsense approach to her job. She had been assisting him in gathering information concerning an old wound for the Tobacco Industry; lawsuits.

Have you read the paper this morning? Seems the CEO of Rayfield is no longer among the living, MaLu said, picking up her coffee cup.

Yeah, I just finished reading about it. It makes good news, but it wasn’t written very well, he said.

I agree. I’m not tooting my own horn, but I could have done a better job, she said, as she unwound her long legs, to get up for another cup of coffee.

Let’s see, according to the by-line, the article was written by Larry Sizemore. Have I met him? he asked.

I don’t know, but Larry has been with the paper for a long, long time. He is the nephew of one of the owners, which might explain his ineptness, she said, quickly looking around, possibly afraid ears might be tuned in.

On second thought, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.

He sat down and began assembling the background information about the tobacco lawsuits. It wasn’t an exciting assignment, but it would show his writing skills. He wanted to illustrate how the lawsuits were affecting the economy in the Raleigh-Durham area, as well as all of North Carolina, where tobacco was once its main agricultural crop.

Tom McNulty stuck his head out his office door, which was quite a distance towards the front of the large room

Whitehouse, come talk to me.

Mike quickly picked up a writing pad; a habit he had learned at the Tribune, but wasn’t used by reporters here at the Times that he had noticed. Wonder why he didn’t use the intercom, Mike thought.

What’s up? Mike asked, as he sat down in one of the worn leather chairs in front of Tom’s desk. Tom’s office was typical. Newspapers, from last year and even the year before, were stacked in a pile behind his desk. Speaking of desks, Tom probably hadn’t seen the top of his in the past two years.

Boss man wants an in-depth story about the life of Christian Rookwood. He specifically wants to know what Rookwood was up to, and who might have killed him. See if you can interview his wife, some of his lady companions, the police, and anyone else that might know something. We want headlines that will sell newspapers, but we want facts, not fiction. Think you can handle it?

Thanks, I was about to go crazy on the tobacco article.

Give that back to MaLu, and if she has any questions tell her to come see me. She’s better looking than you anyway.

When do you need to publish this story?

Tomorrow morning would be good, but I’ll wait until Sunday. Tom was skinny, weighing about 155 pounds and towering over six feet. He was completely safe in a windstorm since he was too skinny for the wind to affect him. He had a bad habit of chain smoking, and the ashtray on his desk was full of cigarette butts. Tom was married, and had five boys, which probably was a reason for his lack of weight. Mike and Tom had attended a writers’ seminar in New York about four years ago. They took a liking to each other and had stayed in touch. When Mike called a few weeks ago, wanting to know if the Times could use a good investigative reporter. Tom said yes, never inquiring as to the reason why Mike wanted to leave the Tribune.

Mike was still a bachelor. He had not paid much attention to the opposite sex since the sudden death of Carmen, his only love. They had become lovers on their third date, and were inseparable. They planned to marry when they graduated from college. She was beautiful, with fine features. When she suggested marriage might be more fun than a night here and there, Mike began mentally making plans for their future. It was Christmas Eve. They were both sophomores, and she was driving to Ohio to be with her parents. While going around an icy curve, her car slid out of control, smashing into a bridge abutment. According to the Coroner, Carmen died instantly. A day never went by that he didn’t think of her.

Mike returned to his desk and immediately called the Raleigh Police Chief. He considered it necessary to start at the top. Why waste time talking to someone that couldn’t or wouldn’t answer his questions, he thought, as he doodled waiting for the phone to be answered.

Hello, this is Mike Whitehouse at the Times. May I speak to Chief Zebrowski? thinking that a name like that should be in Chicago, not in Raleigh.

In reference to what, sir? the call screener asked.

I’m doing a lengthy article on the Rookwood murder, and I need to talk to the Chief in regard to what progress you’re making.

Just a minute; I’ll see if he is in.

A minute or so passed before the screener returned to the phone. Mr. Whitehouse, the Chief will be on the phone shortly. Mike wasn’t a patient man, and after a minute he began squirming in his chair. Must be taking a leak, Mike thought to himself.

Yeah, how can I help you? a voice boomed out of the earpiece of Mike’s phone

Chief, this is Mike Whitehouse at the Times. Look, we are doing an in-depth article on our late friend Christian Rookwood. I’d like to know if you can provide us with more information about his death, and if you have learned more about his activities. Plus, we’d like to make you guys out to be heroes, Mike said, as an afterthought.

That would be just fine, but we haven’t had time to crack this one yet. However, I’ve learned we must keep you guys in the press happy. I’ll try to find someone knowledgeable that you can talk to. Let me call you back.

That will be fine. When will you call?

Make it thirty minutes, he said, and the line went dead.

Mike frowned and dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.

What’s seems to be the problem? Lose your girl friend? MaLu asked.

No, not hardly. But, I’m glad you’re back. Remember all that information you gave me concerning the tobacco lawsuits, and how it was affecting the state’s economy? Guess what? Tom thinks you can do a better job without me. He wants you to take over again.

Oh crap, no. I just talked him out of that assignment last week. I told him to give it to you, the new guy.

Sorry, I have other things to do. He got up, took all the background information she had previously given him, and what he had gathered. She looked at Mike as if he was related to either Satan, or a damn Yankee. She reluctantly held out her arms and Mike laid the bundle of papers in them. She turned, then dropped everything on her desk, papers flying in all directions. Mike knew she was not a happy camper, but he was glad to get rid of that assignment.

Damn, damn, why me? she said, to no one in particular.

Because you are the best, that’s why, Mike said, receiving a hated stare in return.

Mike waited another ten minutes before caller ID indicated the police department was on the line. Reaching over, he anticipated Chief Zebrowski’s voice.

Mr. Whitehouse, this is Lt Sally Michaels from the Raleigh City Police Department. I understand you are writing an article about the Rookwood case.

Yes, that is correct.

Well, I don’t know what you want, but if you would like to drop by my office, I will be happy to bring you up to date. I’ll be available at 2:00 p.m. this afternoon. I hope that will not inconvenience you, she said, with a nice, but authoritative voice.

Two it will be. Thanks, Lieutenant.

Chapter 4

The police compound was just on the edge of the city, a thirty minute drive from Mike’s office. Traffic was heavy even at this time of day. As he turned into the compound he was amazed at the size of the parking area. Compared to Chicago’s Police Station, this was like a Wal-Mart parking lot. As he opened the car door, Mike reminded himself he needed to obtain a North Carolina driver’s license. This was his first time at the Raleigh Police Station, but he suspected it would not be his last.

The station was attractive. It was housed in a six-story building snuggled in a group of tall pine trees. Even though it was about a mile from the central downtown area of Raleigh, as years pass it would become as boxed in as a typical police station in Chicago. However, it was good to see they had used a little foresight in North Carolina.

He walked into the station, and stopped at the booking desk.

How can I help you? a female Corporal asked, looking down at him with a smile. From his viewpoint she appeared to be short and chesty. She automatically thrust her breasts outward as she spoke. Her smile seemed sincere.

I have an appointment with Detective Lt Sally Michaels. My name is Mike Whitehouse from the Times.

Oh yes, I have your name posted on the visitors’ log. Pin this visitor tag someplace where it can be seen, and go down that hall to the elevator. Take it to the fourth floor. She is in room 407, the Corporal said, still smiling.

Thanks.

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was over before he realized the big box was moving. When the doors opened, he walked into a large, well-lit room. Room 407 was more like an open bay with at least twenty people either at their desks, or milling around.

He looked for a receptionist to ask where Detective Michaels might be hiding, since he didn’t know what she looked like. She could be any one of the females in the large room. No one was wearing a uniform. Finally he asked the first person that walked towards him.

Excuse me, I’m looking for Detective Lt. Sally Michaels. Can you help me?

Sure. She has all the luck. See that door down past the last desk on the right. That’s her office complex, she said, smiling more than necessary.

Thanks, he said, quickly walking away.

The door had the words Department of Investigation printed in bold black lettering. He knocked.

Yes, come in, Mike heard a voice from within, but it didn’t sound like a woman.

He walked into the room where four medium-sized cubicles separated each office. Each one had a desk, two or three chairs, and a window looking out onto the parking lot. In the center room, the largest, and he guessed the main room, were several filing cabinets, tables, and lab equipment of all types and sizes.

I’m Mike Whitehouse. I’m looking for Detective Michaels, he said, to a person dressed as a lab technician.

Before the technician could respond, a lady walked out of the last cubical.

Yes. Come on back. I’m Lt Michaels.

The lady didn’t look at all like a detective, and especially like the person he had envisioned. She was wearing a form-fitting suit, which she filled out nicely, and her long blonde hair looked natural, not dyed. From where he was standing, her smile seemed genuine; and as she walked towards Mike, she extended her hand, which impressed him. As they entered her cubical, she pointed to a paisley, cloth-covered chair. He glanced out the window, which overlooked a large stand of trees. The office was rather plain; with a picture of downtown Raleigh on one wall, and a green chalkboard on the other. There wasn’t a picture of anyone on her desk, which Mike thought unusual.

Please have a seat, Mr. Whitehouse. We’re rather busy today, as you might expect. Now, how can I help you? she asked, looking at her watch.

First of all, thank you for taking time from your busy schedule. And second, please call me Mike.

Fine, Mike, my name is Sally.

I’m doing a story on the late Christian Rookwood. As I said over the phone, we need factual information about his demise, whether you have any suspects, and any personal goodies you might want to pass along to the press.

"First of all, the murder just happened early this morning. Second, if we had any suspects we wouldn’t be talking to the news media, not at this time. What we have, Mike, is a murder with a twist.

What do you mean, twist?

As you may know, the victim had his lips sewn securely shut. We think the killer was trying to tell someone something, but we aren’t sure who or what. After bringing the body to the morgue, Doc Angus cut the threads and opened his mouth. He found the usual - tongue, teeth and tonsils. We thought sure there would be a note, or something, stuffed into his mouth, but he didn’t find a thing, except the three Ts.

Anything else unusual about the body, or the way he died?

No, and this bothers us. There is always a motive when someone is murdered. But, from questioning the employees at Rayfield Industries, we haven’t found any reason for someone wanting him dead. We don’t know why he was killed, or who did it. All we know is that scissors were plunged deep in the critical part of his chest. The exposed parts of the scissors were wiped clean. About the only thing we know is where he was killed, and what killed him. The big question is who.

Have you talked to any of his lady friends? I understand he was often seen with good looking women.

We think most of his known lady friends are from New York, Miami, or the Philadelphia area, since those were the areas he most visited and was often photographed. We don’t know the names of the women, so it’s going to be some time before we will be speaking to them. We also believe the killer was a man. A woman wouldn’t have the strength to plunge the weapon so deeply into his chest.

How about Mrs. Rookwood? Can I talk to her? Does she know about the other ladies? If so, what are her feelings?

You are a barrel of questions, aren’t you, Sally said, looking into his piercing eyes.

It’s the way I make a living, Mike answered, smiling.

"I’ll tell you what we know, and that’s not much more than you know now. We questioned Claire Rookwood this morning, and plan to speak with her again later today. She didn’t appear to be the grieving widow, which doesn’t mean much. When asked where she was at 3:00 a.m. this morning, she said she was home sleeping, which is where most people are at that time of the night. Even though she could not prove she was home, we don’t have her at the top of our suspect list, since, as I said before, it is obvious a man committed the murder.

The time and place of death seems odd. Why would an important CEO of a firm be in his office area at that time of a morning?

We’re wondering the same. Mr. Rookwood had shaved, maybe six or seven hours before his death, which leads us to believe he was going out to dinner or some other place, rather than staying home with his wife. His office was as tidy as any secretary could keep it. No sign of a struggle, nothing that would lead us to believe he was even working in his office that night.

How far away is the cutting room from his office?

Not far at all. Maybe a hundred feet.

Were his personal items, such as his money, jewelry, etc., left or taken?

Nothing was taken that we know of. He had almost seven hundred dollars in his wallet, which we find a little excessive in this credit card era we live in. His watch, a Rolex, was on his wrist, so we believe whoever killed him wasn’t interested in any valuable items. We also think the killer knew him; and the fact that whoever did him in, knew how to sew. Since he was surrounded daily by seamstresses, it might take a while to weed out the killer.

Yes, I suppose anyone who works there could have been the killer, Mike said, trying to add to the conversation.

What seems odd was the fact that someone had to lift his body onto the table, which again points to a man’s strength, not a woman’s. And, why would someone want to take the time to do that, and then sew his mouth shut. It’s weird, Sally said, looking at Mike.

Does seem odd, but is the table at a height where he could have been sitting on it, like sitting on a desk? he said, looking at this pretty woman.

Good question. Never thought of that. Maybe he was sitting on the table, having a conversation with someone standing in front of him. That’s possible, since the cutting table is only a couple inches higher than a regular desk. I owe you one, Mike.

I’ll make sure to remind you some day. Anything else?

No, I don’t think so. We haven’t put our finger on the motive for this murder. It is possible he was in debt to someone, maybe the mob. Or, maybe his wife got tired of being left home alone, or the vice president wanted a promotion. It’s too early to tell, but we will find something that will tie things together, she said, shuffling some papers on her desk. Mike looked at the note pad he was carrying, and there wasn’t more than ten words written down. He was about to speak, when Sally said. I haven’t seen you before. Are you new at the Times?

Yes, just joined them a couple of weeks ago. Not knowing what else to say, he blurted out that other than to write about Christian Rookwood, he needed to find a place to live.

I’m looking for a house to buy. In Chicago, homes were far out of the city. Those, which were close-in, were either too expensive, or were in slum areas. So, for the past eight years, I’ve lived in a downtown apartment. I’d like to live in a house for a change.

I can understand that. How many in your family?

Just me.

She looked at Mike, turned, and he thought the conversation was over. Raleigh is starting to build further and further out. How big of a house are you looking for?

Not too big. Two, maybe three bedrooms, two baths, a family room with a large back porch. Oh, and yes, a kitchen," he said, smiling.

I know of one for sale almost as you describe. It backs up onto Jordan Lake.

Sounds expensive.

I understand the seller is very anxious. If you are interested, I’ll write down the address and you can drive by. If you like it, call Gray Realty, they are the listing agency.

Please. Sounds like something I might be interested in.

If you speak to the owner, or even the realtor, don’t mention where you heard about the house.

If that is your wish.

She handed the piece of paper to Mike. He looked into her eyes, and she held the look for a few seconds. He took the paper and put it into his vest pocket. Now I suggest you stop wasting both our times. Come back in a day or two. Give us a little time to complete our investigation. Right now, we haven’t analyzed what little we have. It will take a few days before we can put the puzzle together. Call me first before coming over. She didn’t say anything else as she rose and extended her hand. Mike looked at her, and grasped her hand for a second or two.

It was nice meeting you. And thanks for the house tip, he said, sincerely. Detective Michaels smiled and sat back down at her desk, not looking up as he turned and left.

Mike walked out of her office, wondering if he was going to get enough information to make the story halfway interesting. One thing was evident, the Lieutenant was a beautiful, well-put-together woman. He left the police station and started to return to the Times, when he thought of the house she recommended. He pulled the plain, black sedan to the curb, and with the on board navigational system, found a route to the Jordan Lake address. He sure could have used this system in Chicago, he thought, as he made a left turn heading west.

He hadn’t seen much of the city, but the neighborhood he was driving through was very modern, nothing like Chicago. Within fifteen minutes, he slowed the company car down to about five miles per hour, since the navigation system stated the address was just ahead on the left. He found the house and was expecting to see a realty sign. If this address was correct, the owner didn’t want anyone to know the house was up for sale.

The outside of the house looked freshly painted, the landscaping professional, and it appeared a great place to live. He could see part of the lake from where he sat in the car. He started to leave, when a man in his mid-thirties walked out towards the mailbox. Not known to be shy, Mike got out of the car and hurriedly walked toward the gentleman.

Excuse me. I understand this house is for sale. My name is Mike Whitehouse.

The man looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded affirmatively, without much enthusiasm.

Yes, it’s for sale, he said, motioning faintly towards the house. Usually the realtor brings people out to look. Since there isn’t a sign posting the property, how did you know it was on the market?

I’m a newspaper reporter, and I probably saw the ad in the paper. I would like to see the house if you don’t mind. I just recently moved from Chicago, and this house may be just what I’m looking for, Mike said, looking at the man who had not identified himself. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name, Mike said, walking besides the gentleman toward the front door of the house.

Ehhhh, John, John Blackledge, he said, not looking at Mike.

The inside of the house was just what he wanted, and the large back porch was much better than he could have imagined. The house was situated back on a narrow lot, which abutted a beautiful clear lake. There were small docks and walk-outs extending from the lots and houses situated on the properties that he could see. His dock was small, but accommodated what looked like a twenty-foot boat. Mike looked around outside and then returned back to the inside. He thought the house, even though not large, to be priced at least $380,000.

What are you asking?

Depends on when you could close, John said.

Well, if the price is right, as soon as the paper work has been finished.

"If I had the time, I wouldn’t sell for less than $300,000. That’s the bottom line for a small lakefront home, especially in this neighborhood. However, I’ve got to move, and if I get a commitment now, I’ll take $250,000 and never look back. I’m assuming