“Nope.”
Sam swung a right onto Tindall Drive and drove a couple of blocks until he spotted Oakridge Court. He turned left onto Oakridge and slowed down, observing the handful of impressive stately houses situated on either side of the cul-de-sac. All of the two and three-story homes were surrounded by huge sprawling grounds, meticulously landscaped, and set back a good thirty or forty yards from the street. Sam drove the length of the court and pulled up the long winding driveway leading to Dr. David Bradley’s house.
The enormous brick and wood bi-level was awesome, complete with a heated swimming pool off to the right in the rear. Towering spruce trees lined either side of the grounds, forming a natural boundary before giving way to the foothills behind that afforded privacy from the neighboring houses.
“Dave’s dental practice has been good to him,” Roger quipped acidly as Sam pulled up to the three-car garage and parked.
“No doubt,” Sam replied. He turned off the engine and reached for his camera lying on the floorboard.
“You aren’t really going to take pictures, are you?” Roger asked, his expression incredulous.
Sam grinned over at him. “Of course I am. The lighting should be perfect this time of day.”
Roger shook his head slowly and opened the door. “Why do I have a funny feeling they aren’t gonna show up in Monday’s paper?”
“I may surprise you this time,” Sam said as he got out.
They strode across the driveway and up the walk leading to the front porch. Sam headed straight across the front yard until he was directly in front of the house. Roger looked on impatiently as Sam peered through the camera viewfinder, made a few quick adjustments, then snapped a couple of shots from slightly varying angles. He then walked over to the east side of the house, near the pool, and took a few more shots before continuing around to the back. A few minutes later, he returned and joined Roger, who was still standing on the front porch tossing the key up in the air and catching it. “Get some good ones?” he asked with more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Sam leered at him indifferently. “Just keeping everything honest, buddy. What would the department think about this special privilege you’re giving your journalist friend if he didn’t follow through with what he was supposed to be doing?”
“It wouldn’t give a flying fuck,” Roger replied, deadpan, and unlocked the front door and stepped inside. As Sam followed behind, he felt that same eerie, indescribable sensation he always had whenever he was in the proximity of where death had raised its ugly head. And even though he knew that Marsha Bradley’s body was now buried six feet underground in a cemetery plot, he could still sense her presence inside the house the moment he entered it.
They stood in the ornate, marble-tiled foyer and Sam looked around. To his immediate right was the living room; the staircase leading to the second floor straight ahead. To his left, the den. It was enormous and resembled an amusement arcade more than anything else with its full-sized Brunswick pool table, pinball machine and big-screen television. He had only been in this house a few times before the night that Marsha was murdered. The Bradley’s had only recently moved here last winter, a couple of months before he and Ann had been divorced. Before the shit had hit the fan, he and Ann had come to their house warming party and were given the grand tour.
“Well, here we are,” Roger announced, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Where would you like to begin?”
Sam nodded toward the stairs. “Up there. I want to see the closet where Tommy was locked up.”
“This way, sir,” Roger said as if he were the butler. Sam followed him up the stairway and halfway up, Roger called over his shoulder, “Want to hear my theories, thus far?”
“Shoot,” Sam replied.
“After weighing all the evidence, which is minimal as you know, and taking into consideration all the clues we have to go on, which are about nil, here’s what I think may have happened: The murderer got into the house, either by stealth through a door or window, or perhaps by a reluctant and/or coerced invitation from Marsha Bradley herself. How he got in isn’t that relevant at this point-he got in somehow. It’s quite evident that once he was inside, he quickly took control of the situation by the use of force-immediately threatening Marsha in some way-most likely with a weapon of some kind, probably a gun. Otherwise, Marsha would have had time to call 911, flee the house, or at least do something. Are you with me so far?”
“Yeah, I’m with you,” Sam replied.
They reached the upstairs hallway and Roger led them past the master bedroom and bathroom to Tommy’s bedroom. It was large by any standard, especially taking into account that Tommy was only a five-year-old child. Sam followed Roger across the room, past the twin beds, through the array of toys, Nintendo video games, and every conceivable type of sports gear known to the western world that were scattered everywhere on the floor.
“Did your men make this mess?” Sam asked in utter amazement.
“Nope, we just rearranged the shit. Tommy obviously has a problem with putting his toys away,” Roger replied. “Anyway, the murderer forced Marsha and Tommy into this bedroom. Or, it’s possible that Tommy had already been in here taking a nap or whatever. Either way, the suspect threw the little tyke into this closet and locked the door.” Roger went through the motions of opening the door, throwing an imaginary person into the closet then closing and locking the door as he spoke.
Sam stared questioningly at the button-type lock on the doorknob and said, “I wonder why the hell this door even has a lock on it? Not much sense in that, any way you look at it. I mean, who in the fuck would want to lock their belongings inside a closet? It’s not like the shit is going to go anywhere!”
Roger grinned expectantly at him. “I wondered the exact same thing, myself. So I mentioned it to Dave and he told me that the closet and bedroom doors were accidentally switched when the workers were painting the interior of the house. He said that he’d meant to switch them back, but had never gotten around to it. That’s why the closet has a lock on it.”
Sam opened the door and peered inside. The closet was very small and very cluttered. He pictured a terrified Tommy Bradley stuffed inside this dark, cramped space, unable to escape, while his mother was being raped and murdered, and suddenly understood why the child was traumatized beyond speech. He closed the door and asked, “Why didn’t the bastard simply kill Tommy, too? Instead of letting him live, and possibly risk being identified by him?”
Roger replied, “There’s several possible options. One is, maybe the creep didn’t have the heart to murder an innocent, defenseless little kid. After all, Marsha is who he wanted, so he might have figured why needlessly kill a child? Furthermore, we still don’t know if Tommy even saw the guy; and even if he had seen him, it’s possible that the murderer could have been wearing a ski mask or something to hide his face. There’s also the possibility that he intended to kill Tommy after doing Marsha in, but had gotten scared off by something or someone-maybe even Dave-before he could follow through with it. Who knows?”
“Anyway,” Roger continued, “The crux of my theory is the fact that the murderer used Tommy as his leverage-his ace in the hole. He simply told Marsha that if she didn’t do as he said, he would kill her son. That would explain why she hadn’t put up a struggle. Her son’s life was at stake, and what mother wouldn’t do everything in her power to prevent her kid from being harmed? It also suggests that Marsha didn’t necessarily have to know her assailant, thus squelching the notion that she might have been having an extra-marital affair. What do you think?”
Sam took a flash attachment out of his coat pocket and slid it onto the camera’s hot shoe. “I think it’s a hell of a lot of speculation,” was his reply. He made his way back to the doorway, looked through the viewfinder then zoomed the lens out to its widest angle and snapped the shutter. “Let’s go back downstairs.”