Foreseen in Murder: Lessons in Murder, book 9, page 1
Foreseen in Murder
Lessons in Murder, book 9
Edale Lane
Past and Prologue Press
Foreseen in Murder, Lessons in Murder Book 9
By Edale Lane
Published by Past and Prologue Press
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Edited by Melodie Romeo
Cover art by Melodie Romeo
This book is a work of fiction, and all names, characters, places, and incidences are fictional or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition May, 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Edale Lane
Contents
Content Warning and Acknowledgements
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More Books By Edale Lane
About the Author
Content Warning and Acknowledgements
Content Warnings
Various topics of conversation and recollections of past events may disturb some readers, although none explicitly occurs on the page. Issues touched on in this novel include child abuse, drug use, addiction, molestation, and abortion. A character involved in an investigation is the victim of domestic violence (which does not occur on scene, although we witness the aftermath.) These subjects have been handled with care and are not intended to be inflammatory or egregious, merely as trials people often face and how they might respond to them.
Acknowledgments
First, I want to recognize my beta reader team who offered valuable suggestions and caught many mistakes: Maryann Kafka, Marguerite Schaffron, and Marybeth Shay—no author could ask for a better team. I also wish to thank my partner, Johanna White, who was with me all the way, and her sister, Melody Spedding, who said one night, “Hey, why don’t you write one where a psychic predicts her own murder?” Well, Melody—here it is!
1.
Roanoke, VA, Monday, January 15, 2024
Lieutenant Detective Jenna Ferrari stood at the edge of the chaos, surveying a landscape resembling a war zone ravaged by destruction. The rancid odor of raw chemicals intermingled with the sharp reek of melted plastic, smoke, tar, and musty, damp charcoal—the unmistakable scent of dismal devastation. The firetruck lights still spun as the firefighters rolled up their hoses after drenching the flames. Emergency medical personnel had taken the one survivor away in their ambulance as Jenna and Sergeant Detective Ron Owens had pulled up. The bits and pieces of an unknown number of victims lay scattered around and through the obliterated wreckage of a single-wide trailer on the end of a cul-de-sac in the mobile home park. Two vehicles parked beside it had fared no better, with smashed roofs and hoods and paint charred beyond recognition. The one flung onto its side resembled a disabled turtle with four melted tires that had given up flailing to right itself.
Jenna sighed and shook her head.
“When will the idiots get it?” Owens grumbled and adjusted the N95 mask covering his mouth and nose. Jenna was wearing the outfit too, complete with a hood, gloves, and booties. “Cooking meth is as dangerous as handling nitroglycerine, and in a matchbox of a trailer, no less. Poor dudes.” The blocky former linebacker somewhat resembled the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man in his white hazmat suit.
Anxious neighbors huddled together against the orange and white sawhorses and crime tape, their horrified expressions apparent as they whispered among themselves and craned their necks for a clearer view. Meanwhile, delicate snowflakes floated down from the sky, landing softly on coats, cars, trees, shrubs, and streets, but melting when they ventured onto the scorched earth around the smoldering crater.
“I’m done with the walk-around video,” Detective Trisha Jamison announced. Jenna had seen her knee-high, two-inch heel black leather boots paired with a royal, calf-brushing wool coat before she donned the protective wear with her flowing red tresses tucked safely inside. The outfit showed that fashion and function needn’t be at odds with each other. “I’ll start on the still shots now.”
“Be careful not to step …” Jenna began, then grimaced.
“I know, boss. I’m watching closely while trying to get photos of …” she bit her bottom lip and lifted worried brows. “Everything.”
“The coroner will be here soon,” Owens said. “I’ll go ahead and start taking witness statements.” He crammed his hands into his coat pockets, made a face of disgust, and shook his head. “I don’t care for the Darwin solution, but occasionally, it seems it can’t be avoided.” Dipping his chin, he walked toward the line of curious onlookers while Jamison started snapping the still shots.
Specialist Officer Ethan Bauman marched over on long legs, pushed up his glasses, and stopped at the edge of the marked perimeter. Jenna picked her way over to him. “A neighbor has security cameras,” he reported. “It’s a cheap system but keeps the digital feed for twenty-four hours before auto-erasing anything not clicked to save. They said I could make a copy, that they put them up because of shady characters and sketchy businesses some residents are—probably were—mixed up in.” He reached a gloveless hand to shake snowflakes out of his shaggy dark hair. Jenna would have thought at least his new friend Mario would have suggested he get it cut into something resembling a style, but who knows? Maybe they like it floppy.
“Good,” Jenna replied. “Go get it and then see what else you can find. We still can’t determine if the explosion was from their carelessness or generated by someone who had it out for these folks.”
“Right.” With the sorrowful look of a puppy who had been lost for days, Bauman glanced around at the wretched sight of charred brokenness and spoon-sized pieces of flesh and bone. He swallowed, and Jenna was glad he didn’t dispel what had been in his throat. “I’ll go do that now and leave the fun part to you, Lieutenant.” Before she could say another word, he was hoofing around the Crime Scene Investigators’ SUV and across the street.
Relief washed over Jenna when she recognized CSI Destiny Wilcox striding toward her in protective gear carrying her kit. Behind her trotted her sometimes partner, Brian Davenport, her physical opposite. Where he was I’ve-never-been-outdoors-because-I-live-in-Mom’s-basement-and-play-video-games-when-not-at-work white, her coloring was a rich, earthy brown. He was tall and twiggy, whereas she was shorter, older, and curvy. Wilcox was also an excellent CSI who often uncovered evidence others missed.
“Lieutenant Ferrari,” Wilcox acknowledged professionally. “I heard we had an explosion.”
“Yeah, meth lab,” Jenna sighed. “We need to know exactly what caused it—accident or an attack—and how many victims. IDs would be fabulous, but it could boil down to DNA. You might want to call in everybody. This is going to take a long time for the two of you.”
“I wish,” she answered with a shrug. “The others were already processing a recovered stolen vehicle found crashed into a light pole when we got the call.”
She passed a mournful gaze around at a piece of a mangled, burned couch, a strip of blackened siding hanging from a bare tree branch, and enough splintered wood and balls of insulation to carpet the ground. When her vision fixed on a spot, Jenna followed her stare to what was clearly a piece of human flesh.
“We’ll get right on it,” Davenport assured her through the medical mask strapped over his nose and mouth.
“What a way to start the day,” Jenna let out with regret. She wasn’t even supposed to have to work since Martin Luther King, Jr. Day was a state holiday, but … The phone call had come in about an hour ago, ripping Jenna from her cozy spot wrapped in Randi’s full-body, long-legged, embrace. They took turns being big and little spoons—when they weren’t sprawled one on top of the other. When had Jenna found touching another person to be a prerequisite for sleep? Hadn’t she gone years perfectly content to lie in a bed void of another person demanding her attention, annoying her with their snoring, or flopping around accidentally slapping her during the night? Once, she couldn’t imagine spending an entire night in a bed with someone else. You have your fun, then one of you goes home, like it should be.
But the wonderful woman who was Dr. Miranda McLeod was her home. They had intended to spend the day looking through magazines and planning their wedding. They have an appointment with Randi’s pastor for tomorrow afternoon and needed to bring a couple of date options. Both she and Randi elected for a spring wedding because who wants to wait? But to give Randi the wedding of her dreams, Jenna may have to hold out until June or July if all the earlier weekends were taken. Jenna had psyched herself up to march into Captain Myers’ office as soon as they had a confirmed date and order him to mark it down in blood since she would not answer her phone nor be roped into anything on her special day.
A little grin tried to tug back one lip as she thought
Hours later, Jenna and her team assembled back in the office, going over the photos, video footage, and witness statements from that morning.
“I got as many different stories as there were people giving them to me,” Owens griped. “This one says they were a quiet couple who kept to themselves and didn’t bother anyone, and this one,” he said, flipping a couple of pages in his notepad, “said she knew they were criminals from the start—always strangers coming and going from their place at odd hours.”
Bauman swiveled his chair around to face the group. “The neighbor’s camera shows an old Ford Focus—2011 or 2012—drive up a few minutes before the explosion and a guy went inside, but unless he was a suicide bomber.” He made a skeptical expression, knitting his brows. “Did you want to … watch it?”
“Put it on the big viewer,” Jenna instructed. “I need to watch it. Jamison, you could—”
“Don’t try to shelter me,” she countered with an admirable fire in her tone. “I’m a detective, not a delicate magnolia.”
A corner of Jenna’s lips curved, and she acknowledged her detective—and friend—with a nod.
“You didn’t ask if I could be excused?” Owens feigned insult, lending levity to the moment.
“How insensitive of me,” Jenna replied. “Just because you look and act like a tough guy is no reason for me to presume you’re OK viewing a violent scene.”
He ran a wide hand over his short fuzz of hair. “I’ve seen plenty—believe me. Hit it, Bauman.”
The video camera was set on a motion-activated sweep and the car driving up to the nearest house triggered it. “Mr. Williams said he was so glad the yard spaces were big enough that his house didn’t get blown up with it,” Bauman added, “and the snow kept his grass from catching fire, but some scraps landed on his roof.”
A thin black man in a blue jean jacket and baseball cap exited the vehicle, walking with a limp to the front door.
“For Christ’s sake!” Owens exclaimed and pointed at the screen. “He’s smoking a lit cigarette.”
The door opened, and he was ushered inside. After thirty seconds, the scene went to black and a new one erupted on film—the explosion itself. It blew apart like a tiny model stuffed with a stick of dynamite. Something squishy hit the camera lens, and Jenna didn’t care to discover what it was.
“We don’t know how long after he entered before it blew up,” Jamison noted with a worried frown.
“The homeowner didn’t see the car pull up,” Bauman said, “but he looked at his clock when he heard the tremendous boom—9:18.”
“That meshes with about half of the witness statements,” Owens recalled. “They ranged from nine to nine-thirty. But come on!” He gestured hopelessly at the blank again screen. “Did he not know what was in there?”
“The cigarette might not have set off the blast,” Bauman said and launched into one of his signature science lessons. “Any number of factors could have caused the place to blow at any time. The chemicals used to make the meth, like acetone, anhydrous ammonia, and lithium, are quite volatile, and red phosphorous can ignite if heated too high. The process is ridiculously dangerous with the smallest miscalculation setting off an explosion … knock over a bottle, certain chemicals combine with ones they aren’t supposed to, and boom! Then take into account the probable lack of ventilation because it’s cold outside, propane gas heating the trailer, the tight space, and it’s a recipe for disaster. Then there’s all the toxic waste. Hopefully, the fire marshal can determine the exact cause, but I guess in the long run, it doesn’t matter,” he ended on a sad note.
The door to the Criminal Investigations Office opened and Jenna peered around to spot Officer Matt Murphy sticking his head in. With an apologetic expression, he said, “Lieutenant, can I have a minute?”
“Sure.” Jenna all but vaulted out of her seat for a chance to work on anything but this. “I’ll be right back, guys,” she called to her team and stepped out into the hall with the wholesome, blond, patrol officer who could always be counted on. “What’ve ya got?” Her blue eyes searched his, reading concern and indecision.
“Buy you a drink from vending?” he eked out. The hallway wasn’t empty and noise from the front desk filtered in.
Jenna got the impression Murphy wanted privacy and answered, “Sure. Always happy to let someone buy me a drink.” They talked as they walked. “Is Officer Stone still out?”
“Yeah.” He sounded disappointed. “She’s got the flu, and her doctor said it might be a week before she’s back to work.” He opened the door to the quiet break room and held it for Jenna to go first.
Once inside, she wandered toward the vending machine, wondering what he couldn’t say in front of her office. Did he want to be in the wedding party? She knew he played the drums, but did he sing or play the guitar too? Maybe an usher … that’s it.
“So look.” Jenna pivoted in front of the drinks and pinned him with a serious expression. “You can be an usher. I mean, the whole department can’t be in the wedding and Bauman, Owens, and Jamison are on my team, so they get first dibs. Is that OK? Ushers get to wear a tux and look cool.”
“Oh, gees, thanks, but I had no idea.” He leaned against the vending machine with a shocked expression and looked like he’d gone weak in the knees. “Of course, your immediate associates come first. I never presumed anything of the sort, but I’d be honored, ma’am, truly honored.” With a blush rising in his already rosy cheeks, Murphy straightened. “Whatever you need—I won’t let you down!”
Oh, great—that’s not what he wanted! Jenna slumped and nodded. “I know you won’t, Matt. Diet Coke, please.” Stepping out of the way while he fished for quarters, she asked, “What did you want to say to me?”
“Oh, it was this call Girard, and I answered a little while ago.” The drink thudded to the bottom receiving drawer and Murphy pulled it out and gave it to her. “Always get crazy things on holidays, but …” He glanced at the floor, rubbed the back of his neck, and puffed out a breath before meeting Jenna’s gaze. “It was a domestic disturbance—noise complaint by the neighbors, really. So the woman answers the door with a fresh red mark on her face and a bloody cloth wrapped around her hand. She claimed everything was fine, that she broke a dish and cut her hand on it. But the look in her eyes—she was scared. Then her husband meets her at the door and apologizes for the noise—he’d had the TV turned up too loud, was all. No problem there. Girard took down their information and told them to keep the noise down. I asked the woman once more if, like, you know,” he gestured with animated hands, “if she wanted to go to the ER and have her hand looked at in case it needed stitches. She bit her lip and shook her head, and her husband told us it wasn’t deep and would be fine with a Band-Aid.” Murphy shook his head. “It wasn’t merely a drop of blood and Girard was like, ‘Thank you and be safe,’ and all. So, I tried one more time by saying, ‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.’ Then her husband closed the door, and the lock clicked. When I was halfway to the car, I’m sure I heard him yelling.”
“You can’t arrest a guy if no one’s willing to press charges and you have no evidence or witnesses,” Jenna answered with regret. “And you can’t go punch his lights out, either. She didn’t appear to be hurt badly?”
“No, but …” He fidgeted some more. “I wanted to let you know in case you might want to check back with her—maybe when her husband isn’t home?”
“Shoot me a copy of the report and I’ll look into it,” Jenna said and took a deep drink from her ice-cold diet coke, finding the bubbles refreshing after a hard day. “You did right to bring it to my attention. It’s always better if we can find an excuse to intervene and stop trouble before someone ends up in the hospital or dead. Maybe she did cut her hand on a broken dish and maybe her husband is under a lot of stress and popped her one without meaning to. But when I do my runs, I could also discover a pattern of abuse. Then we might can do something. If she wants to leave him but is too afraid, we can help. If not?”
