A Striking Death Read Free

Detective Lori Singh would be good. They had worked together before and she knew his methods. She was young and competent, an up and coming detective. He hurried out to his car.

 
    four
     
    Drumm’s Miata was his pride and joy. An ice-blue Limited Edition Mazda MX-5, he’d had it for a year and a half and liked it more every day. He loved the way it handled and he took a secret pride in the way people stopped to look at him as he went by.
    Drumm arrived at Billinger’s Gladstone Street address to find the familiar clutter of emergency vehicles, groups of curious bystanders and Lori Singh’s green Toyota Prius. Singh herself was standing on the front step talking to a uniformed officer; yellow crime scene tape surrounded the property. Other uniformed police were handling crowd control and restricting access. Drumm saw a small brown brick backsplit house, with neat gardens in the front and a couple of mature maple trees whose leaves were mostly on the ground already. He lifted up the tape and approached Lori Singh, who saw him coming and turned to meet him, after a final word with the uniformed cop.
    “Lori Singh. We meet again on life’s rocky road.”
    “Good morning, Nick.” She looked up at him carefully, noting the weary eyes and brown hair, greying at the temples. She was at a height disadvantage, being much shorter. “You look tired.”
    “Oh, I’m alright. It was trying to go for a run this morning that did me in. You’d think at forty-nine I’d know better.” Drumm ran his hand back over his hair and stared around at the scene. “What have we got?”
    Singh was wearing a leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater; she pulled a notebook out of the jacket pocket now and consulted it. Drumm knew it would already be filled with neat and detailed notes; Lori Singh was rapidly earning a reputation for being meticulous. “Constable Davidson was the first officer on the scene.” She indicated the uniform to whom she had been speaking. “He met Cameron Garmand here on the walkway, got his story, went around to the side window with him and saw the body on the bed. He tried the front door and found it locked, used his pry bar to break it open, went into the bedroom and verified that the victim was dead. He said he didn’t touch anything, said in fact that he could tell Billinger was dead, even from the doorway. He came back out and called for help.”
    Drumm was looking at Officer Davidson. “Thank God, a uniform who knew what to do.” Drumm looked around. “Where’s Garmand?”
    Singh indicated an older man leaning against a car, watching them. “That’s him there. I haven’t interviewed him yet, just told him to wait.”
    Drumm thought for a second, and then said, “Right, let’s ask Davidson to keep an eye on Garmand while we take a look at the scene.”
    Arthur Billinger’s home was typical of those built in the sixties. From the front entrance, there were stairs down to a basement, and more stairs up to the main level, where the bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom and dining room were. Putting their gloves on, Drumm and Singh mounted the short flight of steps and entered the house. There was considerable activity in the kitchen where the FIS team was getting organized. The two detectives turned right to go down the hallway. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom along this way. The last room on the left was Billinger’s bedroom.
    The FIS photographer and a technician were busy in the room, but the latter waved them in. “Just getting started,” she said.
    Drumm and Singh entered carefully. The victim was lying flat on the bed with his upper torso, arms and hands exposed. He was wearing a blue pajama top. The rest of him was under a bedcover and sheets. Where his head had been was a mess of blood, bone, gristle and brain. Someone had brutally smashed in his head, that was clear. There was a lot of blood spatter on the headboard and the wall behind the bed, the pillows and the bedcover,