Couch detective, p.1
Couch Detective, page 1
Couch Detective
James Glass
Copyright James Glass 2019
© 2019 by James Glass
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Couch Detective (Couch Detective Book 1)
Chapter 1 | Blood Spatter
Chapter 2 | Case Closed
Chapter 3 | Bugged Out
Chapter 4 | The Bank Robbery
Chapter 5 | The Great Train Robbery
Chapter 6 | To Catch a Jewel Thief
Chapter 7 | Suicide or Homicide
Chapter 8 | Kidnapped
Chapter 9 | Who’s Lying at Dinner
Chapter 10 | Who Robbed the Bank
Chapter 11 | The Phone Call
Chapter 12 | Truth or Lie
Chapter 13 | The Baker’s Dozen
Chapter 14 | The Crime Scene
Chapter 15 | The Librarian
Chapter 16 | Double Suicide
Chapter 17 | The Late Show
Chapter 18 | The Bank Robber
Chapter 19 | The Eyewitness
Chapter 20 | The Will
Chapter 21 | The Man in the Wheelchair
Chapter 22 | The Body
Chapter 23 | On Trial
Chapter 24 | The Bandit
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Author’s Note
As you read each of the stories in Couch Detective, it’s this author’s recommendation that the reader doesn’t more into the story than what is written. If you do, then you might find yourself following clues that may or may not be there.
But if the case leaves you clueless, don’t worry. I’ve added a hint at the end of each story. If the hint doesn’t help you solve the case, don’t worry. The answers are provided at the end of each chapter.
Read the story, gather the clues and solve the case. And have some fun while you’re at it.
Checkout my other Books
Couch Detective Book 1
Stone Cold
Things Left Behind
Whisper Creek
Non-fiction
The Ultimate Chief Petty Officer Guidebook
This book is dedicated to all the true couch detectives out there. You know who you are.
Chapters
1. Blood Spatter
2. Case Closed
3. Bugged Out
4. The Bank Robbery
5. The Great Train Robbery
6. To Catch a Jewel Thief
7. Suicide or Homicide
8. Kidnapped
9. Who’s Lying at Dinner
10. Who Robbed the Bank
11. The Phone Call
12. Truth or Lie
13. The Baker’s Dozen
14. The Crime Scene
15. The Librarian
16. Double Suicide
17. The Late Show
18. The Bank Robber
19. The Eyewitness
20. The Will
21. The Man in the Wheelchair
22. The Body
23. On Trial
24. The Bandit
Chapter 1
Blood Spatter
The car was in pristine condition the day it came off the lot. That was six years and three-hundred-thousand miles ago. Detective Bobby Cox inherited the unmarked cruiser from a detective whom he replaced eighteen months ago when the department promoted Cox. The aging air conditioner rattled in a futile attempt to cool the interior of the car as stagnant air trickled from the vents.
Temperatures hovered in the mid-nineties. The asphalt jungle was congested with cars, trucks, and vans. A faded yellow school bus cut in front of him, black smoke bellowing from the tailpipe.
His grip strangled the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. The interior of the Caprice was still lukewarm. Maybe he should’ve taken his gray sports coat off before sitting in the car. “Okay, people. Enough is enough,” he grumbled. Although the person he was going to see wouldn’t be in any hurry, Cox turned on the lights and sirens. “Now get out of my way.”
Fifteen minutes later, he parked on the curb to 1992 Comstock Avenue. Not a great neighborhood, but not the worst, although the dozen or so neighbors and spectators gathered along the sidewalk and street might disagree. Murder had a way of bringing people together, even if to bear witness to someone else’s misery.
This was the fourth homicide the detective had been called to in as many weeks. The media dubbed the serial killer The Slasher. Each victim had been murdered in their home with their throat slashed. What the media and public were unaware of was the killer used a kitchen knife from each of the victim’s residence. After committing each crime, The Slasher left the knife in a bathroom sink filled with bleach.
The house, if you could call it one, all eight hundred square feet sat on a tiny piece of land. Many of the homes on this street resembled each other. They’d sprouted up after the second World War. Most still resembled the original design, but several had a room or two added or a garage installed.
The bushes outside the windows needed to be trimmed, unless it was the resident’s intention to use this as some sort of criminal deterrent, although Cox didn’t think so. The barred windows should’ve been enough to keep the riffraff out. Apparently, it had not—at least at this address.
He cut the engine and the tailpipe backfired, resembling a gunshot. Normally, when this happened and it seemed to be more often as late, people within earshot of the blast flinched or gasped. Everyone appeared to be immune to the noise in this neighborhood.
Cox got out and walked across the dirt lawn. Tiny dust bombs floated into the air with each step. The city hadn’t seen a drop of rain in the last three weeks, not that rain would’ve helped anything in this yard grow.
Perspiration dripped from his brow by the time he approached the front door. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat before stepping into the tiny dwelling.
Two paramedics, a woman who looked young enough to still be in middle school and her partner, who resembled Tom Wopat stood in the corner awaiting further instruction. They were probably the first on the scene, he figured, and most likely contaminated the crime scene trying to revive the body, which turned out not to be very successful. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten the call.
The living room had sparse furniture—a flower patterned couch and matching love seat. A small television leaned at a downward angle from a warped metal TV tray in a corner. Smoke wafted from a cigarette in an ashtray. The three-inch trail of gray ash indicated it hadn’t been smoked in a while.
“The victim is in the bedroom, Detective,” a patrolman said. “Looks like The Slasher struck again.”
Cox retrieved a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his sports coat. “Who discovered the body?”
“Jimmy Parker and Ida Jones. They’re both outside with several officers until you’re ready to speak to them. The paramedics are attending to Parker. He’s got blood on him. Not sure whose though.”
Cox scribbled some notes. “They read Mr. Parker his rights?”
“No, Detective. We’re treating him as a witness.”
He tapped the pen on the pad and thought about the ramifications if Parker confessed to the cops without being Mirandized.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Read the evidence and search for clues.
Cox nodded his thanks to the officer and walked toward the kitchen. He scanned the small space and saw a block set of knives on the counter. One was missing. After searching the sink, dishwasher, and cabinets without finding the knife he jotted this information down. The distinct odor of bleach lingered in the air as he walked down the hallway. The scent grew stronger with each step.
Pictures and accolades lined the walls. Each award was for journalistic excellence on various crimes committed in the Chicago area. He scribbled several notes to check on this later. Maybe the victim knew the killer or had uncovered the identity of The Slasher.
Flashes of light from the crime scene photographer illuminated the corpse. The victim lay on the floor between the bed and the wall. His mouth gaped open as if to let out one final scream.
Blood spatter covered the wall from the corner to about eighteen inches out. Then it stopped with a gap of approximately two feet before the grisly trail continued.
The photographer stepped away and started taking pictures of the surrounding area. The medical examiner, Dr. Winn Sellers knelt over the corpse. Sellers was chunky and round-faced with a nose somebody hadn’t liked.
The ME combed the victim’s hair with a tiny brush in search of forensic evidence. Several follicles were collected on a white sheet of paper.
“What have we got?” Cox asked the ME.
“Looks like another Slasher victim.” He placed the sheet containing the hair inside a crime scene envelope.
“I don’t know if you saw the awards in the hall, Detective, but the Vic is Doug Sanders, a former reporter for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Yeah, I remember. Didn’t he get into some trouble a few years back for fabricating stori
“Yes. Several people sued him for defamation of character. He filed chapter eleven. Guess that’s why he now lives ... well lived in this dive.”
Cox crossed his arms. “Time of death?”
Sellers stood, the bones cracking up his spine. “Not long. Rigor hasn’t started. Body temp is 95 degrees. I’d say we’re looking at approximately two hours give or take an hour.”
Cox caught a whiff of bleach. The scent lingered in the air and grew stronger as he headed toward the master bathroom. He pushed the door open. Fluorescent light bounced off the white walls. Bleach filled the sink. His eyes watered as the strong odor of cleaner stung his nostrils. At the bottom of the blanch liquid was a large knife. The rug on the floor had what appeared to be bleach stains. He stepped out and motioned for the crime scene reporter to take pictures before the forensic team collected the evidence.
Back outside a gust whipped Cox’s hair. Sporadic raindrops dotted the sidewalk. Lightning flashed nearby followed by the crack of thunder. The crowd along the street began to thin out.
The paramedics slammed the back doors shut to the ambulance. A moment later the engine revved and they pulled away.
Two patrolmen approached with a tall, athletic-looking man and the woman with the dog between them. The man’s shirt and jeans were splashed in crimson in a downward angle starting left to right.
“Detective, this is Jimmy Parker,” one of the cops said. “He found the body.”
“And this is Ida Jones,” the other officer said.
“Thanks, I got it from here,” Cox said. He decided to forgo the Miranda warnings for now. If either of the potential witnesses gave any indication they may be the killer, he would halt the interview and read them their rights.
He separated the two potential witnesses outside earshot of one another.
“Ms. Jones. Can you tell me what you observed?”
“I took Misty for a walk before dinner. She’s a wonderful pooch. Anyway, Misty stopped to pee, and I saw that man,” she pointed to Parker, “run outside. He looked at me then turned and ran back inside.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Yes. Told me to call nine-one-one.”
“Is there anything else you can recall?”
She shook her head.
He thanked her and walked to the other end of the porch.
“Mr. Parker. Can you tell me what happened?”
Parker hesitated. “I was in my kitchen when I noticed someone approach Doug’s front door. A moment later, I heard a scream.”
“Do you recall if the scream came from inside the house or outside?”
“I think inside, but I can’t be certain.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Parker?”
“I ran over to see what happened. When I got to Doug’s, the front door was ajar. Then a man almost knocked me down as he burst from the house.”
“Can you give a description?”
“No. It happened so fast. He ran past me.”
“Was he black, white, Hispanic?”
Parker flinched. He stared at the ground. “I don’t know. I think he had a hoodie on.”
“Okay, what did you do then?”
“I told the lady with the dog to call nine-one-one. I went inside the house and saw Doug on the floor in the bedroom. I wanted to check on him. See what happened. When I saw all the blood, I tried to resuscitate him, but then I noticed his neck had been slashed.”
“You said you tried to resuscitate him. What kind of aid did you perform?”
“CPR. When I went to blow air in his mouth, I saw the neck.”
Cox glanced down. There were bleach stains on the bottom of Parker’s pants along with specks of red on the man’s shoes.
Could this man be The Slasher?
He decided to press on. “Did you go anywhere else in the house?”
Parker rubbed his palms on his pants. “No, Detective. I ran back outside and waited for the police.”
Cox smiled. He put the notebook and pen back in his coat pocket then retrieved the handcuffs from his belt.
“Jimmy Parker. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Doug Sanders.”
Why did Detective Bobby Cox arrest Jimmy Parker?
Hint: Bathroom sink.
Blood spatter covered the wall from the corner to about eighteen inches out. Then it stopped with a gap of approximately two feet then started up again.
Why would that be? This is where the killer had been standing when he slashed Doug Sanders’s throat. The spatter would’ve gotten on the person’s clothes.
The media and public weren’t aware of the knife being immersed in bleach in the bathroom. Only the police and the killer would’ve known this information. When Detective Cox asked Parker if he had gone anywhere else in the house but the bedroom, he said he didn’t. But Parker had bleach stains on his pants which would’ve been caused when the bleach splashed onto the rug. Some of the bleach also splashed onto his pants.
Jimmy Parker is The Slasher.
Chapter 2
Case Closed
Detective Harry Crenshaw glanced at the pamphlet one more time. Tonight was his last day as a homicide detective. By this time tomorrow he’d be drinking rum and coke in the Bahamas.
He couldn’t remember the last time he went on a vacation. He’d lost his wife a year ago ... not to cancer or a drunk driver, but to a guy named Steve Gentry. The two met during a spinning class at a local gym. It didn’t matter though, the marriage started to crumble long before Steve was screwing her.
“Crenshaw, you’re up,” his lieutenant, Mike Pomroy, shouted from across the room. The man in charge of the homicide division was thirty-four, nearly fifteen years younger than Crenshaw. He didn’t think Mike did a bad job, just a little young for the position. He also thought the lieutenant could stand to gain about thirty pounds. The man resembled the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.
Pomroy approached carrying a coffee mug. Smoke wafted in the air. The inscription read, Homicide! Our job begins when your life ends.
“What’s the case?” Crenshaw asked as he refolded the pamphlet and put it in the top drawer of his desk. Daydreaming would have to wait. His mind needed to focus on the case.
“Looks like self-defense, but the DA wants us to look into it. Make sure it’s not a homicide.”
“Where?”
Pomroy took a sip as if to stall. “The Villas.”
Crenshaw sighed. “Great. My last night on the job and I pull a case in crack central.”
The lieutenant ran a bony finger through his straw-like hair. “Crime Scene is in route, so you should be cleared to enter by the time you arrive.”
***
Crenshaw parked several houses down from the one with crime scene tape in the front yard. He liked to take in the surroundings and get his bearings before anyone tried to tell him what had happened. This way he wouldn’t be misled or manipulated by anyone. He went through his checklist as he continued down the sidewalk. Crime scene, evidence, interviews ...
A cat scurried between his legs chasing after something and he almost kicked the feline in the head. Crenshaw cursed under his breath and then went back to work.
The two-bedroom house was located near the middle of the block. A rusted metal gate sagged along the outer perimeter of the yard. The landscape was made up mostly of weeds. Dirt and grime caked the windows. The garage door was up, and contents spilled out onto the carport and onto the yard as though the garage threw up.
Crenshaw strolled over, ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and moved to the front porch. The door to the house was open.
The Crime Scene techs were inside.
“Is it okay if I come in?” he asked to no one in particular.
One of the techs, a short-plump man waved him in.
Two expended shell casings lay on the floor near the couch. The faint odor of gunpowder lingered in the air. His gaze followed the trail of spent rounds. All looked to be fired from a 9mm as he made his way down the hallway toward a bedroom. He counted seven more casings.
Inside the bedroom he saw the lifeless body of a man lying on his stomach in a pool of blood. The deceased held a large kitchen knife in the right hand. He scanned the area surrounding the body but didn’t see any other evidence in the bedroom. Nothing eye-popping anyway.
Time to move on.
He backtracked through the house. When he got back outside a paramedic attended to a male in his late twenties or early thirties. Crenshaw assumed this had been the person who’d made the nine-one-one call.
