A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1) Read online

  “Think you’ve met him?”

  “My internal Psychopath Alarm hasn’t gone off too loudly yet, no.”

  Caleb considered this concept briefly. “Boy, wouldn’t that make police work a lot simpler.” He held his hands aloft, outlining an imaginary marquee. “The Psychopath Alarm, retails for $49.99, available at Wal-Mart.”

  Jack smiled. “That would pretty quickly put me out of a job.”

  “You say that as if it might be a good thing.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Jack’s expression became somewhat pensive. “I don’t think I’d complain too much, no.”

  DAY TWO:

  TUESDAY

  5

  Because of the cool temperature, the eerie silence, or the constant characteristic smell—something of a mix between kerosene, sulfur, and cheap perfume—most of the other detectives in the York County Homicide Division hated going to the morgue, but Kenneth Howard didn’t mind it. He actually found the quiet, chilly atmosphere peaceful, and he had suffered a number of mild concussions while playing football through high school and college that left him with a diminished sense of smell.

  He walked into the small, square office of the York County Coroner, Dr. Krishnavilli. His first name started with an R and was followed by a bunch of a’s and consonants. Howard knew he would mispronounce it, so he had never even tried. Krishnavilli, a humorless man, possessed poor social skills and a detail-oriented personality that would easily meet the diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome, if he had ever spent the time to see a therapist and get a diagnosis. Howard—and everyone else in Homicide—thought Krishnavilli had found his true calling as a forensic pathologist.

  “Hey, Doc,” Howard said as he knocked on the open wooden door of the office.

  Krishnavilli barely glanced up from his desk. “Hello, Officer. Come in.” He continued typing on the laptop on the left side of his desk.

  Howard had worked in Homicide for over 6 years. Despite losing nearly 60 pounds since his playing days—starting center at Villanova his sophomore through senior years— he still possessed great size at 6’3” and 235 pounds. Plus, he was the only African-American in the Homicide Division. His face and his frame were unmistakable. Though he had worked with Krishnavilli on at least a half-dozen cases, he was pretty sure that Krishnavilli did not know his name.

  “What can you tell me about Adrianna Cottrell?” Howard asked.

  Without making eye contact, Krishnavilli reached to the center of his desk and tapped a manila folder with his right index finger. He went back to typing away on the laptop.

  Howard walked over to the desk and picked up the folder. He had forgotten how desolate this office felt. The walls were barren except for the empty bulletin board hanging on the wall behind Krishnavilli’s desk.

  “Anything interesting?” Even though Krishnavilli had a relatively thick Indian accent, Howard found it much easier—and quicker—if he could get the highlights verbally rather than sift through the report.

  Again, Krishnavilli spoke without raising his eyes from the computer. “COD strangulation. No prints. Post-mortem trauma to the sternum and ribcage, including four rib fractures.”

  Howard had always found Krishnavilli’s monotone delivery unnerving, especially when referring to autopsy details. “What do you think that means?”

  Krishnavilli shrugged. “You’re the detective.”

  Howard nodded. He should have predicted that response. He would have to remember to stop asking such silly questions. “Clothing and personal items?”

  “Gail has them.” Gail, the filing clerk, sat at a counter a little farther down the hall.

  “Anything interesting there?” Howard asked, skeptical that he would receive an informative response.

  Krishnavilli shook his head and continued typing.

  Having his notion confirmed, Howard turned to leave the office. Shockingly, Krishnavilli spoke just as Howard had reached the door. “There was a love note or something in her front pocket. At first I just thought they were scribbles, but I think it actually has some meaning. It may be some kind of code the children were using.”

  The phrase “the children” nearly turned Howard’s stomach. Of course he realized that he was investigating the murder of a 9-year-old girl, but thinking about her and her peer group as “children” made the murder all the more horrifying.

  6

  After arriving home from the airport earlier that morning, Jack had just had enough time to read the newspaper before he had to leave for his lunch with Philip Prince. Vicki had already left for work, dropping Jonah off at school on her way. They had left him a note on the kitchen island welcoming him home. Jonah’s portion of the note included a smiley face in red crayon. In this age of cell phones, texting, Face Timing, and Skyping, Jack found it so refreshing and endearing that Vicki still took the time to write out a note commemorating his return from a day-trip to New York City. That was one of the things that he loved most about his wife.

  Jack stuck Vicki and Jonah’s note into his pocket as he walked into the garage. He had left himself 45 minutes to make it to the restaurant, predicting that traffic shouldn’t hold him up too much at this time on a Tuesday. The Byrnes owned a modest four-bedroom house nestled in a family-friendly community in Lake Ridge, Virginia. Situated about 25 miles southwest of Washington, DC and 18 miles north of Quantico, Virginia, Lake Ridge was ideally located for a manageable commute to either one. He got behind the wheel of his black Ford Taurus and started the engine.

  While en route he wondered about the reason for this rendezvous today. Prince had called him late last week and asked if he could take Jack out for a meal. “Let’s meet for a friendly lunch to discuss a business matter.” He wouldn’t offer anything more specific than that. As Jack had the talk show obligation in New York yesterday, but they did not expect him back at work until tomorrow, he and Prince had settled on today.

  Philip Prince was the former Lieutenant Governor of Maryland and still held a place of significant prominence within the Democratic Party. He had gone to law school with Jack’s father, Anthony Byrne, who had been the long-time District Attorney for the District of Columbia.

  Anthony Byrne passed away three years ago from pancreatic cancer, only about eight months after he had learned of the diagnosis. This rapid decline spoke much more to the nature of pancreatic cancer than it did to the medical care Anthony Byrne received. “Cancer is never really good,” Jack’s father had bluntly explained to him, not long after his initial meeting with his oncologist. “But apparently there are some ‘good cancers’ and some ‘bad cancers.’ Pancreatic cancer is possibly the worst of the bad.” Despite this ominous prognosis, Anthony kept a very positive attitude throughout his initial treatments and through his palliative care as well. He died in his home at the age of 69. Jack’s sister Jody, a divorced nurse practitioner, had taken a sabbatical from her academic position at the University of Maryland to care for him at home. Both Jack and Jody felt that serving as nursemaid to her dying husband was not a role that fit their mother Florence very well. They much preferred that she spend her final days with her husband as a partner, not a servant. To this day Jack still felt a debt of gratitude towards his sister for providing their mother with that gift.

  Jack had not been particularly close with his father as a young child growing up. Toiling in an extremely demanding job, Jack’s father spent very little time at home, and, even when present, his father did not like to spend time with childish things. He never actually stated this overtly, but, in retrospect, Jack surmised this from looking back at his father’s attitude towards some of his childhood endeavors. Anthony failed to see the appeal in Star Wars action figures, skateboards, or Atari video games.

  When Jack entered middle school and became active in sports, he and his father began to get along much better. Anthony greatly encouraged excellence, and what better way to show one’s excellence than to best the other pre-adolescents in the 100-meter breast stroke? His father became his bi
ggest supporter, often rearranging meetings and, once, a court date, to attend Jack’s swim meets throughout high school. Anthony nearly beamed with pride when Jack got a full scholarship to swim at the University of Virginia—not because this eased a financial burden, but rather because it served as an evident display of excellence.

  Jack remained close with his father throughout adulthood. He often wondered how much influence his father had on his decision to go to law school. Outwardly he steadfastly denied that going to law school at the University of Michigan reflected a desire to please his father; inwardly, when honest with himself, he wasn’t sure. His father never pushed him toward one profession over another. He simply tried to instill in his children that they should always strive to achieve their greatest potential, which in his mind, of course, never stopped short of excellence.

  As he crossed the Williams Memorial Bridge over the Potomac, Jack pondered how his father would react to his recent success if he were still alive today. It depends on how many details of my success he knows, Jack thought before dismissing that line of thinking. Attempting to intuit the opinions of the dead would surely end as a fruitless endeavor; he would not spend any more mental energy with such a query.

  Jack’s focus returned to the matter at hand: today’s meeting. As one of Anthony Byrne’s dearest and oldest friends, Philip Prince had kept in touch with Jack periodically in the three years since his father’s death. Philip and his wife Reba played bridge with Anthony and Florence Byrne at least four or five times per year for two decades. Even when Reba died of breast cancer almost ten years ago, they continued to play with regularity. Often they would find a fourth to sub in; less often they would play three-handed bridge. Prior to last week, Jack had not talked to Prince in almost a year. At that time Prince had called to congratulate Jack on his success in his last case, the one on which Jack had based his book, the one that had made him a national house-hold name, if only for a few days.

  Because Prince still remained very active in the Democratic Party, Jack’s initial thought was that he wanted Jack to speak at a local convention. He had been asked to speak at numerous venues in the last seven months, but he had been very selective about his appearances. Miles Agostino, Jack’s literary agent, also served as his booking agent. Although Jack had an aptitude for public speaking, he did not enjoy doing it. However, he (and Miles) did enjoy the extra revenue generated from his few speaking gigs.

  Often skeptical, even without provocation— a prerequisite for any good detective— Jack considered that Prince could be asking for a favor. With the constant stream of politicians in murky waters from a variety of misadventures, perhaps Prince wanted some inside information regarding what the FBI knew about some of his fellow Democrats. Worse, maybe Prince wanted dirt on some Republicans. Jack figured that Prince had to know that, first, Jack wasn’t privy to this kind of investigation, and, second, even if he were, he would not divulge such information to Prince. Of course Prince wouldn’t ask him for something like this. Right?

  Jack decided that if Prince asked him to speak at a convention or some other gathering, he would do it, mostly out of gratitude and respect for Prince’s relationship with Anthony Byrne. For all other requests, his answer would have to be no.

  7

  Philip Prince had already been seated at a table near the back of the restaurant when Jack arrived at The Palm. A steakhouse in northern Washington situated mere blocks from the White House and a short cab ride from The Capitol, The Palm had become known as a preferred site for power lunches in DC. The maître d’ pointed towards Prince’s table, and Jack raised a hand in recognition. He headed back, dodging between tables. Prince stood up to great him.

  “Hello, Jack. It’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Always good to see you too, Philip.” The two shook hands. Prince gestured to the seat opposite his, and Jack sat down.

  “How are Vicki and Jonah?”

  “Good,” Jack replied. “Things have been busy for Vicki at work, as usual. Jonah is doing great. He has a little play tonight through his school.”

  “Aw, that sounds sweet,” Prince said in return, though Jack got the sense that he really didn’t care too much. Prince clearly had other business on his mind more important than small talk.

  He looks old, Jack thought. He did some quick math in his head. He’s got to be 73 or 74 now, but he looks at least a decade older than when I saw him last, just three years ago. Jack was also reminded of how Prince often looked somewhat slovenly. He remembered leaning over to his sister at his father’s viewing and saying, “Philip Prince is the only man I know who can make a four-thousand dollar suit look like it came off the rack at TJ Maxx.”

  “How has life been treating you?” Jack asked.

  Prince opened his mouth to answer when the waiter appeared. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” the bow-tied man asked the pair.

  “Water for me,” Prince answered. “Jack?”

  “Water’s fine.” Jack felt some relief that Prince didn’t order an alcoholic drink. With a few exceptions— when on vacation, on the golf course, or at an afternoon ballgame— it always bothered him when people drank at lunch.

  “Shall I give you a few moments to look the menu over, then?” the waiter offered.

  Prince ordered ahi tuna, rare, while Jack surveyed the menu. Jack settled on a chicken sandwich, with mayonnaise on the side. The waiter didn’t write down either’s order, which Jack always found intriguing, almost troubling. Who’s he trying to impress with his short-term memory skills? I don’t give a shit if he can recite the Declaration of Independence from memory, I want to make sure I get my chicken sandwich with the mayonnaise on the side.

  “Life has been treating me pretty well, Jack,” Prince said as he leaned forward in his chair to place all of his attention on his younger lunch companion. It took Jack a brief second to realize that Prince answered the question he had asked him prior to the waiter’s arrival.

  “Good.” Jack was quite curious about the reason for this meeting—Please no dirt-digging expeditions…-- but he didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. Knowing Prince, Jack thought he wouldn’t beat around the bush too much.

  “You’re probably wondering why I asked you to join me for lunch,” Prince offered after a brief pause.

  Bingo.

  “Yes, to be honest.” Jack knew that Prince possessed a finely-tuned Bullshit Meter; to feign disinterest when genuinely curious would serve no purpose.

  “Jack, a week hasn’t gone by since your father died that I don’t think about him. He was a strong man, of great character and integrity. And he was well-known and respected throughout this community.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Jack said. He noticed that Prince’s intonation sounded slightly flat, as if he had rehearsed this little speech.

  “And you have created your own warm spot on the radar screen recently. With your fine work of the Hollows Case, your book coming out, your TV appearances, your local speaking engagements…”

  He’s really been paying attention, Jack thought.

  “…You have become a familiar face and an honorable name in many households.”

  Prince paused to study Jack’s face. He thought that Jack seemed neither markedly proud of these accomplishments nor embarrassed at their mention. For the briefest of moments, Prince sensed that Jack was trying to hide something. He decided to sit quietly to see how Jack would respond. After several seconds, the silence became somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Thank you, Philip. That means a lot. I wish my father could be around to witness some of this.” Jack guessed that Philip would bring Anthony Byrne back into the conversation next, so he took the opportunity to beat him to it. Jack often created competition in even mundane occurrences, like a conversation over lunch.

  “I know. I’ve thought of that too.” Prince paused again, presumably out of respect for the elder Byrne. “Jack, sometimes when the stars align”— he made an open-handed gesture in the air abov
e eye level, then brought his hands together with his fingers interlaced— “like this, one needs to take the fullest advantage of it.”

  Prince stopped and looked at Jack. Clearly he was waiting for a response.

  “Okay.” Jack knew that served as a poor excuse for a response, but it would have to do. Often these conversational competitions involved refusing to give the “opponent” the satisfaction of having the conversation go his or her way. The tendency to fight the natural course of a conversation often irritated those around Jack. Even Jack found it annoying sometimes, yet he chose not to stop himself from doing it.

  Prince lowered his eyes and began arranging his silverware at the side of his place setting. “As you surely know, one of Virginia’s Senate seats is currently occupied by a man named Rupert Schultz, a Democrat.”

  Prince looked at Jack, who slowly nodded. “I saw on the news that he got pulled over for DUI the other week.”

  Prince nodded. “Unfortunately the young Senator Schultz was not alone when he was pulled over. Now, Schultz is a bachelor, so there’s no crime in driving with a companion.”

  “As long as you’re sober,” Jack footnoted.

  Prince chuckled. “Yes. Well, as it turns out, Schulz was not sober, and this was not just any companion. It was his sister-in-law, his brother’s wife. His brother, Dashiel, serves as Rupert’s campaign manager and his top aide. Well, served, that is, until 10 days ago when Rupert was pulled over, driving drunk, with Dashiel’s wife, with whom he had been having an affair for the last 2 years.”

  “Oops,” Jack responded. Suddenly the conversation seemed more comfortable. Jack sat back and spread his napkin out on his lap.

  The waiter approached with their lunch, and set the two plates down in front of Jack and Prince.