Death in Dallas

First Chapter of what I hope is a murder mystery I'll finish before summer. I love noir.

Death in Dallas
by Douglas Goodrich

The traffic to get up on Highway 35 was bad, which in and of itself is not breaking news in Dallas, but today was particularly bad. I knew half of the motorists would flip me the bird when I started lighting it up with my red and blue and gave a few pops of my siren. I got over to the median and sped up, cautiously expecting someone to panic and try and cross in front of me. Someone who felt like they were entitled to speed by the traffic as much as me. Just as a Lexus Mom saw me in her rearview, she began to dart out but stopped when I popped the siren. Lexus moms are entitled, or at least they honestly believe in their hearts they are. They spend their days lugging their 2 or 3 kids around while their husband makes stock or real estate deals and dammit, they are due for Bloody Mary’s at Gemma or The Henry so they can’t wait. If I had been closer to the tollway, I would have gone that route but the constantly under-construction highway 35 would have to do.

The old money section of Dallas, called Preston Hollow, is situated north of Highland Park, the other ‘old money’ section of the city. The same neighborhood that ex-President George W. Bush lives in and the eccentric owner of the Mavericks, Mark Cuban resides in the ‘hood. Not too shabby if you can afford it and most people in the city can’t afford it. But guess what? The rich must deal with murder just like the rest of us, and that’s why I’m headed that way. Since money is a major reason for killing someone, I guess you could say they have to deal with murder more than the average chump.
I turn onto Warwick Drive and notice the yellow tape, surrounding the large Oak Trees in the expansive driveway. Neighbors surround it, holding on to their dogs that they used to say they were just ‘walking by’. Most likely I’ll step on their thousand-dollar dog poop at some point during the investigation, but they’ll be long gone without a baggie in sight. The crowd separates slowly as I flash my lights. They looked at me like I wasn’t invited to the party.

“Hey, Mitchell. ‘bout time you got over here.” My partner, Casandra Wilson, loved to point out the obvious. I haven’t beaten her to a crime scene in the three years we’ve been paired up and yet somehow, she always acts surprised. She hands me the shoe covers and gloves and I lean on one of the huge oaks, towering over the perfectly manicured lawn.

“What do we got?” I was hoping she’d tell me an open and shut because my 14-year-old has a basketball game later on, but I’m guessing not.

“Woman, 30-40, blonde, no ID yet but I’m guessing she might be Mrs. Gloria Taylor, the lady of the house. Her husband, Fred, has been contacted and is on his way here.” Husband and wife are the most obvious of murderers. Yes, I watch Dateline too. I have to fight thinking that though because just when I think I get one, a suspect throws me for a loop. Last year I had a case where it looked like the wife killed her husband by hiring a hit man. Then we discovered a striper named Chastity he was sleeping around with and found out she’s the one who hired the hitman, for dumping her. I mean she didn’t have a name on the insurance policy and didn’t stand to gain anything, except for the satisfaction that he was dead. Now Chastity’s behind bars enjoying that satisfaction, I guess.

The front door of the house was as big as any door I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of them. I can’t tell you how many doors I’ve walked through in this city but twenty-seven years in homicide should give you an idea.

Upon entering the mansion, I first notice the marble that goes on for miles. White and Blue, very Italian renaissance, yes, I have some knowledge when it comes to tile. I had thought of using tile for my house in Oak Cliff, but I was looking at the fake tile laminate, not this stuff that was shipped in from Florence. About a hundred feet from the grand door and back to the right was an open door leading into an office. Before I got to that door, I couldn’t help but notice that the beautiful white and blue tile became red, deep dark red, blood. And just inside the opened office door, a bare foot and a Manolo Blahnik high heel with a right foot in it. Peering around I can see the rest of the body attached to the thousand-dollar shoe slumped underneath a large office chair. On the desk, sits an open MacBook Air and an external 24-inch monitor. A printer sits to the side and a small statue of a woman on a horse.

“Has anyone walked in here?” I had to ask, knowing damn well the original uniforms had to secure the area and most likely stepped in blood and all kind of evidence.

“I’ve got names and badge numbers.” Detective Wilson had become a great homicide detective. I mean she was top-notch. The best partner I’ve had over the years. This certainly wasn’t the case when she started but she listens and retains information like nobody I’ve seen before. Plus, my daughter thinks she’s cool so that in turn makes me cool and Lord knows I need some serious coolness factor. Bald, overweight, extraordinarily little activity besides chasing down murderers, I’m not exactly a catch. Let’s also say that my profile on Match.com, that my daughter set up, has garnered exactly three emails in three years. Two were fake, phishing to see if I’d send money to a princess in France and one was a next-door neighbor who wanted to see if it was really me, her neighbor, on Match.com.

Inside the office, I could tell the victim was surprised because her e-cig felt hot to the touch and when I moved the mouse, I could see she was mid-sentence in what looked like an article about the upper-crust of Dallas. There were a few pics of people who looked to be at high society parties and such. Reaching into her purse, I pull out the fresh Texas Drivers License and see the beautiful blond attached to the Manolo Blahnik, Gloria Annette Taylor, Birthday: January 3^rd, making her 36 last month, although I wouldn’t be surprised if some of her close friends thought she was 33, maybe 34. The plastic surgeons in Dallas are some of the finest in the world and Ms. Taylor has a business card in her wallet for one just down the street. Along with credit cards and IDs from the Perot Museum and the Nasher Sculpture Center and three old State Fair of Texas coupons. The coupons will still be good come fall, but unfortunately, Mrs. Taylor will not.

Suddenly, a lot of yelling explodes through the front entranceway causing Detective Wilson and myself to immediately look up toward the entranceway. I guess it must be Mr. Wilson demanding to be let into his million-dollar home. “I’ll get this, Casandra, just wait for forensics and keep everyone else away.”
I slipped the foot covers off along with the gloves and toss them in a makeshift trash can just outside the front door. Mr. Wilson was being held back by two plain clothes to the left of the door.
“Are you in charge here?” He shouted as if he’d ‘taken care’ of situations before. Hey, if he pulls out a hundred, I might answer more of his questions, a man’s gotta’ live.
“Mr. Wilson? Do you have ID on you?” he produced his Texas License but no, hundred-dollar bill, damn, foiled again.
“Okay, I’ll get him from here.” The officers let go of his shoulders and I gently moved him further out into the huge front lawn and garden area. I bet this area is lit up for Christmas like nobody’s business.

“What the hell is going on here? I demand to be let in on all of this. And does my wife know about it?” Now is when I need to start paying attention to details. I have to follow his eyes and listen to the tone of his voice to determine if I think he should be listed as a suspect or not. This is why I get paid the big bucks.

“Mr. Wilson, I don’t know how else to say this, but I believe your wife is dead, sir.” Quiet. All quiet as he looks away and up toward the top of the trees.

“What makes you think that? Are you sure?” Interesting questions right after my announcement. Not really guilt like but I need more reactions.

“I believe we’ve made a positive ID on your wife, Gloria Annette Wilson. We are still collecting evidence and going through the crime scene, but I will have more answers for you soon.” Mr. Wilson’s knees buckle as I grab him just before he hits the lawn. His face is ashen white and his eyes roll back into his head. Now, either he is innocent of any wrongdoing, or he is fantastic at faking it. After a medic rushes over to help me revive him, we lean him up against a giant oak trunk and give him a cold, bottled water.

“Are you okay, Mr. Wilson? Can you hear me?” He looks at me and nods, almost like he’s had some head trauma but luckily, I can him before he hit the ground. I motioned over one of the homicide detectives to come assist. “Larry, can you come here?”

Larry Donley has been in homicide for around ten years, a good guy, really focused on the job. “Larry, I need you to drive Mr. Wilson to headquarters and I should be right behind you. “We’re going to talk more, Mr. Wilson, and I’ll be able to give you more information, okay?” Mr. Wilson nods his head without saying anything. I can tell he is in a serious mode of shock. If, for some reason, he was involved in this, he would most likely be verbally telling me how he couldn’t have killed his wife, something that he rehearsed ahead of time. But I still need to keep him on our list. I just have to keep telling myself to not completely focus on him. Look around. Take your eyes off the husband.
Larry helps Mr. Wilson up and into his car, as I head back into the crime scene. I stopped and turned toward the assembled crowd standing next to the yellow crime scene tape. The chances that someone involved in this brutal crime would still be hanging around is incredibly high. It’s like a basketball player watching the ball go through the hoop, they just have to watch it.

I motioned for a plain clothes officer to step over and toward me. “Hey, I need you to collect names and interview all of the people hanging out. And make any notes if you see people walk away when you approach them. Get your info to me on the 3^rd floor, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” She was young but I could tell she liked being given an assignment. I was a cop like her once, holding people back from crime scenes, and the whole time I was itching to be inside. I couldn’t wait to do the investigation myself. Now, I’m not so sure I want it anymore. To be totally honest, I’ve lost confidence lately, in life. When my marriage ended nine years ago, I thought I’d retire early and open a shop fixing vacuums and household items. I still dream about it from time-to-time but I’m just trying to pay child support every month. What an idiot? I couldn’t stop working so much and she fooled around with her boss and that’s why. Now I’m married to dead people all over town. Doesn’t help when you’re so damn lonely at night, to be able to cuddle up to a cold, dead body, but that’s what I get.
Now, why would a high-society lady be missing a bright blue, Manolo Blahnik, and bleeding on white, Italian tile? 

Let the game begin.