The Crime Scene

A burned out detective is baffled when his town becomes the center of murder and international intrigue.

Chapter 1

The sky was full of clouds, dark and grey and the air was hot, even without sunshine. The recent storm felled trees and tore away branches. Brogan’s thoughts were elsewhere as he avoided the debris strewn along the trail. Suddenly a black bear rambled across his path. Heart in throat, his wayward thoughts evaporated as the black shape lunged across the asphalt, claws scrapping, digging for traction, its fur covered body roiling from side to side as it scrambled on the hard surface, head down, round, toy like ears perked for dangers, disappearing into the safety of the thicket on the other side of the path.

His ride continued through the tangled mess. He was annoyed, distracted by clouds of gnats drowning in the sweat on his face and bare arms. First bears; now bugs. Toads danced in anticipation of rain. An armadillo meandered along the side of the trail. A squirrel flicked warnings with his tail. A box turtle stopped in the middle of the path. Brogan wiped sweat from his face and headed home rather than continue riding in confusion.

The patrol car in Brogan’s driveway topped off a ride meant to be a relaxing diversion. On the front stoop sat O’Borrien, his tattooed arms like rusty drain pipes sticking out of his short sleeved blue police officer uniform.

“Morn’n, Matthew”. He had a droopy, half-in-the bag look, swirling a toothpick with his tongue.

“Okay O’Borrien. What brings you out?”

“Trouble is Matthew, we found a couple of bodies over on Hyman Street; a real mess. Looks like Pete Strauss blew away his wife then turned the shotgun on his self. I figured you’d want to know ASAP so here I am waiting while you be riding that damm fool bike of yours”.

“Well then, give me a minute. Would you like some coffee?”

“Naw, thanks though. Just finished a cup from the Fry ‘n Pan”. O’Borrien glanced down at the discarded coffee container on the driveway as if to make his point looking back at Brogan to make sure he noticed.

Brogan headed for a quick shower wondering how his morning would end. “Why on earth did Peter Strauss and his wife Amanda end up dead in this small town where nothing much goes on beyond an occasional drunk fest at the Skunk’s Nest”. Brogan contemplated what O’Borrien brought to his doorstep. Unlucky, Brogan’s cat stood in the way to the shower doing her breakfast dance rubbing up on his legs sending him teeter totter as he tried to regain his balance and sense of direction. After his morning three S’s, he scribbled a quick note for Sandy that their day plans were shot and he would call her later to explain.

“Okay O’Borrien, let’s get going”.

The patrol car stunk of tobacco and stale coffee. The ride over was tedious for Brogan as O’Borrien sucked on a tooth pick while running his mouth about some fishing hole. Brogan tried to focus on what to expect at the Strauss home. O’Borrien wanted to stop at Kit’s Service Station for cigarettes but Brogan waved him on. The last thing he needed was O’Borrien lighting up one of his damm generic cigarettes. He didn’t like bossing him or the others on the force about their poisonous personal habits. He was still trying to fit into this small town with its easy on the petal way of life attitude but this time his urban hastiness got him going. This wasn’t a fender bender or a stolen fish trap. This was people dead in their own living room and his instinctual behaviors took over his desire to develop a fondness for a rural cultural transformation.

When they arrived at the crime scene it seemed like every patrol car in Frankenberg found its way to the Strauss home. Neighbors were gathered in groups, cops were standing around talking and smoking. Johnny Rankel greeted Brogan as he came out the front door of the house.

“Howdy Matthew. Glad you could get here. It’s a real a mess inside”.

“Okay John, seems we have a situation here that needs our attention to keep it under control. Has there been anyone in the house besides you?”

“Rockets is in there with Jonsey looking for evidence”.

“Well I’ll get them out of there before they scatter donut crumbs all over the crime scene. Meanwhile please see to it that those officers lollygagging over there with the neighbors start acting official. Have them cordon off the property. And John, try to keep everyone out of the house. That includes you and any other officers; especially any press folks that are bound to show up. I need a chance to assess things”.

Rankel looked disappointed with himself. Brogan felt badly about his poor remarks about lollygagging forgetting that he wasn’t in Newark anymore. He was in a small town with a big dose of city stupidity.

“Listen John, we need to be in charge here. It’s a potential crime scene. There’s no telling what evidence we’ll find and we need to keep things under control”.

“Will do Matthew. I remember my training and will get these fellas organized”. Rankel’s eyes darted back and forth as he answered Brogan.

Brogan thanked Rankel with a smile placing his hand on his shoulder, one eye looking into Rankel’s roving eyes trying to reassure him as if he were a dumb mule while his other eye turned in the direction of the Strauss’ living room. Instead of being greeted by Amanda Strauss with a smile and offers of coffee and fresh baked sticky buns, his senses were assaulted by a strong odor of urine and burnt gunpowder. Brogan’s eyes sent the scene to his reluctant, then repulsed brain as he took in the details Strauss’ living room turned deadly and bloody. What was once a room that greeted family and friends to the Strauss home was now a contorted mess with blood splattered everywhere across the walls that were covered with pictures of family outings. A trail of blood on the carpet led to Amanda’s now crumpled, decapitated body. Brogan’s vomit added to the mix. Recovering, trying to take control of his stomach, he found Peter Strauss’ body with the back of his head blown apart from an apparent self-inflicted shotgun blast through the mouth. Brogan’s head was spinning as he rushed to the kitchen sink for another heave, thinking of seasickness, bad potato salad and the pretzel cure fostered by an old German fisherman he once met on a Jersey Shore fishing trip.

“Hey, pull yourself together and try to regain a little more detached, professional, in charge composure”, his mind screamed. “Try telling that to yourself as you scrape the brains of someone off your shoe”, Brogan reassured himself. He reacted the same way each time he had seen this kind of thing. “Who wouldn’t be sick at this except the sickened”, he asked himself in retrospect. Brogan struggled to get back in control, sweating, wiping his face with a dish towel. Suddenly he had an audience as Rockets came up the basement stairs with Jonsey close behind yelling, “Get the hell outta here Rockets”.

Rockets ran into Brogan as he turned away from the sink wiping spittle from his chin. They both stared at each other in disbelief. Rockets eyes were on fire, scared crazy as he screamed for Brogan and anyone else to clear out of the house. Jonsey scrambling up the stairs, collided with Rockets and knocked Brogan to the floor, all three police officers crashing into the kitchen table, knocking over chairs and dinner dishes and splattering spaghetti, salad and wine everywhere. Rockets landed on top of Brogan all covered in Peter Strauss’ blood grabbing Brogan by the shirt, pulling him up close to his menacing grin. Brogan felt the blood and sweat squirting out of Rockets’ dilated eyeballs as Rockets yelled spittle and all into his face, “Bomb!”

Scrambling, the officers pulled at anything to get their flailing bodies moving toward the living room. Rockets fueled the urgency by yelling bomb over and over again. Jonsey tripped over what was left of Peter Strauss as he flew through the kitchen doorway into the living room colliding into the coffee table, smashing into Amanda’s corpse.

Figurines and ashtrays scattered as Brogan grabbed Rockets who was dragging Jonsey by his shirt collar. All three men crashed through the front door, cascading down the steps. They scrambled to their feet and ran down the front walk yelling “bomb” and “take cover” to the police officers and neighbors standing frozen, watching the bizarre scene unfold in slow motion. Then the explosion as house burst from a fire ball ripping it apart. The shockwave propelled Brogan headlong into an oak tree with Rockets ramming into him. As Brogan pushed Rockets away, he saw a piece of a two-by-four complete with aluminum siding sticking through Rockets chest… then stars and a five count towards total blackness.

When Brogan came to, O’Borrien was peering into his face, his stinky tobacco and coffee breath as strong as ammonia bringing him back to light and life. Julie Armstrong from the Emergency Response Team pulled O’Borrien aside and started poking and talking Brogan hoping for signs of life.

“It’s me Julie. How you doing Matthew? Gave us a scare. What is your name Matthew?”

“Julie, don’t you think it’s odd to say my name while asking me what is at the same time?”

“Matthew stop fooling around and tell me your name, you damm smart a*s”.

“Okay Julie, Matthew, Matthew Brogan. Are you happy now? What the hell happened?” Brogan complied knowing it was foolish to argue, especially when lying down. He tried getting up only to feel the straps restraining his chest and the collar around his neck. He felt woozy and a sharp pain in his left shoulder.

“Matthew, it’s me O’Borrien. You’re in bad shape but I’m glad to see you’re coming around”.

Brogan looked up to a shower of fine spittle and remembered the stink of stale coffee and cigarettes as he saw O’Borrien’s bony jaws chewing gum. He struggled to raise his hands in self-defense, shouting “What the hell happened O’Borrien?”

“House blew up. Fire guys here now but it’s a lost cause. Hell of a mess. Rockets is dead and Jonsey’s not doing well. We figured you were a goner when the house blew. Most of the guys are cut up from flying debris with ears ringing and concussions. I was in the patrol car on the squawk box with Christie on dispatch. I called in the fire boys and the EMT.

“Christ, O’Borrien”, Brogan blurted out trying to get himself back in control. “What the hell happened?”

“Figure Strauss had explosives in the basement and they blew”.

“Okay”, Brogan took a deep breath, feeling better as the air cleared when O’Borrien backed off. “O’Borrien, have Tom Logan call in the FBI. We got a damm mess we’ll need help on. Julie, get me out of this thing. Help me over to the patrol car. Damm I can’t find my cell phone. I can’t seem to move too well. Julie, call Sandy. Tell her I’m fine and will be a little late for dinner”. Julie and her crew strapped Brogan to the stretcher for the ride to the hospital. His last thought before the morphine hit was what a hell of a mess this was for crime scene.