Wrongly Accused Read online

  He decided to check upstairs for clues as to his parents’ whereabouts before heading over to the Hendersons’ house. The upstairs hallway was cold, and he shivered. Passing his room, he noticed the open door, which was odd because his mom always kept it closed. On his bed, he could see the military-style duffel bag he had packed the day before. Down the hall, his parents’ door was also open.

  He trudged to the door and peered into the semidarkness. He was surprised to see them in bed under the blankets, so he approached the bed. His parents were lying on their backs in the bed, their eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  “Mom! Dad!” he shouted and jumped toward the bed. He reached his dad first and shook him, screaming, “Wake up, Dad! Wake up!”

  CHAPTER 2

  At 9:25 a.m the snow had let up and the fog was lifting as Vanessa Chandler drove the unmarked Ford Taurus from her downtown office through the Avenues, a trendy section of town tucked between North Temple and the mountains east of the Utah capitol. Populated by college students and young professionals with an artistic bent, the streets were lined with apartment buildings and houses in a variety of Victorian styles.

  As she climbed higher onto the terraces of the Wasatch Mountains, the homes climbed in size and exclusivity. Federal Heights, the country club section of Salt Lake City, was a wealthy residential enclave just north of the University of Utah. It obtained its name in 1862 when the federal government established a surveillance fort so troops could keep an eye on the Mormons.

  The area reminded Van of the neighborhood where she grew up in Boston. It was classy. Its outward appearance evoked a feeling of security and serenity, but the perceived safety and tranquility of this upscale neighborhood had been shattered earlier that morning when two of its residents were found shot to death.

  A half-dozen police cars, two ambulances, and numerous unmarked police vehicles blocked the street. She assumed she was the last on the scene, since she had come from interviewing a witness for another case. It was an atypical crime scene, at least for her. She commonly found herself in rundown bungalows and split-levels, not extravagant mansions. Built of tapestry brick, the house was a fine example of Colonial Revival architecture with Federal-style detailing.

  As she made her way up the front walk, a uniformed police officer glanced at the badge hanging around her neck that identified her as Detective Vanessa Chandler of Homicide. The officer lifted the yellow police tape that blocked the front walk so she could duck under. On her way to the steep front steps, she noticed a small ice-covered walk from the driveway to what she guessed was the kitchen. Before pushing on the already-open mahogany door, she stopped to admire its ornate carving and the elegant Christmas wreath of fragrant pine. She then stepped into the entry hall and was impressed with the beautiful walnut staircase rising to the second floor. The house was swarming with people and was stuffy with activity.

  She recognized Arnold Manwaring from the medical examiner’s office. And there were the “crime-scene boys,” Perry Hunsaker taking photographs and Bart Hogan checking for prints. Bob Jones was questioning one of the patrol officers. Jones was a short man with a large scar on his face from a gunshot wound. The other detectives called him Scarface, which appalled Van until she discovered Jones wore the title with pride. He was the department’s cynic, always ready with a sarcastic quip, but he was a good interviewer.

  Detective Marty Carmichael, a tall, thin redhead, was following the crime-scene boys around the house. Marty was the department clown and always looked as if he didn’t know what to do. Detective Dave Jensen, a handsome blond, was searching through bureau drawers in what looked like a study. Thornton, no doubt, had taken care of the details of the search warrant.

  In an elegant sitting room off the foyer, Detective Douglas Thornton, Van’s senior trainer, stood questioning people she assumed were witnesses. A short, plump woman stood out among the rest. She wore a bathrobe, had big curlers in her red hair, and waved her arms as she talked.

  In contrast, Thornton looked at home in the gracious room decorated in Chippendale. Thornton was not tall—five eight or nine—but had the muscular frame of a bodybuilder, with veins bulging on his neck and forehead. He lifted weights at the gym at least three times a week. She studied his outfit. He was wearing a charcoal-and-cream tweed sport coat with dark charcoal slacks, tan shirt, and tan silk tie. Not once in the past five months since she started working under him as a rookie detective had she seen him dress down. He always looked like he was ready to go on a date.

  She took in the elegant room. How she loved fine things. The floor was oak covered in an exquisite floral oriental rug of antique green and dusty wine. She caught glimpses of the wine color repeated in the subtle floral print of the satin draperies. An antique harpsichord stood to the right of the double glass doors. The Chippendale settee and chairs were charmingly arranged around the room. Five paintings, mostly portraits and religious subjects, adorned the cream-colored walls. An oversized Christmas tree stood in the corner surrounded by elegantly wrapped gifts. The tree’s decorations were as exquisite as the room itself.

  The room’s centerpiece was the marble fireplace. She recognized the replica of the Christus statue by Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen on the mantel. They were Mormon, Van thought. She herself was Mormon, having converted to the faith several years earlier.

  What a contrast this east-side mansion was to the west-side bungalow she had investigated the day before. She cringed as she thought of the orange and brown floral furniture from the early ’70s. The shag green carpet was stained with a murdered man’s blood. A couple of hungry, hissing felines prowled the scene.

  The victim, a twenty-five-year-old drug dealer, left a wife and two-year-old daughter. The wife stood in the filthy kitchen with an angry face, her left arm bruised and dotted with needle marks. The child was crying, screaming really.

  “Shut up!” the woman shouted to the toddler. “I’ll slap your face if you don’t shut up.”

  Van had tried to calm the woman. “Do you know who did this?” Van asked.

  “Gang members. They killed him. His brother will kill them for this,” the woman had replied.

  There were no screaming babies in this upscale home; only quiet, dignified sniffles. Thornton glanced up at Van and smiled. He acted like everyone’s best friend but had an underlying arrogance that rubbed her the wrong way. He sauntered over to her in the foyer in his usual haughty style, with the smell of his cologne preceding him.

  “Van, I’m glad you finally made it,” he said as he closed the glass doors behind him.

  “What do we have here, Thornton?” she asked as she fished a notepad from the pocket of her blue wool overcoat.

  He flipped through his notes. “Two murder victims—husband and wife. Both shot to death in their bed. The male victim is Allen Armstrong, a researcher at the U. He’s worth millions. He’s also an acquaintance of the governor.”

  “That explains why the whole force is out here today,” she said.

  “The female victim is Peggy Armstrong, a housewife who was involved in a lot of community projects and charities.”

  “Who found them?”

  Thornton grabbed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the sweat running down his forehead from his thick, curly mane of blond hair. “That kid over there. Their son.”

  Van looked past Thornton through the glass doors. She had been so intrigued by the room’s furniture that she had failed to take a good look at the people. She berated herself silently for not looking—a bad habit in police work. Her eyes quickly found the young man slouching on the settee, his long legs thrown out awkwardly in front of him. His broad shoulders sagged, and his dark eyes stared out blankly from under thick, dark eyebrows. He looked disheveled, and his T-shirt and jeans were stained with blood.

  “What’s his story?” Van asked.

  “Says he came home this morning from taking his cousin to the airport and found his parents dead.”

&nb
sp; “Did he call 9-1-1?”

  “No. He set off the alarm when he entered the house at 8:18 a.m The security office called the station at 8:20, and dispatch called a patrol in the area to check out the situation. Patrol got here around 8:30. The kid was hysterical. Patrol called for ambulances.”

  “The alarm was armed?” she asked, furiously taking notes.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do we know how long they’ve been dead?”

  “Manwaring says it could have happened within four hours from the time he took the bodies’ temperatures at 9:05. The bodies were still warm.”

  “That’s the best he can do?”

  “That’s the best he can do.”

  “So,” Van said, “they died sometime between roughly 5:00 and 9:00 this morning.”

  “You got it.”

  “Were there any signs of a break-in?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Really? And the kid set the alarm off when he entered?”

  “Yeah. I know, it doesn’t add up.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  Thornton flipped through his notepad. “Bradley Allen Armstrong, age eighteen, born September 5, 1985, in Salt Lake City. He’s Mormon. Was president of his teachers quorum, Eagle Scout, captain of the East High swim team.”

  “Did he tell you all that?”

  “Next-door neighbors. The woman is Darlene Henderson,” Thornton indicated with a nod of his head. “That’s her husband, Fred Henderson. He says he’s the kid’s bishop. The heavyset guy is their son, Conrad Henderson. He says he’s the kid’s best friend.”

  Van caught the slight disdain in Thornton’s voice. He’d come to Salt Lake from Denver and was constantly criticizing what he called the “predominant culture.”

  “Did the Hendersons hear or see anything?” Van asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did the son live here with his parents?”

  “No,” Thornton said, glancing down at his notepad. “After he graduated from East High in the spring—in the top ten of his class no less—he worked at the country club as a lifeguard. He moved into the dorms at the U in August with his cousin, who was also just starting. Both are premed.”

  “Has anyone checked his story out with the cousin?”

  “No answer at his uncle’s house. They’re his only relatives that we know of.”

  “Where do the uncle and cousin live?” Van asked.

  “San Francisco. The kid says his cousin left this morning for Christmas break.”

  Tao Uluave from homicide clumped down the stairs carrying a gun in a plastic bag. His Polynesian features carried the self-satisfied look he always got when he found something important. He was known in the department for his search skills; if there was something to be found, he usually found it.

  Thornton whistled as Uluave approached. “What do we have here?”

  “A .22 caliber revolver,” he responded. “Found it in a duffel bag on the kid’s bed.”

  Van looked at Thornton. “You’ve got the search warrant, right?”

  Thornton snickered. “Of course, but thanks for keeping us in line.”

  Van looked over at the young man. “What’s his name again?”

  “Brad,” Thornton said

  Positions in the room had changed, and Brad was now cradled in the stocky woman’s arms. The bishop and Brad’s friend stood behind them. Brad had the same fear-stunned look Van had once seen in the eyes of a frightened child. Eighteen? Yet he looked so much younger. He looked like a kid.

  “Why don’t you talk to him?” Thornton asked. “Work your magic on him. Maybe you’ll get more out of him than we did.”

  Van was acclaimed in the detective division for her ability to put witnesses at ease. She managed to take on the role of a confidante in minutes. It was a great skill—more than a skill, really. It was a gift, and she prided herself on it.

  “What’s he like?” Van asked.

  “Well, right now he’s quiet, serious—seems to be in shock. I don’t think he’s always this way. I sense a cockiness in him. I don’t know, living off his parents. He looks to be the type for the neighborhood.”

  Van glared at Thornton. “What type?”

  “You ought to know the type. I mean, you’re the type yourself.”

  “Still carrying that poor-boy chip, Thornton?”

  “Don’t get angry, Van. I was making an impartial observation.”

  “There’s nothing impartial about your observations, Thornton.” Van walked past the detective to the sitting room.

  “Excuse me,” Van said as she approached Brad and the Hendersons. “I’m Detective Vanessa Chandler. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Brad here alone.”

  Darlene turned to Brad. “It’s all right,” she said with a faint southern accent. “We’ll be out in the foyer if you need us.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Take it easy on him, Detective,” Darlene urged in a whisper. “He’s been through a lot this morning. He’s a good boy.”

  “I’ll be as gentle as possible, Mrs. Henderson,” Van responded with a comforting smile.

  The bishop and Conrad followed Darlene out. Thornton then closed the glass doors and remained with the others in the foyer. Van pulled off her coat and threw it on a nearby chair and sat next to Brad on the settee. “You have a beautiful home here, Brad.”

  “It’s not my house,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I mean your parents have a pleasant home here. Did your mom decorate it?”

  “Yeah. She liked things like that,” he said, and tears welled in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Dad thinks it’s too stuffy. He wanted something more lived-in. Mom let him decorate the study. It’s comfortable. That’s where I study.” He stared at the floor as he spoke, glancing up at Van from time to time.

  “But you live in the dorms with your cousin, right?”

  “Yeah, but I come here a lot to study because it’s quiet. I can concentrate better here. Besides, Mom’s food’s better than the cafeteria.”

  Van smiled. “I’ll bet your mom was a good cook.”

  He glanced up. “Yeah.”

  “She also had good taste,” Van said. “This Chippendale settee is lovely.”

  He glanced up. “You’re really a detective?”

  Van smiled. “Yes. Why?”

  “Why do you know about antique furniture?”

  “Design is kind of a hobby. I’ve taken a few classes.”

  “In college?”

  She shook her head. “Community ed.”

  “You didn’t attend college?”

  “Yes, I did. And some law school.”

  “Some? You dropped out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I dropped out of law school because I was bored. I was fascinated with the law, but not that aspect of it.”

  “What do you mean?

  “Well, to tell you the truth, crime fascinates me.”

  “So why did you go to law school in the first place?”

  “Because my father told me to. I always did what my father said because I wanted to make him happy. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m majoring in premed because Dad wants me to be a doctor.”

  “And you don’t want to be a doctor?”

  “No.” He threw a glance at her. As Van looked into his dark eyes, she could see his fear was subsiding.

  “What do you want to be?”

  “A journalist.”

  “Why a journalist?”

  “Because I love to write. Dad always told me it could be an avocation but not a vocation”

  “Well, I think it’s important to choose a career that will make you happy. After all, you’re most likely going to spend the rest of your life doing it.”

  He looked up at her, appreciation in his eyes. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I a
ppreciate your cooperation here, Brad. Under the circumstances, I know it’s difficult.”

  “Yeah. It is. Bishop Henderson tried calling my parents’ attorney. His secretary said he was out of town for the weekend and won’t be back until late Sunday night.”

  “I’m just asking routine questions here, Brad. Are you saying you would like a lawyer present for this?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure why he suggested it. Unless . . .” He broke off. His eyes became glassy, and his expression changed as if he’d had a sudden horrible thought.

  “Brad?”

  Brad seemed to return to the moment. “I’m sure the bishop just thought a lawyer could help me with some of the details. I’m not thinking clearly right now. There wouldn’t be any other reason I’d need a lawyer, would there?”

  Van shrugged. “Like I said, I’m just asking routine questions here.”

  Brad looked at her intently. “I just want you to find out who killed my parents. I don’t know anything about what happened here.”

  At that moment, looking into his eyes, his fear and confusion convinced her that he really didn’t know anything about what had happened. “Okay,” she said, and took out a notepad from her pocket. “Let’s just review what you do know. I understand you set off the alarm system when you entered the house this morning.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t remember the code.”

  “I would think you would have used it regularly.”

  “I never used it. I have a key fob that turns the system off.”

  “I take it you didn’t have your fob with you?”

  “No. I took it off my key chain a while back because it made my keys so bulky. They usually only set the alarms at night.”

  “Did your parents have one of these security fobs?”

  “Yeah, they each had one on their key chains.”

  “Did anyone else have a remote to your security system?”

  “No. Just the three of us.”

  “Did anyone else have the security code to turn off the system from the keypad?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about neighbors and friends? Did your parents entrust anyone with the code in case of emergencies?”