Two muffled pops, and Michelle clutched her hemorrhaging abdomen, falling to the floor in excruciating pain. She gasped trying to breathe and was still cognizant enough to realize she hadn’t noticed the stranger’s gloved hands in the dark. Michelle observed the profuse amount of dark blood spurting from her midriff. She tried to cover the hole in her stomach with her trembling hands, but the tacky substance soaked them in red. The woman climbed the bedroom stairs, and Michelle heard a single pop.
In a few seconds, the woman returned from upstairs, heading toward the sliding back door.
Michelle used her waning energy to speak three words. “Help me. Please!”
The woman turned toward her, the gun still in her hand. “No.” Michelle felt the room fading away. She was losing consciousness, blood pooling on the vinyl. As her world fell into blackness, the last sound she would ever hear was the slamming of the patio door.
42
SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 2003 GLENDALE, MISSOURI MICHELLE THOMAS’S HOME
Buck drove to the Glendale suburb, thankful that Michelle Thomas’s phone number was listed and that she was willing to talk to him. He had a disturbing feeling that Susannah wasn’t going to stop at threatening Cole and Seth’s jobs. His visit was twofold. He wanted to confirm whether Susannah’s constant appeals were driving her roommate to give all her money to the church. He also felt the need to apologize in person to Ms. Thomas. They had talked on Thursday and agreed to meet Saturday evening. Buck didn’t know if it would make any difference, and perhaps he was the one looking to assuage his guilt.
Turning down a block where tree branches arched over the street, he spied the 1950s brick rambler, set back on an expansive lot, under a canopy of trees. He parked and went to the front door and rang the bell. He heard talking inside, but no answer. She must be home. Buck rang the bell a second time. Still no answer.
After the third ring, Buck peered in the bay window and viewed the flickering blue light of a television set in the living room. That explained the voices he’d heard, but where was Ms. Thomas? He stepped off the porch, walked past the attached garage, and made his way to the back, where there was a cozy patio with sliding glass doors. Buck went to peer inside.
He gasped and jumped back from the door, fumbling for his cell phone. “Oh shit! Jesus!” A woman’s body lay on the vinyl floor of the kitchen in a congealed spatter of blood.
He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He attempted to dial 911. In his state of shock, Buck’s fingers seemed enormous as he misdialed yet again.
Goddamn it, Buck, focus! Deliberately he punched in the three digits. An operator answered on the second ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Holding his phone in one hand, he tugged on the sliding door with the other. As soon as the door was ajar, a foul odor filled his nostrils, and Buck realized by the darkening of her body that the woman was dead.
“I came to visit Ms. Thomas and found a body. I’m pretty certain she’s dead.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the operator asked.
“Yeah, the odor’s terrible—” Buck gagged and closed the sliding door.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Buck covered his mouth and nose. “The smell is ghastly, and her skin is very dark.”
“Sir, are you on a cell phone?”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered. “Yes, I am.”
“I need you to tell me the address for first responders.”
He was shaking so violently, Buck was afraid he would drop his phone. He gave the dispatcher the address.
“I need you to stay where you’re at until the police and fire arrive,” the calm dispatcher instructed.
“Sure,” Buck managed, his legs wobbling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Buck paced the length of the driveway, leaving a voicemail for Jeff to call him right away. Within minutes, wailing sirens filled the air—first the police, followed closely by the fire department. Flashing lights lit up the street. As emergency responders entered the front door, Buck surveyed the winding block as curious neighbors came outside, gathering in small groups, scrutinizing the scene and murmuring among themselves.
A female officer walked toward Buck. “Did you call this in, sir?”
“Yes.” Instinctively, Buck reached for his driver’s license in his back pocket.
The officer asked him routine questions on the nature of his visit, and he noted her nameplate read “Lane.” When she asked Buck whether he had entered the house and disturbed anything, Buck felt intimidated, but he tried hard to steady his voice and remain calm.
“Once I opened the sliding door, I knew by the smell that something was horribly wrong.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“A woman—at least I think it’s a woman—lying in a pool of blood. I think she had a gunshot wound to the chest, but to be honest, I can’t be sure. I’ve never seen someone who’s been murdered before, and it freaked me out.”
“How did you know she was deceased?” Officer Lane asked, taking notes.
“There was so much blood, and the smell—” Buck searched for the right word. “Foul. It smelled like something was rotten.”
“We’re going to need you to come to the station and give a statement, Mr. Neal. You’ve experienced a huge trauma, so a squad car will bring you.” Then she pointed to Buck’s Taurus. “Is that your vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just standard procedure, but we’ll need to have a look inside.”
He gulped, feeling his Adam’s apple hard against his throat. “Am I a suspect?”
Officer Lane smiled in empathy. “I realize this is hard for you, Mr. Neal, but part of our job is eliminating you as a suspect.”
Buck inhaled deeply. Other officers were now sealing the area off with yellow crime tape. “You’re right,” he said, and Officer Lane led him to the back seat of a squad car.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 17, 2003 LATE AFTERNOON ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI DOWNTOWN POLICE PRECINCT
Malachi provided Buck and Jeff with limited information on the unfolding investigation. No longer working a speculative crime on his own time, Malachi had given his superiors the material Jeff and Buck had gathered. Buck, however, was reliving the scene in a continuous stream of nightmares. Susannah, he felt sure, was behind this.
“Both women were shot with a nine-millimeter.” In a drab interrogation room, Malachi relayed the women’s fate. He nodded toward Buck. “The woman you found was Michelle Thomas. Jeanette Morelli had been upstairs apparently asleep. She was found in her bed.”
Recognition registered across Buck’s face. “Morelli. Isn’t that the name of the family that owns the upscale liquor stores?”
Malachi acknowledged Buck’s question with a nod. “Yes, Jeanette was one of the daughters. Not long ago, her family cut her off because she kept giving copious amounts of money to various religious organizations, most recently The Road to Calvary.”
Buck groaned, his head dropping into his large hands.
Jeff scratched his chin. “But wouldn’t she or the neighbors have heard those gun shots? Guns ain’t exactly quiet.”