37: A Thomas Ironcutter Novel Read online

  37

  A Thomas Ironcutter Novel

  David Achord

  www.severedpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2019 by David Achord

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

  Chapter 1

  February

  “Dude, at least roll down the window,” Jason chastised.

  Charlie gestured with his vape. “It’s just water vapor. Besides, it’s cold out.”

  “Yeah, but you have it filled with that sativa shit. Crack it open a little,” Jason said.

  Charlie scoffed, but obliged and opened the passenger window a couple of inches. “You weren’t so sensitive back when you were straight.”

  Benny, who was sitting in the backseat, laughed, and then motioned with his hand. “Don’t be stingy, puff-puff-pass.”

  Jason laughed along with them. When he had made the announcement on Facebook, he’d lost a few friends, but these two had stuck with him, even if they joked about it a little too much. Soon, the three young men were taking the exit to Manchester, Tennessee and followed the directions to the fight.

  “This is going to be great,” he said. “I’ve been looking on the internet, Wolf is undefeated.”

  “Black Thunder is no slouch either,” Charlie added. “I wonder if they’ve ever fought each other.”

  Jason shook his head. “Different weight divisions, but they probably spar and train together.”

  “What’s his real name?” Benny asked and then clarified. “Wolf, what’s his real name?”

  “I have no idea,” Jason answered. In fact, he couldn’t even find Wolf’s real name or his MMA history, no matter how much he researched. The only thing he found was a poorly recorded YouTube video of one of his matches and a comment saying he was undefeated.

  When they drove into the parking lot, they could see a crowd already lined up, waiting to get in. They parked and the three of them hurried to get in line. Two girls were in front of them. Jason saw them checking them out as they walked up but ignored them. Even if he were into girls, those two were trashy.

  “Where are you guys from?” the heavier one asked almost immediately when they got into line.

  “Nashville,” Charlie said with a grin. He was always grinning.

  “Nashville, huh? Did you bring any party favors?” the other girl asked.

  Both of them were giving flirtatious smiles, exposing nicotine-stained teeth. Jason saw Charlie give Benny a subtle nudge.

  “It’s highly possible,” Charlie said. “But we don’t share with just anybody.”

  “We don’t share with just anybody either,” the first girl replied and emphasized her statement with a wink. She then draped her arm around her friend and gave one of her breasts a playful squeeze. “But we come as a package.” Her friend responded by kissing her on the cheek and smiling seductively.

  Charlie glanced at Benny. Benny’s grin was bigger than Charlie’s.

  “If you two want to hang out with us, that’d be cool,” Benny said. “We’ll share.”

  Jason rolled his eyes and scanned the crowd. It was the usual mix, a few more rednecks than he cared for, but that was okay, and then he spotted him. The man was at the far back of the wall, scanning the crowd as well. The two of them locked eyes and Jason stirred. It was Wolf. He was ruggedly handsome, and even from afar Jason could feel the electricity.

  Jason gave him a head nod. Wolf gave him a slow nod back, which caused Jason to grin. Maybe this was going to be a good night, Jason thought.

  Chapter 2

  April

  Personally, I never thought blood smelled like copper. I’d read that descriptor many times in thriller novels and had even heard it mentioned in a few cop movies. Frankly, it was bullshit.

  If it were true, it would’ve smelled like a copper mine in here. There was blood everywhere. There was a metallic odor, sure, but there was no way a blindfolded person would have walked in, took a sniff, and say, “Hey, I smell copper!”

  So, there I was, no longer a cop, but nevertheless standing in the doorway of a million-dollar home nestled in the middle of a gated community known as the Governor’s Club. There were two people lying on the floor of the den. Both surrounded in blood. Both deader than Grandpa’s Johnson on a Sunday night.

  I was loading up the car with my golf clubs when Sherman called me. He had an urgent tone in his voice when he told me he needed me. Sherman was a close personal friend, almost like a father to me. He once kept me out of prison for a murder I did not commit. I never turned down Sherman when he asked for my assistance.

  He filled me in as I hopped in my car and sped down the road.

  “I’m sure you remember Lou Habinger,” he said.

  I did. Lou was a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon to be specific, and a close personal friend of Sherman’s. They went to the same synagogue and moved in the same social circles.

  “I don’t know if you remember, his youngest daughter married a couple of years ago to an investment trader.”

  I remembered him too. He was a snarky, arrogant prick who cheated at golf.

  “I seem to recall reading in the news about his investment company being under investigation by the Feds,” I said.

  “Yes. He was informed yesterday that indictments were forthcoming,” Sherman replied. “And, it would seem the marriage has been rather tumultuous. He was arrested on a domestic violence charge recently. Lou tried calling his daughter this morning, but when she did not answer, he decided to go to their home and check up on her. He found them both deceased in the den of the home. He believes it is a murder-suicide.”

  “Did he call 911?” I immediately asked.

  “I am not certain, Thomas. He seems to think he needs an attorney present,” Sherman replied. “Perhaps he is scared. Perhaps there is more to it than he is saying.”

  “Sounds sketchy,” I remarked.

  “Indeed. That’s why I need you to check things out. Make sure everything is kosher, no pun intended.”

  I knew what he meant. He was wondering the same thing I was, and that was, perhaps Lou’s son-in-law had killed his daughter and Lou killed him in retaliation.

  So, that is how I found myself on a pleasant Sunday morning; looking at a crime scene.

  Lou’s daughter, I think she was about twenty-five, was on her stomach. Her corpse was surrounded in a pool of drying blood. Her husband was nearby, lying on his back, a revolver clenched tightly in his right hand and a bloody steak knife lying by his side.

  I stepped carefully into the house, crouched by the bodies, and scrutinized everything. Under the right circumstances, blood spatter could tell you everything you needed to know about the crime.

  After studying the spatter, cast-off, and the general state of the den, I then made my way through the house. I inspected one room at a time, not an easy task. Even so, it only took me thirty minutes. When I was through, I walked outside and toward Sherman’s Mercedes. Sherman rolled down his window as I approached.

  “You can go ahead and call 911,” I said.

  Sherman nodded and did so. I walked a little down the driveway and took several slow, deep breaths, a technique I had found was the best way to get the stench out of my nose. Sherman joined me a minute later.

  “I’m going to have a dandy of a time explaining the delay in calling the authorities,” he said. “So, what do you think happened?”

  “They were both dressed and the blood is coagulated, so I think it happened last night, dinner time would be my guess. There are still dishes with food on the kitchen table and a couple of glasses of wine. They got into some type of argument. A steak knife was
used on her. It started in the kitchen and ended with her collapsing in the den. At some point, he felt remorse. He went into the master bedroom, retrieved a handgun from the nightstand, came back in the den, and shot himself in the head.”

  Sherman’s face darkened and he slowly shook his head. “So very sad.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “So, when they get around to asking why he called you instead of calling 911, what are you going to say?”

  “I’ll tell them when my client called, he was too upset to specify the nature of the emergency, which is mostly true, so you and I rushed over here. I’ll bullshit my way through the rest. I’m an old hand at bullshitting,” he said with his cherubic trademark grin.

  I nodded. Sherman knew what to say and do in situations like these. We walked back to his car as the sounds of sirens grew closer.

  The first officer, a young rookie who did not look like he needed to shave yet, was the first on the scene. He left his siren on a little too long after he parked before springing from his car with his gun drawn. Sherman and I watched in a mixture of fascination and disdain. He had his weapon gripped tightly in both hands. Thankfully, he had it at the low-ready position and not aimed at us.

  “Where is the suspect?” he demanded. I pointed toward the open door. Oh, sure, I could have told him the suspect was dead and there was no emergency, but why bother?

  “Stay here,” he ordered and rushed to the door. To his credit, once he approached the door, he made a tactical entry.

  Neighbors were already coming out of their oversized homes as two other police cars turned into the driveway. Thankfully, they had their lights and sirens turned off. I recognized the older of the two as he got out of the car. The other one jogged inside while the older walked over to us.

  “Hey, Thomas,” he said and shook my hand. “I’m assuming there is no emergency, otherwise you wouldn’t be standing around here looking like you’ve just come off the golf course.”

  He was referring to my attire. I had a tee time in a couple of hours and was wearing a new Tiger Woods signature shirt with matching pants. I gestured toward Sherman.

  “This is Sherman Goldman. He is the attorney for Lou Habinger. Lou is the father of the female decedent.”

  “Officer Ted Iorio,” he said. He did not offer to shake hands. Sherman noticed. Most officers avoided shaking hands; it was nothing personal. I kept going.

  “Mister Habinger’s daughter had recently been assaulted by her husband. She had him arrested three days ago…”

  “Yes, I was the one who arrested him,” Officer Iorio said.

  I glanced at Sherman. “You’re aware of the situation then, good.” He nodded. “So, her father came by to check on her this morning and found the two of them inside, deceased. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but to me it appears to be a murder-suicide.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by what sounded like a heated exchange from inside the house. A few seconds later, the two officers emerged. The rookie officer had blood on his hands. I could only imagine what happened, but one thing was for certain, he violated one of the cardinal rules of crime scene preservation—don’t touch anything.

  “So much for preserving the scene,” I remarked.

  Iorio’s jaw muscles tightened, but he didn’t respond. The rookie officer focused on us, squared his shoulders, and pointedly walked toward us.

  “Which one of you called this in?” he demanded.

  “I did, young man,” Sherman answered.

  “Alright, I’m going to need a statement from you.” He seemed to notice me for the first time. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Thomas Ironcutter, and the gentlemen sitting inside the car is Lou Habinger. He is the father of the deceased woman and father-in-law of the deceased man.”

  “I’m going to need IDs from all of you,” he demanded.

  I scowled at the rookie like I was looking at dog shit on the bottom of my shoe before turning to Officer Iorio. “I assume a detective or two is on the way?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. We’ll wait for them,” I said.

  The rookie officer stepped closer to within inches of me. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you are not the one to give orders at my crime scene. You’re not in charge here.”

  “You’re right, I’m not in charge here. If I were, I’d have you fired for your buffoonery.” I pointed toward the house and then at his hands. “You contaminated the crime scene. A smart officer would have known better.”

  The young officer scowled and started to say something, but Iorio cut him off.

  “Streeter, let’s wait for the detectives.”

  I glanced at my watch. I hoped I could make my tee time.

  Chapter 3

  While the young officer continued blustering and posturing, an unmarked car carrying a man and woman parked by the curb. I did not know either one, but they seemed to be all business. The young officer saw his chance to shine.

  “We have two deceased people inside the home. Both appear to be victims of a brutal homicide.”

  The woman listened to the young officer while the older man glanced over at us. He made a subtle nod to his partner and walked over to us.

  “Good morning, gents,” he greeted.

  I led off with the introductions and gave him a brief synopsis of the circumstances. I may have mentioned I peeked into the doorway, saw blood, and backed out. It may not have been totally factual, but if I had been, they might have insisted I stay with them and eventually give a formal statement.

  There was no telling how long that would take, and the end result would have been the same. Nope, I had no time for that. When the two detectives were occupied, I hopped in my car and took off. I managed to get away with plenty of time to spare and drove directly to Mick’s, my favorite cigar bar.

  My fat Irish buddy, Mick O’Hara, was sitting in front of his business, kicked back in one of his ornamental iron chairs, smoking a cigar like he hadn’t a care in the world. I frowned as I parked. He was wearing a faded pair of jeans, an orange UT jersey, and matching ball cap which was tattered and frayed. I helped him put his clubs in the back and waited until he got in the car before jumping on him.

  “I just looked at the weather report. Sunny all day with a high in the sixties. Great golf weather.”

  “Yeah, great weather. Let me ask you something, did you drink a big glass of stupid juice this morning?” I asked.

  “What the hell are you going on about?” he retorted with a scowl.

  “We’re not playing at a municipal golf course, bub. It’s a country club. They have a strict dress code.”

  “They do?”

  I sighed in exasperation and glanced at my watch. “Do you have a change of clothes inside?”

  “Nope,” he replied as he relit his cigar and puffed on it with feigned indignity.

  “Figures,” I muttered and made a beeline to a nearby Target store.

  It took a little bit of scolding before he agreed to go in. Thirty minutes later, I had him clothed in a light blue golf shirt and khaki slacks. He refused to ditch the hat though. When we got to the checkout line, he couldn’t help but embarrass me. He leaned toward the cashier and gave her a sidelong look.

  “Say, I think one of those he-she transveratite things was in the men’s room watching me change. I felt very uncomfortable.”

  Both the cashier and another customer gave him a withering stare. I hurried him out of there.

  “Do us both a favor, refrain from any crass remarks while we’re at the country club,” I said.

  Mick looked at me in mock confusion. “What do you mean? I am the personification of sensitivity.”

  “Of course you are,” I said. He changed the subject.

  “Alright, let’s talk business. I’m counting on you to be on your A-game today. I’m tired of hearing Wally flapping his gums about what a great golfer he is.”

  I nodded in agreement. “I need you on your game too, no screwing around. Do
you know anything about this partner of his?” I asked.

  “Not much,” Mick said. “He’s been in a couple of times with Wally. His name’s Hiram something and Wally says he’s a retired CIA secret agent. Oh, and Wally said he has a twelve handicap, but it all sounds like horseshit to me.”

  I had to chuckle. Mick often liked to express his disdain in terms of animal excrement.

  “Are you really going to join this high-brow country club?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said.

  His only reply was a, “Humph.”

  The previous day, I’d bumped into a busty brunette at a local Starbucks. She was wearing a blouse that showed a lot of cleavage and I had to admit I gave her assets a thorough appraisal. She caught me looking, gave a flirtatious grin and before I knew it, we were sitting at a table chatting like old friends. She introduced herself as Debbie Cart. She told me she was the membership recruiter for Davidson Hills Country Club and asked if I would be interested in joining. Before I knew it, she’d given me a pass for a free round of golf and told me I could even invite friends.

  Unfortunately, when I went to Mick’s later that evening, I made the mistake of showing the passes and telling the story of how I got them. Mick immediately invited himself to play and Wally eagerly joined in. Honestly, I planned on playing alone, or inviting Sherman to join me, but I gave in and set up a tee time.

  I should have listened to my intuition. It didn’t matter that it was a beautiful day and the course was in immaculate condition, the antics of my three so-called friends made for a long, excruciating round of golf.

  Wally was a pleasant enough guy in small doses, but the problem with him was he was lost in his own fantasy world. When he was a young man, he had dropped out of college in order to pursue the dream of being a professional golfer. Fame and fortune and all that. Suffice it to say, it did not work out for him. But you wouldn’t know it by the frequent stories he told. According to him, he was a living legend in the golfing world. Now in his sixties, he occasionally gave lessons, but mostly he hung out at Mick’s. His only income I knew of was Social Security and an inheritance from his deceased mother.