“Still not back.” Cyndia dropped The Whitechapel Horror onto the couch. She stretched as she moved toward the kitchen, and glanced toward the front door.
A blue man with a butcher knife locked eyes with her. Cyndia lunged for the rusty shotgun her foster mother kept in the umbrella stand next to the door. She rammed it against her shoulder.
The blue man had disappeared from the front door window.
Her chewing gum cemented in her mouth. The back door was locked; she always locked up when at the house alone. She moved to the back of the living room. She could see both the front door, down the hall to the bedrooms, and the archway to the kitchen, and could jump out the window if necessary. The cordless phone sat on the end table until she grabbed it.
“911. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“There’s an intruder outside the house. He had a knife.” Cyndia took a deep breath and leaned her back against the wall. She answered the operator’s questions while balancing the shotgun on her shoulder. “I’m here alone. I looked out the front door and saw him through the window. Big knife, butcher knife. Look, I’m just seventeen. My foster mother went out to a bingo game. Can you give the cops a code word? Well, I don’t want to open the door for the guy with the knife pretending to be a cop. Okay, I can remember that. There are three entrances, the front door, the patio door, and the back door through the garage. All doors locked, but the garage is open. My foster mother isn’t back yet. My name is Cyndia Taeurs. He was blue. No ma’am, not wearing blue, his skin was blue. It could have been make-up.”
The operator told her to stay on the line. She thought she could hear computer keys clacking on the other end. “How long should it take for them to get here? I mean I know the guy’s not in the house with me.”
“It shouldn’t be long now. Dispatch says there’s a unit in the area. Let’s verify your address.”
Cyndia sighed and rattled off the street name and number. Her right bicep trembled with keeping the shotgun up, and her neck was going to be permanently bent toward her left shoulder. Blue lights flashed from outside. Voices came up to the front porch and then moved back. What gives? Why didn’t they come up to the door?
The operator was still on the line when there was knocking at the back door. She eased into the kitchen, keeping her back toward a wall.
“Miss Taeurs? It’s the police. Cagney and Lacey.”
Dispatch must have had fun with the code word judging by his polite but resigned voice. “The police are here.” She ended the call and opened the back door. Two uniformed officers had their guns drawn. Cyndia pointed the shotgun at the floor. “It’s not loaded.”
“Are you injured?” The younger officer with sympathetic blue eyes asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
The two officers glanced at each other. “Hilden, you better trace that blood trail.” His partner nodded and headed back out through the garage. “Show me where you saw the intruder.” He holstered his gun.
Cyndia led him into the living room. “I was reading on the couch. I got up and saw him at the front door. Grabbed empty shotgun and he was gone. I backed away and called 911, Officer?”
“Peterson. Did you notice if he was bleeding?”
“No, but I only saw waist up. He was blue and had a butcher knife. You found blood out there?”
Officer Peterson frowned. “What do you mean he was blue?”
“His face was blue.”
“A mask?”
“No, his skin was blue.” Cyndia pressed against the door window to see the blood they had seen. The houses across the street had opened up and their adult occupants started huddling and edging closer to the Baton’s yard. “Oh, the neighbors are coming over. Do you need to put up the yellow tape?”
Officer Peterson said something under his breath. “I need to find out where the blood came from.” He moved back through the kitchen and through the garage. Cyndia dumped the shotgun into a umbrella stand and followed him. “Miss Taeurs, you stay here.”
“The hell I am. What if that guy decides to circle around and come through the patio? Besides, I know the crime scene rules: don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything.”
Hilden stood at the end of the driveway address the gathering crowd. “Look, ladies and gentlemen, stay back and let us do our jobs. Just keep out of the yards.” They made some baffled statements, but didn’t move closer to the sidewalk. Hilden moved back up the driveway. “There’s a footprint in the flowerbed, and more blood drops across the driveway.” He pointed to dark spots on the pavement that glistened in the garage light. “I got that far before the onlookers arrived.” A roll of thunder punctuated the statement. “And now the weather.”
“First that weird plane crash, now this.” Peterson shook his head. He walked toward the porch and looked down at the trampled daylily. “Geez, what kind of shoes was this perp wearing?”
Cyndia moved closer. What she could make out in the black potting soil reminded her of a duck’s foot. Swimming fins would be longer. The wind gusted. “You better pour the plaster soon. I think it’s going to rain.”
This time Peterson didn’t bother muttering the swear word. “We don’t have plaster. Forensics has plaster.”
That was a dumb move. Regular cops should have something to protect evidence that will wash away. Cyndia trotted into the garage and scanned the storage shelves. The long plastic box holding Christmas ornaments looked wide enough. Eyes and brains might solve the crime, but you had to have admissible evidence for court. And Forensics always gets to the scene after everybody else.
The boxes of ornaments tumbled onto the concrete floor. A swipe with the hem of her T-shirt made sure she wasn’t transferring any debris. Then she presented the plastic box to Peterson. “This should cover the footprint.”
“Resourceful, aren’t you?” He carefully set the translucent box over the portion of the flowerbed. Some of the neighbors had moved up the Millers’ driveway to see what they were doing. Hilden trotted over to intercept them with his head bent looking at the ground.
“If you can’t roll with the punches, you wind up dead.”
Screams turned everyone’s head to a nearly identical house one lot over.
“Hell, now what!” Peterson ran toward the screams. “Hilden, keep them there!” He pushed around the bewildered group in the Millers’ driveway.
Cyndia ran after Peterson, ducking past Hilden trying to keep the street crowd from going up the driveway and sidewalk to the front door. The Millers’ front door was open, and Mrs. Gregory stood on the threshold screaming. Peterson pulled her out onto the cement walkway and stood where Mrs. Gregory had as he pulled his gun. His other hand grabbed the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. “Dispatch, looks like a 187 next door. Two bodies visible. Alert homicide and send more backup.”
Mrs. Gregory sobbed now, collapsing against Cyndia. Red was splattered on the golden-yellow walls. Mr. Miller lay in front of the door on his stomach. A puddle of blood spread over the ceramic tile right inside the door. Mrs. Miller sat on the couch, her head bent over the back with her chin pointing at the ceiling. Cyndia loosely wrapped her arms around Mrs. Gregory.
“How many people live here?” Peterson still hadn’t holstered his gun.
“They … they have three kids.”
“Stay here and don’t touch anything.” He stepped into the house, avoiding the blood and the body.
Cyndia hugged Mrs. Gregory tighter. The older woman showed no signs of stopping, and the shoulder of Cynthia’s T-shirt was already soaked. She frowned watching Peterson step around bloodstains on the carpet. Stains that looked the same as the footprint in the flowerbed.
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