If You Really Loved Me Read Online Free
Author: Ann Rule
on their sides, their caps off. He read the labels as he carefully slipped the bottles into evidence bags and initialed them. The first one had held Darvocet-N, 100 mg, #60, issued 11-28-84; the second one Dyazide #100, issued 6-29-82; and the third container—Darvocet-N too, also #100, number 2S, issued 11-24-83.
McLean wasn't an expert on pharmaceutical matters, but whatever this stuff was meant to do—if the vials had been full to begin with—it looked as if someone had taken an awful lot of it. Beyond that, empty pill bottles seemed out of place in a laundry room.
McLean lifted the drinking glass cautiously from the dryer, preparing to slip it into a bag and label it. The glass had a trace of clear liquid in the bottom, probably water. It was one of those premiums that fast-food restaurants give away, a Star Trek III glass with a picture of one of the series' villains on the side—Lord Kruge. He examined the glass, curious. The face embossed on the side was that of a glowering man, balding with straight dark hair, a mustache, and a pock-marked face. It was probably only a weird coincidence, but Lord Kruge looked startingly like the man he had just seen sitting on the couch in the living room, chain-smoking.
Back in the living room, Sergeant Farley briefed Fred McLean and Steve Sanders on what he knew so far. It wasn't much. The woman who had just died was Linda Marie Brown, the twenty-three-year-old wife of the man who sat on the brown-and-beige-flowered couch. She had apparently been shot sometime after midnight while she lay in her bed in the master bedroom. The most likely weapon still lay on the floor in that bedroom.
"Who was here?" McLean asked.
Farley gestured toward the nervous man on the couch. "The husband was out someplace and got back here after the shooting occurred. He's the reporting party. The blond girl with the baby is Patricia Bailey. She's seventeen."
"The baby's hers?"
Farley shook his head. "No, the child is his—David Brown's—and the dead woman's—Linda Brown's."
"Anyone else live here?"
"Cinnamon."
"Cinnamon?"
"Cinnamon Brown. She's fourteen, Brown's daughter by an earlier marriage. They think she did it."
McLean stared at the patrol sergeant. "Who thinks?"
Farley inclined his head in David Brown's direction. "Him—and Bailey. Cinnamon's gone."
Farley said that Patricia Bailey had told Officer Scott Davis that she thought she had seen Cinnamon after hearing gunshots, and that someone who looked like Cinnamon went out the back door after the shooting. Davis and Farley had searched the house, and the backyard and a small travel trailer that was pulled up next to the house, for any sign of a suspect or suspects.
"We didn't find anyone."
Farley said he had checked the yard thoroughly for the missing teenager, gone through the detached garage, and shone his flashlight into the dog pen behind the garage. There had been no sign of Cinnamon Brown.
McLean walked to the southwest bedroom, pondering the information he had just received about a likely suspect. He had been a homicide detective long enough to know that anything was possible. Still. Fourteen-year-old girls rarely used guns to get their way. If the kid— Cinnamon —had killed Linda Brown, what had gone on to lead up to it? Temper tantrums and teenage girls went together. But not this.
What kind of a violent kid were they looking for?
Or had Patricia Bailey been mistaken? She seemed on the edge of hysteria now; it was quite possible that she didn't know whom she had seen as a gun roared in the dark house.
The gun was there where the shooter had apparently dropped it. A chrome-plated, .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver with a two-inch barrel. Without moving it, McLean could see that it appeared to be loaded with silver-tip bullets, and that two or three of those bullets had been fired.
Bill Morrissey would work the case as the crime scene investigator. McLean would do the "people part." Morrissey would look for
McLean wasn't an expert on pharmaceutical matters, but whatever this stuff was meant to do—if the vials had been full to begin with—it looked as if someone had taken an awful lot of it. Beyond that, empty pill bottles seemed out of place in a laundry room.
McLean lifted the drinking glass cautiously from the dryer, preparing to slip it into a bag and label it. The glass had a trace of clear liquid in the bottom, probably water. It was one of those premiums that fast-food restaurants give away, a Star Trek III glass with a picture of one of the series' villains on the side—Lord Kruge. He examined the glass, curious. The face embossed on the side was that of a glowering man, balding with straight dark hair, a mustache, and a pock-marked face. It was probably only a weird coincidence, but Lord Kruge looked startingly like the man he had just seen sitting on the couch in the living room, chain-smoking.
Back in the living room, Sergeant Farley briefed Fred McLean and Steve Sanders on what he knew so far. It wasn't much. The woman who had just died was Linda Marie Brown, the twenty-three-year-old wife of the man who sat on the brown-and-beige-flowered couch. She had apparently been shot sometime after midnight while she lay in her bed in the master bedroom. The most likely weapon still lay on the floor in that bedroom.
"Who was here?" McLean asked.
Farley gestured toward the nervous man on the couch. "The husband was out someplace and got back here after the shooting occurred. He's the reporting party. The blond girl with the baby is Patricia Bailey. She's seventeen."
"The baby's hers?"
Farley shook his head. "No, the child is his—David Brown's—and the dead woman's—Linda Brown's."
"Anyone else live here?"
"Cinnamon."
"Cinnamon?"
"Cinnamon Brown. She's fourteen, Brown's daughter by an earlier marriage. They think she did it."
McLean stared at the patrol sergeant. "Who thinks?"
Farley inclined his head in David Brown's direction. "Him—and Bailey. Cinnamon's gone."
Farley said that Patricia Bailey had told Officer Scott Davis that she thought she had seen Cinnamon after hearing gunshots, and that someone who looked like Cinnamon went out the back door after the shooting. Davis and Farley had searched the house, and the backyard and a small travel trailer that was pulled up next to the house, for any sign of a suspect or suspects.
"We didn't find anyone."
Farley said he had checked the yard thoroughly for the missing teenager, gone through the detached garage, and shone his flashlight into the dog pen behind the garage. There had been no sign of Cinnamon Brown.
McLean walked to the southwest bedroom, pondering the information he had just received about a likely suspect. He had been a homicide detective long enough to know that anything was possible. Still. Fourteen-year-old girls rarely used guns to get their way. If the kid— Cinnamon —had killed Linda Brown, what had gone on to lead up to it? Temper tantrums and teenage girls went together. But not this.
What kind of a violent kid were they looking for?
Or had Patricia Bailey been mistaken? She seemed on the edge of hysteria now; it was quite possible that she didn't know whom she had seen as a gun roared in the dark house.
The gun was there where the shooter had apparently dropped it. A chrome-plated, .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver with a two-inch barrel. Without moving it, McLean could see that it appeared to be loaded with silver-tip bullets, and that two or three of those bullets had been fired.
Bill Morrissey would work the case as the crime scene investigator. McLean would do the "people part." Morrissey would look for
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