Read Online Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery by Betty Webb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Betty Webb
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probably still screaming.”
“Finding the Camerons like that must have been rough on you, too.”
“My first homicides, and wouldn’t you know one of them had to be a kid.” A quick, stricken look. “Whoever did this disabled the alarm first.” He jutted out his chin, making a big show of being tough.
“You say ‘whoever,’ Officer Bocelli. Does that mean you don’t believe the story that Alison Cameron and her boyfriend committed the murders?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. I’m just a patrolman. Ready to see the house?”
“Let’s do it.”
When I opened the door leading into the kitchen, the combined stench of blood, rotting Chinese food, and another odor I couldn’t quite identify rocked me back. Certain companies specialize in cleaning crime scenes, but probably because of the difficulty reaching the victim’s brother, they hadn’t yet begun their job. The kitchen looked and smelled like a battleground, which I guess it was. Glasses lay smashed on the floor, food cans and milk had been opened and dumped on the black granite counters. The same red paint that defaced the cars had been sprayed on the Sub-Zero refrigerator door, and it had dribbled down to collect in a pool on the black-and-white marble tile floor.
After taking a few pictures with my iPhone, I moved into the formal dining room, Bocelli following close behind.
When the murderer broke in, the Camerons had been eating lunch at a long mahogany table. The few dishes not broken or carried away by the crime techs still held rotting portions of Chinese takeout. The crime scene photos showed three takeout cartons from Zhou’s Mandarin Wok, but remnants of their contents—possibly almond chicken—were still puddled on the table. Because the house was almost hermetically sealed, as most Arizona homes are during the hot summer, insect infestation wasn’t too far along. Still, the food appeared to be moving.
All it takes is one fly.
A plate lay smashed on the floor, its contents spilled onto pegged-oak flooring. Other plates, riffled from the big mahogany china hutch, had been hurled against the wall, splattering the damask coverings with sweet and sour sauce. Or blood. Each chair was overturned, splintered into kindling. So, too, the hutch, either a Duncan Phyfe, or a good copy. Tiny bits of gilt and glass littered the floor and the dining table, a mystery until I looked up and saw the dangling remnant of a crystal chandelier.
Black fingerprint powder was sprinkled everywhere.
I took more pictures.
The living room had once been beautiful, a symphony of oak, marble, and silk underneath a three-story vaulted ceiling. The oak floor was broken up by three Oriental silk rugs, their pastel hues mirroring beautiful peach- and blue-tinted sofas and chairs, but all the upholstery had been slashed to ribbons. Above the marble-fronted fireplace hung a life-sized oil portrait of Alexandra Cameron, who had also once been beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, perfect features accented by a lush mouth—her face and figure bore a strong resemblance to the actress Angelina Jolie. The painting was the only thing in the room that remained undamaged, almost as if the killer had relished the thought of it looking down on the carnage below.
The walls and floor where the bodies had been found were dappled in blood spatter, so much so that it dizzied my eyes, forcing me to concentrate on the three darker areas where the Camerons had finally, and mercifully, died. The boy, next to an ottoman; the mother, near the fireplace; Dr. Cameron, duct-taped to a chair facing them. If the medical examiner was right, he had been forced to watch his wife and son tortured before dying himself.
“Christ,” Bocelli muttered under his breath.
“Don’t see him around.” After I’d photographed every drop of blood, spilled food, and gutted piece of furniture, I said, “There had to be a lot of noise while all this was going on, even with their mouths taped shut.” When
“Finding the Camerons like that must have been rough on you, too.”
“My first homicides, and wouldn’t you know one of them had to be a kid.” A quick, stricken look. “Whoever did this disabled the alarm first.” He jutted out his chin, making a big show of being tough.
“You say ‘whoever,’ Officer Bocelli. Does that mean you don’t believe the story that Alison Cameron and her boyfriend committed the murders?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. I’m just a patrolman. Ready to see the house?”
“Let’s do it.”
When I opened the door leading into the kitchen, the combined stench of blood, rotting Chinese food, and another odor I couldn’t quite identify rocked me back. Certain companies specialize in cleaning crime scenes, but probably because of the difficulty reaching the victim’s brother, they hadn’t yet begun their job. The kitchen looked and smelled like a battleground, which I guess it was. Glasses lay smashed on the floor, food cans and milk had been opened and dumped on the black granite counters. The same red paint that defaced the cars had been sprayed on the Sub-Zero refrigerator door, and it had dribbled down to collect in a pool on the black-and-white marble tile floor.
After taking a few pictures with my iPhone, I moved into the formal dining room, Bocelli following close behind.
When the murderer broke in, the Camerons had been eating lunch at a long mahogany table. The few dishes not broken or carried away by the crime techs still held rotting portions of Chinese takeout. The crime scene photos showed three takeout cartons from Zhou’s Mandarin Wok, but remnants of their contents—possibly almond chicken—were still puddled on the table. Because the house was almost hermetically sealed, as most Arizona homes are during the hot summer, insect infestation wasn’t too far along. Still, the food appeared to be moving.
All it takes is one fly.
A plate lay smashed on the floor, its contents spilled onto pegged-oak flooring. Other plates, riffled from the big mahogany china hutch, had been hurled against the wall, splattering the damask coverings with sweet and sour sauce. Or blood. Each chair was overturned, splintered into kindling. So, too, the hutch, either a Duncan Phyfe, or a good copy. Tiny bits of gilt and glass littered the floor and the dining table, a mystery until I looked up and saw the dangling remnant of a crystal chandelier.
Black fingerprint powder was sprinkled everywhere.
I took more pictures.
The living room had once been beautiful, a symphony of oak, marble, and silk underneath a three-story vaulted ceiling. The oak floor was broken up by three Oriental silk rugs, their pastel hues mirroring beautiful peach- and blue-tinted sofas and chairs, but all the upholstery had been slashed to ribbons. Above the marble-fronted fireplace hung a life-sized oil portrait of Alexandra Cameron, who had also once been beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, perfect features accented by a lush mouth—her face and figure bore a strong resemblance to the actress Angelina Jolie. The painting was the only thing in the room that remained undamaged, almost as if the killer had relished the thought of it looking down on the carnage below.
The walls and floor where the bodies had been found were dappled in blood spatter, so much so that it dizzied my eyes, forcing me to concentrate on the three darker areas where the Camerons had finally, and mercifully, died. The boy, next to an ottoman; the mother, near the fireplace; Dr. Cameron, duct-taped to a chair facing them. If the medical examiner was right, he had been forced to watch his wife and son tortured before dying himself.
“Christ,” Bocelli muttered under his breath.
“Don’t see him around.” After I’d photographed every drop of blood, spilled food, and gutted piece of furniture, I said, “There had to be a lot of noise while all this was going on, even with their mouths taped shut.” When
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