Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Trey Simms was not surprised when the lab tech told him it would be several weeks before she could even look at his forty-year-old skeleton. He hoped calling it a “high priority” for Sheriff Lowry would speed up the process, but she only scoffed and said, “Everything is a high priority for Sheriff Lowry.”

  So it came as a shock when less than a week later he got a message to call the lab about his skeleton from the closet.

  “Are you aware that your vic was shot twice in the back of the head?” the tech asked.

  Simms was very much aware, having spent several nights poring over the case files. The facts of the case were simple: A local farmer found the body in a lowlying area of his back forty in the southern part of the county. It was March and the ground had begun to thaw. The victim was approximately 30 years old, according to the report. Due to the damp conditions, the body was badly decomposed and had been dragged—probably by coyotes—before it was found. Two bullet casings from a Model 10 Smith & Wesson were recovered along with the skeletal remains. The victim had no identification and no personal belongings. The only recognizable scrap of clothing was a tattered piece from what appeared to be a green raincoat. The color of the coat led the deputy to believe it was a woman’s garment. The report concluded that based on the size of the skeleton and the type of clothing found, the body was that of a female. The cause of death was gunshot wounds to the head, and the case was labeled a homicide. With a lack of sophisticated scientific technology in 1964, common sense proved to be as big a part of crime solving as DNA evidence is today.

  The report documented that over the next few months, numerous people were brought in to try to make an identification of Jane Doe. No one claimed the body, which was left in the cold case closet to rot, along with the identities of the victim and the killer.

  “There’s not a lot left to work with here, Trey,” the tech said. “I doubt computer recognition software could even help. However, I think the forensic artist we used on the Sorenson case may be able to sculpt a face from the skull.”

  “Well, that’s good news, right?” The rookie was apprehensive, yet hopeful. Not only was the sheriff breathing down his neck on this case, he had a personal interest as well.

  “That work costs big bucks, and we don’t have a family paying for it this time. Do you think the boss will sign off on it?”

  “I’ll talk to him and let you know.”

  “By the way Simms, you might also want to let him know this: Your Jane Doe is actually a John Doe.”

  Chapter Two

  An old brick warehouse from the ‘70s, formerly used to store restaurant equipment, served as the home of the Northeast Texas Tribune, a regional newspaper that came out three times a week. Although most people took the Dallas paper, the Tribune covered news from three counties. It was the go-to paper to find out who died, who tied the knot, and who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, business-wise, that is. Local ads and obituaries kept the newspaper afloat. Although they were not hiring, Deena knew the editor, and he agreed to talk to her about a job.

  Like a teenager applying for her first job at the movie theatre, Deena spent an hour trying on different outfits to find one that said “mature, responsible journalist” without looking like a “matronly, retired school teacher.” She never cared that much about fashion.

  Deena was attractive, yet she never thought her hair looked quite right or that her make-up had that flawless look. By this time in her life, however, she had grown comfortable enough with her appearance, except for those darn gray roots. She looked around her closet and suddenly hated all her clothes. Everything seemed too young or too old or too boring or too something. A whole new wardrobe was what she needed. Too bad she hated clothes shopping.

  She finally decided on an old stand-by: a navy blue pants suit and crisp white shirt. Heels would make her look younger, but flats would be safer—she was known to be a little clumsy at times. Red pumps would add a youthful flare to her outfit. One time she read about wealthy women who could pull off a “moneyed casual” look. She studied herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. Casual? Yes, she thought. Moneyed? Not so much. She added several pieces of turquoise jewelry, including a squash blossom necklace Gary had bought her in Santa Fe. Good enough, she thought and headed out the door.

  Once inside the building, she walked past several jeans-wearing, t-shirted twenty-somethings, all glued to one electronic device or another. As she waited outside of the editor’s office, her red pumps stared up at her like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and she immediately began re-thinking her choice of apparel. It looks like I’m trying too hard, she thought. She pulled down on her pants legs to try to cover as much of her shoes as possible. Glancing through the office window, she saw Lloyd Pryor, editor-in-chief, talking on the phone. He was wearing a short sleeve shirt without a tie and a pair of khakis. She could just make out what appeared to be a coffee stain on his shirt. Feeling self-conscious, she pulled off her bangle bracelets and slipped them into her purse.

  “Come on in Deena,” Pryor said. “So, you want to work for the newspaper.” He sat down behind his desk, picked up a half-eaten sandwich, smelled it, and then threw it in the trash.

  “Yes sir. I thought I might try getting off the sidelines and into the game.”

  The weary editor leaned back in his chair and swiveled back and forth, all the while keeping an eye on his newsroom. “You know we can’t pay you anywhere close to what you made teaching.”

  “Money is not an issue,” she said and immediately regretted it. “I mean, it matters of course, but the main thing is that I want to write. I don’t expect to get rich.”

  “I see. Do you have any samples of what you have written in the past?”

  Deena knew this would come up and was ready with an answer. “I have articles I wrote in college, but that was a while ago. For the past twenty-nine years I have taught, edited, proofread, re-written, and published hundreds of articles. I have several students working at professional publications, including some who contributed to this newspaper.” She leaned forward a little. “I consider that my portfolio.” Boo-yah, she thought. Game, set, match.

  He shook his head in agreement. “As you know, the only opening I have now is in ad sales, and I doubt that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “No, you’re right.” The last thing she had sold face-to-face was Girl Scout cookies, and she ended up eating most of them herself.

  “How about this,” he said. “Spend some time writing for one of the online sites to brush up on your skills and show me what you’ve got. Check back with me in about a month, and I’ll see what I can do. Things get busier around here in the fall.”

  “Online sites? You mean like blogging?”

  “No, definitely not blogging. Here is a list of three pretty good ones. You can write various kinds of articles—mostly informational—to be published online. You might even earn a little money in the process. It’s a type of freelancing. You’ll understand once you look into it.” He jotted down the names and passed her the paper.

  “That sounds great.” She was lying, of course, but shook his hand. “Thanks Lloyd. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  As she turned to head out the office door, she felt sure he was staring at her red shoes.

  *

  Before even one single lump of clay could be laid across the plastic model of the skull of John Doe-1964, Dr. Erin Sparks knew she had to add precise markers to key areas of the skeleton. Forensic anthropology relies on specific measurements to recreate the features lost by death and decay. It is a painstaking process, requiring an objective mind and an artistic eye.

  She replaced missing parts of bone with plastic pieces carefully shaped to patch up the skull’s tapestry, once perfect but now tattered and threadbare. The bullets had destroyed much of the back of the skull. The jawbones had to be secured. One eye socket was merely a splintered void. Like a mason putting up drywall, she knew all the se
ams would be perfectly hidden once she applied the finishing compound.

  Like a buzzard circling its prey, Dr. Sparks walked around and around the mounted skull trying to determine if her calculations were correct and if each marker was in its proper position. Once the transformation began, there would be no turning back. She and her assistant had spent four days getting to this point. Satisfied at last, she was ready to begin the wet work.

  Opening a fresh package, her fingers dug into the moist brown clay. She pressed it into the forehead section and smoothed it out as if performing a delicate facial massage. Every line, every crease had to be perfect. The work, slow and painstaking, would continue for several days.

  Her lab assistant knew this was when Dr. Sparks herself transformed from scientist to artist. With the precision of a surgeon and the creativity of a sculptor, she began to reveal the face that time and the elements had stripped away.

  Staring at the man who entered her life a stranger just a week earlier, Dr. Sparks contemplated his life and death. What had he done to be murdered in such a way? Was he an evil monster or an innocent victim? Where was his family? Had they lost hope after one, two, twenty years of waiting? Would anyone remember and identify him?

  These questions kept her keen on getting the details just right. The mouth, quieted by an assassin’s merciless act; the eyes, blinded by piercing hot steel—these were the most important features to capture, the critical keys to expression. Getting them wrong could be the difference between lying eternally in a pauper’s grave or coming home with a hero’s welcome. Day after day, she performed her magical resurrection.

  Finally, on the afternoon of the last day, she stepped back, smiled, and said warmly, “Hello, John.”

  *

  After three weeks of waiting for Dr. Sparks to finish the model, Deputy Simms was ready to release the face of John Doe 1964 to the media. Sheriff Lowry had said in an interview that the department owed it to the citizens of Perry County to allocate the funds for a complete facial reconstruction sculpture to be made of the victim, especially considering how his predecessors botched the original case. When the forensics lab reassembled the skeleton, it was obvious the victim was male, not female.

  The department had a lot riding on this case. Not only would they have to hope the artist’s sculpture was accurate, they would also need people who had known the victim to recognize him and call in a tip. Forty years of life can wipe away a lot of memories.

  “Any of the tips worth following up on?” Sheriff Lowry asked at the end of the first day.

  “Not so far,” Simms said. “Mostly they have been crackpots claiming the vic was Buddy Holly or Jimmy Hoffa. I ran down a few names, but they were people who were never missing in the first place. The article ran in the Dallas paper yesterday and the Tribune today. Tomorrow it will be in the Ft. Worth newspaper and on some of the news stations. Maybe we’ll get more real tips.”

  “Let me know as soon as something useful turns up. We spent a piss-load of the county’s money on this case, and I want something to show for it.” Lowry picked up a file on his desk, a signal that meant Simms was dismissed. Relief washed over him as he headed to the front desk to pick up the stack of new messages from Renee, the receptionist. Luckily, the sheriff had not asked for any of the specifics that Simms would just as soon keep hidden. “Anything good?” he asked.

  “Only if you are still looking for Elvis,” Renee replied. As the main receptionist, Renee was the first line of communications for the office. She had gotten the job right out of high school and could be counted on to screen the important calls from the quacks.

  Simms scoffed and headed down the long hallway to his office. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the John Doe flier off a stack of files. John Doe, he wondered, who are you?

  The next morning the tips started pouring in. Most of the callers were not sure if the person they were calling about had ever gone missing, but the resemblance was “uncanny.” Or so they claimed. Simms continued running names through the missing person’s database with no luck. Then Renee called asking him to come to the front desk.

  “Whatcha got?” He stared at the large stack of messages in front of her.

  She put two more callers on hold and slid the notes toward him. “Look at this top message. This is the third caller who identified the same person. The other two are in the stack somewhere. Thought you might want to know.” She pressed one of the blinking red buttons on the console in front of her. “Perry County Sheriff’s Office. Can I help you?”

  Simms took the messages and headed back to his office. Matthew Meade, he read off the top message, are you our John Doe? Flipping through the notes, he found the two others that named the same man. Turning to his computer, he entered the name. Nothing. No hits. Still, this was his first real lead. He dialed the phone number on the first message.

  “Fred Tucker? This is Deputy Trey Simms of the Perry County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Oh yes,” said the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “I guess you got my message about Matthew Meade.”

  “Yes sir. What makes you think the picture in the paper is him?”

  “Well, I grew up in Bingham, you see, and the Meade family went to our church. Their boy Matthew was a few years behind me in school.” He coughed a few times before he continued. “After he got back from the army, he moved up to Maycroft. I remember that something happened and he disappeared. Right out of thin air.”

  “When was that?”

  “Well, let’s see now. That would have been some time in the sixties. Early sixties. I was living in Austin then but remember hearing all about it. Such a shame—a fine young man.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you remember the names of any of his family members?”

  “No. That’s all I can remember for now. I’ll think on it some more and call you back if I come up with anything.”

  “I would be much obliged, sir. Thank you for calling.” He hung up the phone and turned straight to his computer.

  Renee walked in. “I’m taking a short break. Got anything?”

  “Maybe,” Simms said without turning around from his screen. He began searching the internet for everyone named Matthew Meade from Texas. Renee slipped out the door, leaving him to his work.

  There were more people with that name than he had imagined, so he telephoned the next lead, hoping she might have more information.

  “I am so glad you called Officer Simms. I have been nearly sick to death ever since I saw that picture in the paper. I am positively sure that is Cora and Frank’s boy from Bingham.”

  Simms wrote down the names as he listened to the elderly woman’s dramatic tale.

  “Back in the early 1960s, ‘63 perhaps, poor Matthew disappeared off the face of God’s good earth. He had taken a job up there in Maycroft instead of staying with his kin and going to work with his daddy at the market. That was bad enough. But then to disappear like that? All they found was his car. Why, Cora and Frank were beside themselves with worry. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Of course.”

  “They hired a private detective and did everything they could think of, but they never did find that boy. You can imagine what people back home were thinking. No evidence of a crime. Just taking off and leaving his mama and daddy to worry themselves to death.” She took a deep breath. “Now, I read in the paper that his dead body was found in a pasture just a few miles away in Perry County and not long after he disappeared. And they thought he was a woman? Well, I’m just sick, I am.”

  “Mrs. Davidson, do you know how I can get in touch with the Meade family?”

  “God rest his soul, Frank has passed. Cora is living with her sister in Ft. Worth, though. Let me just find my address book and see if I have their number.” She set down the receiver.

  Simms could hardly believe what he was hearing. His heart pounded and his hand shook a little as he waited for her to return. Deputy of the Year, he thought, picturing a gold plaque
with his name engraved in bold letters. Lowry will shake my hand, and I’ll get my picture in the newspaper.

  “I don’t have their telephone number, but I have their address. Do you have a pen?” Simms wrote down the information and promised to call back. Just then, Renee stepped back into the office.

  “Trey, there’s someone on line three I think you want to talk to.”

  Staring at the flier again, he picked up the phone and pushed the button to answer. “Deputy Simms here. Can I help you?”

  “Hello. My name is Cora Meade. My son is Matthew Meade.”

  Chapter Three

  “We found Matthew,” the frail voice on the other end of the line said. Deena had not heard from her great-aunt Lucy Lancaster since Christmas. Her voice was raspy but recognizable.

  Deena’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” was all she could manage to utter as she leaned forward on the sofa.

  “We found Cora’s Matthew,” she repeated more slowly. “It turns out his body was found in March of 1964, about five months after he disappeared. They identified the body as a woman, though, and so they never connected it to Matthew.” Lucy took a breath, sounding as if she were giving a rehearsed speech—a Cliff’s Notes version of the story. Deena realized later that her elderly great-aunt had probably repeated the story numerous times over the past few days as she called all the pertinent relatives on behalf of her ailing sister.

  “They found the remains in an old storage closet at the sheriff’s department and used the skull to form his face. They put a picture in the newspaper. Someone Cora used to go to church with thought it looked like Matthew. She called us, and Cora called the Perry County Sheriff’s Office. A deputy came up here to Ft. Worth and got pictures of Matthew and a DNA sample from Cora. Yesterday they called and said it was a match to his teeth.” She let out a long sigh.