The Zero Point - A Beautiful Day for a Walk

Introduction of the main characters and the murder that will begin the story

A Beautiful Day for a Walk

 

 

 

     It was truly a beautiful day and Dillon McBride sat peacefully at the breakfast table admiring the cloudless rich blue sky. The view out the window of his back yard made him all the more relaxed. The neatly manicured grass gave way to scrub brush-covered hills that quickly transformed to majestic peaks of russet earth and rock to the east.  It was lovely he thought.

He put the spoon down as he finished his bowl of wheat germ cereal.  His age was catching up with his weathered body and a fiber diet was 'very important' his young wife continued to remind him. He looked over at Martha thinking about his luck in finding her. As good as the day looked outside, it couldn’t compare to the dream he had walking around his house.

It was Dillon’s second marriage. His first wife refused to deal with the trials and tribulations of military life, leaving him a 'get lost' note while he was stationed in Iraq during the first gulf war.  It was hard dealing with the rejection and he found himself in a San Diego military hospital detoxing from alcohol and pain reliever addictions. 

He was pretty sure he would have not made it through, save for the beautiful nurse that showed an unrelenting care for his well being as he experienced the pain and anguish of the alcohol leaving his liver. Even though he was again cleared for duty, he never was able to get Martha out of his mind and his duties in the US Marines suffered because of it. It was obviously time to retire from his first love now that he had found a new one.

Martha came into the room and looked at Dillon in a funny way. “Are you OK?” she asked.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

He got up from the chair and moved around to give her a big hug and kiss. He looked into her eyes and thought back to the day he found her again in San Diego.  Percocets had once again gained control of his life, as he sat in the corner of a Mission Beach bar. He was popping another pill when he looked up to find the scowl of the most beautiful face he knew. 

He didn’t know why, but she took the time to bring him back once again.  How could he not love her and a year later he found himself back home in his childhood city of Santa Fe, married to the beautiful nurse who has taken care of him every since. 

“You ARE going to be home by six, right?” Martha questioned firmly.

     “Ah, six, ah right, Yes. Yes I am.” Dillon said regaining his composure and assuring his wife.  “Bobby’s baseball game, I’ll be there.”

     Martha nodded her head.  “Well, at least you remembered.”

     Dillon grabbed his briefcase, keys and shoulder harness for the trusty .45 caliber autoloader he kept close to him at all times.  He put on his suit jacket and took a moment to say good-bye to his son. 

     “I’ll see you at six.”

     “OK dad.” His son said.

     Outside, he stopped, letting the screen door of the house close behind him, smelling the warm dry air of spring and the fragrances of the Apricot Mallow and Brittle Brush growing along the trimmed hedges nearby. The deep breath of the arid atmosphere tingled his nose but refreshed him all the same.  He placed his coffee mug on the roof of the car as he dug through his pockets for the keys.  Static cracked on the speaker of his police radio.  Instinctively, he reached down to adjust the squelch control. 

     The police dispatch officer announced, “Attention all cars, attention all cars.  187 reported on Alamo Drive.  Please respond.” 

     'S**t, a murder?' Dillon thought to himself. 'That’s just two streets over.'

     He quickly opened the car door and jumped inside, turning the key before he had his body, coffee or briefcase in the car.  With his seat belt now on and the car in reverse, he realized his morning was not going to be as he imagined when the coffee and the cup tilted forward from the acceleration of the car and spilled down the front windshield. 

     “S**T!” This time he said aloud.

     Dillon peered out through the slurry mess of coffee grounds and windshield wiper fluid as he drove down his road and around the corner to Alamo Drive.  As he turned onto the street, he could see the gathering of neighbors looking over the crime scene.  Getting out of the car, he noticed a very excited women pushing through a group of neighbors to be the first person to talk to him. 

     “I saw it! I saw it!” she yelled over the throng of spectators, grabbing Dillon’s arm to get his attention.

     “Yes ma’am.” He said working to remove her grip from his shoulder. “Give me a moment to look over the victim and I will get back with you, ok?  Thank you.”

     “Everyone back up please, backup.” Dillon instructed as he used his arms to demonstrate the area he wanted clear around the dead man.  He looked at the still folded corpse of the victim, the pool of blood neatly outlining his body on the concrete sidewalk.  He carefully stepped around the body and the blood so that he could get a better reach at the victim’s jacket pocket.  The man’s clothes were crusted with dirt and smelled worse than a heavily used Porta-Potty at an outdoor concert. 

Looking at the victim, he remembered the undesirable duty of removing identifying personal effects from fallen Iraqi soldiers during Desert Storm. Sometimes their bodies fell apart in his arms; the results of the Fuel Air Explosive bombs that were a cheap man’s nuclear warhead. The soldiers were scorched to a cinder. The sand had even turned to dirty glass in places from the intense heat. 

     Dillon was carefully lifting the victim’s jacket when the remainder of the police respondents made their way down Alamo Drive in a flurry of squealing sirens and screeching tires.

     Sgt. Patrick Donovan was a tall, lean, almost gangly wire of a man who usually did not fit well into any suit he wore.  He had been Dillon’s partner since Dillon joined the force after he retired from his military service. Patrick was a loyal junior officer with great leadership potential Dillon thought, and he was happy to see him arrive. 

     “Never a good way to start the day is it?” he posited to Dillon. 

     “No, not really.”

     “So what’s the deal?”

     “Don’t know yet.” Dillon offered. “Just got here myself.  The lady over there says she saw it, so I would start with her.  I was just looking at his wallet.”  Dillon had removed the wallet from the victim’s pocket and was going through it.  “Let’s see here…”

     “Well, hello Mr. Stephens, not a good day for a walk is it.” Dillon sarcastically offered.  “Oh excuse me, Doctor Stephens.” He clarified as the search of the wallet produced a personal business card with ‘PhD’ at the end of his name. 

     Sgt. Donovan had started to look over the body while Dillon continued with the wallet.  The headshot was perfectly positioned, right between the eyes.  Dillon could see the squeamish scowl pale across Patrick’s face.  Looking down at the victim, he had to agree with Patrick’s feelings. It was too close to breakfast to be dealing with this.  It wasn’t long before Patrick was tapping Dillon on the shoulder with a serious look of unease on his face.

     “Lieutenant, you should look at this.” He suggested.  “I think we have a problem.”

     Dillon looked quickly towards the hand.  There, along the wrist was a silvery metal band like a bracelet. It fit snugly to Stephens’ arm as if the band had been welded there in place instead of slipped over his hand. But it was the pulsing red glow of cascading lights, which were decreasing in number that really caught his attention.  “Crap!” he added to the discussion. 

     Dillon quickly stood up, walked over to the other officers maintaining the crowd and told them to start pushing people back away from the crime scene.  Dillon looked over towards Patrick for help as the crowd began to get worried and the tension was beginning to set in that something serious was wrong. Dillon turned back to Patrick with a look of concern and picked up his police radio to ask for more backup and the bomb squad. 

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

     The oversized window in the office allowed streams of bright sunlight to cascade across the old style wooden furniture and fixtures of the posh room.  A large collection of pictures created refractions of color that marched across the walls and ceiling as clouds passed by.  Outside, the marble and majestic buildings of Washington D.C. could be seen lining the grounds of the National Mall as tourist walked between the monuments.  A large high-back leather chair was turned so that the occupant could look out at the stately world capital and admire the overwhelming feeling of supremacy garnered by its visage.  The mammoth desk of mahogany and teak was covered with hand carved decorations running the perimeter of the opulent desk’s edges, suggesting the occupant wielded some level of importance to afford such a status symbol. 

     “So, I assume from the call that our situation has been remedied?” A deep, powerfully commanding voice said from the chair. 

     The voice on the phone continued the conversation, “For now.  However, the transmission he sent out was heavily encrypted.  It’s pretty unique. But I have confidence the team will crack it soon enough.  It’s only a matter of time before we do.”

     The man in the chair was not so confident. 

     “You seem so sure. Of course if your security detail had been more observant in the first place we wouldn’t be having this conversation would we.” 

     “No, I guess not.  But that has been handled as well.  Unfortunately, some people must learn the hard way the importance their position plays in the overall big picture.”

     The voice on the phone concluded with a short snort of a laugh.  The man on the phone caught the innuendo, allowing him to assume that the ‘hard way’ involved a fair amount of pain and suffering for the security guard.

     “Good, let’s make sure this concludes with the normal legal process, preferably unsolved.  It’s always good to watch the police sweat as their mistakes are highlighted on national television.”

     The door of the office suddenly swung open permitting a cacophony of voices and other sounds from the anteroom to break the peace and tranquility of the sun’s late morning playful dance. 

     “Meeting in ten minutes sir.” The secretary announced standing at the door to make sure the man on the phone understood the importance of ending his call.

     “Thank you Kim, I’m on my way.”

     He said goodbye to the man on the phone and replaced the phone in its holder. Gathering his stacks of papers, he made his way towards the secretary and the door.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

     It was difficult to control the growing interest in the homicide at Alamo Drive now that the bomb squad had arrived along with another contingent of police officers to administer the crowds.  Making matters worse, the press, always monitoring the police band radio, was showing up in droves.  It’s not that murder is uncommon in Sante Fe, but the need for the bomb squad to investigate one certainly can draw attention. 

     “It’s not a lot to go on, the blue car and all.” Patrick said, relating to Dillon his conversation with the woman who saw the murder. 

     “Well, maybe.”

     Dillon’s mind began to assimilate the facts.

     “Government issue huh, and she didn’t get the license?”

     Patrick confirmed the lack of essential information necessary to any police investigation. 

     “Interesting.”  Dillon continued.  “I pulled this swipe card out of the victim’s other pocket while looking for his wallet earlier.”

     He showed Patrick the standard credit card size security tag used commonly to grant entrance to secure facilities.  The Doctor’s picture was on the card, placed on a blue background with a series of barcodes at the bottom. But that was not what caught Dillon’s attention.

     “See this,” pointing to the letter ‘Q’ in the upper right hand portion of the security card.  “This is Los Alamos or Sandia but considering where we are, I would say Los Alamos.  This letter means our Doctor here is probably a research fellow at the facility, considering it denotes he has a very high clearance and has access to national nuclear secrets.”

     Patrick looked curious and Dillon smiled. He was fond of recounting the interesting tidbits of military and government trivia he had stored in his mind.  He knew Patrick enjoyed the stories of intrigue and war, of politics and justice.  His age put him in that position between international conflicts and with parents not particularly keen on military service, Patrick had to find his interest in serving the country and community within the law enforcement arena instead. 

     “And we have an unmarked government style car at the scene of the murder.” Patrick followed the logic.  

     “Don’t get too far ahead yet.  That car could be anything.” Dillon reminded Patrick.

     Patrick continued with his thoughts, “Yes, but our little busy body over there,” pointing to the lady, “confirmed the car had the standard issue, chrome hubcaps that are common on government vehicles and police interceptors. She also confirmed that the license plate was white, not New Mexico yellow.  Correct me if I am wrong, but aren’t government license plates white?”

     “Yes, but so are many other states.  The older plates from our Texas neighbors are white.” Dillon offered while holding the security card in front of him. “Either way, we still need to take a trip to Los Alamos.”

     The bomb squad had just finished and gave the all clear. The metal treaded robot, looking more like a medical examination device from a horror movie with multiple probes of unknown consequence and mechanical hands, slowly angled up the gangway of the trailer truck to return home.  Dillon and Patrick met the squad commander to get an update.  He was holding something in his hand, sleek and smooth, similar to the common rubber bracelets promoting causes but made of metal. .

     “Harmless really,” the squad command concluded. ”But we are picking up some sort of transmission from the device.  No idea what, but it’s still harmless.”

     “Really?”  Dillon inquired; questioning the commander’s understanding of the word harmless, considering it was actively engaged in something.  “Well get somebody to figure out what it’s doing.”

     Dillon and Patrick took the device, looked at it and asked the evidence team to make sure they got a few pictures.  The sides seemed to have a slotted patterned on it.  Whatever it was doing they couldn’t tell, but they could see the soft glow of white lights shining through the case, presenting unfamiliar symbols that flashed in a regular pattern.  Without a clear understanding of what the device was doing, Dillon and Patrick were too nervous to continue with the inspection. 

     The rest of the evidence, minus the security card, were collected and sent to police headquarters.  Dillon assigned one of the officers to handle the crime scene while they went to check out the Doctor’s house just down the street.  The coroner had arrived and was busily removing the body for examination.  Both Dillon and Patrick looked at each other with a hint of nausea then back towards the coroner, thanking their fortune that was a job they did not have to complete. 

     The house of the Doctor was at best only describable as a disaster area. Cracked windows with ripped screens, trees and broken limbs scattered around the yard.  The grass �" what little there was �" had grown into patches of tall weeds with small animals scurrying between them for protection.  Wood and paneling from a half finished house project lay in the yard blocking a part of the driveway.  The trashcans were overflowing and covered in ants.  Fire ants in fact, a common nuisance in the southwest, had taken up residence in mounds along the side of the house and were casually feeding on the leftover biomass to sustain their growing community.  It was evident that the roof had not been repaired in years with buckles and sags all along the frame while grass and weeds actually grew from the gutters.

     Dillon knew this was going to be a problematic investigation just by looking in the windows of the home.  Papers were everywhere.  Newspapers, magazines, stationary and other writing material covered the tables and chairs.  Stacks of books of all kinds, but particularly textbooks, commanded positions of towering dominance over the rest of the refuse. What space was left was covered with old coffee cups and soda cans, take-out dinners and bags of half eaten chips rolled up and held closed with large paperclips.  Patrick motioned to Dillon to check out the blackboard in the living room that had been partially erased and smashed. 

     After getting no response from knocking, the door to the house was easily jimmied and the police officers made a more disturbing inspection of the home.  The trash was one thing, but the rotting smell of old TV dinners and bowls of food covered in mold suggested they should look in the kitchen last for any information, assuming they could make it that long.  The living room seemed to be the central point of the Doctor’s life.  A desk and computer in the corner of the room facing the TV and the blackboard obviously became his personal prison as the bedrooms showed little activity, trash or furniture. 

     Dillon and Patrick moved on to the most likely candidate for information; the desk and computer. It was plastered with notepads and torn papers all covered with mathematical formula and odd engineering doodles neither one of the officers understood.  A collection of personal and industrial batteries lined the back of the desk, as if the Doctor had a fanatical interest in the power source.  The computer was off and Patrick turned it on to see what he could find while Dillon rummages the desk.  Dillon saw Patrick hesitate in his inspection.

     “What’s up?” Dillon queried.

     “I could have sworn something moved between the keys on the keyboard.”

     The infrequent use of the outer keys, combined with the addition of varying food scraps, had allowed a peach fuzz covered skin of dirt and mold to grow undisturbed without the fear of a maid’s spray solvent.

     Patrick scrunched his nose. “I just don’t understand how people live like this.”  He said as he put on a pair of surgical gloves he kept in his coat pocket. 

     Most the information lying around was all similar; scientific notes and project material.  Dillon began to brush his foot back and forth over the litter on the floor by the desk moving a backpack out of the way to see what was underneath.  Most of the material was labeled with scientific terminology he was not able to understand considering he never finished college and only made officer in the Marines by completing the Officers Candidate School program.  He did notice a series of martial arts books and tapes that looked out of the ordinary considering the rest of the room.  But as he continued to scavenge, one item stood out.  Under a couple of technical drawings, the Albuquerque Journal newspaper was laying to the side of the desk folded over and facing down with a partially visible, hand drawn circle sweeping from the back to the front of the hidden cover.  Dillon picked up the paper and turned it over to a story that had been circled.  Dillon read;

 

‘Prominent lawyer and community activist, Daniel Kincaid, was found in his home Friday night after failing to appear at an area meeting on park planning in which he was scheduled to present the interior department’s findings.  In what appears to be a murder-suicide, Mr. Kincaid shot his wife and two sons before turning the gun on himself.  He left a typed note asking for forgiveness. Local authorities had recently become aware of Mr. Kincaid’s possible involvement in embezzlement of corporate funds at his partnership office as well as the possibility of funds missing from the park service’s revitalization fund…’

    

     “Looks like this case just got a little more interesting.” Dillon offered as he put the news article in front of Patrick’s face.  “Wonder why the good Doctor is so interested in the suicide of a lawyer in Albuquerque last week?”

     Patrick looked over the article quickly, “Good question.  But a better question is why is the computer completely wiped?”

     “Wiped?”

     “Yeah, totally clean, nothing on it.  It’s like it has been purposely erased.”

     Dillon casually looked down at the black monitor of the computer as Patrick continued to tinker with the unit.

     “Someone trying the hide something?”

     Patrick nodded in agreement, but Dillon’s attention was distracted by a nagging feeling running along the back of his neck.  He was looking around the house in a way only a trained investigative mind would.  He noticed that papers in the house were stacked neatly, although everywhere, which gave the appearance of disorderly trash. Clothes tended to be in piles but only in one main location.  Others were just lying around anywhere.  Some drawers were partially open while others were pulled out to the point of being off their hinge.  He left Patrick looking at the computer and walked around the rest of the house.  His senses went off as he passed by the bathroom. Something wasn’t right.  He stepped in and pushed the yellowed curtain away from the frosted window.  He looked at the window, which seems to be nothing more than what you would expect except the frame seemed off. He pushed on the bottom of the windowsill and the whole window pushed out like a portal. 

“Ok, that’s not normal.”

He saw that the window was like and escape hatch or secret entry. ‘Why go the trouble to make a secret entrance or exit from your house?’ He wondered.

Heading back to the living room Dillon was convinced they were not the first ones to be here. 

     “Look, don’t touch anything else.” Dillon commanded. “Someone has been here recently looking for something. We need to get the evidence team in here.”

     “Oh they’re really going to enjoy that.”

     “Yeah.” Dillon said almost deadpan, his mind still distracted too much to acknowledge Patrick’s sarcasm.

     Leaving everything in place, save the newspaper article, Dillon and Patrick made their way out of the house and radioed to the other officers at the crime scene.  Patrick offered a quiet, guttural snicker as Dillon informed the other police about their forth-coming adventure. 

     “Look, there seems to be more to all of this and I have that nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I’m not going to like it.” Dillon began, “Have some officers question the neighbors here, then go back to HQ and dig up all you can on the good Doctor and see where that leads.  Somebody must know him and maybe we can get a better feel for why he had an interest in the lawyer’s death.”

     “Yeah, sure.”

     “I’m going to head up to the Lab and find out who worked with him, maybe find out why someone wanted him dead.”

     “Fine with me,” Patrick offered, “I certainly won’t miss the trip.”

     Looking at his watch, Dillon realized his trip to Los Alamos would need to be quick if he was going to get back into town for his son’s baseball game. As he drove, He reflected on the other homicides he had investigated since joining the police force here in his hometown of Sante Fe. 

‘Nothing like this,’ he thought. 

     He had expected a somewhat easy police career after his retirement from the Marines.  Certainly not as hard as what was expected of him in the Marine Special Forces, and especially in a town of only 65,000 people. This case however, was by no means typical.  He could feel it.  Something was wrong with it; something he hoped would become much more apparent when he got to Los Alamos.  

Author's Note

This has not been professionally edited so there will likely be grammar, spelling or style errors.