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    Seeing Red
    Seeing Red
    Seeing Red
    Ebook134 pages2 hours

    Seeing Red

    By Terry Odell

    4.5/5

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    • Mystery

    • Crime

    • Investigation

    • Police

    • Homicide

    • Police Procedural

    • Family Secrets

    • Red Herring

    • Whodunit

    • Amateur Sleuth

    • Unlikely Allies

    • Chase

    • Hard-Boiled Detective

    • Hidden in Plain Sight

    • Small Town Mystery

    • Romance

    • Book Promotion

    • Justice

    • Fiction

    • Detective

    About this ebook

    Three short works featuring Florida Homicide Detective James T. Kirkland who has to put up with a Star Trek loving Medical Examiner, an ex-wife, and a cousin who overreacts to just about everything. Sometimes murder happens when and where you least expect it.


    Redshirted.
    "He's dead, Jim." Homicide Detective James T. Kirkland dreads the Star-Trek loving medical examiner's joy in stating the obvious. This time, the victim was wearing a red shirt, and when what looked like a death from natural causes turns into a homicide, Kirkland is called upon to solve the crime, red shirt and all.

    Red's Heat
    "There's a body buried in my yard." Detective James T. Kirkland braves the hot, sweltering heat of a Florida summer to debunk his cousin's claim before both of them are set up for ridicule in the Sheriff's Office. But when the body isn't really a body, Kirkland accepts being the butt of department jokes—until things take an unexpected turn.

    Red Flagged
    "Call me when you've got a dead body." Favorite words of an over-worked detective trying to get some shut-eye. But when his ex-wife calls and says her friend is missing, all thoughts of sleep evaporate as James T. Kirkland rushes to help solve the mysterious disappearance.
    Red Flagged first appeared in Deception, a Mystery Anthology published by Highland Press, 2011.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTerry Odell
    Release dateDec 1, 2014
    ISBN9781502295194
    Seeing Red
    Author

    Terry Odell

    Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she’d be a good mom and watch it so they’d have common ground for discussions. Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fan fiction, then through Internet groups, and finally in groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband and rescue dog in the mountains of Colorado. You can learn more about her books, social media accounts, and sign up for her newsletter via her website.

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      Book preview

      Seeing Red - Terry Odell

      Contents

      ––––––––

      The Stories

      Redshirted

      Red's Heat

      Red Flagged

      ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

      A Note From The Author

      Acknowledgments

      About The Author

      More by the Author

      Redshirted

      ––––––––

      I’d always wanted to use the line, He’s dead, Jim in a story, and that’s where this collection began, with the story Redshirted. It's also the first time a character demanded the story be told in first person, and I decided not to argue.

      ~ ~ ~

      The cloying odor of death wasn’t what bothered me as I signed the patrol officer’s clipboard and ducked under the yellow tape fastened across the door. It was seeing the name Frank McCoy printed on the sheet. I’d been chasing down dead-end leads on an ugly double-homicide for the last thirty-six hours, and I was not in the mood for his damn humor. Still, if I didn’t play the medical examiner’s game, I might never get out of here. I added my name under his, braced myself, and stepped into the apartment.

      What do we have? I asked, knowing exactly what I’d hear.

      McCoy raised his gaze from the corpse, which lay face up on the carpet. He grinned, saying the same thing he said every time he showed up at one of my homicides. He’s dead, Jim.

      It’s not my fault my mother named me James. Middle name Thackery after her late father. Last name Kirkland, which made me James T. Kirkland. Not precisely James Tiberius Kirk, but close enough for Frank, a Star Trek aficionado, to deliver that damn clichéd line every chance he got.

      Any speculation as to cause of death— I scrubbed my hands across my eyes, trying to erase the fatigue and bring the room into sharper focus—"Bones?" Might as well go along with the Star Trek game, if I wanted to move things along.

      This one’s easy. Should be obvious even to a mere cop such as yourself. What do you see?

      I see a dead man on the living room floor. A peaceful looking corpse, as corpses go. Please tell me this is going to be a slam-dunk.

      Bones gave a snorting chuckle. Cause of death is obvious. He’s wearing a red shirt.

      My pulse tripped. Had I missed a new serial killer? What the hell are you talking about?

      Bones made a tsking sound and gave an indulgent headshake. "Jim, Jim, Jim. Have you no respect for television history? Everyone knows if Star Trek put an away team extra in a red shirt, he’d be dead before act two."

      Relief that I wouldn’t have a serial killer added to my currently overflowing caseload outweighed my exasperation with McCoy’s obsession. I don’t think you can put that in your report.

      Probably not. Bones tossed banter aside and assumed his professional demeanor. I’ll know more when I get him on the table.

      Normally, the ME was last on scene, but I’d been running all over town and was at the opposite end of the county when I got the call. I trusted Bones not to have messed with any evidence. From the looks of things, there wasn’t much to mess. Place was immaculate. If you didn’t count the body, of course.

      Sorry I’m late. I tried to keep the resentment out of my tone. But what looked like a simple heart attack had pulled me off a high-profile murder investigation, and I wanted out of here.

      He looked over my shoulder. Where’s your stalwart partner?

      Home getting some required shut-eye, as ordered. When the call came in for this one, I didn’t see any reason to wake Rocky until I checked it out. The way things looked, maybe I’d be able to grab a few hours myself.

      Let’s roll him, Bones said.

      I snapped on my gloves and crouched beside the body. Nothing unusual on the back, either. Natural causes was looking good. You get any skinny on him? I asked.

      Deceased is Randall Palmer, lives alone, thirty-one. Neighbor’s dog started going nuts at the door. Neighbor knocked, phoned. No answer, so she called it in. Nice young man, she said. Brought her dog leftovers when he ate out. Polite, asked about her children, grandchildren, but never shared much of his own life. I’d say he’s been dead two, maybe three days, given the cold snap, the open window, and no heat.

      Hardly anyone in central Florida used heat. We had maybe ten days a year where the temperatures dipped below forty. Our luck to be in the midst of three of them, complete with freeze warnings.

      As I recall, it was in the low seventies on Saturday. The front didn’t blow through until about two a.m. Sunday. So he died before then, or he’d have closed the windows, right? I looked again. Red or not, his shirt was a short-sleeved polo. And put on a sweater, or a warmer shirt.

      Bones glared at me. I shrugged. He didn’t like the gray areas where forensic science overlapped the unquantifiable, gut-response observations of a detective. He’d go to his lab and analyze body temperature, livor mortis, stomach contents and God knows what else, but my money said we’d end up in the same place.

      I glanced at Palmer’s arms. No needle tracks. You think it’s natural causes? I couldn’t disguise the hope in my tone. Even if wearing a red shirt wasn’t a legitimate cause of death, a slam-dunk would be welcome so I could get back to my other cases.

      Bones peered over the top of his frameless spectacles. You know I won’t answer that here.

      So much for wishful thinking. Right. Sorry. Let me give the place the once-over.

      Nothing unusual in the living room. Upholstered couch, leather reading chair, matching wooden coffee and end tables. Shades of brown and beige everywhere. Entertainment center with a moderate sized television, CD player, with the CDs arranged by music type and subdivided alphabetically by artist.

      The room dog-legged to the right and what normally would have been a dining area was Palmer’s den. Desk, wooden bookshelves filled with books. No photographs. No bric-a-brac.

      I gave the rest of the apartment a quick walk-through, snapping pictures as I roamed. No signs of a struggle. Windows were open about six inches, and the temperature was dropping rapidly as evening approached. I shivered and hurried toward Palmer’s single bedroom.

      Neat, as expected. Bed made, nothing on the floor. Housekeeper? Girlfriend? Obsessive neatnik? Images of my bed, even in its rumpled state, beckoned. I moved along. Condoms in the nightstand drawer. A careful man.

      The bathroom almost sparkled. Almost. Faint whiff of vomit from the toilet, consistent enough with a heart attack or drug OD. Continuing my exploration, I opened the medicine cabinet. No signs of drug paraphernalia, nothing but a bottle of generic acetaminophen. I checked the contents. Almost full. Box of Band-Aids, bottle of mouthwash, tube of toothpaste. Fluoride with breath freshener. Antiperspirant. Extra strength.

      In the kitchen, the death smell was less prevalent, overlaid by garlic and seafood. A peek under the kitchen sink revealed takeout food containers in the trash, about the only indication someone truly had lived here. I sniffed. Asian. Chinese? Thai? Not my area of culinary expertise. I made a mental note to have the techs bag it.

      Everything else was spotless. No dishes in the sink, clean or dirty. Dishwasher was empty. Round wooden table, two chairs, two placemats. No crumbs, no sticky smudges. By now, I felt decidedly slovenly.

      I went back to Bones and reported my findings, including my thoughts about possible food poisoning, or poisoned food.

      He nodded. Thought I smelled it when I came in. Garlic, right? Some kind of shellfish?

      I hadn’t noticed until I got to the kitchen. But Bones dealt with death all the time. His brain probably filtered out the decomp odor and let the others come through. Right on.

      I’ll order a full tox screen, make sure I test his stomach contents. Bones replaced his instruments in his kit. I’m done.

      As if by magic, or at least telepathy, two uniforms appeared at the exact instant Bones said, Okay, let’s bag him and take him downtown.

      What’s your take? Off the record, I added.

      He rubbed his chin. If I were going to jump to conclusions, I’d say heart attack or drug overdose, but I never jump to conclusions. I’d keep the scene secure until I get some preliminary results, just to be safe. I’ll let you know what I find. Bones’s knees cracked as he stood. Don’t work too hard.

      Right. Like being a homicide detective was a walk in the park. But it was what I did, and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

      Bones and the body left. Time to figure out more about who our victim was, see if there was a logical reason for him to have dropped dead. Much as I wanted to buy into the heart attack, the guy was young. And healthy looking.

      A day planner sat by the phone on his desk. I leafed through the pages, noting an appointment with a Dr. Blair ten days ago. Lots of things listed under returns. It took me a minute to figure out they were library books and DVDs. Oh yeah, I was definitely overdue for some rack time. I rubbed my eyes, worked some of the tension out of my neck and shoulders and went back to his entries.

      Neat printing. All black ink. Every errand, every appointment duly recorded. Hell, the guy even noted his workouts—every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at seven-thirty a.m. You think he’d remember something that routine. I’d have to find out what kind of a doctor Blair was, but shrink came to mind. OCD was bouncing around my brain. Health-wise, Palmer seemed to be taking damn good care of himself. Heart attack was sliding down my list of possible causes of death.

      The name Juliet appeared often. I flipped back. Started showing up six months ago, once or twice a month, then with increasing frequency. Several times a week now. Usually circled. Big letters. No time slot. Someone special for Palmer to deviate from

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