Middle River Murders (11 page)

Mom’s kitchen is usually cozy, tidy and the hub of all family
gatherings, but not today. Today, it was a blood-splattered room with a dead
man lying on the floor between us; his blood had poured from his wounds. Pools
of his blood had spread, covering the floor, and now both of us were standing
in it.

I was sick to my stomach. I’ve been in some pretty nasty
situations since I’d taken up a new career as a private investigator, but this
was the worst. What happened here today was a nightmare that I was afraid my
mother would never wake up from. This was violence at the ultimate level. Death
brushed by so close to us, it almost took us with it.

Mom didn’t shed a tear—that’s what scared me the most. She
was obviously in shock, but once reality set in, I was afraid her mental state
would collapse. I set the trophy down on the counter and then reached out and
took her hand. I lead her away from the body.

“Come on, Mom. We need to call the sheriff.”

“Look at me, Jesse. I’m covered in his blood.” She turned and
looked down at the floor. “Who is that man? I’ve never seen him around here.
Why would he do something like this, Jesse?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Why do people do some of the things they
do?”

“Evil—it’s everywhere. I never did anything to him. Why is he
lying dead on my floor? This didn’t have to happen. He had no right to break
into my house! It’s his own fault he’s dead. He never should’ve come here.”

“Let’s go to the utility room and take off our shoes. We
don’t want to spread blood all over the house. We can wash up in the laundry
tub. Watch out for the pieces of splintered wood on the floor.”

Mom and I walked over to the laundry room and took off our
shoes. I pulled out two washcloths and a couple of towels from the linen
cabinet and handed one of each to Mom. We stood by the laundry tub washing the
blood from our faces and arms. Pink, watered-down blood filled the bottom
surface of the tub as it ran down the drain. It was an experience I’ll never
forget—and don’t want to go through ever again. I wasn’t so much concerned for
myself as I was for my mother.

Mom finally broke down and cried as we stood there together
washing the stain of death from our bodies. Not being able to hold back any
longer, I cried, too. I put my arm around her and rocked back and forth.

“You go ahead and cry, Mom,” I said as I rinsed the blood
from my washcloth and then started washing the specks of leftover blood from
her face. “This is a horrible thing to happen to anyone, but we didn’t have a
choice. He would’ve killed us. He had the smell of death on him. It wasn’t his
first time, I’m sure. I think he’s killed before.”

“What do you mean,
smell of death
?” Mom asked between
her sobs.

“When Billy and I started doing investigative work together,
he taught me things, and one of the first things he taught me was about the
smell of death. Normally, killing makes a person’s adrenaline soar. Sweat and a
foul odor seeps from their pores. It might be strong or the odor could be
faint. The level of stench depends on the degree of violence. If the crime is
brutal and bloody, the smell most likely will be putrid, whereas, if the crime
is a slash and run, the criminal might smell as if he’s worked out in the hot
sun and hasn’t had a bath. Either way, the smell of death reeks. I don’t know
if Billy was pulling my leg or if this was some Cherokee thing they know that
we don’t, but to me, it struck a chord. I smelled a putrid odor as soon as I
ran to the kitchen. The first thing that popped into my head was what Billy had
said. I knew we were headed for trouble and this man had to be stopped. We
stopped him, Mom.” I turned and pointed to the body on the floor. “That
could’ve been us. Try to think of it like that. It could’ve been me and you on
that floor.”

I took a couple of steps toward the kitchen table, grabbed a
chair and then set it by the laundry tub. “Here, Mom. Sit down and rest. I’m
going to call the sheriff.”

“He was breathing on the back of my neck with that hot,
stinky breath. It was so awful, Jesse. When I managed to turn around and look
at him, his face was sweaty and little beads of dirty, smelly sweat ran down it
in streaks. And then there was all that blood—all warm and gooey. I can’t put
the feel of it out of my mind. It was scary, Jesse. I looked death in the face
and it terrified me. I thought we were going to die. I was afraid he was going
to kill you—that was my worst fear at the time. I couldn’t let him hurt my
child.” She sat down on the chair and looked up at me. “I just couldn’t! I had
to do whatever I could to stop him. I knew he’d hurt you after he finished with
me and I couldn’t let that happen! You’re my baby, Jesse. A mama has a right to
protect her child, doesn’t she?” Mom cried.

I hugged her. “Yes, a mama does. You did the right thing.”

“I’ve never hurt a soul in my life.”

“I know you haven’t, Mom.”

She hung her head and said, “God, forgive me.”

“Stay here, Mom. I have to call the police.”

I walked over to the wall phone and picked up the bloody
receiver from the floor. I took the wet washcloth and wiped it as clean as I
could. I heard the beep-beep one normally gets when the phone has been off the
hook too long. I pushed down the receiver holder and then released it. A dial
tone clicked in. I pressed the keys for 911 and swore from that moment on, I
would never whine about an outdated wall phone again, because this one probably
had saved our lives.

“911, please state your emergency.”

“A man broke into our house and we killed him. You need to
send the sheriff out.” I gave the dispatcher the necessary information and she
assured me the police were on their way. I clicked the holder again and waited
for a dial tone. I punched the number for my house and after what seemed like
an eternity, Sarah answered.

“Sarah, I need to talk to Billy. It’s an emergency.”

Sensing the urgency in my voice, she replied, “I’ll get him
right away.”

“What is it, Jesse?” he asked with concern in his voice when
he finally got to the phone. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it’s not. You need to get over here right now. A guy
broke into Mom’s house and…”

“And what? What happened, `ge ya?”

“He’s dead, Billy.”

“What do you mean, he’s dead?”

“I mean, we killed him. Mom stabbed him in the neck with a
butcher knife and I hit him on the head with one of Dad’s heavy trophies. It’s
pretty awful over here, Billy.”

“Don’t do anything until I get there.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I called the police.” I began
to cry again.

“Don’t worry, `ge ya. I’m on my way. When the sheriff gets
there, tell him a man broke into the house and you had to defend yourselves. If
he wants more details, tell him you want to wait for your lawyer and that he’s
on his way. Do not make a statement. I’ll call Russ.”

Billy hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

I placed the receiver back in its cradle and went back to
comfort Mom. I knew she was going to have a hard time dealing with this.

Mom is an old
North Carolina
girl and comes from a very religious family. She was raised
as a Baptist, but most importantly, she was raised in a loving home with strong
family values—it was by these values she raised her own children.

My brother, Jack, and my sister, Claire always did the right
thing, while I was known as the rebellious one—but that had nothing to do with
the way I was brought up. Mom made sure I was taught right from wrong. She
instilled moral standards in all her children. It was just that sometimes, I
was the one who ventured off the beaten path. So to have something like this
happen while I was around would not surprise anyone.

“Billy’s on his way. He said he was going to call Russ and
that we weren’t to make any kind of a statement until we have our lawyer
present.”

The minutes dragged by as we waited for the sheriff to show
up. The longer we waited, the more nervous I became. Having a bloody, dead body
not five feet from me was unsettling.

I looked at the kitchen clock. “How long is it going to take
the police to get here?”

“It’s only been four minutes since you called 911, Jesse.
I’ve been watching the clock. I needed something to take my mind off…”

The sound of police sirens stopped Mom short.

I took a step into the kitchen and could see the flashing
lights through the front window. I reached over, took Mom by the hand and said,
“Come with me. We need to go let the cops in. Don’t look at him, Mom.”

She took my hand and we walked in silence to the front door,
trying to avoid looking at the corpse on the floor. I opened the door and the
two of us stood there staring at the police cars that filled the front yard. We
both shivered even though the evening was warm. I was so relieved when I saw
Cole’s face, I started to cry. Russ Shank was right behind him.

Cole rushed through the door and put his arms around us.

“Where’s the body, Mrs. Watson,” Sheriff Wake Hudson asked as
he walked into the living room.

Mom and I looked at each other and then I pointed to the
kitchen.

He looked in that direction and then back to us.’

“Deputy James, would you please escort them outside? They
look as if they could use some fresh air.” He glanced over at Russ. “I see your
lawyer’s here. How are you Russ?”

“I’m fine, sheriff. Thanks for asking.”

Sheriff Hudson looked back at us and said, “We can talk as
soon as you’re up to it, Mrs. Watson. My men need time to examine the crime
scene and since you have a lawyer present, you might want to take the time to
confer with him.”

As soon as he said that, Mom started crying. “Are we going to
need a lawyer?”

“It’s always wise to have one, but in this case, it looks
pretty cut and dry. You told the dispatcher a man broke into your house and you
killed him. You have every right to protect yourselves. As long as you’re
telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about.”

“In that case, we’ll exercise our right to counsel. No
offense, sheriff, but I know how quickly the tables can be turned,” I said,
looking at him.

I held onto Mom’s hand as Cole led us outside and out of the
way of the onslaught of the other deputies. He took Mom over to the porch swing
and sat down with her. Russ and I stood next to them as I continued to hold her
hand.

It devastated me to see the sadness in her eyes. She was a
broken person. All I could think about was how I was going to help her recover
from this tragedy. I was so worried about her that I wasn’t the least bit
remorseful that we had just killed a man. I’m sure that later I would probably
have nightmares, but for now, I had to help my mother. My stomach was queasy at
the thought that my mother could be the one lying dead on the kitchen floor.
What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here? What if she’d been alone? She’d
most likely be dead. The thought of that made me want to go back inside, kick
that man in the head, and stomp him until there was nothing left to stomp. I
wanted to brutalize him like he tried to do to us. A second later, I was
leaning over the porch railing, puking. I felt as if I was going to pass out as
I slid down to my knees, crying.

Cole jumped up and came to me. He put his arm around my waist
and helped me to the swing. I sat down next to Mom and immediately felt better
just being close to her.

We sat there until I saw Billy’s Dodge truck pull into the
driveway. I jumped up as he ran past the deputies standing in the yard. They
didn’t even try to stop him. He got to the porch and sprinted up the steps. He
hugged me and then turned to Mom. He held onto my hand as he sat down beside
her and cradled her in his other arm. She started to cry again.

“I’m going to hell, Billy,” she said. “I killed a man.”

“I doubt that very seriously,” he assured her. “God gave you
the strength to do what you had to do. He will not punish you for it. He made
you strong and gave you the will to survive. The first thing the Cherokees are
taught is to protect their own. It’s your God-given right. No, he stood beside
you today when you saved yourself and your daughter from harm. Trust me, he was
there with you. You should feel no shame.”

His words were a welcomed relief. Mom stopped crying and
slowly pulled herself together.

“I need to take a shower,” she said. “I tried to wash it off,
but I’m still covered with his blood. I feel dirty.”

Cole, who had been standing there for our support said, “We
have to work the scene, but I’m sure the sheriff wouldn’t mind if you went back
in and took a shower. He’ll probably want your clothes so they can be examined
for any trace evidence that might be present.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “All we have on us is his
blood.”

“You never know, Jesse. You could have
DNA
from the killer that might not even be related to
this assault. Let me talk to Sheriff Hudson and see what he has to say, okay?”