The Aftermath

42

Baker left Roads' house at 5:00am. She just slipped out of bed, got dressed and left. He was a smart guy, he would figure it out.

Once in her car, she headed north to the Blake house. She needed to see it with her own eyes. The processing was complete, and this was the last day that she could hold it as a crime scene.

She went over what Roads told her last night, about the third-man theory. It made sense to her. Traits defined a person, and limited expected actions. You couldn't be a surgeon and squeamish too.

Adding a third man to the mix was difficult for a man like Roads. Occam's razor was the the motto of the old homicide guys -- the simplest solution was often the best solution. She understood and even agreed.

You see a dead wife, you question the husband and most of the time he murdered her.

If you find a dead husband, you look for the wife's boyfriend.

Simple, easy and most of the time accurate. Murder, for the most part, wasn't something people planned to do. They were crimes of passion. But then of course you had your real killers, which was why you needed men like Roads to hunt them down.

Adding the third man was stirring the mix up. It was adding a world of complexity. It was against the grain for a man like Roads. So Baker was taking the theory seriously.

When she arrived at the house, the black and white that was suppose to be there, was gone. This didn't bother her much, it was close to shift change. She parked her car at the curb and walked up to the front door. She tried the nob and found it was open. "Hope the jewelry is still in here," she hissed as she ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and walked inside.

She flipped on all the lights beside the door, and her first impression was that a young man did this.

This amount of damage and angst was a young man's game.

Take a guy like Roads, for example. That man hates all day. He's got years of practice being mean and hateful, but by the time he got through with that table in the dining room, that man would need to sit down and think about things for a while.

This was someone with serious stamina. Someone that lost control, which was another young man trait. The perp probably started out with the blood painting on the walls. But sometime after that, maybe during the mirror smashing, he lost control of his rage and just smashed things for awhile. Seriously, the dining room table? How random is that? Why not the stereo system here in the living-room? No, by the time the perp got to the dining room table he was probably mindless with rage. Guys past forty don't loose it like that, not most of them. Not like this. A man over forty would have taken out the stereo, and the flat screen. He would have kept some sense about what he was doing, and if he was intending the damage to be painful, he would hit the house where it hurts.

The word "MURDERER" on the living-room wall was done with a paint brush. She walked up to the word and looked at the letters. Blood wasn't like paint. It wouldn't stay on the brush. Examining the strokes of the letters she found what she was looking for; multiple stroke lines. It took some time to put this on the wall. There was effort here, and tenacity. The blood would have been runny, and it showed in some of the stroke lines, but the perp took his time and did it right.

Baker stepped back from the letters to the middle of the room and looked at the dining-room table again. "Same guy?" she asked herself.

Maybe. Sure. Perp came in calm and collected. Knew he had plenty of time. So at first he starts with the words.

Upstairs however, according to the reports she read, there were no words, just slashes of blood on the walls.

So our perp gets upstairs and begins to loose his patience. Maybe being in Blake's house is getting to him; in the den of the dragon. Finds out that he is afraid of Blake, as any normal human should be, and then gets angry at his fear. The fear doesn't stop though.

"Winds himself up too tight, and then lets go." She said, nodding her head.

That's when the mirrors start going, Baker surmises. Being here must be getting to him, but what he is doing has to be wearing at him too. He puked cutting up Mrs. Blake. He's a murderer too. Pot calling the kettle black. Looks in the mirror and sees the death looking back at him. So, the mirrors have to go. All of them.

She is at the top of the stairs, looking at the slashes of blood on the walls when a voice calls,"San Diego Police Department!"

She looks over the railing of the stairs, "Up here. Detective Baker, homicide." She pulls her badge off her belt and shows it to him.

The officer nods, "I just got here,I'll be outside."

"Thank you." She tells him and goes back to her investigation.

Pouring the blood on the girl's bed and covering it with a blanket, that was creative thinking. He still has control when he does this. This is when he is done painting. "Where is the container and the brush?" She asks suddenly.

Going through her memory of the reports, she doesn't recall the brush or container being listed. "That's odd." They should have been primary evidence items, if they were here and collected.

This didn't track well. She sat down at the girl's vanity table and drummed her fingers on the wood. She was feeling a bit of a hangover from last night but her head was clear enough. What didn't track was that the man who smashed up the dining room table, was still with it enough to take the brush and container with him.

Baker looked over at the blood stain on the girl's bed. "He's done painting at this point. He empties the container here, and covers it up." She then turned her attention to the girl's broken vanity mirror, "And then, brush and container in hand, he smashes all the mirrors, cuts up the bed in the master bedroom, and then smashes the table in the dining room? All still with the brush and container in his hand?"

She shook her head. No, he set it down some place. He set it down some place up here -- and then he came back for it later. After the fit of rage? After he calmed down a little? Ok, that might track. Maybe someone reminds him as well. A phone call -- Blake is on his way back, don't forget the brush and container, see you soon.

Why did that still bother her? She stood and shrugged it off, and continued her tour into the master bedroom; she would return to the question later. This place was a mess. Shambles. That was a good word for it, shambles.

Why doesn't he take the jewelry? "Doesn't want anything of Blake's. He's a believer."

A believer as Baker meant the term was someone driven to do actions because of a belief. They are on a crusade. They believe they are doing the right thing. In this case, the believer is fighting back against Tom Blake. "So no pilfering, no stealing. Tom Blake is evil, and so are his things."

Believers were scary people and Baker didn't like the idea of going up against one. They were apt to commit suicide by cop.

She gave a final look around the room and then went back down stairs. The back sliding glass door had already been replaced. She walked over and checked it to make sure it was locked. Then she walked out the front door and locked it behind her.

Baker walked up to the uniform who was out of his car and leaning on the back trunk. "You can kick off. We are done here."

"Yes ma'am," he said with a smile and got into his cruiser.

"Glad I could make one person's day." She murmured to herself. She turned and looked at the house again. "I understand one of you at least."

Her phone rang, interrupting her musing, "Baker." She clipped.

She listened and after a few minutes said, "Charlie fucking Davis, no shit."