Murder in a Wish-Book House

The farmhouse on Beasley Road didn’t look like the ramshackle, gothic home Norman Bates inhabited. But I wouldn’t have been there at eleven on a November Sunday morning, had the resident not been victim of a slash-and-stab, Psycho-like killing.

I turned left into the driveway and parked my unmarked Ford near the morgue wagon, crime scene van, and a Prospect PD cruiser.

“Hey boss,” PO Bobby Crockett said. “Sorry ta bother you, but you’ll wanna see this. Or maybe you won’t.”

“That why you’re out here?” He nodded. “What happened?”

“The vic’s name’s Richard McBath, a teacher at Heritage High. His daughter did a sleepover at a friend’s house. This mornin’ ‘bout ten, the girlfriend’s mother brings the kid home and finds Richard stabbed to death.”

“Where’s that woman now?”

“Junior escorted her home. The McBath girl’s with her.”

“Hear anything about Richard having a wife?”

“Not a word.”

“The ME and crime scene guys been here long?”

“Half an hour.”

“A bad one, huh?”

“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. Lord have mercy. The blood, the smell, it’s a mess.”

“I’ll hold my nose and take a look.”

I’d seen houses like that before, not only in Tennessee, but back on Long Island where I’d worked as a cop for twenty years. It was one of the kit-homes people picked from a Sears-Roebuck catalog in the 1920s.

Entering the side door, I found myself in a large eat-in kitchen. In the living room, I found Jackie Shuman, a crime scene investigator, and his partner dusting for latents and taking blood samples.

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said. “How many people got killed here?”

Jackie was kneeling near to me, dusting a lamp table.

“All this blood—looks like a bunch o’ people, but it’s jest one. You doin’ aw rot today?”

“I was before I got here. Who’s the ME?”

“Doc Rappaport’s upstairs. Earl’s with him.”

I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and started up the stairs. On the third step I stopped. “Jackie, you photograph the staircase yet? I don’t want to tromp on this blood before you do your thing.”

“Did it first off. Y’all think yer dealin’ with an amateur?”

“Perish the thought.”

I continued up the stairs and found lots of blood splattered on the runner. Red smears and hand prints showed on the wall along the staircase.

The previous day had been cool, but not cold. Luckily, the heat hadn’t been turned up. But the unmistakable smell of a violent crime hung in the air. A warmer house would have created a nasty-smelling environment.

I guessed our victim had been butchered sometime during the previous afternoon or evening.

The further up I went, the more blood I saw.