“We owe the MPs for contacting us.”
“Exactly. Call me optimistic, but I’m hoping the neighbor’s imagination was working overtime due to the storm. If it’s a mistaken call, you’ll be home sawing logs before you can say ‘take care of our own’ three times.”
“Give me the address, I’ll meet you there.”
Frank provided the street and quarters number.
“Didn’t Mason move into military housing a few weeks ago?” Everett remembered the newcomer talking about signing for quarters.
“Three weeks to be exact. As I recall, his wife stayed with his sister in Decatur, Georgia, until quarters were available.”
Everett had arrived at Fort Rickman six months earlier, so he wasn’t an old-timer on post. He and Frank had been stationed together years earlier, along with Special Agent Colby Voss, which had made his transition to Fort Rickman an easy one.
Mason reported to post eight weeks ago. Since then, he had seemed withdrawn and less than willing to join in the office camaraderie that often relieved the stress of working long hours on felony cases for the military. Probably a loner by nature or maybe a bit aloof. That he outranked the other special agents might have bearing on his attitude, especially if he hoped to step into the chief’s shoes. Chief Agent-in-Charge Craig Wilson had led the CID office at Fort Rickman for nearly three years. Even if Uncle Sam considered him ready for a new assignment, no one wanted the chief to be reassigned.
Mason was an unknown, which gave Everett pause.
“I’m trusting this ends well,” he said in closing.
“Agreed,” Frank added. “I’ll meet you there.”
The housing area wasn’t far, and Everett was the first to arrive. He pulled to the curb and spotted headlights in his rearview mirror, then stepped out and waited for Frank.
“The report came from that side of the duplex,” Frank pointed to Quarters A. “Let’s talk to Mason before we question the neighbor.” Frank was the lead on this call, with Everett along as another set of eyes if need be.
Both agents climbed the front steps. Frank knocked on the door. “Special Agent Frank Gallagher, CID.” He glanced at Everett before adding. “Mason, it’s Frank. Everett’s with me. Everything okay?”
He tapped the door again.
Everett glanced at the duplex across the street. A light went on in an upstairs window.
“I’ll check the rear.” Starting down the steps, he heard a door creak open and turned to find the neighbor in Quarters A standing backlit in her doorway.
Long, shoulder-length black hair, slender build. Probably 110 to 115 pounds and five-four or five-five.
She stepped onto the porch. Oval face, big eyes drawn with concern, her mouth angled downward in a frown.
“We’re with the CID, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Kohl,” he said as introduction. “You called in the report?”
She glanced at her watch. “About fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t heard anything since then.”
“What did you hear earlier?”
“Raised voices and two screams, followed by thumping, as if someone had fallen down the stairs.”
Everett nodded. “Wait inside, ma’am. I’ll need more information after we make contact with the residents.”
Walking through the wet grass, he rounded the house, flicking his gaze over the large side yard and the rear access road. Headlights signaled an approaching vehicle. A dark blue sedan screeched to a stop.
Mason lunged from the car, wearing running shorts and a gray Army T-shirt damp with sweat. Eyes wide, he glanced at Everett, then turned his focus to his quarters.
“It’s Tammy, isn’t it? What happened? Is she hurt?” Breathless, he raced to the back door.
“A neighbor heard screams.” Everett hated being the bearer of bad news.
“She called me, distraught. I heard a voice in the background.” Mason pushed open the door and charged into the kitchen.
Everett followed. Unwashed dishes sat in the sink.
“Tammy, where are you?” Mason ran through the living room, then rounded the corner into the foyer. Stopping short, he staggered to brace himself against the wall.
“No!”
Everett’s gut tightened. A woman lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, her face contorted in death. Blood pooled under her head.
He felt her neck, knowing instinctively he wouldn’t find a pulse.
Mason fell to the floor and reached for his wife, a scream keening from deep within him.
“Don’t touch—” Everett couldn’t warn Mason fast enough.
The husband’s broken sobs echoed in the quarters.
Everett had been at too many crime scenes, but none as wrenching as Mason holding his wife’s lifeless body.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and opened the front door. Frank stepped inside, face tight and eyes brimming with the same emotion Everett felt as they shook their heads with regret. Both special agents were aware of the significance of Mason’s arrival on-site. If he hadn’t been home, then someone else had argued with his wife. Someone who may have pushed or shoved or thrown Tammy Yates down the stairs to her death.
Everett raised his cell and called CID Headquarters. “Notify the military police. We’ll need a crime-scene investigation team, ambulance and the medical examiner.”
Frank patted Mason’s shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you into the other room. The MPs are on the way along with the ME.”
Mason shook off the attempt to comfort him. “Tammy,” he moaned, pulling his wife even closer into his arms.
“You need to step away from your wife. Remember, we have to preserve evidence if we’re going to catch this guy. Come on, buddy. Let’s head into the other room.”
Mason shrugged out of Frank’s hold and glanced at the open doorway. His face twisted in rage.
“What’s she doing here?”
Everett turned to see the neighbor cover her mouth and muffle a cry of disbelief. Fear flared from her eyes.
“Ma’am, I asked you to remain in your quarters.”
She pointed a finger at Mason, the distraught husband holding his wife’s bloodied body, and screamed.
Natalie ran back to the Joneses’ quarters, unable to take in more of the death scene. The horrendous sight stuck in her mind, and she couldn’t erase the image of the woman lying at the bottom on the stairs.
Seeing who clutched the woman’s bloodied body was even more unsettling. She hadn’t expected Mason Yates to be the neighbor next door. Her stomach rolled, recalling his steely eyes and accusing glare that brought back memories she wanted to forget.
Locking the door behind her, Natalie raced to the downstairs half bath and ran water in the sink. Pumping a large dollop of liquid soap into her palm, she lathered her hands and tried to wash off the blood she kept seeing.
Although she hadn’t entered the Yateses’ quarters, she felt soiled and defiled. Scrubbing with soap and rinsing her hands in the hot tap water did little to change the feeling.
Her reflection stared back at her