Before the Fall Read online

  Before the Fall

  An Ellen Harper Short Story

  By

  RICK MURCER

  Ebook EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Murcer Press, LLC

  Interior book design by

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  www.rickmurcer.com

  Before the Fall © 2016 Rick Murcer. All rights reserved

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER-1

  “You stupid heifer. How did you ever get a job serving meals? Dumb bitch.”

  Gerald Demler grabbed the waitress’s arm and pulled her close to him, squeezing with strong fingers, his menacing frame rising high above her.

  “I-I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean─”

  “You’re right about that; you’re sorry. You spilled water on a suit that costs more than you make in a damned year.” He squeezed harder as the rage boiled inside. “Sir?” he hissed. “Don’t you know who I am? God almighty, you’re not only incompetent, but you’re as ignorant as your fat ass shows you are.”

  “You’re hurting me, Mr. Demler. Let go of me. You can’t do this,” she said, tears running down her round face.

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Can’t? You have no idea what I can do. What I will do. Especially to people like you.”

  One last yank brought her face to face with him, her toes off the ground. “If you ever tell me what I can’t do again, you’ll regret the day you were born. Am I clear?” he whispered.

  She nodded, her face pale, her eyes wide.

  He shoved her away from him, causing her to bump the adjoining table with force, rattling silverware and crystal alike. The spineless cow then ran sobbing toward the back of the restaurant.

  By now, he was the center of attention in the posh eatery. He reveled in it.

  One by one, as he returned their awkward, disapproving stares, the other diners turned away from him, shades of the same fear the waitress had shown lighting their eyes.

  He smiled.

  Cowards. All of them. Afraid of not only who he was, but what he was. That’s why he would rule this city, and soon. He had never been afraid to do what it took to get what he wanted. And, no one did it better. Ever. He wouldn’t stop any time soon either. There were situations that would begin rolling tonight. All for him. All for what he claimed as destiny.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Demler, but we would like you to leave The Top Cat.”

  He pivoted on his heel and faced the maître d’, a man he’d known for years. One he loathed, but the thin, elderly Frenchman had proven useful a time or two.

  “Pierre. We’ve been through this before. I leave when I want to leave,” he said, tilting his head.

  The man exhaled, steeling himself against his very real anxiety. A coward with the beginnings of a spine, perhaps?

  “Not this time, sir. You must leave now. The police are on their way.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “The police? That’s your best shot? I own the police department, my friend. Have you forgotten?”

  “No sir. I’ve not forgotten anything. But the waitress that you grabbed is going to press charges. It could get ugly.”

  Reaching out both hands, he latched onto Pierre, raising him from the marbled floor.

  “You have no idea what ugly is, little man. No idea at all.”

  “Put me down, Mr. Demler. I’ve lived too long to be afraid of you.” But his eyes betrayed how he truly felt.

  Leaning in close to the man’s ear, he whispered. “Do you know what happens to liars? Fear, Pierre, is only the beginning of what could materialize. Only the beginning.”

  With that, Gerald Demler dropped the maître d’ to the floor and exited the building.

  *****

  The hot, sticky summer air caused the perspiration to roll from forehead to cheek to neck. But the man hardly noticed, keeping eyes glued to the gold-colored Rolls Royce Limo in front of two black SUVs that held his security team.

  Gerald Demler took one last look at the front of the restaurant and then ducked into the open rear door, held open by one of his bodyguards.

  As Demler and his entourage drove away, the smile swept across the observer’s face.

  He looked at the woman in the driver’s seat. “It’s time. Follow him.” The vehicle moved out and, as it did, he remembered the lyrics from an old eighties song.

  It was, indeed, going to be one hell of a night.

  CHAPTER-2

  Ellen Harper’s phone rang just as she had gotten comfortable in her new bed, as far as comfortable had been for her these last few months. When the demons decided they needed some time off. She was hoping the new mattress would help. So far, it had been a waste of money.

  She rolled over and looked at the blueish light emanating from the cell.

  Get Off From My Cloud by The Rolling Stones repeated itself, then a third time. She’d only recently applied the ring tone to her boss’s number. The irony of the song was only recognized by a few of her closest people, including Big Harv Patterson, who just happened to be calling her.

  She gave him credit for smiling when he first heard it. He could have chewed her ass for violating some minor department policy, again. Which had happened more than once lately. Good thing he doubled as her dad.

  The fourth refrain started as Ellen sat up and twisted to the edge of the bed, sending her tiger cat, Mulder, scurrying to the floor. He hadn’t been sleeping any better, either.

  She reached for the noisy messenger from hell.

  Being the top forensic tech with the Chicago Police Department had advantages. But being first on Big Harv’s call list for CSU business wasn’t one of them. At least not always.

  “What is it, Harv?”

  “It’s not Harv. It’s dad to you. Did I wake you?”

  His gruff voice made her smile more than his question. Even at 2:30 in the morning. It reminded her, once again, that he was giving his level best to help her through this shitty divorce. Even though he wasn’t and never would be the nurturing kind, his grades went high for effort.

  “No, dad. I was hosting a combination Tupperware, lingerie party for some of the men and women in your office, so I was up.”

  “Okay, smart ass. Now get your fanny over to the address I sent to your phone. And don’t dink around. This one is going to make some headlines.”

  “What kind of headlines?” she asked, now completely awake.

  “Let’s just say that there will be a full investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because money talks. And, I think, in this case, it might have spoken to a lot of people who don’t want anyone to hear what it has to say.”

/>   “I don’t get what you just said, not much anyway.”

  “You will.”

  That’s what she was afraid of. “Homicide? For sure?”

  “Oh, I’d say so. He was shot, stabbed, and the killer left behind a couple of things.”

  “Sound like someone was pissed off.”

  “It does. And I’m just scratching the surface for you.”

  Ellen brushed her hair away from an ear, then tugged gently on her earring. Her dad didn’t speak this way often. Nervous wasn’t his MO. He was veteran of almost thirty years with CPD. He’ seen more than most.

  “Who is it dad?” she asked quietly.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Now get over here.”

  He hung up.

  Standing, she flipped on the light switch and then scrolled to the messages on her phone, blowing past new notices from her cellphone carrier that she’d been selected for special promo, and read Big Harv’s message.

  The address was off Lincoln in Winnetka. She whistled. Only the rich of the rich could afford the mansions in that neighborhood. The village had been ranked the second richest in the country.

  She looked at the address again and frowned. It took a few seconds, but the famous address registered and Ellen knew the house her dad was calling from. Her heartbeat quickened.

  This mansion belonged to Gerald Demler.

  She reached for her jeans and rushed into the bathroom.

  Her dad hadn’t been kidding. If Demler was the victim, the shit was truly going to hit the fan.

  CHAPTER-3

  The misty moon reflected off from Lake Michigan as she caught glimpses though the trees on the east side of Sheridan Road. Even in the half light, the massive mansions and estates sprinkled on both sides of the road caused her to marvel at their sheer size and beauty, then to shake her head.

  “Who needs this much house?” she asked out loud.

  Yet she knew the answer. It wasn’t about need; it hardly ever was. It was about the show. The elite telling everyone else that they were just that. Pride was a useful tool or a destructive divider, depending how one handled it. She didn’t think most of these folks were all that humble.

  She knew that because she’d met enough of Chicago’s aristocrats. While they were mostly pleasant enough, she didn’t believe she’d be going to a fast food joint for lunch with any of them soon. Mixing with public servants was an unspoken taboo.

  She wondered if she’d do the same with millions in the bank. Who knew for sure, but she supposed she’d be tempted, at least for a few minutes. Most would.

  Turning left she wiggled down the well-lit side street and found Lincoln and turned right.

  Almost immediately she saw the five-pillared house at the address Big Harv had sent her. If most of the other homes she’d seen on the way to this one had been mansions, then this was a bricked castle to make the seventeenth Brits burn with envy.

  Decadent of the decadent was all she could think to describe where she was headed. She could even see the lighted flags flying high above the wrought iron, gated entrance.

  Old Glory was flanked by the State of Illinois’ banner. On the other side flew the familiar blue-crossed flag of Scotland. She knew that because Big Harv had made sure she knew from where her ancestors had originated. She hadn’t mastered the bagpipes, however.

  As she approached the huge, wrought iron gate, it swung open, right on cue, and she moved through feeling a little surreal.

  On the right side of the courtyard-sized driveway sat Big Harv’s unmarked cruise sandwiched by three white and blue Winnetka patrol cars.

  She frowned. That was it? A handful of cops and her? No CSU unit? No K-9 patrol? What asshole made those decisions? It certainly wasn’t Big Harv. He always thought the more the merrier when it came to cops on a scene.

  “This makes no damned sense,” she said out loud.

  Someone wanted to keep this low profile. More damned politics replacing good police procedure.

  She felt the sudden rush of the relentless anger she’d been trying to control, not always with success, since her ex had divorced her. Letting her know he was on to bigger and better things, and women, with a text message no less.

  Slamming the SUV into park, she bowed her head, gripping the wheel with white-knuckle fortitude.

  Not now, Ellen Harper. Not now. Do your job.

  Glancing up to the rearview mirror, her violet eyes stared back at her. She pushed her bangs from her forehead. Her frown said she was a permanent Miss Pissy. She looked away, almost embarrassed.

  This isn’t who you want to be, Harper.

  When you get angry, he wins. Stop it. He’s not winning tonight.

  Ellen closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, feeling the calming effects of that relaxation method work. Good thing. Thoughts of blowing Joel Harper’s balls off with her Beretta weren’t always that far away from her urge to make it a reality.

  More breaths, better control, better forensic tech. It all works.

  A few moments later, most thoughts of her recent past life at bay, she exited the vehicle, opened the rear door, removed her crime scene kit, and then hurried toward the door.

  Her mind had changed gears and was already racing toward the world that kept her sane. Forensic science and how it spoke to her reminded Ellen that there were still things in this world that remained pure.

  Science didn’t lie. It didn’t take sides. It didn’t care how much damned money you had. It just told the truth. Period.

  As she reached the front entrance to the house consisting of four twelve-foot thick oak monstrosities, the two on the left swung open. Big Harv stood there, his face grim.

  After he hugged her, a ritual that was becoming more common with him, he pointed with his head. “The body is this way. In the first half of the kitchen closest to the second pool.”

  Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yep. Really. Follow me.”

  After falling in step beside him, she nudged him. “Who is the victim? I’m assuming victim or I wouldn’t be here at three in the morning.”

  Big Harv nodded. “You’ve got the victim part right. But you’ll have to tell me who he is.”

  Ellen stopped and grabbed his arm. “What does that mean?”

  “It means what it means. I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER-4

  Ellen and Big Harv emerged from the wide double doors of the kitchen into one of the several dining rooms that branched in perfect symmetry away from the hub the kitchen provided.

  Staring at the ornate floor was almost a mandate for Ellen. The rich, tan marble dappled in white demanded her attention and got it. She’d not seen a surface that people actually walked on like this one, ever. It was almost breathtaking. The floor probably cost more than the house Big Harv had owned for the last twenty-five years. She wanted to reach down and touch it.

  This time, her dad nudged her. “Over there, Ellie. Behind the bar. You can kiss the floor later,” he said, a trace of his old humor in his rough voice.

  “Okay. Sorry. This is unbelievable.”

  He shrugged. “Could have fed a boatload of kids for what it cost.”

  “Or new shoes.”

  “Or beer.”

  Ellen smiled, then stepped in front of him and nodded to the four cops standing guard on each side of the bar. They acknowledged her almost in unison, careful, however, to not look back at the floor or toward who they were guarding. She’d seen that behavior a few times over the years.

  Her pulse rose. Whenever that reaction was present, you could take it to the bank that the crime scene was straight out of a low-budget horror movie. She swung around the end of the teakwood bar. Then stopped dead in her tracks.

  Her past experience with cops guarding crime scenes proved to be consistent. Her initial thoughts, the ones undaunted by more than five seconds of tainted observation, told her this was the creepiest presentation of a body she’d seen in her professional life. In fact, she c
ouldn’t image one that would be worse.

  The detailed presentation of the body of the large man, gloved hands resting on his stomach, heels of his black leather shoes touching together, was certainly meticulous. But the man wasn’t going to be recognizable by his facial features.

  She would have to remove the red velvet bag looped over his head to do that. And, for good measure, the twin, six to eight-inch daggers with jewels covering their gold handles that were protruding from the vicinity of each eye socket were going to have to be removed.

  God in heaven, people could be deeply warped. Evil. Twin daggers, ones that looked as if they could be worth small fortunes no less, embedded deeply through the eyes? She thought she had anger issues. Unfortunately, she’d seen worse over the years. Time to do what she did.

  Bending over her crime scene kit, she opened it and took out a new pair of blue rubber gloves, snapped them on, then grabbed her DSLR Nikon Camera. She took her first few shots to make sure everything was working well and, to boot, taking photos before really processing the scene was a practice she had adopted a few years ago. She’d found that taking pictures allowed her mind to settle and helped her go to full CSI mode.

  She shifted to her left and took five more shots.

  Compartmentalizing hadn’t always been that easy for her. Separating bodies from lives was something she could never do completely, but taking the deep emotion out of processing a scene made for a more objective investigation. She’d gotten better at it.

  “What do you need from me?” asked Big Harv as he moved a few feet away.

  “I could use a full team working the outside of the house. I can handle the inside investigation.”

  He shook his head. “I have strict instructions that it can be only you at this point.”

  She gave him a quick glance. There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice, his body language spoke even more loudly.