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Chapter 44. The Birthday Party Attic Murder Case
Ricky enthusiastically recommended a roadside restaurant that wasn't even open yet to Theodore.
"This restaurant's roasted venison is delicious; you definitely have to try it when they reopen."
As they passed a dessert shop with its gaudy storefront, he continued his impromptu tour guide routine.
"You must try their pie, especially the blueberry. It's even better than the Oak Club's, and that's saying something."
"This shop is owned by the Oak Club's head pastry chef, actually."
Bernie shifted uncomfortably in the backseat, feeling like an unwanted stepchild as he sat on pins and needles.
All the way there, Ricky kept up his enthusiastic commentary about every restaurant and attraction they passed, treating Theodore like visiting royalty while Bernie might as well have been invisible.
Only when they neared the crime scene did Ricky finally get down to business, his tone shifting to something more professional.
"Yesterday was Councilor Grant's daughter's birthday, Emily Grant, twenty-two years old."
"Councilor Santos's son, Teddy Santos, was killed at the party."
"The prime suspect is Councilman Howard's youngest son, Anthony Howard II they call him Little Howard."
Three councilors dropped in three sentences, all wielding real political power. The casual name-dropping made both Bernie and Theodore's heads spin for a moment.
Theodore raised an eyebrow, thinking to himself, 'Just like the wealthy districts back home, one murder case and half the city council's involved.'
Ricky caught his expression and grinned. "Don't look so worried. This is just another day in the East District!"
The car approached a gated residential area and was promptly stopped at the security checkpoint.
Ricky flashed his police badge and identification to the uniformed guard, who scrutinized both documents before waving them through with obvious reluctance.
Once past the gate, they seemed to enter an entirely different world. The winding road curved through what felt like a private forest, with stately villas, some classical, others modern, nestled among towering oaks and maples like expensive jewels scattered through green velvet.
The car pulled up in front of a modest villa done in classic American country style, all white clapboard siding and black shutters.
Several police cruisers were already parked along the roadside. Detectives had established a perimeter at the front entrance, though most were standing around chatting and smoking rather than maintaining any serious security posture.
Only when they spotted Ricky's car did the officers suddenly straighten up, stubbing out cigarettes and adopting the appearance of actually doing their jobs.
After passing through the checkpoint, Theodore and Bernie followed Ricky toward the villa's front entrance.
The door stood wide open, and even from a distance, the chaos inside was visible.
Wine bottles, half-eaten plates of food, and discarded clothing were scattered everywhere. The hardwood floors were littered with colorful confetti, and 'Happy Birthday' balloons still clung to the large picture windows like deflated party spirits.
Ricky gestured toward the disaster zone with practiced ease.
"This is our crime scene. I know your methods, so, "
"After the incident, officers secured the scene immediately, cleared everyone out, and nothing's been touched since the body was removed."
He waved over a detective and requested shoe covers and gloves for all three of them. As they suited up, Ricky continued his briefing while leading them toward the staircase.
At least a hundred people had attended yesterday's party, and the hostess, Emily Grant, didn't recognize half of them, friends of friends, party crashers, the usual crowd that materializes at wealthy kids' parties.
The police received the emergency call around 2 AM, but by the time they arrived, many guests had already scattered to the wind.
Ricky shook his head at the memory, clearly frustrated by the delayed response.
Theodore, however, seemed unconcerned by this detail.
"The killer's among the people who stayed," he said matter-of-factly. "Most murderers can't resist returning to the scene."
"It lets them relive the crime and monitor the investigation's progress."
"Chaos gives them a false sense of security, makes them think they're safe in the crowd."
Ricky glanced back in surprise. Bernie was following close behind, and Theodore brought up the rear. Bernie caught Ricky's look and just grinned knowingly.
Ricky shook his head and continued climbing, slightly winded from the stairs.
According to police reconstruction, the murder occurred around 11 PM the previous night, right during the party's peak chaos, when the music was loudest and the alcohol flowing heaviest.
Two witnesses, James Carter and Paul Miller, claimed they saw Little Howard kill Teddy Santos in the attic.
Their screams had attracted other partygoers, who came running to see what the commotion was about.
What followed was a surreal scene: a group of drunk young people standing around a fresh corpse, debating whether to call the police or help Little Howard dispose of the evidence.
The argument apparently raged for over two hours before someone finally made the call to the South District station around 2 AM.
After climbing three flights of stairs, Ricky pushed open the attic door, immediately covering his nose with his hand.
"And this is where it all went down."
The three men entered the attic space. It was surprisingly spacious, even Bernie, who wasn't exactly short, could stand upright without hitting his head on the slanted ceiling.
Solid wood planking covered the floor, creaking ominously under their weight with each step.
A makeshift partition wall divided the attic into two rooms. On this side, bloody footprints created a grotesque pattern across the floor. On the far side, dark stains marked where the body had lain.
Both areas showed signs of deliberate destruction, overturned furniture, scattered belongings. The metallic smell of dried blood mixed with something more unpleasant: vomit that had been left to congeal in the summer heat.
The stench was overwhelming, though thankfully the well-sealed attic had kept most of the flies at bay.
Ricky stepped aside, giving Theodore and Bernie full access to examine the scene. He continued his briefing while they worked.
Little Howard maintained his innocence after arrest, insisting he'd been framed.
His story was simple: when he climbed up to the attic, he found the victim already lying face-down on the floor. When he rolled the body over to check for signs of life, he discovered the knife protruding from Teddy's chest.
According to Little Howard's friends, including Emily Grant herself, they all recognized the murder weapon as a knife Teddy had given Little Howard for his birthday earlier that year.
The same friends also confirmed that Little Howard and the victim had gotten into a vicious bar fight the previous week over some girl.
During that altercation, Little Howard had actually pulled this same knife on Teddy. Other patrons had intervened before any blood was shed, but not before Little Howard made a very public threat to kill his rival "someday soon."
Bernie couldn't help himself. "So what exactly are we investigating here? Sounds pretty cut and dried."
Ricky spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "That's exactly why they called you two in."
Bernie chuckled and turned to watch Theodore work.
Theodore ducked through the opening in the partition wall, entering the actual crime scene.
A large pool of dried blood dominated the floor, with clear drag marks streaking through the dark stain. Dozens of bloody footprints overlapped around the perimeter, and the walls bore obvious fingerprints and smear marks where people had steadied themselves.
As Theodore crouched to examine the evidence, he asked, "Have you processed the fingerprints on the knife handle?"
Ricky consulted his notes. "Full cards were made and compared against Anthony Howard II's prints. Perfect match."
Theodore paused his examination. "What about wound trajectory analysis?"
Seeing Ricky's blank look, he elaborated, "People of different heights and builds create different stabbing angles. The wound path can tell us about the killer's physical characteristics."
Ricky shook his head and pulled out his notebook, scribbling a reminder. "I'll have the forensic lab run those tests when we get back."
Theodore noted the transformation, Ricky became a completely different person when he was actually working versus his earlier tour-guide performance.
Theodore walked the scene twice, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
If Little Howard was the killer, the scene felt almost too chaotic, too sloppy.
If someone else was responsible, then ironically, the scene was too clean, too obviously staged.
He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the crime, but immediately found himself overwhelmed by the conflicting evidence, dozens of footprints, bloodstains going in multiple directions, and the image of drunken young people stumbling around like zombies in a horror movie.
The contradictions fascinated rather than frustrated him.
After a few more minutes of examination, Theodore backed out of the partition. Ricky watched him curiously but didn't interrupt his thought process.
Outside the villa, Ricky signaled to the waiting detectives. The evidence team immediately sprang into action, pulling on their protective gear and swarming into the house.
Armed with paper bags and cameras, they began systematically collecting anything that might be relevant. Another crew was already hauling out filled evidence bags by the armload.
The efficiency of the operation left both Theodore and Bernie impressed despite themselves.
The drive back was quiet. Ricky concentrated on navigating the winding roads while Theodore stared out the window, lost in thought.
Halfway to the station, the police radio crackled to life with a message that Councilman Howard was waiting at headquarters, demanding to know when the investigating team would return.
Ricky grabbed the radio handset, reported their estimated arrival time, and pressed harder on the accelerator.
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