Читать книгу The First Darkness - Mitchell Boone's Gibson - Страница 7

Thomas Morton’s home was magnificent by any standard. Built in 1849, the mansion had 297 rooms, 112 fireplaces, 32 kitchens, 26 baths, 17 staircases and over an acre of roof. The design of the home was strikingly similar to Chatsworth, the 17^th-century Derbyshire residence of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Greensboro, North Carolina was a long way from Devonshire, England. Thomas Morton’s intention in building the largest house in Guilford County was to remind all who entered that he was descended from royalty.

The mansion sat on the edge of a wide oak forest. Morton found battling the elements in the country far more amusing than battling traffic in the city. The children had never wanted for anything in their lives. Each space in the home was designed to recreate the grand design of an English Tudor summer residence. The few neighbors that the Mortons had never suspected that the family would be the subject of the evening news—at least, not for this reason.

Mitchell drove past the large oak fence that draped the front lawn of the estate. The police had set up a perimeter around the entrance and he flashed his police consultant badge for the young officer on duty. The officer checked the badge studiously, nodded, and motioned to the senior officer in charge of the grounds to allow the alpine green convertible Jaguar to pass.

Mitchell paused for a moment to lower the roof of the vehicle and parked a few yards beyond the outer edge of the perimeter. He never had much chance to enjoy riding in the Jaguar with the top down. The ride out to the scene seemed like the perfect opportunity. He knew, however, that any minute now, Gerald would spot his car and demand the remainder of his attention. Mitchell removed the large medallion from his shirt, placed it over his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing became deep and slow. After a few moments, a large ball of blue light emerged from his forehead and floated through the ceiling of the Jaguar. Mitchell took care to utter a quick word of obscuration over the ball as it left his mind.

The blue sphere floated high into the sky over the mansion. Even though Mitchell remained safely in the car, the sphere greatly extended his sensory perceptions. He could see the entirety of the estate from the vantage point of the sphere as easily as he could with a satellite orbiting from space. The sphere offered immediate access to information related to smell, taste, hearing, sight, touch, and a host of other extrasensory perceptive data streams.

Almost immediately, he picked up an unusual scent. The odor was oddly metallic, somewhat foul, not unlike meat that has been sitting too long on a kitchen counter. There was also something more—a sweet, sickening, flowery odor that cloaked the stronger foul odor. Extending his senses slightly, he saw the faint outline of a gray-red cloud. Mitchell knew that he was dealing with a murder scene. The perimeter tape, the number of cars, and the media blackout were standard procedure for crimes of this nature, especially in this neighborhood.

Curiously, he had not seen any evidence of the victims’ soul forms wandering around the grounds. Shortly after a violent death, the vast majority of souls wander around for days before fully comprehending what has happened to them. Before he could investigate further, he spotted Gerald walking briskly toward the Jaguar.

Mitchell was immediately jolted out of his meditative state. He muttered a word of dissolution and the ball instantly vanished. He looked toward the car window and saw Gerald’s smiling face. He knew that he would need to be more careful with his practices around his inquisitive friend.

“When are you going to let me take this baby for a spin?” Gerald had always admired a good racing vehicle.

“You have a standing invitation my friend...anytime you wish.”

“One day, when I get some time, I will take you up on that,” Gerald replied.

Detective Sergeant Gerald Holmes was a tall man. He stood just slightly over six feet six inches tall. Gerald had played basketball for the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for three years during his college days. He never started for the team but was a valuable sixth man at the left forward position. He loved playing the game, even after his knee decided to give up the sport and shatter in two places during an off-campus pickup game. Following two surgeries, rehab, and extensive training, he was never able to regain his playing form. He enlisted in the Navy after college and specialized in military intelligence. After 24 years of duty, six tours in special ops, and three decorations for service during highly classified field operations, he met the woman of his dreams and retired from the Navy. His parents both lived in the Greensboro area and he decided to move back home to raise his young family. His children, Tammy and Nicholas, both attended high school at Grimsley.

Gerald had an easy smile and a calm, good-natured manner. People liked him and that made doing his job that much easier. His men respected his judgment, though some of them wondered why he frequently recruited a retired psychiatrist as a consultant on certain murder cases. The two men had been good friends for more than 25 years.

“So what happened here, Gerald?”

“This is another strange one, Mitch. Walk with me while I fill you in.”

Gerald led Mitchell down the long, winding garden pathway that encircled the Morton estate. The grounds were tended by a small retinue of full-time gardeners who had formerly been employed by a now deposed South American military leader. During this time of year, the gardens were alive with lavender rose bushes, pink and white dogwood blossoms, and blazing yellow tulips. Mitchell stopped briefly to admire the sculptures that lined the garden perimeter. He recognized the large replica of the Marcus Aurelius statue that faced the main entry to the home. Twenty yards away, he was certain that he spotted a replica of the Farnese Bull. The three graceful figures grappling with the majestic bull atop the beige and gray marble piece seemed to come alive as they passed.

“We have here the home of Mr. Thomas Morton. He was a very wealthy businessman, attorney, age 54, married 21 years, two children, both boys. From what we have been able to piece together, Mr. Morton was a collector of antique weapons. So far, we have found over 300 different artifacts, all catalogued on his hard drive and labeled according to age, date of acquisition, and country of origin. He used a model 1908 Mannlicher Schoenauer Carbine sniper rifle to kill the two boys. He used a .38 on himself. The security tapes show him killing the two boys and then himself.”

Gerald pointed to the three body bags lying in the grass some 50 yards away. Two heavily armed SWAT team members stood near to the bodies, while one crime scene investigator hovered over the grassy area near the bodies.

“The really strange thing is, he had no history of violence...no domestic calls of any kind came up on the board...no history of drinking or drugs...as far as we can tell, this was a model family. That’s why I called you.”

“Did Mr. Morton have any history of psychiatric illness?” Mitchell asked.

“Not that we could find. You know these people, so secretive, but nothing on that end either.”

“Has anyone questioned his wife?”

“We were kinda hoping you would do the honors, doc,” Gerald said, grinning.

He slapped Mitchell gently on the back and led him through the entrance of the home.

A coffered ceiling with golden rosettes crowned the entrance to the great hall of the home. A number of 19^th-century French pieces, including a boulle marquetry table, lined the hallway that led into the main room. A Louis XVI-style console stood majestically against the wall adjacent to the main stairwell. Six framed antique Ottoman manuscripts lined the walls above the console.

Mrs. Morton sat in the corner of the reception room just left of the main stairwell. She sat on a 19^th-century gilt armchair that had originally been crafted for the Egyptian Khedivial family. On the writing table just in front of her sat a Seljuk terra-cotta bull.

Mrs. Morton rose to meet the two men as they approached. She was a stunning woman. Standing at almost six feet tall, her hair was long, thick, and dark, with curly locks draping the ends that hung by her shoulders. Her skin was dark and tanned. She wore a simple Missoni wedge maroon tunic top with a white mid-length skirt.

Patricia Morton had twice been a finalist in the Miss Argentina pageant. In her last competition, she had been first-runner up. Thomas Morton had met her during a business trip to Argentina. He had taken her to see Iguazu Falls on their first date. Even though she had grown up in Argentina, she had never once seen the Iguazu Falls.

Mrs. Morton’s face was distraught. Her dark brown eyes rimmed with tears even as she attempted to remain the cordial hostess. While she’d been away shopping in Winston Salem with friends, she’d lost her husband and two children. Her world had been instantly shattered forever for no apparent reason.

Mitchell opened his vision slightly so that he could examine Mrs. Morton more closely. Her aura was large, perhaps 10 to 12 feet across. The main color was green, though the interior and middle regions were filled with bright yellow and gold inclusions. Deep red and gray clouds lined the perimeter of the aura.

The green color meant that she loved people, was very social, and would likely be quite a good teacher. The yellow color defined a soul that was a highly intelligent woman who was full of life and optimistic. The gold color pointed to some latent psychic and spiritual gifts that lay dormant within her subconscious. With the advent of the recent traumas, Mrs. Morton had little hope of fully realizing those gifts during this lifetime.

The deep red and gray clouds on the aura’s perimeter most likely represented the emotional trauma and shock that accompanied the news that she had just received. As far as Mitchell could determine, Mrs. Morton was a beautiful and gifted soul who was genuinely in shock.

“Mrs. Morton, my name is Detective Sergeant Gerald Holmes. I will be in charge of the investigation. This is my colleague, Dr. Mitchell Gibson. He is a psychiatric police consultant that I have called in to help me on the case.”

Gerald and Mitchell in turn extended their hands to Mrs. Morton. She shook them lightly and returned to her chair. As she sat, an attendant entered the room and placed a Bradford tea service down on the writing table. The attendant then quietly placed three rose porcelain tea cups on the table. As quickly as she entered, she left the room without making a sound.

“Thank you for coming, detective, doctor. Will you take some tea?”

Mrs. Morton was ever the perfect hostess, even under these phenomenally trying circumstances. Years of parties, state dinners, and official gatherings had honed her instincts to exquisite perfection.

“Thank you, ma’am. I think I will,” Gerald answered.

“I will as well,” Mitchell replied.

“Tell us, Mrs. Morton, had you noticed anything unusual about your husband’s behavior over the past few weeks? Anything out of the ordinary that might help us figure out why this happened?” Mitchell asked.

Mrs. Morton sat back in her chair, closed her eyes briefly, sighed for a moment, and looked intently at Mitchell.

“We were very happy. Don’t get me wrong, we argued from time to time, all couples do. But we loved each other and Thomas would never do anything like this. He was a good man. Something is wrong with all this. He loved his boys more than life itself. I just don’t understand.”

“We will do everything we can to get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Morton. Did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who might want to do him harm?” Gerald asked.

“I tried to keep out of my husband’s business affairs. This house, our homes, our charities, our children, keep me quite busy. I just checked our main accounts, we were fine. My husband was a man of great integrity, detective. If he had enemies, they were only those who envied him. He would never intentionally hurt another person. He was a good man.”

Mrs. Morton’s eyes began to fill with tears as she tried to compose herself. She pulled a tissue from the silver container on the writing table in front of her and wiped her eyes quickly.

“We will try to be brief, Mrs. Morton. We appreciate your patience. Do you know if your husband had ever been treated for depression?” Mitchell asked.

Mrs. Morton smiled thinly, sighed again, and took a long sip of tea. As she spoke, the outer perimeter of her aura flashed soft tufts of brown and gray.

“A few years ago, my husband lost a big case...some company in Miami, I believe. They tried to sue my husband for negligence but they were unsuccessful. The whole thing went on for several years and I could tell it was very taxing for him. He had trouble sleeping and difficulty focusing on his work. He saw a counselor, a friend of ours, for a few sessions. The company eventually dropped the suit but I could tell that the whole thing took a toll on my husband.”

“How long ago did you say that was?” Gerald asked.

“About five years ago, if I remember correctly.”

“Anything else that you can recall that might have upset him more recently?...Another suit perhaps?” Mitchell asked.

“No, nothing...as a matter of fact, business has been great.”

“Gerald, I think we’re done here.”

“I think so too,” Gerald replied.

“Mrs. Morton, we will be going now. Again, thank you for your time. I want to extend my condolences to you and your family.” Gerald extended his hand to Mrs. Morton. This time, however, she stepped forward to hug him. As she hugged him, she burst into a torrent of tears. The attendant walked into the room and placed her arms around Mrs. Morton’s shoulders. The two women backed away from the detective and the attendant led Mrs. Morton away from the reception area.

“I hate this part of my job, Mitch,” Gerald said, shaking his head sadly.

“From what I can see, my friend, this is a murder-suicide case with no easy answers,” Mitchell replied.

“I just don’t know why a man with everything would blow it all in one fell swoop for no reason,” Gerald said.

“In many suicides, we never find out what triggered the final event. You know that.”

“I know, but this one seems odd to me, you know, in a funny sort of way...I don’t think this thing is as cut-and-dried as it seems,” Gerald replied.

“I don’t think I can do much more here, Gerald. If you don’t mind, I am going to head back into town. Let me know what the medical examiner finds when he does the autopsies, and when you get a chance, send me a copy of those security tapes.”

“Sure thing...Hey Mitch, when are you going to go fishing with me and the boys?”

“What about next week?” Mitchell replied.

“You got it. Lake Norman?”

“Fine. I’ll tell Kathy.”

Mitchell hugged his friend and briskly walked back to the Jaguar. He paused briefly to allow his vision to examine the three bodies as they were being loaded into the ambulances. He visually scoured each of the forms carefully. As closely as he could determine, none of the bodies had residual soul material. Other than the dull, gray, misty traces of life force that clung to the corpses, he could see nothing. Somehow, the soul material of these three people had been stolen. A force that could do that was nothing to ignore. Mitchell knew that he would need to do a much closer investigation of this matter under more appropriate circumstances.