“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 19th-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 19th-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
