A willful murder
Harrison Whitaker was the richest, stingiest and nastiest old man in town. And on October 29, police found him in his home office slumped over his desk, with a small-caliber bullet hole hidden in the deep frown furrows of his forehead.
After a preliminary examination of the body, the first officer on the scene descended the long staircase into the elegant foyer where Detective Neil Schaefer and his partner, Detective Erin Foster, waited.
“Any idea who could’ve done this?” Detective Schaefer asked.
“Hard to say,” the officer responded. “Harrison Whitaker had a lot of enemies, but none that seemed angry enough to kill him.”
Detective Foster gazed around the vast entryway. “Mr. Whitaker lived alone, right? Who made the call?”
“His driver, Lucas. When Mr. Whitaker didn’t call for him this morning, he knew something was wrong.” The officer looked at Detective Foster. “He was really broken up when we found him. We’ve asked that he keep the cause of death under wraps for now, so as not to upset the family.”
Detective Foster nodded. “Have they been notified yet?”
“Of course,” the officer responded. “According to Lucas, Whitaker’s only living relatives are his three nephews. They visit him all the time— and stand to inherit millions. I sent a squad car around to inform them of their uncle’s death and to bring them to the station. They should be arriving there any minute.”
Detective Schaefer looked at his partner. “I’m going to head up and inspect the scene. Question the three of them about their whereabouts last night. I’ll meet you at the station in a half hour.”
Detective Foster arrived at the police station to find three young men—duncan, Calvin and Wendel— sitting in the interview room. Duncan was pacing the floor looking at his watch. Calvin lounged in one of the folding chairs, while his brother, Wendel, appeared to be texting.
Foster opened her notepad. “Let’s begin with you,” she said, pointing at Duncan. “When was the last time you saw your uncle?”
“I visited my dear Uncle Harrison yesterday afternoon and left around five-thirty,” Duncan said. “I visit him all the time, but yesterday, he was particularly cross, threatening to cut me out of his will if I don’t get a job soon. I tried to explain that I’m just waiting for the right opportunity, and that I’m barely scraping by on the monthly allowance from the trust. But he didn’t want to hear it, so our visit ended earlier than usual.”
Calvin shook his head somberly when asked the same question. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t remember exactly…maybe two weeks ago?” He smiled shyly at Detective Foster. “I didn’t visit with him as much as I would’ve liked, what with working and living on my farm outside of town. It’s a simple life, without the luxuries of TV, computers. I don’t own a car, much less a gun. Not that I’m complaining—i get by fine on my allowance, small as it is.”
“You mean, except for your failed business,” Wendel scoffed from the corner.
Calvin turned toward him. “Well, I heard your checks are bouncing all over town,” he shot back angrily.
Wendel coughed nervously. “Well…it’s true I’ve run into a little financial difficulty, but I just submitted my novel to a publisher who was very interested. My creditors will stop hounding me once I have that check in hand.”
Turning to Detective Foster, Wendel added, “To answer your question, I was planning to visit my uncle early last night to—uh— ask for a small advance—until I get the publisher’s check. Then Duncan told me he was in a mood, so I changed my mind.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. You two can go,” Foster said, gesturing. “But I’ll need you to stay for further questioning.”
— Joan Dayton