Letters From Rachel by N. L. Westaway

Author:N. L. Westaway [Westaway, N. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beach House Press
Published: 2020-12-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Wednesday, 8 a.m. - Home of Captain Bradly Stinson - Berkley MI

Scott pulled the ambulance up to the gate and then leaned out the window to speak to the man in the booth. The area was one of those neighborhoods that had the security guard out front and you had to get permission to get in, and it was at a location with very low call volume, so if you got a call, it was usually pretty serious.

They had been at the end of their shift when they’d gotten the call from dispatch, instructing that they needed to go priority 4, lights and sirens, on a shots fired, possible suicide, to this affluent neighborhood in Berkeley. The neighbor’s nanny had called 911 after the 10-year-old boy she took care of, had said the guy who lives next door was parked in his driveway and that the boy thought he had heard a gunshot earlier when he’d first woken up. They had been given no other information, other than the boy had locked himself in the house, and police were already en route as it was their dispatch that had gotten the call first.

The guard waved them through the security gate, just as their own dispatch informed them the police had arrived on scene, that they had secured the scene, and there was an adult male in his car with a shotgun wound to his chest.

They pulled up to a house that had a three-car garage and was just as huge as the rest they had seen on the lengthy drive in, this one was not on, but near to the golf course that catered to its wealthy residents.

Gwen got out of the ambulance and walked over to a late-model BMW. It was her turn to run the call, and she noted that none of the doors or windows of the car were open. It was not running and there were no lights on, nor was the radio playing. On-site, there were four police officers, one in particular was hovering around the car, and he looked like a veteran cop, Gwen noted, as he didn’t seem fazed by this scene at all. Then as Gwen reached for the door handle, the officer said, “Oh, he’s obviously dead—you don’t need to mess with my crime scene.”

Gwen pulled back and looked through the driver’s side window to see a male in his mid-50s, lifeless in the driver’s seat, a shotgun propped between the steering wheel and the guy’s chest. His hands were sitting on his lap, palms up, as if he were meditating. His eyes were wide open, head resting on the headrest, and his mouth was slightly open with no blood showing. He was not breathing and not moving. Gwen could see he was dressed in a denim shirt, two buttons done up at the top but the rest of the shirt was open, and he had a white t-shirt on under it, the hem of it pulled out over his jeans, but she couldn’t be sure about his feet.

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