Chapter 4 - The House on High Ridge
My parents’ house sat on a three-quarter-acre lot in the Canterbury Estates subdivision of Powell.
It was an imperial-brick colonial with four white fluted columns supporting a pediment that looked down on a circular asphalt driveway. In the front yard, two stone lions sat on either side of the brick walkway, their paws resting on stone shields that my mother polished with granite wax twice a year.
At seven o'clock on Saturday evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt shiny and black under the streetlights.
The Delaware County Sheriff's cruiser sat at the curb, its amber running lights reflecting in the wet puddles of the gutter.
Deputy Miller did not use the brass knocker shaped like a pinecone. He used the flat of his fist, hitting the solid oak door four times with a concussive force that rattled the leaded-glass transom above the lintel.
The door opened six inches.
Richard Caldwell stood in the entryway. He had changed out of his khaki shorts into a pair of pleated wool trousers and an ironed blue button-down shirt, the uniform of an executive who had been interrupted during an important telephone consultation.
"Officer," Richard said. He did not open the door further. "If this is regarding the noise earlier this afternoon, the gathering has concluded. The guests have departed."
"Mr. Caldwell," Deputy Miller said, stepping half an inch forward so that his boot heel crossed the limestone sill, preventing the door from swinging shut. "I am not here about a noise complaint. I have a search warrant for the exterior premises of this residence, and an arrest warrant for Vanessa Lynn Caldwell."
Richard’s face didn't pale; it hardened into that red, congested grimace he used when a shipping subcontractor attempted to bill for demurrage.
"My daughter is not here," Richard said. "And you have no right to come onto this property without my attorney present. I know Sheriff Martin personally. We sit on the charity gala board together."
Deputy Miller pulled a white tri-fold paper from his pocket and pressed it flat against Richard’s blue shirt.
"Sheriff Martin didn't sign this, Mr. Caldwell," Miller said. "Judge Giamanco signed it twenty minutes ago. It authorizes the collection of trace biological evidence from the rear patio, specifically the collection of human blood from the brick surface and the recovery of a blunt object described as a thirty-ounce glass wine bottle."
From the shadows of the formal dining room behind Richard, Diane appeared.
She was holding a glass of iced seltzer, her hair freshly brushed, but her eyes were darting from Miller’s silver badge to the marked cruiser sitting at the curb.
"Richard," Diane whispered, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for her husband’s elbow. "What is he doing? The neighbors are watching from the across the street. The Henderson girls are on their bikes."
"Go inside, Diane," Richard ordered without turning his head. He looked back at Miller. "Officer, this is an internal family dispute. My older daughter had a disagreement with my younger daughter. The child fell against a piece of lawn furniture. It was an accident. Children get bloody noses every day."
Deputy Miller took a half-step back, his thumbs hooking lightly into his duty belt.
"Mr. Caldwell," Miller said, his voice dropping into that cold, flat, terrifyingly clear cadence that Ohio deputies use when they are building a record for an audio recorder. "I have just come from Trauma Bay Three at Children’s Hospital. The 'bloody nose' you are referring to is a three-millimeter displaced comminuted fracture that will require closed reduction under general anesthesia on Tuesday morning."
He pointed toward the rear of the house.
"My crime scene unit is already at the side gate. If that patio has been washed down with a hose, as Mrs. Carter indicated it would be, I am adding a charge of Tampering with Evidence under Section 2921.12 to your daughter’s warrant. And if you continue to obstruct the threshold of this door, Mr. Caldwell, I will take you down to the Delaware County jail in the back of my cruiser in your pleated slacks."
Richard’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
For thirty years, Richard Caldwell had operated in a world where problems were dissolved with an email, a golf outing at Muirfield, or a quiet conversation with an old fraternity brother who worked in the county prosecutor’s office. He had spent his life believing that authority was a club to which he held an executive membership.
He looked at Miller’s eyes.
He saw no fraternity pins. He saw no country club emblems. He saw only fifty pounds of nylon gear, a digital recorder with a red light blinking on the pocket flap, and the absolute, unyielding machinery of the state of Ohio moving forward like a loaded coal train.
Richard stepped back into the foyer.
"The gate is unlocked," he whispered.
"Where is Vanessa, sir?" Miller asked.
"She’s at her home," Diane blurted out from the dining room, her voice cracking into that thin, hysterical register she used when the catering delivery was late. "She has a headache! She’s been in bed since five o’clock! You have no right to harass that poor girl—she has a sensitive nervous condition!"
Deputy Miller didn't answer her.
He turned toward his cruiser, lifted his shoulder-mic, and clicked the transmit button.
May you like
"Dispatch, unit four-twelve. Search warrant executed at the High Ridge address. Crime scene unit is clear to access the rear perimeter. Notify Columbus PD Precinct Eighteen to execute the felony warrant on the Broadway address. Suspect is believed to be on site."
He walked down the brick walk, his heavy boots making no sound on the wet lawn, leaving Richard and Diane standing in the open doorway under the glare of their four fluted columns, their stone lions staring out into the empty street.
