Detective Bristol tried not to gape like a rookie as he drove through the gate onto the grounds of the Wilbur Estate. The uniformed officer in the passenger seat didn’t possess Bristol’s restraint. "Wow! It’s like a wildlife preserve."
Bristol snorted. "It’s vulgar. Kids starving in the streets and rich jerks like Wilbur throw away money on this stuff. It’s a darn shame, Walenski; that’s what it is."
Walenski seemed not to have heard. "Look at that. It’s a wildebeest. And there’s a zebra. Whoa, he has a giraffe!" She pointed and stared at the animals as they continued up the mile long driveway.
The mansion was every bit as gauche as the surrounding acreage. Resembling a feudal castle, complete with a crocodile-infested moat, the structure loomed over the surrounding savanna. A tower beside the portcullis cast its long shadow along the road in the afternoon sun, lending the area an ominous ambience and raising the hairs on the back of Bristol’s neck.
He parked the sedan among the half-dozen squad cars on the lawn and crossed the drawbridge toward the officers guarding the police tape barrier. Bristol flashed his badge as he stepped over the barricade and with Walenski in tow, he entered the castle.
The interior was difficult to reconcile with the exterior. From the lush carpeting beneath to the vaulted ceiling above, the room looked not at all medieval. Warm light cascaded down upon the tasteful and expensive furniture while individual spots illuminated the equally tasteful and far more expensive artwork. Bristol was no art critic, but he doubted the seascape hanging in the alcove behind the bar was a replica.
They were met in the foyer by a haggard looking crime scene investigator. "Glad you could make it, Detective. If you’ll come with me, I’ll give you the rundown."
Bristol held up a hand. "Not yet. I need a little more information first."
The CSI sighed. "Ok, shoot."
The detective started counting off questions on the fingers of his left hand. "First, who called it in and when? Second, how long have you been here? Third, where are the witnesses? Fourth, what's your name?"
"My name is Darren Jenson, Detective. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Bacon, called us at 9:22 this morning. She said her boss, Warren Wilbur, staggered into the kitchen about nine, covered in blood and muttering unintelligibly. The first deputy was on the scene at 9:29. He would have been quicker, but the gate was locked and the groundskeeper had to get the menagerie out of the area first. Mrs. Bacon is in the parlor, and Mr. Wilbur is in the den. Nobody else was in the house at the time. The groundskeeper was outside; he probably wouldn’t have seen anything, but we asked him to hang around until you got here. He’s out in the garage."
Bristol nodded. "Very thorough. I'd like to speak to the housekeeper first."
Jenson led them into the parlor where Mrs. Bacon perched uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair. Bristol moved a matching chair towards her and seated himself. "Mrs. Bacon, I'm Detective Bristol. I know you've spoken to several police officers already, but can you can you tell me what happened this morning?"
Mrs. Bacon raised her head and covered a sob with her hand. Bristol waited while she clamed herself, then leaned forward as she began to speak in a barely audible whisper. "I don't really know what happened. All I remember is Mr. Wilbur stumbling into the kitchen, blood all over him. He looked quite shaken. I sat him at the table and called 911 right away. That's really all there is to tell."
"Do you know where Mr. Wilbur was before he came into the kitchen this morning? Had he spent the night at home, or did he come in from outside?"
Mrs. Bacon gulped. "I'm not one to go telling tales, Mr. Bristol. But I'm not one to hide the truth from the law either. If I had to guess, I'd say he came up from the basement."
The way she said the word 'basement' piqued his curiosity. "And what's in the basement, dear? A workshop or something?" If they had called him out here because some rich fool had sliced his arm on his scroll saw, someone's head was going to roll.
"No sir, not a workshop. It's something else."
"Well, what is it, Mrs. Bacon? A hobby room?"
She inhaled sharply at his question. "Kind of. You need to see it for yourself, Detective. I really can't describe it."
Bristol squinted at her, but let the issue slide. "And was he with anyone else down there?"
"I suspect so. He usually is."
"But you don't know for sure."
"No, sir. I was in bed reading when he came home last night, well, early this morning. And I don't intrude into Mr. Wilbur's affairs."
Bristol patted her hand gently and stood. "That's enough for now, Mrs. Bacon. I may need to ask you some more questions later though. Would that be all right?"
She seemed relieved that her interrogation was ending. "Yes, that would be fine."
As they left the parlor, Bristol said, "let's have a look at the basement, shall we?"
"Of course, Detective." Jenson led them to a stout, wooden door at the end of the front hall. There were multiple deadbolts on the door, but all were unlocked and the door stood slightly ajar. Jenson pulled it fully open. "After you."
In the stairwell, the atmosphere left the sanity of the main floor and reaffirmed that this house was no home. The steps and rails were stone and the light flickered from imitation torches ensconced into the walls. As he descended into what, from the smell might be either a crypt or a wine cellar, Bristol could feel the temperature drop and the humidity increase. His skin was slicked and clammy when he reached the bottom landing.
Another door, similar to the one upstairs stood open and Bristol stepped into a nightmare. The room was about twenty feet square. A table adorned with leather straps, chains, and manacles stood alone in the center of the room. In the floor next to the table was drain with streaks of red leading to it. The walls of the room held racks of devices. One held an assortment of whips ranging from a slender riding crop to a metal tipped cat o' nine tails. Another held phallic shaped objects of varying size and material. The others held devices whose purpose Bristol could only guess and some he couldn't.
Jenson spoke into the shocked silence. "We found blood and hair on the table and the floor. We sent samples out for DNA, but it's not Wilbur's blood or hair. He doesn't have a cut on him and the type doesn't match. The hair is the wrong length and color."
Through gritted teeth Bristol spoke to Walenski, "I want Wilbur down here, now."
Two minutes later, she reappeared, dragging a frightened, little man behind her. Wilbur was about forty, not more than five and a half feet tall, and a bit on the pudgy side of fit. The bald head and glasses completed the look of a man who belonged in an accounting office or chemistry lab, not a torture chamber.
Bristol wasted no time on pleasantries. "Mr. Wilbur, who did you have here with you last night?"
Wilbur's reply was much calmer than his outward appearance. "A friend. She was here willingly, I assure you. You'd be surprised how many women enjoy role-playing. They can't wait to visit my little dungeon."
"I'll bet. Where is she now, Wilbur?"
Wilbur blinked and licked his lips. "She left just after midnight. Exhausted, maybe a little bruised, but quite pleased, and most definitely alive."
Bristol raised his eyebrows. "Who said she wasn't? Alive that is. I'll need a name and address or phone number."
"Her name was Ginger. Or so she said. I didn't get a number for her. A lot of my 'friends' like their privacy."
"Mr. Wilbur, I think you and I are going to have to go down to the station."
"Whatever for, Detective? What two consenting adults choose to do in private is no affair of the police."
Bristol snorted. "I highly doubt 'Ginger' consented to being murdered, Mr. Wilbur. And even if she did, it's still a crime in this country."
"Ridiculous. You have no evidence. A little blood does not make a murder: corpus delicti and all that. Where is the supposed victim?"
Bristol ignored Wilbur. "Walenski, read Mr. Wilbur his rights. Jenson, go find the groundskeeper. We need to figure out how to get those crocs out of the moat."