Before I pull up to the drive-through window, I lower the volume. Even still, I can hear the quiet murmurings of the podcast hosts reading off the coroner’s report as the woman hands me my large iced coffee and donut, no sprinkles. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, lacerations on the scalp. Have a good one, honey, the woman working says as she hands me back my card.
You, too, I add before I turn out and onto the main road.
In the middle lane, I roll down my window and turn the volume back up. She was found lying prostrate in the lawn, out by the open back door. There were clear signs of a struggle, but nothing was missing from the house. That’s what we here in the crime business, one of the host jokes, call a clue. At the stoplight, I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. By all accounts, it’s a beautiful day.
Near downtown, I turn left onto Middlebrook where all the colonial style houses boast the same weathered clapboard shingles and Nantucket blue hydrangeas. It’s just not the kind of place where murders happen, one host comments.
Especially unsolved ones, the other adds.
It’s probably the husband, I say to no one in my car, it’s always the husband. When I drive by it the first time, I miss it completely.
It’s way back there, right?
Yes, not directly visible. There’s a long driveway and it’s behind another house.
As they recount the details, I make my way back around. Middlebrook feeds into East Beach which connects back with the main road. Along a stretch of the main road, you can almost make out the back of Susan’s house in the distance through the trees.
Is that the neighbor who discovered Susan?
Yes, Mary Stephens dialed 911 just after noon on September 13th.
As I near the house again, I slow down as they play the recording of the 911 call. Mary Stephens begs for them to send an ambulance and the operator tells her to remain on the line. Paramedics will declare Susan dead when they first arrive at the Middlebrook residence.
If you go up on our website, you can find the crime scene photos.
Heads up though, the lesser host notes, they’re pretty upsetting.
Stalling outside, I’m trying to see what’s visible of Susan’s house when I notice someone walking their garbage bins down to the end of the driveway and I floor it. Suddenly going 50 in residential, my mind races just as fast. Was that Susan’s sister? It couldn’t be a new girlfriend already, could it? Do they even still live there? Maybe they did move though. Maybe it was someone else. I loop back around. The hosts are doing an ad break for at-home security systems. Using code “MURDER,” you can get 10% off your first month.
When I approach again, the bins stand waiting by the mailbox. Where was John at the time of the murder?
At work, the other answers.
How convenient, I think.
What’s really interesting though is his relationship with Susan’s sister.
Who, Abigail?
Mhmm, the other sounds. She’s been living there ever since the time of the murder.
What, with John? To help with the kids?
Mhmm. That’s what she told reporters. But I don’t know, there’s just something a little…
Off about it?
Yes, just a little off.
As I loop back for the fourth time, I notice a woman walking her dog and staring. I try to give a tightlipped smile, the nod of a neighbor, but she frowns back at me in disapproval. I’m not sure if she’s mad I’m by the Middlebrook Murder House or that I’m on Middlebrook at all, so I keep going. When I pull up to the stop sign at the end of the road, another car comes up behind me. When I turn left onto East Beach, they turn left. When I merge onto the main road, they follow close behind.
Do you think Abigail was in on it?
I think she knows more than she’s letting on.
Is that her? I want to ask. Is she following me?
When I come up on Middlebrook, I drive past it and turn right instead onto the next side street. I didn’t realize Everett Drive is a dead end until I get to it. When I reach the cul-de-sac, Abigail loops behind me, a morbid merry-go-round.
