by Tim Gilbert

September 1, 2002

Lansdale, Pennsylvania

8:15am

Joe Costa stepped out of his cruiser and onto Willow Lane. He was a lead detective in the Chester County sheriff’s office which serviced Lansdale, a bedroom community of the greater Philadelphia area.

Joe was a little worried about the stomach problems he’d been having that morning.

The detective looked up at the Linder house, a nice looking brick structure, with a two columned front entrance that stood behind three large oak trees filling the front yard. A grey SUV was parked up onto the curb in the back of the driveway, and sticking halfway out of the open garage was a dark red sedan suffering from a beat up back end, all of which gave Joe the feeling that his hopes for a blissful morning on the can were about to be dashed.

“Okay, gentleman what do we have this morning?” Joe asked two policemen waiting for him on the front step of the home.

“Come on in. I hope you had a light breakfast,” remarked Officer Tom Lightman.

Joe stepped into the house, observing that the front door and lock were intact. There was no smell of blood to knock him over, but Joe definitely smelled gasoline.

“The victims are in the kitchen,” Officer Rudy Jenkins informed Joe.

The spacious front foyer to the home featured a winding staircase to the second story and an oriental runner lining the middle of the wood stairs. Joe glanced at the living room on his left and dining room on his right, both holding furniture that pointed to an annual income light years away from Joe’s detective pay grade. The morning sun was shining through the bay window in the living room and landing softly on the grand piano.

The gasoline smell came alive as Joe walked closer to the kitchen, which was positioned behind the front staircase, so he took a few seconds to reset his concentration. The doorframe to the kitchen entrance and all surrounding wall space was torn to shreds and Joe ran his fingers across the bullet entries, realizing that no small gun could produce that kind of damage.

Mr. and Mrs. Harold Linder were each tied to a chair on the backside of the kitchen island, their throats had been slit, and Harold’s left pinky was on the floor. Mrs. Linder’s body was soaked with gasoline, but her head was dry, and no gasoline could be found on Mr. Linder. The Linders looked to be in their 50’s.

Mrs. Linder was missing a large patch of hair, her right eye socket was broken, and her right hand fingernails had blood and skin on them indicating severe scratching of the attacker.

“She must have put up a hell of a fight,” Joe said calmly, running his fingers lightly through Mrs. Linders’ hair and finding a sizeable lump on the side of her head. Tiny glass pieces covered the Linders’ clothing.

“We found another guy in this hallway.” Officer Tom pointed to the back hallway leading to the garage. “You should see the garage.”

Joe looked at Officer Tom in disbelief. “More bodies in the garage?”

“No, but the sedan is a quarter way out of the garage…its front doors are open, the keys are in the ignition and its rear end is smashed in,” Officer Tom stated flatly.

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