The Phoenix House 2024

Prologue
◊    ◊    ◊    ◊

    Fueled by alcohol and rage, Mitchel Phoenix reached for the glove box of his Porsche Cayenne before he stepped out into the garage of his family home. The compartment’s door popped open and bounced twice as it settled. Mitchel hesitated momentarily, staring at the illuminated glove box and Glock 17 handgun inside. Holding on to the steering wheel, he stretched slightly to pull the weapon out with his shaking right hand, and as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, he flipped the safety off with his left. Furious at what he had learned, he stepped out of the SUV and walked silently to the inside door.
   Normally open, he found the deadbolt engaged. The delay in searching for his keys had no impact on his mindset. His only concern was that the lock’s noise might wake his wife, Bailey. She was a light sleeper, and his effort to open the door quietly slowed his progress. It’ll be easier if she’s asleep, he thought. Still, he plowed on.
   He gently inserted the key and turned the tumbler slowly clockwise. He believed the delicate click when the bolt slid past the door frame was quiet enough, and he walked stealthily into the mudroom. Then, skipping his regular practice of hanging up his coat and removing his shoes, he walked with determination through the kitchen and up to the closed door of their bedroom on the main floor.
   In the few seconds he paused at the door, he imagined how events would play out—open the door, find his wife sleeping and shoot her before she can react. It was so simple. Mitchel turned the knob and opened the door.
   The click of the door caught the attention of Bailey Phoenix as she sat in bed reading. She looked toward the door as Mitchel stepped in; her stare caught him off guard. He never expected a confrontation.
   “You’re finally home,” Bailey said, her tone unquestionably saying more.
   Mitchel froze, and his teeth clenched. Bailey waited for a response, but Mitchel said nothing when he entered the room. Then, when he pulled his right hand from behind the door, the gun spoke for him. Bailey gasped and pushed herself deeper into the pillows behind her back.
   Cautiously, she asked, “What are you doing with that gun?”
   At first, Mitchel said nothing. He only looked at her; his eyes were his primary weapons. Then, several seconds on, he raised the gun, pointing it at her as she lay in the bed. “What have you done to this family? To me?”
   Responding to the imminent threat, Bailey instinctively pulled her shoulders in and turned away somewhat but did not answer. Fear kept her silent.
   “Tell me!” Mitchel yelled.
   Her first words, “What am I supposed to say?” meant nothing to Mitchel. Instead, he thought it was only deflection.
   “Tell me what you did!” he insisted again.
   “You have no idea, do you?” Bailey answered slowly, challenging him back. Her question bore two meanings and set off an explosion of loathing.
   “I sure as hell do. You’ve been sleeping with Keith next door for over a year!”
   Even though it was true, Bailey ignored the accusation and courageously continued to push back. “You don’t know anything. You’re never home anymore. I’m a goddamn work widow. You’re always travelling, and the girls have no idea who their father is. And when you’re not travelling, you’re out with your buddies instead of spending time with me.”
   Mitchel grew increasingly livid with Bailey’s blame game. “I’m doing what I have to do to pay for this house, the kids’ private schools, and all the bloody clothes you keep buying. And for you to sleep with another guy for a year and not say a goddamn word to me. I mean, what the hell?”
   “I don’t know what you want me to say! Do you want me to say that I’m sleeping with the neighbor? Is that it?”
   “I already know you are! Do you love him?”
   “I don’t know. Maybe.” Bailey instantly grasped that was the wrong thing to say and considered back-peddling.
   “It’s a simple bloody question, Bailey! Either you do, or you don’t. There’s no maybe.”
   Bailey looked away when she answered, “Yes. And I want a divorce.”
   The bullet left the gun before Mitchel realized he’d pulled back on the trigger. It struck Bailey mid-chest, and as her muscles relaxed, her upper torso slumped toward the side of the bed. Then, finally, her lifeless body toppled to the floor on the right side of the bed.
   Mitchel watched Bailey’s slow motion roll off the bed and made no effort to check on her once she’d slipped from view on the opposite side. Instead, he lowered the gun, backed out of the bedroom, then turned to approach the stairs to the second floor.
   The twelve steps to the second floor disappeared from Mitchel’s consciousness. When he hit the top, he was unaware of the climb he’d just completed. And while he moved about and had a destination in mind, Mitchel had no control over his actions. Had there been any witnesses in the house, they would have described Mitchel’s behavior as robotic or mindless.
   At the top of the stairs, Mitchel’s right hand was no longer shaking. The weapon’s weight now imbued stability into his grasp, his three lower fingers squeezing the pistol grip hard.
   He took a dozen steps to the far bedroom, stopped and opened the door. Inside, Melanie, their twelve-year-old daughter, was lying in bed but awake.
   “What was that noise, Daddy?”
   Mitchel said nothing, raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The entire cold interaction lasted only three seconds. Then, he stepped away from the door and turned back toward the stairs and Autumn’s bedroom.
   The eight-year-old and youngest daughter of Mitchel and Bailey was a gifted child. While only eight, she was in the 4th grade. She was curious and insightful, having predicted that Santa Claus wasn’t real at a young age. Visitors to the family’s Birmingham, Alabama home described Autumn as a darling child.
   When Mitchel pushed the door open, Autumn wasn’t where he expected. The sight of the empty bed set him back, nearly pulling him from his trance-like state. Momentarily distracted, logic drove him to step into the bedroom at the top of the stairs for a better look.
   Mitchel turned on the light and surveyed the room from side to side. Autumn wasn’t in her room, or so it appeared. Beside him, he considered the door and looked behind it. Autumn wasn’t there either. He looked at the window; it was closed. Dropping to his knees to peer under the bed, he saw nothing but dust. As Mitchel stood up, a tap-like sound from the closet revealed where Autumn was hiding. He turned and stepped closer.
   When he was within reach, Mitchel tugged on the closet knob, pulling out and opening the bi-fold doors. Hiding in the back corner under a few summer dresses, Autumn was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled in close and her arms wrapped around them, her face hidden, tucked in low against her legs. Then, responding to the light, she looked up and saw her father’s shadowy frame. A second later, she saw the gun pointing at her.
   She cried out, “No, Daddy! No!”
   Mitchel heartlessly pulled the trigger for a third time. The single shot from the Glock tore through Autumn’s turned head just above the ear, killing her instantly. The volume of the gunshot echoing in the closet and the sight of blood speckled against the closet’s side wall revived Mitchel from his incognizant state.
   Instantly realizing what he’d just done, Mitchel gasped, fell backwards, and crawled back like a crab to escape the grizzly scene until his shoulders contacted Autumn’s bed. He stopped, leaned against it, sat up, and dropped his head into his left hand. In that position, his body convulsed as he sobbed. As an emotional overload hit him, Mitchel pushed the gun to his ear and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
   The isolated house on the forested one-acre lot fell silent.

◊    ◊    ◊    ◊

    The page five headline read: “Four Dead in Apparent Forest Park Murder-Suicide.”

    Two young girls and their mother were killed Sunday evening, May 21st, in what the police believe to be a murder-suicide, the Birmingham Police Department said on Monday.
   Police responded to a shots fired call in the Birmingham neighborhood of Forest Park during the 10 p.m. hour on Sunday evening, a spokesman for the BPD said. Bailey Phoenix and her two daughters, Melanie, eleven, and Autumn, eight, were found dead in their home and are believed to have been killed by Mitchel Phoenix, husband and father. Mr. Phoenix was also found in the house dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
   According to the coroner, Doctor Ryan Sellers, Mitchel Phoenix was drunk at the time of the shootings, and along with sufficient gunshot residue on Mr. Phoenix’s hands, it is enough indication that he is the most likely perpetrator. Further, according to CSU Investigator Jamie Essex, blood evidence indicated that Mr. Phoenix killed his wife first, then killed his two daughters, then finally turned the gun on himself. CSI Essex also included in his preliminary report that the bullets extracted from the victims matched the gun found near Mr. Phoenix’s body when the police arrived.
   Mr. Phoenix worked for the international warehouse automation company Storex, and neighbors reported that the family was well-known and respected in the community. However, after numerous recent confrontations between Mr. and Mrs. Phoenix, neighbors suspected the couple was headed for divorce. No police reports concerning domestic violence were ever filed. Currently, the police have not determined the motive for the murders. However, based on the evidence collected at the murder scene and lab reports from CSU, the police believe that no further investigation is required.
 
Chapter One
◊    ◊    ◊    ◊

    “Hi, Honey,” Emily said as soon as Devon appeared at the front door.
   “Hey, Sweetie. How was your day?” he threw back, then snuck a kiss as he walked past to change out of his suit.
   “Not bad. Sold the Finley house and heard some depressing but captivating news.”
   “That so?” Devon queried. “Hold that thought till I get back.”
   He continued to their bedroom, swapped out his suit and tie for shorts and a T-shirt, and returned to the kitchen, finding Emily placing brioche buns in the oven to warm.
   “What’s your news?”
   “Did you hear about the ghastly murder-suicide last night?”
   “Ah, no,” Devon admitted. “You know I’ve been at work and rarely listen to the radio. What happened?” Emily should have known better than to have asked.
   She continued, “The afternoon paper says that the family’s father went on a rampage, killing his wife and two daughters, then killed himself.”
   “Wow. Four people dead. That is ghastly.”
   Emily took a moment before continuing to gather her thoughts. “Yeah. It happened in Forest Park.”
   “That’s a fancy neighborhood,” Devon acknowledged. “Wonder why he did it. Must have been something serious, that’s for sure.”
   “Who knows? But you know how we’ve been talking about moving? And we could only afford a home in the $400,000 range? I have a thought.”
   At the moment, Devon already knew where the conversation was heading. “You can’t be serious?”
   “Listen. Listen. Hear me out. The house is a 1952, two-level, storm cellar foundation home on a one-acre property. It’s 3,700 square feet, has a separate living room-dining room, a sitting room off the kitchen, three bedrooms, a den, and two and a half baths. And there’s a two-car garage, which was added in the 1980s. It’s secluded from the street and neighboring yards by old-growth trees and hedges. It’s the kind of house worthy of a city counselor.”
   “So, you’re playing on my vanity, are you now?”
   “Well, you are a city counselor, so I’m at least half right,” Emily argued.
   Devon walked the rest of the way into the small kitchen of their townhome and reached to hug Emily, which she accepted without hesitation. “Are you genuinely interested in buying a murder house with all the history that goes with it?”
   Devon released his grip, and Emily looked him in the eye.
   “I did some digging at the office. Last year, the house’s assessed value was $530,000, and the street value would be about $560,000. With what happened, and I’m only guessing here, the price will plummet to about $400,000.”
   “I can’t believe you’re serious.” Devon objected.
   “I am,” Emily stated confidently.
   Devon stepped further back. “What about the kids? Have you thought about how they might feel and react when they find out they’re living in a house where other kids were killed? How old were they, by the way?”
   “We don’t have to tell them, and by the time they find out, they should be older and settled in. I’m confident that at that time, with the better neighborhood and schools, it won’t make any difference to them.”
   “I think you’re being a bit naive, Emily. The kids will learn about what happened in the house the first day they go to school, or worse, the first day they meet the kids in the neighborhood. And I don’t remember you answering the question: How old were the kids?”
   Emily looked away from Devon for the first time since they started the conversation. “Twelve and eight.”
   “Bloody hell, Emily. That’s about the same age as our kids.”
   “I know. I know. But I was hoping you could think about what a house like that will mean to us, to the kids. We’ll have more room, a massive yard. You’ll be only four miles to city hall, saving you an hour a day of travel time. I’ll also be closer to the office, but not by as much as you. And let’s not overlook that we’ll get ourselves into a home that otherwise might take us another ten or fifteen years to afford!”
   Devon had seen Emily sell many homes since joining the real estate industry, but her pitch to him hadn’t yet offset his reservations and the implications of buying a murder house.
   “I’m not comfortable with this, Emily.”
   “Can we maybe table this for a bit?” Emily asked, “I’m hoping you can put a hold on your final decision until you’ve had some time to digest it a bit.”
   After rubbing his chin, Devon continued with a worrisome expression. “I can, but I also want you to think too. Let’s do a little thought experiment.”
   The offer caught Emily by surprise. She had hoped he might have ruminated on the idea of purchasing the house for a few days, and that would be all. But, now challenged, she gave in, releasing Devon to launch headlong into his little experiment.
   “All right. Let’s say we decide to buy the house and get it at a discounted price, say $425K. Then, after moving in, we live happily there for the next dozen years or so until the kids move out. Finally, as time has passed and we’re looking at our late fifties, we might want to travel more and perhaps downsize. Are you with me so far?”
   Emily nodded, “Sure.”
   “Okay. As I said, we’re retiring and then decide to downsize, and we put the house up for sale. What impact will the declaration of the murders in the house have on the price when we sell it? And I’m assuming we do need to declare that, right?”
   Devon paused, allowing Emily to confirm, and she nodded again but said nothing. Her face said, continue.
   “In that scenario, will anyone care or not? Will they make an offer in line with comps in the neighborhood, or will most prospective buyers look at the fact that three people were murdered in the house and walk away, forcing us to drop the price?” Devon paused, then wrapped up his fictional situation with, “Be honest.”
   When Emily said, “I’ll admit that, yes,” Devon snorted with surprise even though she had more to say.
   “…sure, there will be an impact, but time plays a significant factor. For example, I’ve sold houses that had fires and were restored. Those sold at the same price as the comps years later.”
   “Not the same thing, Emily. Is it?”
   “Yeah. You’re right, but after X number of years with this house, there will be more gain than loss.”
   “All right then,” Devon said while casually opening the fridge and pulling out a beer, revealing that the conversation wasn’t adversarial. “I’ll think about this as you asked, but I also want you to think about one thing too. If you and I are considering this, and this is a dealbreaker, we will tell the kids about what happened there before we make any moves. I’m not having them be blind to it and finding out from some neighbor kid intent on scaring them. If they say no, then that is a full stop. Can you accept that?”
   “I can, Dev. Thanks for hearing me out. The one thing I am going to do is set up an alert on the property if it gets listed. It might never happen, but I want to know if it does.”
   “When do you think that’ll happen?”
   Before offering an answer, Emily searched her mind for similar sales, those with deceased owners. “Three to six months is typical. Generally, how long depends on if there’s a will or not. If there’s no will, then the state gets involved, which could run a year.”
   “So we’ve got lots of time?”
   “Right. Moving on, you ready for dinner?”
   “You bet. I could smell the pulled pork when I came in, so yes.”
   “Great. Can you get the kids washed up? April’s upstairs, and I think Adam is next door with Patrick. You best start there. I’ll get the table set.”
   “Will do.”