Fire and Ashes

by Elaine Viets

  “Mrs. Mathrews, is Shane Mathrews your son?” Butch is tactful, Angela thought. Tiffany looked old enough to be Shane’s grandmother.

  “Yes, he’s my son. Since his father took off, he’s been nothing but trouble: skipping school, lying to me, and staying out late. I told social services I can’t control him, but they don’t do nothing. Now he’s taken up with some Forest kids, and he doesn’t even bother coming home, like last night. Third time this week.”

  “He drives a motorcycle?” Butch asked.

  “Blue one. Rusty old thing ain’t worth two shits. Did he hit someone?” There was a challenge in her voice.

  “Ma’am, do you want to sit down?” Butch said.

  “Why?” Now she looked frightened. “What did he do? Shoot somebody? Hold up a gas station? It’s not my fault. I told—”

  Butch interrupted her. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we have reason to believe that your son was killed in an accident.”

  Tiffany kept talking as if she didn’t hear him. “I told him, ‘Next time you’re in trouble with the law, you’re on your—’” Suddenly, she stopped and blinked. “Shane’s dead?” She seemed to realize there would be no “next time.”

  “We think so, ma’am,” Chetkin said. “We need you to come with us to identify him.”

  “Where’s he at?” She was picking at a scab on her arm, and her hands were twitchy.

  “At the medical examiner’s office at Sisters of Sorrow Hospital. Ms. Richman and I will take you there.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead if he’s at the hospital?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The body is in the county morgue, which is at the hospital. Now we need to make sure the deceased is your son.”

  “Let me get my flip-flops. Can I ride with her?”

  “Of course,” Angela said.

  While Tiffany went back inside, Angela said, “If you want to go back to work, Butch, I can handle this.”

  “Look, Angela, I don’t like her riding in your car. She’s probably using. Meth would be my guess, and meth heads are erratic and paranoid.”

  “You know she won’t ride with you. And you don’t have any reason to arrest her. You’ll never get a search warrant for that house.”

  “At least turn on your cell phone now so I can hear what’s going on in your car. I’ll lead the way. Flash your lights if she gets hinky, and I’ll pull over and help you. And stow your cane in the trunk so she doesn’t use it on you. Once we’re at the ME’s office, I’ll try to talk to her. I want to find out more about those Forest kids that Shane’s started hanging around. She may give us some leads on who’s selling heroin in the Forest.”

  “Think she’ll be in any shape to talk?”

  “She’s not exactly broken up over his death, is she? The ME’s office is my one chance to talk to her. She looks like she’s been around the block a few times. She’s smart enough not to ride with me. If she lawyers up, I won’t find out anything.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out when I drive her to the ME’s.” Angela turned on her cell and dialed Chetkin’s number. He answered and left his phone on in his shirt pocket. Angela stashed hers in the pocket of her pantsuit jacket.

  The door slammed, and Tiffany was outside, dressed in jeans and flip-flops. Sandals slapping, she followed Angela to her car. Chetkin took off first in his black, unmarked Dodge Charger. The Forest had money for the latest equipment and vehicles.

  For the first few miles, they drove in uneasy silence. Tiffany shifted restlessly in her seat. She was in constant motion: nodding her head, drumming her fingers on the armrest, and picking at scabs on her arms until Angela felt itchy.

  Tiffany didn’t talk about Shane. She never mentioned his boyhood or baby years. No fond memories at all. She didn’t ask any of the questions that usually tormented grieving relatives: Did he suffer? Was he alive when you got there? Did he say anything? Did he die alone? Where did the accident happen? Angela had seen people who were more upset when their dogs were run over.

  Finally, Tiffany asked, “Who’d he hit?”

  “The motorcycle collided with a truck heading for I-55. It happened on Bodman Road, about half a mile from the highway.”

  “Bet the trucker was high.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Angela said.

  “Then he was going too fast. Damn truckers tear along that road when they’re carrying a load.”

  “According to two witnesses, the truck was going the speed limit.”

  “Ha! He probably bribed them to say that,” Tiffany said. “Those long-distance haulers are worried about lawsuits. Might give me a few bucks to shut up and go away if I get me a good-enough lawyer.”

  Angela was shocked into silence. Tiffany was trying to make money off her son’s death. Twitch. Shrug. Pick. The grieving mother acted as if she had bugs crawling under her skin.

  Angela saw Chetkin’s Charger turn right at the sign for SOS Hospital. She’d have to ask her about Shane’s drug use soon. “You mentioned that your son was running with some kids in the Forest. Do you know their names?”

  “Never mentioned any names. He said they were rich, and he did some favors for them. That’s how he got that black leather jacket with the skulls on it. Can I get it back?”

  “If the deceased is your son, you’re entitled to his personal effects. But I think it’s been damaged.”

  Like your son, she wanted to shout. Your boy was decapitated, and you don’t care two hoots about him.

  “Too bad.” Shrug. Twitch. Pick. “He paid two hundred eighty bucks for that.”

  Angela wanted to smack the heartless bitch, but she had to ask her about the Forest drug dealers. “So you don’t know anything about who Shane was hanging around with or what he was buying?”

  “Buying? What do you mean, buying? Why you asking these questions?” Tiffany’s flat eyes grew meaner. “Do I smell bacon?”

  “Huh?”

  “You a cop? That why you’re asking these questions? You keep talking that way and you can let me out now, bitch.”

  “We’re here.” Angela was relieved the ME’s office at the back of SOS was in sight. She parked behind Butch Chetkin’s unmarked car and fished her cane out of the trunk. The three of them headed toward the building, Tiffany walking a little in front of them, scratching and twitching.

  “I didn’t get much,” Angela said, her voice low.

  “More than I’ll probably get from her,” Chetkin said. “I heard it. I’ll handle it from here. Why don’t you see if Katie’s free? It’s almost noon.”

  “Already?”

  “Time flies, whether you want it to or not.” Butch punched in the code for the door and held it open. Angela got behind Tiffany, in the unlikely event that Tiffany was overcome when she entered the medical examiner’s office. More than one person had fainted on the doorstep when they caught the distinctive odor of disinfectant.

  “Stinks in here,” Tiffany said.

  “Thanks for your help, Angela,” Chetkin said. “I’ll stay with Mrs. Mathrews for the identification.”

  Angela peeled off down the hall to write her report. After she turned it in, she stopped by Katie’s office and knocked on the door.

  “Come on in. You’re just in time to watch Kendra get arrested.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Day three

  Angela squeezed into Katie’s claustrophobic office and perched on the edge of her cramped desk. The assistant medical examiner was staring at a pint-size TV sitting atop a file cabinet. Katie had papered the wall behind her desk with an autumn forest scene and glued a plastic skull in the foliage.

  “You won’t want to miss this. Shut the door.” Katie turned up the sound. They watched an unruly media mob roiling outside the Chouteau County Sheriff’s Office and county lockup. The CCSO, painted a soft green with black accents and expensive landscaping, looked more like a boutique hotel. The Forest liked to pretend crime didn’t exist in its privileged precincts.

  “I can pick out the newspaper reporters,�
�� Angela said. “They’re the worst-dressed, and they’re all waiting to take notes. Where did those guys get those baggy pants? From a clown costume? The TV reporters are blow-dried and burnished.”

  “Cut the freakin’ fashion report.” Katie waved Angela into silence. “This one’s talking.”

  A stylish brunette with short hair and a serious suit told the TV audience, “Kendra Salvato, a suspect in the murder of her fiancé, Luther Ridley Delor, has agreed to surrender at the Chouteau County Sheriff’s Office in approximately five minutes, according to detective Ray Foster Greiman . . .”

  “Your friend Detective Greiman set up this clusterfuck,” Katie said. “The great detective was all set to clap the cuffs on Kendra and make her do the perp walk. But Monty did some negotiating and . . .”

  “Really?” Angela said. “I know your boyfriend can work miracles, but he actually negotiated with Greiman?”

  “Okay, he did some ball twisting. And threw in a few subtle reminders about Greiman’s last screwup. Monty heard through the grapevine that Greiman’s got orders from on high to cut the hard-nosed crap—he made the Forest look bad—but the Forest first families are pressuring the police to close this embarrassing episode and arrest Kendra. Greiman finally said Monty could escort Kendra to the sheriff’s office and hand her over in private. Then he called every reporter from here to California.”

  “Does Monty do murder cases?”

  “He’s doing this one. For now. Kendra needed someone fast. She’d barely sat down in Monty’s office this morning when her cell phone rang. Her mother said Greiman was at their home with an arrest warrant for Kendra. Poor woman was crying her eyes out. Monty talked to Greiman and . . . Sh! Here they come!”

  Kendra, makeup-free and demurely dressed in a navy suit and high-necked white blouse, her long, glossy hair pinned in a tight chignon, looked like a lawyer. Angela saw no sign of her injuries from the fire, except for her bandaged hands. Monty, with his blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones, looked like an actor playing an attorney.

  Pointed questions flew like flaming arrows: “Did you kill Luther Delor, Kendra?” “Did your father help you?” “Can a Mexican girl get a fair trial in Chouteau Forest?” “Did you have sex before you set him on fire?”

  Kendra and Monty ignored them and pushed toward the steps.

  “Good grief,” Angela said. “Did you hear that?”

  “I’m not deaf. Hush! Monty’s going to talk.”

  Monty stood at the top of the stairs, Kendra at his side, and held up his hands. The crowd quieted. “My client, Kendra Salvato, is voluntarily surrendering. She is innocent of any and all charges, and that’s how she’ll plead at her arraignment. We are confident the jury will find my client innocent. One of you asked if a Mexican woman”—he emphasized that word to counter the demeaning description of Kendra as a girl—“could get a fair trial. I want to remind you that Ms. Salvato is an American citizen. She was born at Sisters of Sorrow Hospital, graduated from the Chouteau Forest Academy, and also from beauty school. She is gainfully employed at the Killer Cuts Salon. That’s all I have to say. There will be no further questions.”

  The media pelted the pair with questions anyway: “What are you going to do with the two million dollars, Kendra?” “How could Luther Delor be your fiancé if he was still married?” “Mr. Delor’s widow says you killed her husband, and so does her child.”

  “Child?” Angela said. “Eve is forty-two.”

  “You can see which way the wind is blowing. Kendra’s in for a real shitstorm.”

  Monty and Kendra fought their way through the bristling sound booms and mics and disappeared inside the sheriff’s office, and a uniform shut the door. Katie clicked off the television and leaned back in her chair, her head nearly touching the plastic skull she’d glued onto the wall.

  “Won’t Greiman be making a statement?” Angela asked.

  “Probably, but I’ll watch it on tonight’s news. I already know what he’s gonna say, and he’ll wear his mediagenic suit and blue shirt. The judge will read the charges and then set a preliminary hearing and send her to the county lockup. Monty expects Kendra’s bail will be denied.”

  “When did you two discuss this?” Angela said.

  “Last night. Kendra called for an appointment right after her father left your place, and it’s a good thing she did. Monty knows I have my doubts about Evarts’s autopsy, and Priscilla can’t wait to cremate Luther.”

  “What! Her husband burned to death, and she’s going to cremate him?”

  “She’d watch him burn in hell if she could get a seat. Besides, if Kendra really is innocent, any evidence that frees her goes up in flames along with Luther. Monty’s going to have to work fast. As soon as a trial judge is assigned, Monty will have to ask for a writ of mandamus, which will seriously piss off the judge.”

  “Why?”

  “It clutters up his docket. Also, it’s rude to question an ME’s opinion. Many Missouri counties don’t even have medical examiners. Chouteau County is supposed to be grateful we have one and keep our mouths shut.”

  “We’re a death-penalty state. Giving Kendra the needle is pretty rude, too. Any idea who the trial judge will be?”

  “Best guess is Monty will get Chauncey Boareman.”

  “Fat old cigar chomper with white hair and a red face?”

  “That’s the one. And if he doesn’t do something about his high blood pressure, he’s heading for my slab real soon.”

  “Chauncey’s part of the Forest old guard,” Angela said. “Kendra doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “There are worse choices. Sometimes Judge Boareman is pro-prosecution, but he has occasional outbursts of objectivity. Monty’s hoping the trial can be delayed until Kendra is no longer a hot issue.”

  “Good luck with that. The Forest has a long memory, and Luther’s last video will keep it alive.” Angela shifted on the edge of the uncomfortable desk and sent a pile of papers over the edge. While she scooped them up, she asked, “Didn’t you used to have a guest chair?”

  “I traded it for that file cabinet. There’s not room for both, and I wanted a place for my TV. What brings you to the ME today?”

  “I worked the decapitation death out on Bodman Road.”

  “The motorcyclist? I’ll probably post him. I helped prep what’s left of him for the ID. Poor kid. We fixed him so he doesn’t look too bad, then took photos. Who’s the next of kin?”

  “His mother, and I’ve seen rattlesnakes with more maternal feeling. I think she’s a meth head. Didn’t seem to care about her son at all, once she discovered she couldn’t make any money off his death.”

  “Poor little bastard. You wonder why some of these women even bother to have the kid,” Katie said. “It’s almost noon. Wanna do lunch?”

  “No meat. But I could eat a salad.”

  They heard a brisk knock on Katie’s door, and Butch Chetkin stuck his head in. “Hi, Katie. The accident victim has been identified, Angela. His mother says that’s definitely Shane Mathrews.”

  “Are you taking the Mother of the Year home?” Angela asked.

  “Nope, she won’t get into a cop car. Says her boyfriend will pick her up. I think she needs a fix. I asked her if Shane was using, and she said she didn’t know. Didn’t know any of his Forest friends, either, and she was probably telling the truth that time.”

  “What about the boy’s father?” Angela asked. “Maybe you can talk to him when he shows up for the funeral.”

  “Shane’s father is no prize, either. He’s been in and out of the pen since before Shane was born, and there’s an active warrant on him for armed robbery. There may not even be a funeral. Mommy Dearest complained she didn’t have any money. She may let the county bury him.” Chetkin looked sad.

  “Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

  “Something light. No meat.”

  “Both of you? That scene must have been a slaughterhouse.”

  “It was,” Chetkin said. “But the boy’
s mother really made me sick. When she saw her dead son, she said, ‘Now I’ll never get any child support out of his fucking father.’”

  “Touching,” Katie said. “Lunch is on me. Both of you.”

  “Thanks,” Angela said. “That’s generous.”

  “Not really. Neither one of you has any appetite, and you can take me out when I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Day three

  The three were at lunch, tucked in a quiet booth at the Forest Salade Shoppe. Despite the cutesy spelling, the restaurant’s vegetarian food was always fresh. The tiny place smelled of warm cookies. Angela found the light-green walls and flower photographs cool and restful, especially after that brutal, red, raw morning.

  Like most cops, Chetkin preferred to sit with his back to the wall so he could watch the entrance. Angela doubted they’d be attacked by rabid salad eaters, but if Chetkin felt comfortable, he’d talk more freely. She nibbled on a caprese salad—buffalo mozzarella, olive oil, and tomatoes. That’s all her queasy stomach could manage, and she wasn’t too sure about the tomatoes. In deference to their delicate appetites, Katie ate an avocado-and-sprout sandwich on whole wheat.

  Butch Chetkin speared a fat crouton in his Caesar salad. “Greiman and Hachette, the fire investigator, believe Kendra is the Forest arsonist.”

  Katie and Angela knew that, but Butch’s pronouncement was disturbing.

  “What’s their proof Kendra set the fires?” Katie asked.

  “Didn’t say. But Greiman and Hachette found out that either Kendra’s mother or father worked at the places where the arson fires were set. They think that’s how she got the inside knowledge of the owners’ schedules and got into the properties.”

  “So what?” Katie said. “Gracie and Jose work for every rich family in the Forest.”

  “Greiman and Hachette are lazy,” Angela said. “If they blame everything on Kendra, they can close all the arson cases. Ann Burris says the arson fires are inside jobs, set by Forest kids. They’d know how to get into those properties without being seen, too.”

  “Ann is the only one saying that,” Chetkin said.