by Elaine Viets
“Do you clean at the Executive Suites?” Butch’s voice was soft. In difficult interviews, he often started with easy, obvious questions. Angela found a clean mug in the spotless kitchen cabinet and filled it with steaming black coffee.
“Yes.” Jackie wiped her eyes. She did not cry prettily. Her face was red and blotchy, and her nose dripped. She dabbed at it with a crumpled tissue and sniffled. “I’m head housekeeper. Zander hates my job. He’s ashamed of me. We used to be best friends when he was little. It was Zander and me against the world. His father took off when he found out I was pregnant.
“Cleaning hotel rooms is hard work and doesn’t pay much. But it’s an honest living and puts food on our table. There are perks, too. We never have to buy soap, shampoo, or conditioner. If a hotel guest leaves behind a partly full bottle, I can have what’s left. When the toilet-paper rolls are near the end, I get to take those home. I can’t make Zander see this. He hates my scrimping and saving. He’s sick of using short rolls with only a few sheets. One day he went out and bought a twelve-pack of bathroom tissue and said, ‘Here. I want a whole roll for once.’ He got Quilted Northern! We can’t afford that, but he said, ‘I’ve got my own money, Mom.’”
“He hates,” “He’s sick of,” Angela thought. She still doesn’t believe her son is dead.
“Is that when he was selling drugs, Mrs. Soran?” Butch asked.
“I think so.” She sniffled and blew her nose. “You can call me Jackie.”
Angela handed Jackie the mug of hot coffee and sat next to Butch. They were both wired from countless refills during an hour-long diner breakfast. After they finished Zander’s death investigation, they had decided to wait until 6:00 a.m. to contact his mother. Angela dreaded delivering the news that would destroy this woman.
“Was it usual for Zander to stay out all night?” Butch asked.
“Lately, yes. He’d come dragging home about two or three in the morning, and some nights he didn’t come home at all, especially on weekends. But tonight felt different. He left about nine o’clock and said he was going to meet some friends. When he wasn’t home by midnight, I walked the floors, waiting for him to pull into the driveway. I called him and texted him. I even used our special code, with 911 on the end. He didn’t answer. I tried to tell myself this was just another night, but I knew it wasn’t. Please tell me what happened. I’ve been expecting this, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
“Does your son drive a black BMW 440i Coupe?” Butch asked.
“I know it’s some kind of fancy black Beemer,” she said with a flash of anger. “But I don’t keep track of cars. He’s so proud of it, and I can’t even look at the thing. I make him park it out back. Was he in an accident? Was it that stupid car?” Now her voice was a plea, almost a keening wail.
“No,” Butch said. “A patrol officer found your son parked in his car on a deserted section of Du Pont Close.”
Jackie wailed louder. Angela rubbed her back and fought her own tears. Breaking this news to a family member was the worst part of her job. She’d seen grief before, but this poor woman was in agony.
“Was he alone? Please tell me he wasn’t alone.”
“We’re not sure,” Angela said. “But we didn’t find anyone with him.”
“Who did it? What dirty bastard did that to my Zander?”
“We don’t know,” Butch said. “When did your son start selling drugs?”
She winced, then took a deep breath. “He never admitted he was dealing, but I knew he did. He had to. That car cost five times what I make in a year. There’s no way he could afford anything like that. No honest way. Was he shot by another dealer? What happened? Why won’t you tell me?”
Because this is the best time to get information, Angela thought. “We’re not sure how he died. He was found in his car with a needle in his arm. It appears he may have been the victim of an overdose.”
“No! That’s not right. Zander sells drugs, but he doesn’t use them. I went and got a pamphlet about the signs of heroin abuse, and I know what to look for. Bad grooming is supposed to be a major sign—addicts don’t shower or put on clean clothes. But Zander always looks nice. Drug addicts steal to support their habits. Zander never takes money from me. Instead, he tries to give me things. He wanted to buy me a new car, but I wouldn’t have it. He gave me a sixty-inch TV, but I gave it to Goodwill. I watch him for the other signs of addiction. He doesn’t have a runny nose or sniffle constantly, his speech isn’t slurred, and I’ve never found any pills or needles in his room or in his clothes.”
Angela glanced at Butch and thought of those loaded love roses in Zander’s car. The trunk was his hiding place. But Butch told her they didn’t find any signs of personal use: no pipes or needles. The techs had checked the obvious stash sites in the car—the wheel well, under the center console, the cup-holder molding, the hood insulation—and came up with nothing. They’d found a felony amount inside the fuse box, a moderately clever hiding spot.
“Did you check your house for places where he could hide drugs?” Butch asked.
“I remembered some spots from years ago, when I was dating his father.” For a brief moment, Angela saw an impish, attractive woman, until the tired drudge overwhelmed her. “I checked the drop-down ceiling in the basement, the heating vents in his room, and between his mattress and box spring. I looked in the toilet tank—but I knew he was too smart to use that. I took apart his dresser and checked the drawers. I even took them out to see if he’d taped anything underneath or in back of them. Nothing. You can search the house if you want.”
Jackie seemed to sense their skepticism. “I started spying on my own son. I knew something was wrong. Teenage boys sleep like they’re d—”
The word dead nearly slipped out, but she stopped, sipped her coffee, and finished, “sleep like they’re darned unconscious. He’d be out cold, and I’d check his arms and legs. I even looked between his toes, ’cause I read that’s where some people shoot up. He didn’t have any track marks.”
“When did he change, Jackie?” Angela asked.
“The summer before his junior year. He was a good boy until he started hanging around with that Forest trash.” She made a sour face. “He was a pool boy at the country club, and the rich girls made a big fuss over him. He’s handsome, and it went to his head. Those girls are pretty. I could see they weren’t serious about him. But he was too young to know they’d go out with him for kicks but go steady with their own kind. Zander started running errands for rich white trash, getting them beer and drugs. Pot at first, then heroin. My son is one of many stupid white boys who go into the city to buy heroin in dangerous neighborhoods because he makes so much money.”
“How do you know this, Jackie?” Butch asked. “Did you check his cell phone?”
“I couldn’t. It was password protected. I couldn’t follow him, either. You can hear my old beater coming a mile away. It needs a new muffler. God forgive me, I put a little digital recorder on his windowsill—he keeps the drapes closed—and I picked up part of a conversation. Zander said he was going into the city—Saint Louis—and he’d meet someone ‘at the usual spot on Grand Avenue’ and buy ‘buttons.’ A button is five dollars’ worth of powdered heroin. A tenth of a gram. I looked that last part up on the Internet.”
“You didn’t hear any names or nicknames?”
“No, Zander is careful not to say names on a cell phone.” Jackie was still talking about her son as if he were alive. “Rich kids don’t have normal names. They go by Muffy, Miffy, Kiki, Chip, Trip. Not one of them has a decent Christian name.
“I only used the little digital recorder once. I tried to talk to Zander about going into the city, but he wouldn’t listen. Maybe if he’d had a father, he would have listened to him.”
“Do you know where he went last night?”
“I’m sure he went to another party at one of the rich kids’ houses. Don’t ask me which one. They all look alike—blond hair, good teeth, sneery s
miles. Something happened and they made it look like Zander OD’d. Stuck a needle in his arm and left him on the side of the road to die like a dog. A dog!”
She wept and rocked back and forth. “He’s gone, he’s gone. The only good thing in my life is gone forever.”
Jackie had finally realized that her son was dead.
CHAPTER 23
Day eight
“I’m going to show you a photo, Jackie,” said Ginevra “Viv” Easter, the medical examiner’s grief counselor. She worked in the identification room. Viv was a sweet-faced, motherly fifty with a soothing voice. She was dressed quietly in a soft-pink blouse, modest gray skirt, and low heels.
The shell-shocked Jackie Soran sat across from Viv at a polished oak table, flanked by Angela and Betty, Jackie’s supervisor at the hotel. Betty patted Jackie’s trembling hand. Jackie gripped Angela’s hand so tightly her fingertips were white.
“I don’t have to identify my Zander’s body?” Jackie’s voice was unsteady.
“Identifications are not like you see on TV, Mrs. Soran. We take a photo. Just a photo of the face. In this case, the young man’s face is unmarked, and he’s lying peacefully on a blue sheet. There are no bruises, cuts, or blood.”
And no drama, Angela thought. TV shows love those morgue ID scenes. How many times have we seen this scene: The grim, dark morgue is alive with shifting shadows. The steel drawer opens with the sound of approaching eternity, and the bored morgue attendant whips back the sheet. The bereaved mother screams, “That’s him! That’s my son!” and faints.
That’s death porn in all its gory glory, and as phony as a Halloween haunted house.
The reality? Barbaric visual IDs have all but disappeared. Most dead people are identified by photos after their loved ones are carefully prepared for the process by an experienced counselor. Afterward, the bereaved person is given sympathy and counseling.
The Chouteau County medical examiner’s identification room could have been a sitting room in a comfortable home. Its light-blue walls were hung with pleasant, forgettable art. The flowered sofa was piled with pillows, and a teddy bear slouched on the coffee table. The oak table and chairs where the group sat would fit nicely into a suburban dining room. The room was soundproof, the lighting was soft, the coffee strong and served in china cups.
Viv had spent more than half an hour explaining to Jackie what the photo would look like. Alexander Soran’s case was easier than some—the dead young man had no facial cuts or bruises, and the paramedics hadn’t worked him over. Identifying him would be an emotional ordeal, but it wasn’t needlessly cruel.
The worst part was telling a family member a loved one was dead. That’s when Angela encountered fury, fear, denial, shock, and pain. These emotions were so raw she needed a police officer with her to keep the bereaved from hurting her—or themselves. Even worse was the case of poor Shane Mathrews, the headless motorcyclist. His heartless mother’s greed and indifference took a bigger toll on Angela than Jackie Soran’s genuine grief.
Viv was explaining the ID procedure for the third time. “I’m going to show you a photo, Jackie. The photo will be presented face down on a clipboard. You can take as long as you want to turn the photo over and make the identification.”
“I’m ready.” Jackie’s voice was flat. “Let’s get it over with before I lose my nerve.”
“All right, then.” Viv brought out a white clipboard with a photo on it and set it on the table in front of Jackie. “Can you identify this man? Take as much time as you need. I’m willing to wait as long as you need.”
Jackie closed her eyes. Betty, her supervisor and friend, rubbed her hand. Jackie opened her eyes and quickly turned over the photo. Once again, Angela was shocked by the surreal beauty of death. Alexander Soran looked like a marble statue. The vomit had been cleaned away, his hair was combed, and his sculpted features were pale blue.
Jackie made a small sound between a whimper and a moan, then said, “That’s my . . . that’s Zander.” Her voice was a January wind, and its hopeless sound tore Angela’s heart.
“Thank you,” Viv said. “I know that was hard. I’d like to speak to you a little while longer. Do you want Angela to stay?”
Jackie shook her head no. Betty had her arm around her friend. “Let’s move to the couch, where it’s more comfortable, and we can talk,” Viv said. “May I get you more coffee?”
Angela escaped out into the hall, so tired she felt drugged. Jackie’s wrenching grief and the long, cold hours at Zander’s death scene weighed her down. She saw a broad-shouldered figure leaving the medical examiner’s office down the hall. Doug Hachette was heading her way. Doug had showered and changed his clothes since last night at the Gravois fire, but his eyes had dark circles and bags.
“Angela!” he said, and sneezed. “What brings you here? Excuse me.”
She waited while Doug blew his red nose. “A heroin overdose. Seventeen years old.”
Doug shook his head. “We’re seeing way too much of that now. We even found heroin at the Gravois fire in the kitchen, along with empty beer cans, empty snack bags, used heroin pipes, and other drug paraphernalia. The kitchen was vandalized before it was set on fire—unbelievable damage. Broken windows, vomit, excrement smeared on the walls. People defecated on the floor.”
“Disgusting. Was it the arsonists? Did it happen the night of the fire?”
“That’s my guess,” Doug said, “but we don’t know, since the estate has no working security system anymore. We found some prints, hairs, and fibers, plus enough vomit and excrement to get DNA.” He sneezed again. “Those Mexicans are disgusting.”
Angela couldn’t imagine Kendra or her father doing any of those activities. It sounded more like kids to her.
Doug sneezed again.
“Sounds like you’re getting a cold. Did you work all night in the sleet storm?” Angela asked.
“Yeah. I went home to clean up and get breakfast about six o’clock, but I want to document as much as I can while the evidence is fresh. We’ll have to bring in earthmoving equipment for the main house, but we caught a break. The arsonist set fire to the kitchen, but it went out. That kitchen is a later addition to the house and sort of sticks out in back. It was safe for me to enter, and I investigated it this morning. I found toilet paper draped over the appliances, potato-chip trails, vegetable shortening smeared on the walls, and gasoline. There were prints on an unburned TP wrapper and a shortening can.”
Angela was instantly alert. A receipt for TP, chips, and shortening had been found in Zander’s trunk. “Do you remember the brand names of the groceries?”
“Sure do. They were all from Cheap and Easy.”
“You may want to get in touch with Butch Chetkin. He caught the heroin homicide early this morning. I think the crime-scene techs found a receipt for those items in the decedent’s car—and it’s dated. He also found toilet paper, a bag of potato chips, and a can of vegetable shortening.”
“Thanks, Angela. I’ll get in touch with him now.”
“Was the Gravois fire arson?”
“Looks that way.” Doug sneezed again and headed wearily for the exit.
Angela felt energized. This was news, and she hurried to Katie’s office. She found her friend working on reports. “Come in, Angela. Did you get the heroin OD?”
“Yes.” Angela perched on the edge of Katie’s desk. “What a waste. The kid was a dealer, and his mother’s devastated. Butch and I had to break the news, and I went with her to make the ID.”
“I’m posting him this afternoon. Poor dumb bastard. Was he running with the wrong crowd?”
“Yeah, the Forest rich kids. According to his mother, he was their errand boy. Started buying beer and ended up dealing drugs. Mom is head housekeeper at the Forest Executive Suites. Kid couldn’t resist the easy money and the shiny toys it bought and wound up dead. The old story.”
“With the same fucking ending.” Katie shook her head. “They never learn. Did you see where your pal
Gravois’s place burned to the ground?”
“I saw it all right. I followed the police there on my way home last night and watched it burn.”
“Give you a warm feeling?” Katie grinned.
“Yep,” Angela said. “He devoted his life and fortune to that white elephant, and now it’s gone up in smoke. Doug Hachette was there, working the scene. I saw him again this morning, coming out of Evarts’s office. Why do you think he’s seeing our boss?”
“Beats me, but I’ll keep my ears open.”
“Doug says the Gravois fire is arson. Does this get Kendra off the hook for arson?”
“Nice try, but no. I called Monty this morning after I saw the news. He says it’s a crappy defense, but he’ll try it anyway. He and the prosecutor, Mick Freveletti, aren’t asshole buddies, but he expects Mick to laugh him out of the room. We still have to find the real arsonists to spring Kendra.”
“I’ve got some info that may help Monty. Zander Soran, the dead heroin OD, had potato chips, vegetable shortening, and TP from Cheap and Easy in his car trunk.”
“A fucking fire-starter kit,” Katie said.
“That’s what Butch said. Zander paid cash and bought it at 8:19 the night before the Gravois fire.”
“So he’s the Chouteau County arsonist?”
“I don’t think he set the fires by himself. He was an errand boy for the local rich kids. Hachette says there was a party in the Gravois kitchen before the fire and that the place was trashed. They left behind prints and DNA in the unburned kitchen. Hachette says there’s no way to figure out when the party happened, but that purchase could tie it to Zander and his rich friends.”
“Who are . . . ?” Katie prompted.
“Haven’t a clue. His mother didn’t know.”
“We’ve got to find them before their fuckin’ parents’ lawyers find out and protect the overprivileged little shits. Mommy and Daddy will make sure they get away with murder. Have you made your appointment to see Mario yet and ask him about Kendra?”