Molten Mud Murder

by Sara E. Johnson

  Bingo.

  A noise aborted her victory dance. Footsteps in the strobing hallway. A shadow. Movement at the opaque door window. A slow turn of the door handle. A jiggle. A push.

  Alexa bit the inside of her cheek.

  The lock strained. Held.

  Jenny’s attacker? Alexa tasted blood, reached into her pocket to retrieve her phone.

  Empty. Pocket empty.

  Where the hell was her cell? A frantic search of the other three pockets. Empty empty empty. The shadow leaned toward the window, enlarged. Alexa ducked below the counter as a face pressed against the pane, features distorted, grotesque, alien.

  In her tote.

  Her cell phone was in her tote. By the glove dispenser. Out. Of. Reach.

  The lab phone was even further away. Another turn of the handle. A rattle. Footsteps. Footsteps fading. Silence. Whoever it was did not have a key card to unlock the door. Breath expelled from Alexa’s lungs like a storm surge; she remained crouched, spent.

  Okay, okay. It could have been anyone, right? Night watch- man. Did police stations in New Zealand have night watchmen? Did police stations anywhere have night watchmen? Alexa stayed on the floor three interminable minutes and then stood, stiff and cautious, her back scars screaming. Why didn’t this lab have emergency buttons like the one in Auckland? Sprinting over to her tote, she fished out her blasted cell and punched redial.

  “Horne here.”

  “It’s Alexa.”

  “What?”

  His abrupt tone stunned her to silence. “Are you there?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” She gulped and then plunged. “I have results from the prints, but I’m not safe down here in the lab. Someone just tried the door.”

  “What are you talking about?” His voice softened. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m alone in the lab.” She heard heavy breathing. And then realized it was her own. “The station was deserted. I locked myself in the lab, and someone just tried the door. Tried and then left.” She didn’t add that he or she could be waiting in the hallway or stairwell.

  “I’ll get an officer down there immediately. Don’t unlock until you hear three knocks.”

  “Thank you.” A flood of relief. “And, um, Bruce? We have a match. The prints match the ones found on Fanny.”

  “Who the hell…?”

  “I mean on my bird. The fantail left in my cottage.” She hadn’t registered the implication until now. The drowned man, Ray Herera, had left the bird in her cottage.

  And now he was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  An eternity passed before someone pounded three times on the door and she heard a muffled “Ms. Glock. It’s Officer Rangiora.”

  “You again,” Alexa mumbled, opening up. Panic bloomed in her chest. Had Rangiora tried to get into the lab? He knew she was here, maybe even followed her after dropping her off at DI Horne’s with that snide comment about “another private meeting, eh.”

  Officer Rangiora kept popping up. Her cottage. The beach. The mud pots. Here.

  “I’ve been upstairs since I dropped you off at your car,” he said, breathing hard. “Detective Inspector Horne said someone tried to enter the lab, yeah?”

  “Yes. I locked myself in. Someone tried the door a couple times, pushed their face against the glass, and then left.”

  “Could you see who it was?” Dark shadows ringed Rangiora’s eyes.

  “No.” Alexa left out that the face had looked extraterrestrial.

  “I didn’t pass anyone as I came down, but I’ll take another look. In the morning, we can check security cameras.”

  Alexa followed him.

  “Need to get this light fixed,” Rangiora said as they walked from one end of the basement hallway to the other, opening each door. Past the lab were two rooms: a storage room jammed with boxes and a unisex bathroom. Opposite the lab, there was a room of similar size housing a maze of silver heating and cooling systems. All were unlocked and provided places to hide. Alexa followed Rangiora like a puppy as he scouted, using his flashlight, even getting on his hands and knees to look under an HVAC unit.

  “Nothing,” he said. “No one here.”

  At the end of the hallway, the emergency evacuation door was ajar.

  “What the…?” Rangiora said, rushing at it and pushing it wide. Cool night air tumbled into the hallway. The stairwell was dark and led one level up to the parking lot. Rangiora stared at Alexa. “This is a bloody ‘mare,” he said. “Any frickin’ person could walk in.”

  “Or did walk in,” Alexa reminded him. He started to pull the door shut.

  “Don’t!” Was he trying to sabotage evidence? Again? “I’ll check it for prints, see if they match the ones left on the lab door handle.”

  Having a plan calmed Alexa down.

  “My prints will be both places,” Rangiora said, looking at his hands.

  “I know. Do you think you can get someone down here to stand by while I work? Then you can search the rest of the building.”

  “Detective Inspector Horne told me to call him back,” Rangiora said. “Then I’ll find someone to stand guard.”

  Every kid who dreams of becoming a detective dreams of dusting for fingerprints, but this round was overdose. The door handle and exit door bar were slick surfaces, so Alexa used a magnetic brush. Brush wasn’t the right word—no bristles were involved. The device gently blew a coating of powder over print deposits, snapping them into view and yielding clearer results than traditional dusting.

  Alexa would photograph the results and then lift the prints with sticky tape, readying them for the comparator. There would be a traffic jam of prints to cross-check and eliminate. She wasn’t even certain the mystery visitor at the lab door entered from the outside anyway. And perhaps he was wearing gloves.

  She started at the evacuation door, standing in the night air, using light from the hallway to work, happy the young officer whose baton she had borrowed stood at the other end of the hall, flickering weirdly in the fluorescent strobing. She waved and then worked.

  An hour later, she had lifted thirteen full and partial prints. Brain-dead and aware of probable futility, she decided to wait until morning to run them. The baton officer walked her to her car.

  The drive to Trout Cottage was dark and desolate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alexa entered a buzzing conference room at 7:55 the next morning and, sighting Jenny Liang in the back of the room, went to her. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay. If I get a headache, I need to go home.” Her wound was hidden by a knit beanie, and her face was pale. “Have you found out who attacked me?”

  “We’re working on it. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Alexa clutched an envelope to her chest and studied the people in the room. The entire team was present, everyone standing except Ponytail, who was straddling a chair and talking into his phone. A photograph of the dead Pirongia Island caretaker, a head shot, was thumbtacked next to the photo of Paul Koppel on the corkboard at the front of the room.

  DI Horne, freshly shaved and smart in a gray suit, strode in. “Good morning,” he said, his eyes making rounds. “Everyone is aware we have a second body connected to the case. We will obtain permission from our Maori liaison to return to Pirongia.”

  “We don’t need permission,” McNamara said. “It’s a crime scene, and New Zealand law has jurisdiction on Maori land. Unlike in the States with Indian reservations.” McNamara threw a scowl at Alexa.

  “Thank you, Detective, for that legal review, but we have no idea if Pirongia is a crime scene, and as per the Historic Places Act 1993, it behooves us to get permission first.” Horne wasn’t backing down.

  “The delay…” McNamara said.

  “There won’t be a delay. Ngawata is voluntarily coming to the sta
tion in half an hour.” The DI looked at his watch and then at his team, his eyes pausing at Alexa’s and then moving on. “Okay, everyone. First—welcome back Ms. Liang.”

  The team clapped, and Jenny cringed. “Ta,” she said.

  “Rangiora—where are we on Liang’s attack?”

  “We’re down to one unidentified person on the security cameras, and we’ve also found a security breach that we’re factoring in.”

  “So basically nowhere,” Horne summed up and walked over to the corkboard, pointing to the photo of dead man number two. “The body is Ray Herera, resident caretaker of Pirongia Island. He washed up on Ponga Point and was found at precisely 5:28 yesterday evening. I’m treating it as a suspicious death rather than an accidental drowning, but we are keeping this information from the press.”

  “Why?” asked Trimble. He was holding a cup of coffee that Alexa eyed jealously. She had slept until seven and had to rush.

  “The killer wanted it to look like an accidental drowning. Let’s play along.”

  “How did we identify the victim?” McNamara asked.

  “He was identified by Ms. Glock, whom I’d called to the scene. Cooper and Glock met him on Pirongia.”

  “He claimed to have witnessed Koppel’s trespassing,” Alexa said.

  “His body will undergo an autopsy ASAP to identify time and cause of death,” Horne continued. “We searched the beach for evidence last night, and I have two officers repeating the process this morning.”

  “What do we know about him?” Trimble asked.

  “Not much. No arrest record.” Horne looked toward Cooper and paused, giving her a chance to share any information. Her blue lips stayed firmly pressed together.

  “Ms. Glock has information that indicates a connection between Herera and the break-in at her house. Ms. Glock?”

  “Yes. Good morning.” Alexa paused as she removed photocopied prints from the envelope and went to the corkboard to hang them. “The prints of the man whose body washed ashore last evening match prints on the bird left in my house.”

  “Wait. Can you lift prints from a bird?” Trimble asked.

  “With the right supplies, yes,” Alexa said. “There was no database match for those taken from the bird until I entered Herera’s last night.”

  “So the drowned guy left a bird in your house,” Trimble said. “A dead bird.”

  “That sums it up,” said Horne. “Anything else, Ms. Glock?”

  Alexa decided not to broadcast the face in the lab door. “No.”

  “This is how I want to play it. Ms. Glock, as soon as I get permission from Ngawata, go back out to the island with Senior Officer Rangiora and Officers Cooper and Walker.”

  “I’m carked,” Walker said.

  “Take crime scene kits. Search hard and find where Herera lived, how he lived, if there are indications of a struggle. I’ll arrange a police launch.”

  “Might as well report me missing ahead of time,” Walker added.

  No one laughed.

  “Not to worry,” Rangiora said. “Coop and Glock made it back.”

  “Pushing luck,” Walker said.

  “That’s enough, Officer Walker,” Horne said. “Unless you’d rather be on traffic detail?”

  “No, Senior.”

  “I’ll be interviewing Ngawata and Taylor Cooper shortly. They were both with Herera three afternoons ago and hopefully can shed some light on the latest victim. I’m now considering them suspects.”

  Cooper’s face remained impassive. Had the DI talked with her privately?

  “Detective Trimble, stand in at the autopsy.” Horne looked at his watch. “It’s about to begin. Get over there and call as soon as cause of death is determined. Detective McNamara will attend the interview with me.”

  The DI left the room before Alexa could get his attention. She turned to Jenny. “Let’s head to the lab. I’ll fill you in on the case and what needs to be done before I head to Pirongia.”

  The lab had been transformed into a chamber Alexa dreaded; Jenny probably felt likewise. But this morning, after turning on the lights and radio, Jenny eager to resume work, the lab felt safe again.

  Alexa left Jenny tapping away at her computer and went to collect the prints from last night. She’d have Jenny run the results and do the cross-checking.

  “I’ll need a list of whose prints they are and which, if any, match prints taken from the exit door. When Trimble gets back from the autopsy, you’ll have plenty of work. Start with fingernail scrapings if there are any. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She then updated Jenny on her theory of the attack weapon.

  “A Maori war club? I was hit with a war club?” Jenny’s eyes widened. “Why hasn’t anyone told me this?”

  “We don’t know for certain, but the computer-generated comparisons match,” said Alexa. “Is there anything else you remember? Now that a couple days have passed?”

  “I do remember hearing footsteps behind me. That’s why I turned.”

  “I’m going to ask that a police officer be stationed down here today. Call me if you find out anything you think is need-to-know.”

  Alexa left the lab determined to find the DI. Looking down at her outfit—the same black jeans she’d worn when he came for dinner and a cotton button-down—she’d also need to find waterproofing. Why hadn’t she bought a raincoat in Auckland? Why did she forget to put her new gum boots in the car? She stared down at her freshly washed Keds and then looked up. Rangiora was in the hallway. “Officer Rangiora?”

  He stopped and turned. “Ms. Glock. I was heading to check the security cameras. See who was here when you had your face- in-the-window last night.”

  “I’ll join you. Have you found out when we need to be on the docks?”

  “Detective Inspector Horne said he’d text me when he set it up. Figured this would be a way to kill time while we waited. Did you get prints from the door handles?”

  “Yes. I haven’t run them yet.”

  The officer scrutinized her face for a second and then resumed walking. They entered a room with a Communications Office sign on the door. It was high tech with switchboards, TV monitors, and a row of computers. A non-uniformed Maori woman was stationed at the switchboard, talking into a headset, something about the ambulance arriving in a few minutes, stay on the line. Alexa realized this was the 911, or rather the 111 emergency line. She had made a point to find out.

  “Why is there just one person here?” she whispered to Rangiora.

  “I don’t know. Usually there are two.”

  “What if there’s more than one emergency?”

  “The calls get rerouted to one of three central communications centers. Closest one to here is Auckland.”

  “Are there surveillance cameras in the hallways?”

  “No. The CCTV monitors are just at the entryways.”

  “That’s right,” the woman who had been talking on the phone chimed in. She had hung up and swiveled around in a wheelchair. “Howzit.” She offered her hand. “I’m Aria Thompson.”

  “Hi,” Alexa said, shaking her hand. “I’m working contract forensics. Alexa Glock.”

  Aria continued. “The station has CCTV cameras at three locations only: main entrance, west side employee entrance, and the exit at the rear of the main floor.”

  “Are they monitored?” Alexa was scanning them as she spoke. A middle-aged couple entered the main entrance.

  “We watch them as much as possible, depending on how busy we are,” Aria said.

  “There’s no camera at the basement emergency exit?”

  “No, just the three I mentioned.”

  “We need to look at last night. Eight until ten,” Alexa said.

  Aria wheeled over to the TV monitors and pressed a few buttons on a central control panel. “Warp speed or regular?”

 
“Warp. We don’t have a lot of time,” Rangiora answered.

  “This is becoming a regular activity,” Aria said. “I was called in overtime to examine tape the other morning too. When the lab girl was attacked.”

  Aria worked the controls, and for the next twenty minutes, the three watched a fast-forwarded black-and-white parade of comings and goings from the three different security cameras. Rangiora IDed people whom he recognized, including himself, and Alexa, who perched on the edge of a chair, wrote down names and times. Aria was able to ID one. “That’s Shirley Weeks. She works in here. Must have been heading home to her kiddies.” That left one unidentified man along with Alexa, Rangiora, Jimmy Trimble and Leo McNamara, Wynne Cooper, and a rookie cop named Cyrus Shelley.

  “Can you zoom in on the person we can’t identify?” Alexa asked. He was the only one who used the main entrance. He was wearing a hoodie, and his head was down.

  “Sure. Give me a few minutes. I can print out stills too.”

  Rangiora moved closer to the picture. “Hold it. Looks like the same unidentified POI we have for Liang’s attack.”

  Before Alexa responded, she glanced up at the main entrance camera. Ngawata was entering. A chill ran down her back. No sign of Officer Cooper’s uncle. Alexa had been shelving the leaden lump of apprehension she’d felt ever since Horne announced her return to the island. She thought back to the two men on either side of Ngawata, Cooper’s uncle and Ray Herera, their bulging eyes and threatening stance.