Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “I’ll buy the rights to those pictures,” he said. “It’s not every day a man becomes engaged.” A few reporters laughed. “Contact my office, and we’ll get it done.” The woman laughed and nodded, making her brunette curls bob, and then there was a round of applause as he and Cynthia hustled toward the FBI task force team, who greeted them with frowns.

  Special Agent Vincent Modena spoke first, his green eyes flashing irritation. Tall, his brown hair newly clipped short, the sheer force of the agent’s personality had them stopping a few yards in front of him. “What the hell, Deming?” Modena said.

  Special Agent Gilroy was shorter than Modena, but wider and bulkier, with well-earned, sculpted muscle; Charlie had seen Gilroy press three hundred at the gym. He was powerful. Blond hair clipped to his scalp, Gilroy had a habit of rubbing his head when uncomfortable, and he was doing it now. Not a big talker, the agent’s lips were compressed, which had the effect of highlighting his large, crooked nose.

  Cynthia’s boss, Special Agent Jack Benton, looked as if he couldn’t choose between shock or dismay. Black hair, neatly clipped, and his blue eyes flashing, Benton settled on a glare. “Deming?”

  She rested her fists on her hips, glaring back at her team. Then she turned to Charlie and punched his shoulder. “This is Charlie’s fault. Don’t blame me.”

  Charlie remained unrepentant. “A man’s got to do—”

  “Charlie.” Benton said. “You proposed at a crime scene. Not cool.” He tilted his head, indicating the bodies and blood behind him.

  Modena never took his gaze off Cynthia’s face. “You two… You know each other?” He tucked his hands in his black suit’s pants pockets, leaning on his heels, seemingly unconvinced.

  “No, Modena,” Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “We’re strangers. That’s why we got engaged.”

  Charlie forced himself not to sigh in relief, but he did feel a calmness infuse his system. She was speaking out of both sides of her mouth, sure, but she was also holding the line when it came to appearances. It gave him another lever to force her to commit to his plan.

  Modena ignored Cynthia’s sarcasm and turned to Charlie. “I didn’t even know you two were dating.” Cynthia grew beet red. Time for Charlie to save her.

  “Sorry the ER took so long,” he said. “Cynthia’s fine, by the way. Doctor says no concussion.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So…engaged?” Modena’s steely-eyed stare told Charlie he didn’t believe them.

  “Enough, Modena,” Benton said.

  Gilroy cleared his throat. “She looks pissed.” Yes. Charlie couldn’t fail to notice also. That wasn’t a normal response to being newly engaged.

  “Understandable.” Benton grimaced, glancing at Charlie. “She deserved better than a crime scene proposal.” Gratitude had Charlie smiling at Benton. His excuse was perfect cover for Cynthia.

  “Yes,” Cynthia said. “She did deserve better, and she’d prefer that people stop talking about her as if she wasn’t present.”

  “What did the doctor say?” Benton said.

  “You heard Charlie,” she said. “I’m fine. Can we work the case, please? What do we have?”

  “Forensic techs have been here for a while.” Gilroy didn’t hide his relief to change the subject as they all, as a group, moved toward the bodies draped with white cloths.

  Reporters shouted questions as they passed, and the team ignored them, per usual, and Charlie, per usual, found it difficult to tune them out. He understood leaked intel tampered with prosecuting cases, and that “answers” were proprietary, but he was a scientist who lived for questions, and questions, by their nature, begged an answer. Never felt right to leave the reporters hanging.

  When they’d approached the first victim, Charlie could see Cynthia struggling to keep her emotions in check. Her behavior would have been telling, maybe even suspicious, if the crime scene didn’t give her cover. It was particularly horrific, and aptly named “The Chinatown Massacre.” The cause of death due to GSW to the head, with a relatively intact cranium, was usually due to blood loss. A bullet hits a blood vessels, the vic bleeds out. Charlie calculated eight pints of blood per victim, six victims. Even assuming they’d only discharged half after hypovolemic shock set in, this crime scene was covered with at least three gallons of blood pooling and spatter. Didn’t sound like much, until you saw three gallons spattered by six .22 bullets with a muzzle velocity of 700 feet per second.

  Blood was everywhere.

  Cynthia seemed faint. He wondered if it was from the scene, or the fear that evidence might turn up that might ruin her career. She cleared her throat, indicating the six bodies with a tilt of her head. “What do the marshals have to say about six Coppola WITSEC informants executed in Chinatown?”

  “They’re scrambling,” Benton said, “officially saying nothing. Unofficially?” He frowned at the body at his feet.

  “They’re swearing a lot,” Gilroy said.

  “Vics had their wallets, phones,” Modena said. “No attempt to hide their identities.”

  “The killer wanted us to know who he killed.” Cynthia glanced at the media. “Wants someone to know, anyway. These men testified already. Why bother killing them unless to warn others?”

  “Warn who?” Benton shrugged. “Who’s left in the Coppola syndicate to warn? We’ve rounded up the major players, or rather, anyone who would do something like this.”

  Charlie glanced at the sky, and saw the crime scene wasn’t about to be rained on anytime soon. He was tired, his eyes grainy from a night of no sleep, so he was grateful for the small blessing. No rain meant they could worry about preserving evidence, rather than protecting it from the weather.

  Crouching next to the nearest body, he looked up to see Kevin Hilliard approach. About five-ten, one hundred and seventy pounds, his white hazmat suit and face shield were soiled with dirt and blood, and obscured everything about him except for his height. Kevin tipped his face shield up, revealing pale skin, blond stubble, and bloodshot brown eyes. The father of five kids, the youngest four months old, Kevin was chronically tired, and doing his best to kick a cigarette habit. He handed Charlie a set of latex gloves, stifling a yawn, smelling of Nicorette gum.

  “Thanks, Kevin,” Charlie said.

  The tech nodded. “Wound stippling consistent with contact discharge. Me and Teresa removed the hoods to ID the vics. It’s like this with all of them. Handgun, probably .22.”

  Charlie snapped on the gloves, aware of the hovering agents. They were impatient, because nothing was official until Charlie, the forensic pathologist on the case, said it was so. He lifted the white cloth enough to see the head and the top of the vic’s torso. He lifted the head and saw the bullet had, indeed, been a through and through.

  “No rigor mortis.” Which occurs between four and thirteen hours after death, and it was ten in the morning now, so that made sense if these vics were shot at ten o’clock last night. He glanced at Kevin. “Who ordered you to take off the hoods?”

  “Me,” Benton said.

  Kevin exchanged glances with Benton before turning back to Charlie. “Hoods are bagged and logged. I stopped photographing the scene when I saw you’d arrived. I’m halfway done.”

  “Anything standing out, Charlie?” Cynthia was biting her lip so hard, he feared she’d cut skin.

  “Stop biting your lip.” He frowned at her mouth, didn’t turn away until she’d licked it, and glared at her fellow agents, who seemed interested in their byplay. He shut that distraction out and turned back to the body. Yes, he saw the “tattooing,” or “stippling,” of gunpowder residue around the wound. Also, he could see pieces of material embedded just under the skin. “Direct contact, muzzle pressed to forehead at time of discharge, consistent with a suicide or, in this case, with hands tied behind their backs,” he said. “Execution.”

  “Ya think?” Modena snorted. “What gave it aw
ay?”

  “Leave him alone.” Cynthia scowled at Modena.

  Charlie dropped the cloth over the victim, dismissing Modena’s snarkiness. They were all on edge, and for good reason. He recognized this guy. He was a Coppola syndicate contract killer, which suggested the other bodies were also. Their executions should scare all of them. Special Agent Benton sacrificed a year undercover with the syndicate, and Modena almost died, and nearly lost the love of his life to these monsters. No one was happy to hear the words “Coppola syndicate” ever. His parents still hadn’t forgiven him for torpedoing their lives when they had to enter protective custody for three months. Everyone that Charlie held dear became a potential target when he’d agreed to testify against Dante Coppola. His parents had understood the precaution, but hated the experience nonetheless.

  “This will take time. Be patient, and I’ll have a report to you as soon as I’m done,” Charlie said, catching Cynthia’s gaze. She nodded, and then stepped back, giving him the space to do his job.

  Benton nodded, then he and his team moved to the next body, not touching, just conferring as they partially lifted the cloth his team had draped over the body to protect the evidence and hide it from unauthorized photography. There were six bodies, as Cynthia had described earlier, and the vics were lined up against the brick façade of the alleyway’s wall. To Charlie, they represented ten hours with his assistants’ help, of methodical evidence collection, which required exacting and exhausting focus. He felt an adrenaline rush thinking about it. Somewhere here was evidence that would clear Cynthia. And he was going to find it.

  His second-in-command, tech Teresa Johnson, caught his attention as he headed to the forensic department’s van. Though they met at the curb, well within the crime scene tape, the van’s bulk protected them from news crews’ cameras. Teresa stripped off her face shield, self-consciously tugged off the hazmat suit’s hood to reveal mussed blond hair. She looked younger than her years, pale, and twitchy, which he attributed to the hot sun and, not incidentally, the fact that the crime scene smelled like a slaughterhouse.

  “Everything’s ready for you,” Teresa said. “We did the perimeter, the walkthrough, and, as you can see, put down numbered placards. Kevin’s still working on the close-up photography, but everything is pretty much documented but the bodies.”

  “Good job.” His team was well trained, and this morning especially, Charlie appreciated their competence.

  “I mapped the scene,” she said, “made notes about each item collected. The chain of custody forms are here.” Teresa lifted a clipboard, handing it to Charlie with a pen. “Property receipts are under that. Oh, and Kevin still needs to video before we move the bodies.”

  Kevin approached, holding the team’s telescopic camera and hefting a video camera over his shoulder. Yawning, he was chewing more of his Nicorette gum.

  Teresa peered beyond Charlie’s shoulder. “I guess congratulations are in order.” Charlie followed her gaze, saw Cynthia, then quickly donned a disposable hazmat suit over his clothes and slipped on a face shield.

  “Thank you.” He led them to the first body, crouching next to the vic. He lifted the cloth, saw a slight figure of a male, Caucasian, late twenties, blond man-bun atop his head. Charlie knew him, and knew he had a kill list longer than Charlie’s weekly grocery list. Specialized in knives.

  “You’re certainly taking a big step, Charlie.” Kevin smiled, pulling down his hood, revealing his unruly head of hair. The hazmat hood had electrified it, so some blond strands stood on end. “Next there’ll be pitter-pattering of little feet.”

  Teresa flinched, making Charlie visualize slapping Kevin upside his electrified head. No, Charlie didn’t want Teresa crushing on him, but he didn’t want her feelings hurt, either. Kevin wasn’t usually this insensitive. It was Kevin who mentioned Teresa’s infatuation in the first place. He’d pointed out her lingering after hours at the lab, asking questions beyond the necessary, and her repeated hints that she’d welcome an invitation to Charlie’s house after work. Once Kevin had put those instances through the prism of unrequited infatuation, it was hard for even Charlie to miss them. No, it wasn’t Charlie’s first social cue blunder and wouldn’t be his last, but usually it didn’t matter. This time, it mattered. He liked Teresa. She was a good tech. And neither had been happy after their meeting to clarify his no fraternizing policy. They left embarrassed, but Teresa stopped flirting, and…time would heal.

  “You really proposed?” Teresa said. “At this crime scene?” She directed his attention to the blood spatter, the federal agents, and the general chaos.

  Kevin snorted. “Are we pretending a different crime scene would have been better?”

  Charlie suppressed a groan. The proposal really did make him look like a lunatic, but he’d been desperate. “In hindsight, yeah, a mistake. I’m not good with things like…” He paused, wondering how to categorize what was happening with him and Cynthia.

  “People?” Kevin said.

  “Women?” Teresa said.

  “Cynthia,” Charlie said, glancing at his newly minted fiancée. With a sigh, he shed all thoughts but the job and flipped through the clipboard paperwork, making sure all the appropriate forms were attached. Then he held it out to Teresa to make notations on while he worked the body. “Moving on. Anything I need to know before we start?”

  Teresa nodded. “Vics’ hands and shoes are bagged already. With the sheer volume of police presence, I was afraid of contamination if I waited until you’d arrived. I didn’t know when you’d get here.” She shrugged. Yeah, valid point, and not so subtle criticism.

  “I photographed anything Teresa placarded,” Kevin said. “Crowd shots, and far away shots, and body shots before we touched them. So I’ve got a few things left to shoot, but then all that’s left are the detail shots of the bodies prior to bagging.”

  “Good,” Charlie said.

  “We still need to sample and log the spatter,” Teresa said. “Slugs and casings were easy to find.” Charlie forced himself not to tense up, or even respond. He needed to see those casings before anyone else, in case Cynthia was right and her prints were on them.

  “Slugs were embedded in the brick,” Kevin said. “Teresa dug them out after I took pictures. We were wondering.” He exchanged glances with Teresa. “Usually, professionals police their brass. Dig out their slugs so we don’t have access to them.” Teresa averted her gaze, but he could see she was waiting for a response, too. Well, Charlie didn’t have one. Obviously, the killer wanted these casings and slugs found. It was the “why” that gave him more than a little unease.

  “We don’t deal in whys,” Charlie said. “We deal in whats. We gather the evidence, and allow the task force to investigate.”

  Speaking of whats… He studied the evidence list, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Blood samples, location noted and numbered by placards. He scanned the scene, picked out the placard location that was most probably where Cynthia had been pistol-whipped if she’d stumbled upon the crime scene in progress. Placard 126. Her DNA sample would be logged there. CODIS, the index of known perp DNA samples, would be searched, and come up short, because her DNA wasn’t housed there. Charlie wasn’t worried she’d be ID’d by CODIS.

  Her prints on the shell casings would nail her.

  Protocol would require Cynthia to surrender DNA to compare to samples found at the scene. She’d be forced to refuse, or risk being ID’d. Her refusal would trigger an investigation, maybe charges. Unfortunately, any attempt to subvert that process on his part would be illegal. They’d have to play it by ear.

  Teresa pointed to the evidence list. “The duct tape is still attached to all the hoods, and bagged into evidence. The zip ties are white, non-releasable, seem generic, and they’re still binding the vics’ wrists. Hoods seem custom-made, so we might get lucky and find pertinent DNA there. Someone had to sew the brown cloth. I told Benton, a
nd suggested they might have been ordered, so maybe they could find a name or credit card associated with a receipt at a local seamstress shop or tailor.”

  Charlie nodded. “Good job, Teresa. The vics were transported here from six separate WITSEC locations across the country, so even though they were killed here,” he said, “we don’t know how many other crime scenes this case might be looking at. Prepare for the long haul. As with anything Coppola syndicate related, it will be a pain in our asses.” He flipped the page, glanced up, and saw Teresa pressing her lips together, looking a bit green around the gills. “Pray for some fingerprints,” he said.

  Kevin handed Charlie a manila folder. “Lab request forms.” Charlie signed in the appropriate spots.

  “Um, Charlie? I hate to bring this up, but—” Teresa exchanged glances with Kevin. “Last forensic tech crew that worked a Coppola syndicate crime scene had to enter protective custody. Do Kevin and I have to worry?”

  Charlie shook his head. “The syndicate is dead.” When Kevin and Teresa didn’t seem consoled, he said, “Listen, I’ll speak to Benton. See what he says.” They nodded. “Good. Now let’s get to work and bag these bodies. They’ve been on hot pavement too long.”

  With Teresa and Kevin assisting, they were done bagging and tagging within an hour. It gave Charlie a head start on paperwork, as his techs did a final sweep of the scene. After Charlie stripped off his hazmat suit, face shield, booties, and gloves, then tossed them in a medical waste container in the back of the van, he felt a hand nudge his shoulder.

  “You almost done?” Cynthia had dark circles under her eyes. He found himself reaching for her, but then Teresa stepped to his side, pointedly ignoring Cynthia.

  “Hey, Charlie?” she said. “Kevin and I came in the van. We’re finished, so we should follow the ambulance back to the morgue.” Teresa’s gaze skittered to Cynthia, and then quickly away. Shifting foot to foot, he sympathized with her obvious embarrassment, but it was making things painfully awkward. “Meet you there?” she said.