Rarely was a homicide detective the first person to arrive at a crime scene. More often than not, it was some rookie cop who didn’t know the first thing about securing the scene, allowing valuable evidence to be destroyed, trampled, or misplaced. But Jack knew exactly what steps had to be taken, starting with securing the scene before anyone else could enter the area.
Standing up, he walked back toward the front of the Tolomato, choosing a course not likely taken by the perpetrator. The perp had probably walked along the central path, leading from the front gates to the mausoleum, so Jack avoided that route, fearful of destroying any trace evidence that might have been left behind.
Since he did not have a role of barrier tape in his back pocket, his only way of securing the cemetery was to close the front gates. Knowing the metal bars could have valuable fingerprints on them, he used the toe of his shoe to move the gates.
He closed the first gate, and started to close the second, when he spotted the broken chain lying on the sidewalk. Suspecting the chain might also have fingerprints on it, and not wanting anyone to disturb those prints, he slipped a pencil through one of the links and carried it inside the cemetery.
Upon closer examination, the detective noticed that one of the links in the chain had been pulled apart, rather than cut. That meant the perp had used some kind of pry bar to break the chain, rather than cutting it in two with a hacksaw or bolt cutters.
Setting the broken chain on the ground just inside the entrance, Jack closed the second gate. He then opened his sketch pad and wrote the words CRIME SCENE--DO NOT ENTER in big letters on the first page. Tearing the page from the pad, he stuck it between one of the metal bars and the wire fence, adjusting the sign so it could be read by anyone approaching the front gates. The second page of the sketch pad would be used for taking notes, and he would use several more pages after that to make preliminary sketches of the crime scene.
Looking around, Detective Colvin decided he had done all he could do to secure the area. He could not properly safeguard a crime scene by himself; all he could do now was wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Chapter 3
Ssabra Onih saw the sailboat coming and urged her little Ford Escort to even greater speed, hoping to get across the Bridge of Lions before the drawbridge was raised for the boat. It was going to a close race, and she knew it. The sailboat was closing in on the bridge, seeking passage from Matanzas Bay to open waters. One of those big yacht things, with three masts, the kind owned by rich people who loved showing off to the neighbors. The captain of the boat had probably timed his sail to coincide with morning traffic, just so he could be the center of attention.
Glancing over her shoulder, she shot out into the left lane of traffic, passing two elderly women in a slow-moving Oldsmobile. Whipping back to the right, she made it around a white delivery truck that was holding up traffic in the left lane. A second or two later she made it over the drawbridge before the light turned red.
Leaving the bridge behind her, she drove west on Cathedral Place into the heart of the historic district. It was Saturday morning and the tourists were already circling the old plaza like vultures, searching for free parking places. Not that traffic was any better during the week; finding a parking place close to where you wanted to go was always a matter of timing and dumb luck.
She turned left at Cordova, and then right on Bridge Street, driving behind the Lightner Museum. Taking another right, she turned into the tiny parking lot behind the building occupied by First City Tours. Parking in an empty slot, she grabbed her costume off the passenger seat and entered the building through the back door.
Ssabra had moved to St. Augustine almost five years earlier, at the age of twenty-three, following the death of her fiance’. Alan’s fatal accident had left her with a world of painful memories, and she was unable to face friends or family members without feeling the loss. Her estranged father, a full-blooded Cherokee who had given SSabra her unusual name, might have suggested she try to heal her heart through traditional methods, but she had never been very much in touch with her Indian heritage. Instead of seeking solace in a sweat lodge, or through prayer ceremonies, she had decided to leave the hurt behind and relocate to Florida.
Working as a waitress her first nine months in the old city, a job she absolutely hated, she was lucky enough to meet the right people and get hired as a tour guide. In addition to giving day tours to retirement groups and grade schoolers, she also gave ghost tours at night. The ghost tours had been started several years earlier, after the owners of First City Tours received numerous requests for information about St. Augustine’s “haunted” sights. The nightly ghost jaunts proved to be an instant hit, and now brought in more income than all the other tours combined.
Ssabra enjoyed the ghost tours because they were a lot of fun, and she could really get into her roll as a spooky storyteller. She also got to dress up in an eighteenth-century-style costume, and carry a lantern for effect. And it was far cooler in the humid summertime to lead a tour at night, than it was to walk around in the heat of the day.
She had just entered the tour office when Claire Jones rushed up to her. Claire was a few years younger than Ssabra, short and slightly rounded, with flaming red hair and green eyes. She was also a tour guide, but had only been with the company for a few months. She sometimes got her dates and facts wrong, but her bubbling enthusiasm always made up for her goofs.
“Did you hear the news?” Claire asked, excited and apparently eager to spread some juicy bit of gossip.
“What news?” Ssabra hung her costume in the closet.
“About the Tolomato Cemetery. Something happened there last night. Police are all over the place.”
“What happened?” Ssabra asked, troubled. The Tolomato Cemetery was one of the most popular stops on the ghost tour. If something had happened, the police might have the area sealed off. It would be a big disappointment to her customers.
“I’m not sure. Something big. I’ve heard the police found a body....”
Ssabra smiled. “A cemetery would be a good place to find a body.”
“No. No. No. Not like that. Not a body in the ground. I heard they found one that had been dug up. Some people are even saying that there was a murder.”
“And where did you hear all this?”
“I heard it before I came to work.”
“Where?”
“I heard some of the customers at Fernando’s talking about it.” Fernando’s was a little coffee shop, just north of the plaza, that catered more to the local crowd than to tourists, the perfect spot to grab a hot cup of coffee, a fresh muffin, and an earful of gossip.
“And who told you this bit of news?” Ssabra asked, raising an eyebrow.
Claire swallowed and looked around the room, obviously not wanting to reveal the source of her information.
“Who told you?” she asked again.
Claire turned back toward her, but didn’t look her in the eyes. “Siler told me.”
“Siler?” Ssabra laughed. “You know better than to believe anything that old man has to say.”
Siler Lock was an elderly black man who used to work as a tailor before retiring. He now spent his mornings sipping coffee with the locals, and spent most of his afternoons fishing along the Intercoastal Waterway. He was a good-hearted old man, but he just loved to gossip. He was also quite a flirt with the ladies.
“He was telling the truth,” Claire argued. “I saw the police cars myself. I drove past the Tolomato on my way over here. They had the cemetery roped off.”
“Did you see any bodies?”
“No.”
“How about an ambulance? Or a hearse?”
“No, but--”
“Then I wouldn’t go screaming murder, if I were you. Besides, it’s bad for business. You go talking about a murder and half the people signed up for tonight’s ghost tour will cancel on us. I don’t know about you, but I like getting paid. So keep quiet about this, even if old Siler is right.”<
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Claire nodded, then hurried off to tell one of the other employees about what she had heard. Ssabra smiled and shook her head. The young woman lived to gossip, and a possible homicide in the town’s cemetery was definitely something to talk about.
Ssabra didn’t have time to dwell on what may, or may not, have happened at the Tolomato Cemetery the previous evening. She had two groups of senior citizens signed up for tours that afternoon. Seniors were far easier to manage than an equal number of overactive schoolchildren, but they did need special consideration. Many of the streets in the old section of St. Augustine were still cobblestone, which could create quite a problem for those in wheelchairs or using a cane. She also made a conscious effort to speak slower, and louder, aware of the fact that some of them might be a little hard of hearing. Finally, she stopped for breaks more often with seniors, especially during the brutally warm summer months.
Grabbing a quick cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs from her head, she headed out the front door to meet with her first tour group of the day.
Chapter 4
While Jack Colvin waited for the boys from the crime lab to show up at the Tolomato Cemetery, he took another walk back through the grounds looking for clues and evidence. He was more thorough on his second round, because he was now dealing with a homicide and not just a simple case of trespassing or vandalism. Starting with the spot where he had found the remains, he walked in an outward spiral until he covered all of the cemetery. Still, he found nothing that might be a clue left behind by the perpetrator, at least no physical evidence that could be seen by the naked eye.
After walking through the cemetery a second time, and finding nothing, he returned to the starting point. Opening his pad of paper, he made a quick sketch of the crime scene, wanting to record as many little details as possible before they were lost to the elements. Afternoon thunderstorms were not uncommon in Florida, even in the middle of September, so he wanted to record the scene in detail in case it did rain later that day.
Sketches of crime scenes were often as valuable as photographs, because they provided a detailed image of the scene at the time of the drawing. Crimes scenes changed with the passage of time, especially those occurring outside, so sketches and photographs were always given the highest priority.
Jack drew a quick sketch of the tattered clothing, and shoes, and the area surrounding them, leaving a space on the left side of the page blank for notes. In that blank space, he wrote his full name and police rank, the date, time, crime classification and case number, and the address where the scene was located. He also listed landmarks, and compass directions, as well as the critical features of the crime scene.
His right hand was already starting to cramp by the time he jotted down all the information that needed to be included with the first sketch. Flipping the page, he started to make another sketch of the scene from a different direction, but was interrupted by the sight of two vehicles stopping in front of the cemetery.
The cavalry has arrived.
Closing his sketch pad, he stood up and started walking toward the front gates. The first vehicle to arrive on the scene was an unmarked blue patrol car, which he immediately recognized as the car always driven by fellow detective, and good friend, Bill Moats.
Detective Moats was a quiet, soft-spoken man, a few years older than Jack and a few pounds heavier, with beautiful silver-gray hair and a thick mustache. He was the last of the true Southern gentleman, born and raised in the blue-blood society of Charleston, South Carolina, where horse racing and formal balls were still a way of life. His ancestors had been noted politicians, judges, and military leaders, and they had fought against the dreaded Yankees under Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart.
Moats was the senior of the two men, in years and experience, but he often allowed Jack to be the lead detective when the two of them worked a case together. They made a perfect team, looking at the evidence from different angles, each uncovering clues that the other might have missed. And where Jack excelled with crime scene investigations, Bill was a critical thinker and would often come up with new leads by going back through the files.
The second vehicle that stopped in front of the gates was the white Chevy van used by the Crime Scene Investigation Unit, and contained all the equipment needed to process the scene: cameras, molds for making plaster casts, evidence collection kits, fingerprinting equipment, etc. The CSI unit was made up of specially trained civilian and police officers, two of which arrived in the van.
“Good morning,” Bill shouted, seeing Detective Colvin walking toward the front gates. “You just couldn’t take a day off, could you?”
Jack grinned. “You know how it is--my life is my work.” Using the toe of his shoe, he pushed open one of the gates.
Detective Moats climbed out of his car and gave orders to the two men getting out of the van, instructing them to seal off the entrance to the cemetery with barrier tape and then start taking photographs. He grabbed a second role of barrier tape for himself, probably wanting to set up another barricade around where the remains were found.
It was a good idea to get both barricades in place before any sightseers showed up. Once word got around about the homicide, every cop at the station would want to come down and take a look. Fellow officers visiting the crime scene could be a problem, and they were often as destructive as civilians when it came to fragile evidence. The double barricade would be a deterrent to them.
“I’ve already called the medical examiner’s office, and he should be here in a few minutes.” Bill stopped just inside the front gates and looked around. “Who found the body?”
“I did,” Jack replied. “But there isn’t a body.”
Bill looked confused. “No body?”
“No. Just a handful of remains: bone, teeth, skin, clothing. That sort of thing.”
“Are you sure you’re dealing with a homicide? It’s not something someone dug up from one of the graves?”
Jack shook his head. “The remains didn’t come from a grave. The clothing is too modern, and two of the molars have had dental work. The remains are also fresh, and look like they were removed from the victim within the past six hours.”
“I think you had better show me.”
He led the other detective to the spot where the clothing and remains had been dumped, again following a path not likely used by the perpetrator. Bill studied the crime scene in silence for a few minutes, then turned to face his partner.
“You’re right. It’s a homicide, but I don’t think it happened here.”
“Neither do I,” Jack agreed. “There’s no blood to speak of on the grass. Only a few drops, and that probably transferred from the clothing.”
“You want to be lead detective on this one?” asked Jack. “I mean, it was supposed to be my day off, and I don’t want to go stepping on your toes.”
Bill smiled. “You found it, so it’s your baby. I’m just here to assist. Tell me what you want done, and I’ll get started.”
“Well, since you put it that way: the first thing I want to do is put a barrier around the remains. I don’t want anyone walking through this area until after CSI has had a chance to look it over, not even the medical examiner. Once they have taken a good look at the crime scene, then we’ll let the ME examine the pieces.
“I also want to rope off the main path that leads from the front gates to the mausoleum. Odds are that’s the path the perp used last night when dumping what was left of his victim. I found an ornate silver ring lying near the path. I’ve marked its location with a pack of cigarettes. I want it photographed, bagged and tagged. The ring may contain an inscription, or a jeweler’s mark, that might help us trace it to its owner.”
“Bag and tag the ring. Got it.” Bill nodded, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t pick it up, did you?”
Jack coughed. “I didn’t touch the ring, but I did handle the leather bag sitting just inside the entrance. I didn’t know I was dealing with a homici
de at the time.”
“Okay. You’re excused.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Jack laughed. “After the CSI boys get the front of the cemetery sealed off, and have a look at the crime scene, I want them to start taking pictures. I also want them to dust the front gates and the chain for fingerprints.”
“Those gates are probably loaded with prints. This place is popular with the tourists.”
“Yeah, I know it is. We probably won’t get anything we can use, but I still want to check for prints anyway. If we can find a matching set on the gates and the chain, then we might be able to narrow down our lists of suspects. Have them check the bag too.”
“In the meantime...”
“In the meantime, after we string some barrier tape around the remains, and block off the main path, I would like the two of us to do a thorough search of the grounds, just in case I missed anything earlier. It would probably be best if we used a grid method, searching one section at a time.”
“That’s going to take time.” Bill looked around at the cemetery. “I had better call the station and get a couple more bodies out here. I’m sure I can get some of the traffic cops to quit hanging around Dunkin’ Doughnuts long enough to give us some help.”
“Probably a good idea,” Jack agreed. “But when they get here, tell them to keep their damn hands in their pockets. I don’t want them touching anything.”
“Got it.” Detective Moats used his cell phone to call the station to request a few more officers to help out with the investigation, while Jack spoke with the CSI officers about how he wanted them to proceed. The two detectives then strung barrier tape around the clothing and remains, and along the main path, sealing off the areas. After that, they divided the cemetery up in a square grid pattern, using gravestones and imaginary lines for boundaries, and started searching each section carefully. Two patrol officers arrived on the scene about twenty minutes later, and they were put to work searching the opposite side of the cemetery. Much to Detective Colvin’s amusement, Bill made a point of telling the officers to keep their “damn” hands in their pockets as they searched for clues and evidence.
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