by Sheila Lowe
Using a special projector called an ELMO, Claudia demonstrated how ink striation patterns could be formed by imperfections in the ball of a ballpoint pen, or by minuscule bits of lint that collected in the ball housing. She showed photomicrograph enlargements on a screen to establish how the pattern of the ductus would be dissimilar if a pen with such irregularities were to be used, then set down, then picked up and used again at another time.
Still, she knew better than to second-guess the jury. Over the course of her career, Claudia had learned through sometimes heartbreaking experience that it was impossible to predict with any certainty how a trier of fact would decide. Sometimes the decisions they made were utterly counterintuitive. But the defense attorney, his shoulders bowed in defeat, had no further questions. He had not retained his own document examiner for his client.
As she passed the counsel table on her way out of the courtroom, The attorney Claudia was working for made her feel good with a surreptitious thumbs up. She pushed through the swinging doors at the back and exited.
Heading to the elevator at the end of the long hallway, Claudia did her best to avoid the gaze of those crowding the benches outside family court. The sound of her heels clicking smartly on the marble floors and her self-satisfied energy seemed to mock the misery of the hapless victims, mostly women. Most of those waiting to request a restraining order were accompanied by small children and babies in strollers. It was all too easy to imagine the violence that had brought them here to petition the judge. And that led to thoughts of Angel.
Joel was fond of reminding her that getting emotionally involved in her cases helped no one, especially Claudia herself. But Angel was different; she was not a case, she had been Annabelle’s friend. There was nothing anyone could do for the girl now, except bring her killer to justice, and Claudia had complete trust that Joel would do that.
Angel’s close connection to Annabelle had fired him up in a way she had not seen over the past months. He had come too close to death himself a few months ago when his former partner had failed to back him up and he was shot. Since returning to the job after two surgeries, Jovanic had seemed to merely be going through the motions. The work no longer excited him as it had in the past. But with Angel’s murder, homicide had come close to home and re-energized him.
Claudia’s mind turned to Jamie. She wondered whether the girl had turned up yet. Kelly had called earlier that morning and reported that there had been no word from her. Claudia sighed. The girl might be a snotty brat, but she had not been born that way. Without doubt, she had lived through an entire catalogue of poisonous experiences before turning into a ‘strawberry’—a girl who was willing to exchange sex for drugs with anyone who made the offer.
A line from a book Claudia had once read by the psychologist Eric Berne came back. “People are born princes and princesses, until their parents make them into frogs.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’m hauling Robert Morgan and Carl Latu in,” Jovanic said, concluding his update to Tania St. John, the homicide table coordinator. Tania St. John had clawed her way through the ranks, where African-American females had to work ten times harder than their male counterparts to achieve the same levels of success. An attractive forty-year-old, at six-three, with the build of an Amazon, she could stare Jovanic straight in the eye.
Jovanic suppressed a yawn, but his supervisor caught it. “Might want to catch a few Zs first,” St. John said pointedly.
Jovanic checked the wall clock. Eight twenty-five. He had been at it all night again, reviewing the three murder books and formulating a plan. His eyeballs were stinging with fatigue, but he knew that if he stopped for a nap now, he would not be sufficiently awake to conduct the interviews with Viper’s bodyguards.
“I’m fine,” he said. “That’s why God invented Red Bull.”
“You need to be on it with those boys, detective.”
“I’ll take Bobby Morgan, Randy’ll take Carl Latu. Neither of them will know the other is here.”
St. John nodded. “You picking them up, or—”
“I gave ‘em both a wake up call this morning and offered a ride, but they opted to come in ‘voluntarily.’”
“They don’t want you showing up at the tattoo parlor.” The D3 stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “We need to get this case wrapped. The bodies are piling up too fast, Joel. This latest one, I’m already getting flack from upstairs.”
“Our pretty little soccer mom draws the crowd.”
St John’s eyes narrowed. “When out pretty little soccer mom is connected to a teenager in a dumpster and an arson victim, it does tend to pull some scrutiny.”
“I’m on it.” Jovanic left her office and made a beeline for the coffee maker.
Bobby Morgan sat at the interview table in one of the plastic garden chairs the department purchased from WalMart. They were cheap and easy to hose down and rid of germs, vomit, and whatever other bodily fluids happened to be left over from the previous interview.
Jovanic walked in, freshly shaven, and took a chair across from Morgan.
“Okay, so I’m here.” Morgan’s had is chair tipped back, his legs splayed out in an attitude intended to convey indifference. “I didn’t have to come.”
Jovanic thought about Angel’s battered body lying in the garbage and wanted to knock the chair to the floor with him still in it. He forced himself to give a cordial smile. “Thanks for coming, Bobby, I appreciate it.” For the benefit of the high definition camera and self-modulating microphone that would record their conversation, he said, “You understand you’re not in custody, right? You came in voluntarily, and you’re free to leave at any time.” What Jovanic did not say was, under the circumstances he had described, he was not required to Mirandize the punk. Which meant he could ask him pretty much anything.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. So, what’s up? You talk to my brother yet?”
Jovanic waited a beat, staring at Bobby until he started fidgeting. He leaned forward. “What’s up is, you’re going down for murder, dude.”
“What? I never fucking killed anyone!” Morgan jumped up and strode to the door. “I’m outta here.”
Jovanic stayed seated. “Yeah, you can go if you want. But if you leave now, Bobby, it’s not gonna work in your favor. I’m here to help you get to the truth. This is your one chance. Take it or leave it.”
Morgan hesitated in the open doorway while Jovanic prayed he would not demand to see a lawyer. Finally, Morgan pushed the door shut and dropped back into his chair. “The truth? The truth is I did not kill that chick. I had nothing to do with it, I swear.”
“Oh, really? So, you weren’t in an SUV in an alley at the beach last Tuesday night, dumping something? And you didn’t vacuum that SUV at the Handy Wash on Washington?”
Morgan’s body twitched in shock. His reaction confirmed that Big Carl had not shared their interview at his P.O.’s office.
Jovanic went on, “You think I haven’t talked to somebody already? You think I don’t have video of you and Big Carl putting Angela Tedesco in a trash dumpster?”
“No! You’re bullshittin’, man. I looked—” Bobby Morgan started staring around the small room as if looking for someone that might help him.
Jovanic leaned across the table, getting in his face. “Yeah, you looked and you didn’t see a camera. But that doesn’t mean one wasn’t there, picking up every move you made, Bobby. Remember when you dropped your keys?”
It was a guess, and it found its mark. Morgan’s eyes moved from side to side as he walked back through his memories of the past few days. The light dawned on his face as he calculated his odds. “Fuck,” he said softly. “Fuck me.”
“Yeah. It kinda looks like you’re screwed, Bobby.”
“But I didn’t kill her. I swear, man.”
“Okay, I ge
t that. And you know what? I actually believe it. But the thing is, the girl is dead, and if you didn’t kill her, something else is going on here. Obviously, you’re involved—you and Carl moved the body. That’s conspiracy after the fact.” Jovanic spread his hands in a gesture of regret. “So, if I can’t prove someone else did it, guess what, dude—it’s you, and you’re going down for it.”
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit!”
“Hey, look, Bobby. If this was just about jackin’ some dude’s ride, that’s a different story. But it isn’t that. It’s friggin’ murder. A sixteen-year-old girl. A girl who was living in your house. Don’t you get it? You put your sweaty paws on that dumpster; we’ve got your prints, we’ve got a witness. That’s all we need.” Jovanic was lying about what he had, but he could smell the younger man’s fear. He watched Bad Bobby melt into a puddle and knew that Morgan could not remember for certain whether he had touched the dumpster or not.
“What if—what if I did know what happened to her?”
“You tell me what you know and let’s see what happens from there. No promises, but the truth is the best thing for the investigation.” Jovanic rose. “Why don’t you think about it. I’ll be right back.” He turned at the door. “Get you anything? Coffee? Coke?”
Morgan dropped his head in his hands. “I’ll take a Coke.”
Jovanic left the room and knocked on the door of Interview Room #4, where his partner was conducting the same interview with the Samoan, Big Carl Latu.
Randy Coleman stepped into the hallway, immaculate in a dark suit and snowy white shirt with a blue Hermes tie covered in little horse heads. “What’ve you got?” he asked.
“Bobby’s about to cave. How’s it going with Carl?”
“He’s sticking with his story. He don’t know nuttin’ about nuttin’.”
“Okay, keep hammering him. Tell him his buddy’s giving him up.”
***
“Here’s your Coke, Bobby.” Jovanic set the red and white can on the table and took his chair as Morgan snapped the top. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
Morgan looked up at him with a miserable expression. “You’re fucking gonna get me killed, you know that?”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened. Was it Carl? He’s a big guy, maybe it was an accident.”
“No, man, not Carl.”
“He’s not really that tough? Look, I’m sure neither of you planned for Angel to die...”
“It was—” He broke off. “Fuck, man, he’s gonna have me killed.”
“Who is, Bobby?” Jovanic kept his face impassive, but inside he was giving himself a high five.
“Viper.”
“You’re between that old rock and a hard place, dude. It’s either Viper or the system. How do you think it’s gonna look to those twelve people who weren’t smart enough to get out of jury duty?”
“What the fuck? I thought—”
“No, you didn’t think, Bobby. You did what Viper told you to do, and he’s gonna leave you twisting in the wind. It’s not Viper on that video, Bobby, it’s you.” Jovanic put on his earnest face, reasoning with him. “Listen to me. He knows you’ve come down here, or if he doesn’t, he’s gonna know it pretty soon. You got that, right?”
Morgan’s head drooped dejectedly.
“You think you’re the first guy who’s afraid that telling the truth is gonna get him killed? How many times have you heard of a witness being killed in a murder case? I’m not talking about the organized crime crap they show on TV. Come on, Bobby. How many?”
“I dunno, man, but…”
“It doesn’t happen in real life. And when it does happen, it’s in those high profile mafia cases. Let me tell you, Viper is going to be so busy covering his ass that he’s not gonna give a second thought to you or Carl.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“He was more scared of Viper than he was of going to jail.”
Jovanic stood in the bathroom doorway watching Claudia brushing her teeth. She glanced up at him in the mirror and took a moment to enjoy the reflection of his well-defined abs. Catching her smile, he reached out to give her rear a squeeze. “M’mmm. Much nicer view than Big Carl’s ass.”
Bending her head to spit foam and rinse her mouth, she wiggled her posterior at him. “You’ll need to do better than that.”
“I will,” he said with a slow smile. “Promise.”
She was still thinking about what he had told her of his interview with the Samoan. “If Big Carl helps you put Viper away, what does he have to be scared of?”
“Viper has a long reach. Remember, it’s Carl’s job to insulate him. If he rats him out, his life won’t be worth shit. But then, there’s also the rage of Nana he’d have to face. In his culture, that means a lot. After I was done with Bobby, I came down hard on him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if he wants to keep young Tommy out of it, he’s gonna have to cooperate.” Beckoning to her, Jovanic went into the bedroom. “I want to show you something.”
She gave him an inviting grin. “Yeah? You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse. But first I have to show you something far less interesting. Remember the homicide on the news the other day, the one in Cheviot Hills?”
“Soccer mom?”
He nodded. “She had the same tattoo as Angel. I want to show you the pictures.” Jovanic fetched his phone from the nightstand and started scrolling through the screens as Claudia slipped a long T-shirt over her head and followed him.
“Jamie had the same one, too,” Jovanic said. “But I didn’t get a picture of hers.” He turned the phone to face her. There on the screen was a close-up of the glammed-up skull’s head tattoo on Darla Steinman’s shoulder.
“That’s the same tattoo Annabelle got.” Claudia handed the phone back. “What does this mean?”
“What?”
“You’ve been so busy with your cases, we never got a chance to talk. Angel got a tattoo artist she knew to put this same sugar skull on Annabelle.”
He slid his thumb across a few more screens. “Here’s the one Angel had. Are you sure it’s the same?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Holy shit. Two women who had this tattoo are dead, and so is the guy who opened up a studio in competition with the artist.” Jovanic chewed on his lower lip, contemplating the implications. “Can you tell if these were done by the same artist?”
Claudia handed back the phone. “Email them to me. I’ll enlarge them. Tattoo artists don’t sign their work, but they have their own individual styles.”
Jovanic threw on some shorts and followed her into the office, tapping her email address onto his screen as he went. By the time Claudia woke the dual monitors from sleep mode, his email was already waiting in her in-box. She launched the graphics editing program she used for handwriting authentication cases and opened the two photo files, then enlarged them side by side.
“It’s the same as examining signatures,” she explained, reciting what she had said so often on the witness stand. “No two are one-hundred percent identical, but in most cases, you can tell they were written by the same hand.” She paused, making the switch to what was now on the screens before them. “With a tattoo, you have to look at the style, the quality of the stroke, the colors, the way the design is laid out. This is unusual. Tattoo artists don’t like to put an identical design on different clients. They would vary it to some degree.”
“This guy, Viper, is using it as a brand he puts on his girls, so he would want them to look as alike as possible.”
“Like branding a cow.” Claudia gave a shiver of distaste. “But if this is his brand, what’s this other guy doing using it on Annabelle?”
“What other
guy?”
“His name’s Crash.”
“You’re sure it’s the same?”
“I didn’t examine it up close, but I’d say it’s a good match.”
“Can you get her to show it to me?”
“It’s not on her shoulder. It’s below her hipline.”
“Okay, forget that. I need you to take a photo of it.”
“Now? She’s got school in the morning. You want me to wake her up?”
“Babe, this is looking like a triple murder case.”
It was hard enough to get Annabelle up in the mornings without waking her at midnight. She sighed. “Give me the phone.”
As it happened, Annabelle was awake and reading a vampire romance by flashlight when Claudia opened the bedroom door. Shooting her a guilty look, she switched off the light. “I just wanted to finish the chapter.”
“Maybe not the best reading material right before bed.” Claudia switched on the lamp on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. “How’s the tattoo doing?”
“Scabby.” Annabelle sat up on her elbow. “Why are you in my room at midnight asking about my tat?”
“Because Joel needs to see it.” Claudia held up her cell phone. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a picture.”
“That sounds kinda perverted.”
“Yeah, right. Joel. He needs to compare it to the one Angel had.”
At the mention of the dead girl, Annabelle’s eyes got big. “Why would he need to do that?”
Claudia hesitated. “It has something to do with another case. So, if you wouldn’t mind—consider it the price of your misconduct—let’s get this done and you can go to sleep.”
Rolling her eyes in her best drama queen fashion, Annabelle pushed down the bedcovers and scootched up the hem of the T-shirt she was wearing, exposing enough of her abdomen to show the tattoo.