Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1

by DB Kennison

  Jon pulled up and took a bag from the kid at the window, heavy and smelling of grease. He ate as he drove and thought about the people at his new job, Ben Wachowski in particular. It wasn’t all Ben’s fault that he was a dink. From the beginning Jon recognized the man as stubborn, but that was hardly a unique trait among cops. If he’d shut up long enough to hear anyone’s advice he might make a decent, if not companionable, coworker. But at this point the man was his own worst enemy and Jon couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. Not a lot, though.

  Jon stuffed the last of the fries in his mouth as he pulled into the station and was already getting Dinky’s LegendaryTM Heartburn at the thought of having to follow up on Wacko’s work.

  Entering their data in the information sharing systems such as RISS was vital to finding out if their murder was connected to other crimes or if the victim was a missing person. The Regional Information Sharing Systems was the narrower version of MOCIC, which covered the whole Midwest. It was crucial information that was simple enough to enter and update—Jon was certain any moron could do it, but had his doubts about Wacko.

  The tiny detective’s room was windowless and made smaller by the elephant-gray color of the walls and fluorescent lighting. Attached to the walls on either side were sections of corkboard and dry-erase boards that were used to display various crime scene material and time-line scenarios. Al Ostlund was already filling in the board. As Head of Field Services, Al’s job was providing leadership to the patrol division and backup to the detectives. This was the first time he’d ever been needed to run backup on any case.

  The room smelled like magic marker, stale coffee, and because of the mostly male staff, a strange mixture of aftershave and musk. Six gunmetal desks took up the bulk of the floor space. Jon had been given a desk at the back of the room, and much like his house and his ride, it was cluttered with errant stacks of papers, file folders and empty cups. Adjacent to his desk was Terri Watman’s, which was neat as a pin. The networks would love them as a rebooted sitcom—The Odd Couple: Fully Loaded.

  Wacko stood next to Jon’s desk, an angry scowl permanently etched on his face. Jon wondered how long he’d been waiting as he placed a file box on the desktop. “So…did you get the case file entered?”

  Wacko grunted and tossed the folder on the mess atop his desk. His tone did not go unnoticed. All conversation halted. Jon made eye contact with the man. “So, just how many donuts did it take you to get through it?” The comment elicited a few chuckles from around the room.

  Wacko stomped around the desk, ready to square off with the detective. Terri jumped up to place herself in front of Jon. “Hey there, Sarge, take it easy.” She put a hand on the big man’s chest. “He’s just pulling your leg, where’s your sense of humor?”

  “I don’t know why everybody’s got their noses up Milwaukee boy’s ass,” Wacko growled. “He ain’t nothing special. He’s just a GQ cover that couldn’t make it in the big city and must have blown the boss for this assignment.”

  Jon stood with his hands on his hips shaking his head. He felt guilty for chiding him about the donuts but it came with the territory, and damn it, the man just rubbed him the wrong way.

  He couldn’t believe how distorted the sergeant’s view of the world was. Word was Ben had been raised by his uncle, an old-school cop from the deep South, at a time when law officials handled problems how they saw fit and not by jurisprudence. Despite the fact that his uncle was fired when he beat a confession out of a petty thug, time and again Wacko chose old school and the good ol’ days over modern policing.

  Wacko looked outraged when Jon refused to take the bait, his face turning a deep purple. Ben lowered his voice as he pointed to the box on Jon’s desk. “That case should have been mine. That job should have been mine!” he spat out. He glanced at Terri, and his lips curled up. “At least I don’t need a roided dyke to fight my battles.”

  Jon had to grab Terri by the shoulders to keep her from decking Wacko.

  “Whoa. Consider the source.” Jon said, and felt the tension leave her body. She nodded.

  The sergeant stormed out of the room and past the chief.

  A sudden exodus started as everyone found a reason to leave the room when Chief Thomlin approached. Terri trailed out last, managing to wag her chin and hold up double peace signs Nixon style behind the chief’s back.

  Shit. Jon couldn’t believe he never noticed it before. Thomlin did resemble the former president.

  “Do you have to provoke him like that?” Thomlin asked.

  “I’m giving no worse than I get.”

  “I can’t afford a personnel issue at the same time I have an ongoing murder investigation. You need to fly under the radar with Wacko. Got it?”

  Jon’s eyes went wide at the chief’s use of Wachowski’s nickname.

  “What? You think I don’t know what’s going on in my own station? Just keep him pacified. I’ll deal with his attitude—after this homicide is solved.”

  Jon silently questioned the mandate but nodded. Thomlin looked tired. This had to be getting to him. He wondered if the man knew how much he looked like Nixon—post impeachment.

  “The media is already clamoring for a comment. So as soon as you get something I can pass on, let me know.”

  “I can do that.”

  Jon and Terri spent the next few hours preparing a second run of items needing to go through the state crime lab and along with that came the kind of meticulous documentation that you never saw on cop shows. But that aspect of the task was important enough to make or break a case, depending on how well it was completed.

  “I went through restaurant receipts to cross-reference them with witness statements and we have a list of people who were eating earlier that we can contact.” Terri ran through the investigation checklist, making sure things were getting done in an orderly fashion. “Once time of death comes through we may have a new direction.”

  “I’d bet TOD is somewhere between four and eight p.m.” Jon said.

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “Just seen my fair share of corpses. Rigor had begun to set, which takes about four hours. But it wasn’t in full rigor, which takes place at twelve. If the kitchen help is telling the truth the last bags of trash they’d taken out was somewhere around two-thirty p.m. But our vic was there long enough to get gnawed on. Most vermin don’t come out until dark, which was about seven last night. And our vic was found shortly after midnight.”

  Terri’s brows rose as she listened. “Right, but we’re working on body dump time, not TOD.”

  “Shit. I need more coffee.” Jon looked at his watch. It was late. He put the lid on the last box. “We’re done here. Let’s head to the lab first thing in the morning and talk about an action plan on the way.” He downloaded the crime scene photos onto his computer and opened a murder book for Mt. Ouisco’s first Jane Doe.

  Chapter Ten

  “Knock it off, Dammit!” A rumbling growl grew out from low in the dog’s throat, forcing Terri to take a step back in the entry to Jon’s house. Jon was embarrassed by the dog’s behavior as he manhandled the beast back to his bed in the corner. “Sorry, he doesn’t care for strangers.”

  “Are you sure, because it seems to me like he prefers them raw.” She was halfway out the door and looked ready to slam behind her if need be.

  “He’s never hurt anyone. He’s just got poor manners.” Jon had seen to the needs of the big pet before Terri picked him up on the way to Madison.

  “He’ll probably be lonely until you get this case solved.”

  Jon realized she was right, but aside from Dammit’s needs, Jon didn’t mind clocking the extra hours. It beat sitting around wallowing in self-pity, second-guessing his life choices. When he moved here, he’d envisioned living out a bachelor’s life with a nursing-home ending, happy to hang with a bunch of wrinkled incontinent old cops in
rocking chairs gumming their way through ancient case histories—it didn’t seem too bad. Except maybe the bachelor part.

  They got into her car. “Guess he’ll be in the same boat as Carrie Ann then.”

  “I’m not worried about her; she’s got her hands full down at the market. It’s probably a good thing that neither of us are needy people.” She started the engine. “Dogs are born needy.”

  The narrow, tree-lined streets quickly turned into a two-lane highway, heading north. Jon remained silent and took in the freshly plowed and planted fields as the smell of newly turned earth wafted through the window. He could not deny the beauty of rural living and the sense of peace it brought. He didn’t miss Milwaukee’s exhaust fumes and bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nor did he miss the crime rate that had recently exceeded that of Denver, Los Angeles and even New York City. Drugs, rape, gang violence, murder—the stuff that cop burnout was made of. He may not like the fact that he was dealing with a murder within weeks of moving here, but it was nothing compared to the shit his old job had shoveled him on a daily basis.

  As Jon thought about his view of the job, his thoughts turned to Wachowski. “Do you think the chief regrets hiring Wacko?”

  “Oh I’m sure of it.”

  “How are they related?”

  “Something like his wife’s second cousin twice removed kind of thing. I think the fact that Ben was orphaned and was raised by a cop who beat people for unpaid parking tickets made him the family’s pet project.”

  “Probably too little, too late.”

  “Oh yeah.” Terri changed the subject. “So I was thinking about the Lassiter woman.”

  “You mean the blonde with no common sense and a questionable choice for a second income?” The mere mention of Randi seemed to annoy Jon.

  Terri’s brows rose. “So you still doubt her story?”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s too weird to make up. Has to be true. But I think it speaks volumes for the smarts the woman must lack.” He shook his head and smiled. “Though I must confess that pink uniform was a sight to behold.”

  “Perv. You realize that’s not part of her PI wardrobe, right?”

  “Yeah, but there’s part of me that thinks maybe it should be.” His smile widened.

  “It’s comments like that that make me think you and Wacko have been spending too much time together.”

  “But the chick’s got balls, I’ll give her that.” Jon said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, think about it. You saw the murder scene, the condition of the body. Here’s this small woman in the dark who literally stumbles on that mess. And then she waited there, in the thick of it until the cops came. She knew she’d contaminated a scene. She made a point not to move until someone could secure the area and collect evidence. That not only takes a strong stomach, it takes guts.”

  “Guess she deserves a little more credit then, huh?”

  “Hey, I’m giving her credit…just not to her face.” Jon swung into the parking lot of the Department of Justice. The DOJ and Madison Crime Lab were different from the Milwaukee Crime Lab only because they looked nothing alike. The Milwaukee building had been a dated brown brick with bright-blue railing and trim while the Madison Lab exemplified a modern neutral look. But each facility had state-of-the-art equipment and top-notch criminalists.

  Terri and Jon entered the building, walked through a large metal detector and had to show their official identification in order to gain access. Jon smiled when he saw the awestruck look on Terri’s face. It had been a number of years since she’d toured the facility as a cadet and he could tell she was impressed.

  Jon had thought to call ahead and arrange a short tour of a few of the labs for Terri. He could manage this because he knew a guy who knew a guy. They went to the Crime Analyst offices first. There they were granted a meeting with a junior CA named Jennifer, an enthusiastic twenty-something dressed in a sky-blue blouse, and clogs like the ones nurses wear. Between her egalitarian style of dress and the fact that she kept glancing around nervously, Jon had her pegged as an intern.

  Jennifer assisted in handing off their evidentiary items, completing chain of custody and was then giving them the fifty-cent tour. Terri had a silly grin on her face the entire time, like she was guest starring on CSI. It was interesting but short. They thanked the intern and were then shown the route to Pathology.

  Jon was surprised when they turned a corner and ran headlong into a tall woman in a navy pantsuit and high-heeled pumps.

  “Excuse me. So sorr…” Jon stopped mid-sentence. A look of recognition crossed his face as quickly as the blood drained from it. He glanced at Terri as if she could somehow help.

  “Jon!” The woman’s face transformed from one of annoyance to elation. “Oh my God, what on Earth are you doing here?”

  He cleared his throat and glanced uncomfortably at Terri. “Here…um, let me introduce you. This is Detective Terri Watman.” Jon’s face went red as he let the one-sided introduction hang midair. He quickly busied his hands, fumbling with the temporary ID lanyard around his neck.

  Terri stared at him in disbelief. After a moment’s hesitation the woman thrust her hand out to Jon’s partner. “Hi Terri, I’m Rebecca Howell.” Her mouth opened as if to add something, then snapped closed. She glanced over at Jon with a puzzled look.

  Jon shrugged and started forward. “Well, we have to be going. We have to get to Path right away.” He pulled at Terri’s elbow and rushed her down the hall. “Good to see you.” He said over his shoulder as he all but jogged away from the woman.

  Jon didn’t let go of Terri’s arm until they’d made it to the end of the corridor, around the corner and were hovering at the entrance to Pathology. He let out a deep breath, and leaned against the wall.

  Terri leaned against the opposite wall, folded her arms and with a shit-eating grin said in a thick Latin accent, “Lucy, you got some ’splaining to do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The offices of Lassiter Inc. weren’t grand by any means—just a small functional, street-front space that was big enough to accommodate a lobby, a sizable private office, a store room–kitchenette combo and a microscopic bathroom. Unlike her personal life, Randi was fearless when it came to business, and her decision on the location had proven sound. The downtown office got a lot of exposure and was easily accessible—her client list had grown rapidly from the minute she’d opened the door.

  Randi had gotten home from her police interview around dawn, had taken a lengthy shower and slept the rest of the day. Having missed the entire Monday of work, she began the morning by shuffling through a stack of pink message slips that had accumulated during her absence.

  After two hours of steady work, she had eliminated the stack, RSVP’d a conference called Selling Property in a Down Economy, booked four open houses, and scheduled a myriad of appointments for new client meetings, closings, and showings. It felt good to dive into the work, but the promise she’d made to herself and to the dead woman lingered in her thoughts. She was anxious to discover who the woman was and why someone would want her dead. She just wasn’t sure where to start.

  After several hours of sitting, Randi stood to stretch and was rewarded with the satisfying pop of stiff joints. She watched in delighted horror as CJ chose that moment to sashay into the room. It had taken time for CJ’s eccentricities to grow on Randi, and today the middle-aged woman stopped in the doorway to perform some type of bump and grind to an old rock tune that was playing on the office sound system. She wore wide-legged pants in lime green, a lavender knee-length Nehru tunic with a mustard belt and red clogs.

  Randi often wondered if CJ might be colorblind.

  “What can I do for you, CJ?”

  “You’re famous!” CJ spun on one heel and slapped the daily paper down on the desk. There it was, right in front of Randi. Her worst fear. The headline read:<
br />
  Local PI stumbles on body, compromises police investigation.

  She suddenly felt ill. Her head dropped into her hands as she crashed back into her chair. “We’re screwed.”

  “Quite the contrary.” CJ soothed. “This is free PR. It’s worth its weight in gold. You know what they say about publicity, don’t you?”

  Numb, Randi stared down at the paper and imperceptibly shook her head.

  “There’s no such thing as bad press. Just look at Miley Cyrus. Good God, if only you could twerk!”

  A second of panic set in when she wondered if Detective Bricksen had seen the paper. Then she was mad that she even cared what he thought.

  Seeing that her boss was still in shock, CJ gave her a synopsis of the article, that there had been a murder at the motel and a local private eye conducting a separate investigation had found the victim and unintentionally tainted the crime scene.

  Randi gripped the sides of the desk with her hands, pressed her fingers into the wood and growled.

  Sensing the winds had changed, CJ tried again to reassure her. “It’s okay. It didn’t mention any names.”

  “Really?” Randi shot her a look that sent her cowering. “We are the only local PIs.” She dared CJ to argue the point. CJ slinked back to her desk in the lobby.

  Randi had just resolved to let things go and get started on the mystery woman case when she heard the jingle of the tiny bell over the front door and a gasp from CJ. “Well hell, honey, your day’s ruined now,” she hollered. “Shit Stain is here.”

  “What?” Randi walked to the doorway and leaned her head out around the corner. There stood said shit stain, smiling at her in the lobby.

  Stuart Allen Lassiter.

  “Hey, Baby.” She just stood staring at him, too shocked to display any normalcy. Why on Earth would her ex-husband be in her office? Ever. She hadn’t seen the son of a bitch since divorce court.

  He looked over at CJ. “Hey there, Nutso.”