The Girl in the Woods

by Chris Culver

  Despite working all day, I hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. Homicide investigations were like that sometimes, but it still disappointed me.

  I sat in the car and rested my eyes for a moment before calling my station. Trisha had gone home for the evening, leaving me to talk to Jason Zuckerburg, our night dispatcher. He was a thirty-five-year veteran of the department. Now, he was coasting until the county forced him to retire. I liked having him around. People liked him, and he knew everybody in town. He was a nice guy. During the holidays, he dressed up as Santa and handed out presents to kids whose parents couldn’t afford them otherwise. The world needed more people like that.

  “Hey, Jason, it’s Joe Court. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain,” he said. “I heard you found a naked lady out in the woods.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Listen, I’m working a homicide, and I need you to work on a cell phone for me. It belonged to my victim. See whether you can get a list of incoming and outgoing calls. It’d be helpful if you could ping the GPS chip on it and track it down, too.”

  He paused for a moment. “Do I need a warrant?”

  “The owner’s dead, so you shouldn’t,” I said. “See what we can get without one. If her carrier won’t cooperate without a warrant, we’ll get one as soon as we can.”

  “Okay,” he said, sighing. “What’s the number?”

  I gave him the information he needed and then thanked him before hanging up. When I hit the interstate, the city lights behind me almost looked like distant stars on the backdrop of the horizon. It was peaceful. As I drove closer to home, the night grew darker and traffic grew thinner until there were large stretches where I was the only car on the road. Jason called about ten miles from St. Augustine’s exit.

  “Hey, Joe, sorry it took so long,” he said. “Right after you called, it got busy around here. Someone shot a woman in front of her kid. The daughter is here, but she’s upset. We’re trying to find her dad, but he’s MIA.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “I’ve got too much on my plate already to pick up another murder.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jason. “Delgado and Harry are working this one. Harry’s at the woman’s house now. Delgado is trying to talk to the little girl. She’s crying, but she won’t talk about anything but fish.”

  “Someone shot her mom right in front of her,” I said. I paused. “That’s rough.”

  “It is,” he said. “You run across the name Aldon McKenzie yet?”

  The name sounded familiar, but it took a moment for me to remember why.

  “Yeah. His name was on a notepad in my victim’s car. Why?”

  “He’s the missing girl’s father. He and your victim spoke on the phone eleven times in the past two weeks.”

  I gave myself a moment to process that. “Do we know where Laura’s phone is?”

  “No, but her last call went through a tower in south St. Louis County. Mr. McKenzie called her this evening, but he didn’t leave a message.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Thanks for your work, Jason. Looks like my long day will turn into a long night.”

  14

  I reached St. Augustine at a little before nine. Jason was at the station’s front desk, talking to somebody on the phone while typing. By the sounds of things, he was trying to route officers to Tommy B’s, a dive bar on Main Street.

  I did most of my drinking alone, but even if I wanted to get hammered in public, Tommy B’s wasn’t the place to do it. We broke up fights there three or four times a month and had arrested two of their bartenders for selling marijuana. Since Councilman Rogers owned the bar, though, it kept its business and liquor licenses despite the problems it caused. That was life in St. Augustine. Everything came with a price tag, sin and vice most of all.

  Jason motioned me toward the desk, where he handed me a stack of papers listing Laura Rojas’s most recent phone calls and told me Delgado was in the conference room. I thanked him and walked back. Delgado sat beside a little girl in the conference room. Brooke Ricci, a social worker from St. Augustine’s Department of Children’s Services, sat on the girl’s other side. Brooke whispered encouragement into the girl’s ear, but the little girl didn’t seem to react.

  I stood near the door until Delgado looked my way. He excused himself to talk with me in private outside the room.

  “I’m in the middle of an interview, Detective. What do you want?”

  Delgado and I had a history, so I had expected the hostility. It didn’t bother me much.

  “I’m working a homicide involving a woman named Laura Rojas,” I said.

  He crossed his arms. “Good for you. I’m working a homicide involving a woman named Jennifer McKenzie, so I’m sure you appreciate how busy I am at the moment.”

  I showed him the call logs Jason had printed. “Your victim’s missing husband called my victim on at least eleven occasions in the past two weeks. In addition, I found Mr. McKenzie’s name on a notepad inside my victim’s house.”

  Delgado looked at my printout, his mind processing that.

  “You think they were bumping uglies?” he asked.

  I wrinkled my nose at the crude comment but considered for a moment.

  “Laura was pregnant at the time of her death, so it’s a possibility.”

  He looked at the printout and then pointed to a highlighted entry near the bottom of the first page.

  “If they weren’t having an affair, why would Aldon McKenzie call your victim at two in the morning?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “What’s the little girl saying?”

  “Something about clownfish and mutualisms,” said Delgado, shaking his head. “She seems like a retard.”

  “I think she has autism,” said Brooke, the social worker, walking toward us from the conference room. I looked past Delgado to see the little girl drawing at the table. “She’s not retarded. In fact, she’s very bright.”

  “Whatever,” said Delgado. “Can she tell us who killed her mom or not?”

  Brooke hesitated. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun behind her head, and she wore a white cardigan over an orange blouse. The skin around her neck was loose and wrinkled, but her mind was sharp. I had only met her a few times, but from all I had seen, she was a fierce advocate for the children in her charge. That made her okay in my book.

  “She knows what happened,” said Brooke, shaking her head, “but based on what I’ve seen so far, I’m not sure she can tell us anything.”

  “Terrific,” said Delgado, shaking his head. “I’m wasting my time here when I should be out there hunting down the husband. Dollars to donuts, he killed Joe’s victim when he found out she was pregnant, and then he killed his wife.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  Delgado snorted. “Because he’s a psychopath. They don’t think like normal people. He knocked up his girlfriend but didn’t want to have another kid, so he killed her. Maybe he killed his wife when she found out about the affair.”

  “It’s weak,” I said.

  “Better than your theory,” said Delgado.

  “I don’t have a theory yet,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “We’ll pull DNA from McKenzie’s toothbrush at his house, and then we’ll compare that to your victim’s baby. I guarantee you there’ll be a match. These two were getting it on. Trust me on that. You don’t call a woman eleven times in two weeks unless you’re putting the pole to her.”

  He wanted to get a rise out of me, so I forced myself not to react. It was better to disengage and leave him be.

  “If that’s where the evidence takes you, it’s your case,” I said, nodding. “Good luck finding him. I’ll make sure you have access to my interview notes and evidence. If you have questions, you have my phone number.”

  I turned to walk away when he cleared his throat. I looked at him.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “You should thank me,” he said. “I solved your case, too. Ald
on’s your killer, and I bet he’s halfway to Mexico by now.”

  “That’s a theory,” I said, nodding. “Good luck finding evidence to support it.”

  I turned away, but before I could walk, Delgado once again cleared his throat.

  “Are you quitting already?”

  I wanted to give him the finger. Instead, I ignored him as he snickered. The guy was a jerk. I shouldn’t let him upset me, but he knew where my buttons were, and he knew how to push them for maximal effect. I walked to my desk, where I pulled out my cell phone to call Harry. He answered after three or four rings.

  “Harry, it’s Joe,” I said. “I’m at the office. I heard about Jennifer McKenzie. You at her house now?”

  “I am,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “You have any clue where Aldon McKenzie is?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Why?”

  I filled him in on the phone calls and Delgado’s theory that Laura and Aldon were having an affair. I didn’t agree with Delgado’s theory yet, but it fit the little evidence we had. Harry promised to bag any toothbrushes he might find.

  Before he hung up, I cleared my throat.

  “How are things with Paige Maxwell and Jude Lewis?”

  He groaned. “Our missing teenagers are still missing. Highway Patrol has Paige’s car in a garage. They found DNA on the backseat but no blood. The entire front of the car was wiped clean. No prints on the steering wheel, gear shifter, or radio.”

  “The lack of blood’s a good sign,” I said. “Maybe they ditched the car to escape their parents. I didn’t think Paige’s family approved of the relationship.”

  Harry drew in a breath. “Even without blood, somebody hid this car deep in the woods and wiped down the front seat. We weren’t meant to find it. You don’t hide a car that well for shits and giggles. We may never find their bodies, but these kids are dead. We might as well call it.”

  “Thanks for the uplifting pep talk, boss,” I said. “You are a veritable bouquet of rainbows and sunshine.”

  “If you wanted rainbows and sunshine, you got into the wrong profession.”

  He was correct there, so I nodded.

  “Unless you need me for anything, I’m going home. I feel like I’ve been up for days. I need sleep.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” he said.

  “I will,” I said. I thanked him, hung up, and left the building. When I got back to my truck, I found a clear, unbroken window in front with a bill for two hundred bucks tucked under one of the wiper blades. Considering the garage had driven to my station and replaced the windshield while I was at work, it wasn’t a bad price. I tossed it on the seat beside me after climbing inside the cab and heading home.

  My house was dark and almost foreboding when I arrived. The dog wasn’t around, so I drove to my neighbor’s house, where I found him on the front porch. Susanne was inside, but she came out when she saw my truck. She wore a pink bathrobe, and she carried a cup of hot tea.

  “You look tired, sweetheart,” she said, touching my elbow. “I can make you a cup of tea if you’d like.”

  “I’d love that, but I need to get home,” I said. “I’ve had a long day. Tomorrow will be just as long.”

  “I don’t envy your long hours. When you need me to feed Roger, just let me know.”

  I thanked her and gave her a hug before Roger and I climbed into my truck. At home, the dog jumped from the back of my truck and came trotting toward me as I walked toward the house. His pink tongue hung from his mouth, and he panted. I had always believed a tired dog was a happy dog. By that measure, Roger was ecstatic.

  “It’s good to see you, boy,” I said, scratching his ear. His tail wagged hard as he leaned into my hand. “Feel good?”

  He panted harder. I guessed that was a yes. Together, the two of us walked to the front porch, where I put down my purse and picked up a tennis ball from a terra-cotta planter beside the front door. His eyes locked on that yellow ball, and his body stiffened with anticipation. Roger had never been much of a retriever, but he loved tearing apart tennis balls with his powerful jaws.

  I made sure the road was clear before throwing the ball as hard as I could. It ricocheted against a tree and landed in the front yard near my truck. Roger watched it sail away and then sauntered toward it. A year ago, nothing would have prevented him from sprinting after his ball like a man with his hair on fire. Now he didn’t even run. At least he had still gone after it instead of lying down. That was something.

  As Roger fetched the ball, I opened the front door and stepped inside. It was a little after ten. I needed to go to bed and sleep, but I needed a drink even more. I needed to relax. I put on some music—a Leonard Cohen album—and poured about half an inch of vodka into a rocks glass. Then, I reconsidered and poured another half an inch for good measure.

  Roger came through the front door a moment later, clutching the tennis ball in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet and then walked to his bed. I put his ball with the others on the front porch before locking up for the night and sitting on the couch. As I drank and felt the vodka work its magic over me, the day melted away. Muscles all over my body relaxed, and my breath came easier.

  I finished my drink and then drank another before going to bed. My head was light and boozy as I drifted off to a drunken, dreamless sleep.

  15

  It was pitch black when my phone rang. My mouth felt as if I had stuffed it full of cotton, and my head ached. Roger snored at my feet, his sleep still uninterrupted. I blinked and forced the world back into focus. My room was hot, and sweat stained my sheets. The air conditioner thrummed, but it did little to combat the day’s heat.

  The phone rang again, so I swung my legs off the bed and sighed before grabbing it from my end table. Before answering, I massaged my temples and looked at the caller ID.

  STLCPD

  St. Louis County Police Department. I cleared my throat and ran my finger across the screen to answer.

  “Yeah?” I said, my voice scratchy.

  “Detective Court, sorry to wake you up,” said a familiar voice. “It’s Mathias Blatch. I met you at Laura Rojas’s house in Mehlville.”

  “That’s all right, Detective,” I said, standing. It was hot, so I had worn little to bed. Roger picked up his massive head and looked at me for a second before putting it back down again. He was snoring before I could even get clothes out of my dresser. “What’s going on?”

  “We caught a break with the drugs at Laura Rojas’s house. I wanted to fill you in.”

  “Oh?” I asked, pinning my phone between my ear and shoulder as I pulled on a pair of shorts. “What’d you find?”

  “Fingerprints on the baggie found in her flour container. They belong to a guy named Duke Trevino. That name familiar at all?”

  I shook my head as I walked to the kitchen, where I had left my purse and notepad.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s a midlevel weed dealer. Buys his stock from growers down south and sells it in bulk to other dealers around St. Louis County.”

  I yawned and grabbed my notepad, not as impressed by the find as Detective Blatch seemed.

  “Okay. Great. You found who sold drugs to her. That’s great information.”

  “We found more than that,” said Blatch. “His prints were in the system, so we picked him up and searched his condo. We found a Taurus G2 beneath his mattress. Your coroner pull a round from your victim yet?”

  “Yeah,” I said, sitting straighter. “A nine-millimeter. Remind me what caliber round the Taurus G2 shoots.”

  “This one’s chambered for a nine-millimeter.”

  My heart beat a little faster. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “That’s intriguing,” I said, nodding and writing a few notes. “I’ll have my forensics lab forward the round to your office. Dr. Sheridan pulled it out of her spinal column, so I’m not sure how usable it will be. Your ballistics lab might pull something from it, though.”

  “I’
d appreciate that,” he said. “And I’ll keep you updated if there are further developments on my end.”

  “Me, too,” I said, nodding and closing my notepad. “Thanks for your call.”

  “Hey, before you hang up, let me ask you something,” he said. He sounded almost sheepish when he spoke. “When I saw you this afternoon, I noticed you didn’t wear a wedding ring.”

  “You’re very observant,” I said.

  “That’s why they made me detective,” he said. “Since you’re not married, and since I made a huge break in your case, how about we get a drink to celebrate?”

  By his tone of voice, I could tell he was smiling. I smiled as well and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

  “I’m sorry, Detective, but I don’t date.”

  He paused. “You don’t date…other cops?”

  “Period,” I said. “It’s a long story. You seem like a nice guy, but I’m not interested in men.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, sudden understanding flooding his voice. “Message received, Detective.”

  “It’s not like that,” I said. “I’m not gay. I don’t date men or women. It’s nothing personal. You seem like a nice man, so I’m sure any number of women would be thrilled to go out with you. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  I cringed even before I finished speaking. Blatch said nothing for almost twenty seconds.

  “I don’t ask many women out, so I don’t have a lot of experience at this,” he said, speaking slowly. “But it sounds like you just broke up with me.”

  “Sorry. I suck at this,” I said. “I don’t talk to men often, so I don’t have a lot of practice with this. How about we compromise? I don’t want to go out with you, but if you can convict Duke Trevino of Laura Rojas’s murder, I’ll buy you a drink. If not, then no drink. Does that sound fair?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess that’s a fair compromise,” he said, his voice uncertain. He paused. I hoped he’d just hang up, but after a five count, he spoke again. “It’ll be weird if I see you in the field again, won’t it?”