The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  “So, your security system wasn’t engaged at the time?” Magozzi asked.

  “No. I only set it when I go to bed at night.”

  “Was the door locked?”

  “My door is always locked when I’m home.”

  “Are you sure it was tonight? The responding officers haven’t been able to find any evidence of breaking and entering, like a damaged lock, for instance, or an open window.”

  “I’m positive. When I got home tonight, there was media loitering out front, so I let myself in through the back. I never went near the front door, and I armed the security and locked up on my way out this afternoon.”

  “What happened after you heard the bells?”

  “I heard another loud noise ‒ I think it was the door slamming. That was when I activated the alarm.”

  “Anything out of place?”

  “Nothing.”

  Magozzi eyed the Walther sitting on her desk. “You were afraid enough to get your gun.”

  “I was terrified. Somebody was in here, I’m telling you, but I don’t think anybody else believes me. The police keep explaining to me that there is no sign of breaking and entering. To be frank, I get the feeling they think I’m a hysterical woman, crazy with grief, and I shouldn’t be taken seriously. But somebody was in here, Detective Magozzi. Will you and Detective Rolseth take me seriously?”

  “We are taking you seriously. And so are the other officers. They’re just doing their job, trying to understand what happened here.”

  “Does anybody else have a key to your house?” Gino asked.

  “No. Well, Mom does, of course. But it obviously wasn’t her.” She looked at them both with wide brown eyes. “Do you think this has something to do with my father’s murder?”

  Gino gave her a sympathetic look. “We won’t know until the police finish their investigation. They’re doing a neighborhood canvass now to find out if anybody saw anything.”

  Her brows furrowed, dimpling her forehead. “There’s a lot of waiting in police work, isn’t there?”

  Gino nodded. “More than people realize. Are you planning to stay here tonight or go back to the hotel, Ms. Norwood?”

  “I think I’ll go back to the hotel to be with Mom. Uncle Robert said he’d put somebody outside our door tonight.”

  “Good. We’ll keep a police presence around, too, just in case.”

  Magozzi nodded at her computer. “Did you find anything in your brother’s old emails?”

  “Not really. They were mostly just sad and reminded me that his life started to fall apart when he was only sixteen, and none of us could ever figure out why. He was just a normal kid up until that point. Well, he wasn’t exactly normal,” she corrected.

  Magozzi raised a brow at her. “What do you mean?”

  She let out a sigh. “He was extraordinary. Brilliant ‒ much smarter than me, but in a different way. He was creative. And sensitive, in the way artists are, you know? He probably could have been a great one.”

  “So your brother liked art?”

  “He loved it. And he loved books, the outdoors and animals, especially animals.” She frowned down at her lap. “He had such deep empathy for all living creatures. When he was eight, one of the neighbors in Aspen shot an elk. Trey was playing in the woods and ran across him while he was field dressing it. He came home crying. He wouldn’t stop ‒ he was inconsolable. He couldn’t understand why somebody would do something like that, kill such a magnificent animal. That was the real Trey, not the heroin addict.”

  Magozzi felt a pervasive gloom settle over him. Sensitive people sometimes didn’t shoulder this pitiless world easily. “Did anything happen when he was sixteen that might have been a trauma?”

  “At that age, anything can be a trauma. I got into a fight with my best friend when I was sixteen and I thought the world had ended.”

  “So that would be about twelve years ago that your brother started exhibiting a change in behavior. Two thousand and six.”

  She nodded.

  Magozzi did some quick math in his head. “That was when Clara Riskin was murdered.”

  “Yes, and it was a horrible thing, a traumatic thing. We were all affected by it—the whole community was ‒ but none of us really knew Clara, or her parents for that matter. Our family’s reaction was one of shock, empathy and compassion, of course …” She shook her head in frustration. “That probably sounds monstrous.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Murder is very different when it affects you on a personal level.”

  “Exactly. My father was just murdered, but I’m not going to spiral into heroin addiction.”

  “Was Trey having difficulties with substance abuse before that?”

  “No. Well, he got caught drinking a few times, but there were no signs of anything beyond that. Like I said, he was just a normal sixteen-year-old boy who snuck into his parents’ liquor cabinet every once in a while. I’m just as guilty of that.”

  “Did your brother collect art, Ms. Norwood?”

  “I wouldn’t say he was a collector, not in the way my father was. But, as I told you, he loved art and I know he had several pieces he was very proud of. Why?”

  “We have an original Ruscha that we think may have belonged to him or your family.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What? How is that possible?”

  “It’s a long story. Is the name Milo Parr familiar to you?”

  “No.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think. “Trey had one original Ruscha that I know of. It says ‘angel’ in tattoo-style lettering. He called me when he bought it ‒ he was so excited.”

  Even though Magozzi had posited the possibility to Gino, the confirmation still stunned him.

  “Is something wrong, Detective?”

  “That’s the piece we have.”

  “Oh, my God …” She covered her mouth and tears shone in her eyes. “Where did you find it?”

  “Milo Parr had it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “In evidence. We figured it had been stolen.”

  She gazed up at the ceiling, as people did when they were trying not to cry, as if the gesture could defy the gravitational force that would eventually pull the tears from their eyes. “Will we get it back?”

  “We’ll have to have it verified, but if it belonged to Trey, you will. Definitely.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” She looked at them expectantly. “You’re making progress on the case, aren’t you?”

  “We hope so.”

  “Thank you.” She stood up and started pacing tight little circles. “Detectives, am I in danger? Is my mother in danger?”

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t say for certain. The safest thing is to assume you are until we can solve this.”

  She eyed her gun. “Then I’ll be taking this to the hotel. I have a conceal-and-carry permit.”

  “That’s a good idea. Ms. Norwood, did your father have a laptop computer?”

  “Of course. He traveled quite a lot.”

  “We didn’t see one at his home.”

  “It might be at the office.”

  “He would have taken it to Aspen, wouldn’t he?”

  “Definitely. But he might have planned to stop at the office to pick it up on his way to the airport. I can check if you’d like. Minerva would know.”

  “We’d appreciate that.”

  Five minutes later, Rosalie Norwood hung up her phone. “Minerva said he took his laptop home with him when he left the office last night. It should be there.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  MAGOZZI AND GINO found Robert Zeller in Rosalie’s kitchen, pouring himself a mug of coffee. Conrad was really falling down on his hospitality duties.

  “Mr. Zeller, you wanted a word?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think I have to tell you how disturbing this is, and I’m deeply concerned about Betty and Rosalie. They’re very vulnerable right now, and this … this incident, it’s maddenin
g and quite frankly, scary. Has the canvass yielded any witnesses?”

  “The Third Precinct is handling this and they’ll be forthcoming with any new information as soon as they have it.”

  He let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s the paparazzi. I’d stake my life on it. They’re such depraved, disgusting parasites, stalking a grieving daughter hours after her father’s murder.”

  “You think that’s what happened here?”

  “It makes perfect sense. Rosalie simply forgot to lock her door and some vile photographer let himself in, hoping for a shot of her in private mourning.”

  Gino lifted his brows. “That’s pretty bold, even for a depraved, disgusting parasite. It’s also illegal.”

  “Worse deeds have been committed for less. You don’t know these people like I do. They’d sell their own mothers into bondage for a scoop.”

  “It’s an interesting theory,” Gino said, helping himself to a mug of coffee. “Does Conrad take milk or sugar?”

  Zeller looked confused. “I don’t think so.”

  “We’ll keep our hands in this, Mr. Zeller. The timing is suspicious—we’d be fools to think this wasn’t related to Gregory Norwood’s murder, paparazzi or otherwise.”

  “Have you had any luck locating August Riskin?”

  “You know we can’t answer that. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Zeller.” Gino exited the kitchen with his coffee.

  Magozzi shook Zeller’s hand, seconded Gino’s promise to stay in touch, and followed him out to the living room, where Gino was offering the coffee to Conrad. “You look like you could use a refreshment. Mr. Zeller said you liked it black.”

  Conrad narrowed his eyes and took the coffee without a word.

  Gino seemed exceedingly pleased with himself as he stepped outside and lifted his nose, like a dog, to test the sultry night air. “Conrad doesn’t have very good manners, didn’t even say thank you.”

  “Conrad’s seriously pissed off. For future reference, you should probably only annoy unarmed people.”

  “Conrad’s a punk. So Zeller has a pathological hatred of the press, but to tell you the truth, it’s not the craziest scenario.”

  “It is, if her front door was really locked. Come on, let’s go back to the Norwood house and look for Gregory’s missing laptop.”

  “If we overlooked a laptop in that house, then we’re totally losing it and should retire tomorrow.”

  “We didn’t miss it because it wasn’t there. But we still have to check it out.”

  “What are we missing, Leo, besides a laptop?”

  Magozzi looked up at the sprinkling of stars that had replaced the sunset. “Trey Norwood, a normal, sixteen-year-old boy. He starts to nosedive around the time Clara Riskin was murdered. I agree with Rosalie, it was a traumatic event for everybody, but it wasn’t personal. Even if it was, we know better than anybody that people learn to cope with murder every single day. But the timing bugs the hell out of me.”

  Gino’s brows crept up his forehead in increments while he considered. “Maybe it was personal for Trey. Maybe he killed her.”

  Magozzi gaped at him. “A kid who cries over a dead elk taking a human life? God, Gino, that’s pretty far off the reservation, even for you.”

  “I’m not talking premeditated, I’m talking a privileged, handsome kid, who’s sixteen and horny as hell. He gets a little lit one night on Daddy’s booze and puts the move on the caretaker’s daughter. She fights back, the situation gets out of hand, and he accidentally kills her. Daddy covers it up. Trey can’t live with the guilt, and that’s a great explanation for his death spiral.”

  Magozzi scuffed his shoe on the rough sidewalk. Flecks of quartz sparkled in the pool of light from the streetlamp. “The DNA doesn’t match. The Pitkin County sheriff said the evidence against Kip Kuehn was irrefutable and evidence doesn’t lie.”

  “Yeah, but people do. We need to take a look at the murder book. And talk to Kuehn. Something started back then and I have a feeling it isn’t finished.”

  Magozzi watched two of the squads pull away from the curb. They were finishing up at Rosalie Norwood’s house. “I’ll call Pitkin County back and have them send it.”

  “Detectives!” They heard Amanda White’s voice calling from behind. “May I have a word?”

  “Oh, God.” Magozzi groaned. “We almost made a clean getaway.”

  She strode up to them, looking ready for prime time in an obnoxious fuchsia skirt suit. Her blond hair was perfectly arranged, but so stiff with gel, mousse or hairspray that not a single strand ruffled in the hot night breeze.

  “Good evening, Detectives. You two have certainly been busy today. First Norwood, then Stenson, then a trip up to Chisago County. Interesting that an investigation into the death of the esteemed Gregory Norwood the Second brought you to a Rush City meth lab. Perhaps something to do with Trey Norwood?”

  “Leo and I are moonlighting in Narcotics in our spare time,” Gino snarked.

  She forced a tolerant smile and gestured broadly to Rosalie’s house. “And now this. I can’t help but think the break-in is related to her father’s murder. You’re obviously thinking the same thing, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Amanda White was enjoying herself too much, and Magozzi was getting pissed off. “People break into other people’s houses every day. We felt compelled to visit this scene for obvious reasons. As it turns out, it doesn’t look like there was a B and E, but it’s not our case, so you’ll have to talk to the officers on scene if you want answers.”

  “Care to comment on why Milo Parr is part of your investigation?”

  Gino was getting impatient and snappish. “He’s not. He was just a lead that didn’t go anywhere, kind of like what you’re experiencing now. As it turns out, the guy just happened to have a meth lab in his trailer, so it was a freebie for us.”

  She made a sulky moue. “Can you give me anything?”

  “Come on,” Gino said irritably. “There hasn’t even been a press conference yet. If you promise to leave us alone, we’ll give you first dibs on anything we can share with the media. As much as it pains me to say it, we owe you one.”

  She tapped a dark green fingernail on her lips, then sighed in resignation, which was undoubtedly for show. “All right, Detectives. Thank you. Have a good night.”

  She clicked away on her skinny heels, and Gino’s eyes followed her suspiciously. “That woman’s got something up her sleeve, I can tell. No way she strolls off without busting our balls more than that. And why the hell is she wearing dark green nail polish? It makes her look like a zombie.”

  “That’s a mystery we’ll never solve. Don’t waste any brain cells on it.”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t have any brain cells left.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  MAGOZZI ENDED HIS second call of the night with Pitkin County just as Gino pulled up to the curb in front of the Norwood house. The ubiquitous garlands of yellow crime-scene tape that surrounded the property fluttered in the night breeze, the only sign of movement in this otherwise silent, sleeping neighborhood.

  “What did the sheriff have to say?”

  “He cheerfully reminded me that it’s past midnight and he’d been asleep for two hours.”

  “Whiner.”

  “He seemed a little annoyed that we wanted to look at Clara Riskin’s murder book, but he agreed to copy us. We won’t be scoring an interview with Kuehn, though. He was serving time in Florence Super Max in Colorado and got dusted by his cellmate over some contraband.”

  * * *

  Norwood’s body was gone, but the pervasive stench of death wasn’t. Its malignant presence had even penetrated the upstairs rooms in the big house. There were companies that specialized in sanitizing the aftermath of crime scenes—“trauma cleaning” was the polite term for it—but Magozzi had always wondered if it was possible to scour a place entirely of death’s effrontery.

  He finished searching the fifth and last bedroom and caught up with Gino
in the hallway. “We’ve been over every inch of this place twice. There’s no laptop.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  “I want to take one more look in his office and see if we can find some physical files. Norwood was old, and old people are old-fashioned. He might have hard copies of everything that was on his laptop. He probably didn’t trust the cloud any more than you do.”

  Gino’s nose crinkled at the prospect of spending more time in the most polluted room in the house, but he walked downstairs without comment or complaint, which disturbed Magozzi, because Gino was usually never without either.

  The big oak filing cabinet seemed like an obvious place to start, so they began systematically shuffling through drawers and folders, all meticulously labeled and alphabetized. After a few minutes, Gino pulled out a thick manila folder labeled “Aspen” and started flipping through the pages.

  “Norwood wasn’t just a neat freak, he was a saver,” Gino said, in a nasal voice, breathing out of his mouth. “There’s stuff in here dating back to the late nineties.”

  “What did I tell you? Old people are old-fashioned.”

  “Let’s take it and get the hell out of this abattoir. I need some fresh air.”

  “We’ve got two more drawers to go.”

  “Unless you see a file labeled ‘Enemies,’ I think this is a good start.”

  “Go get some air. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “I’m not going to argue with that.”

  Gino was standing by the car when Magozzi finally emerged from the house. He was looking up at the sky and gulping air, like a landed fish.

  “You okay?”

  “I shouldn’t have eaten that hotdog.” He nodded toward the folder Magozzi was carrying. “What else did you find?”

  “It’s labeled ‘Trey.’ You want me to drive? You still look kind of green.”

  Gino tossed him the keys and hopped into the passenger seat. He spent most of the drive back to City Hall with his face stuck out of the open window, trying to clear his nasal passages.

  Magozzi kept stealing glances at him. No matter how long you’d been on the job, you never got used to crime scenes, but you did get inured to them, simply in the interest of self-preservation. But there were times when a certain scene or sight or smell hit even the most seasoned detective like a rookie, and it was usually when you were so exhausted you could no longer shoulder the ponderous mental fortress that separated your work from your life. “We’re both zombies. We need to grab a few hours’ sleep.”