Homicide for the Holidays

by Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime

  “The face! I mean the face!” Jake said. He sounded exasperated and I couldn’t understand why.

  I had concentrated on the strangulation marks, assuming that’s what Jake and Doc wanted me to pay attention to. At the police academy I had excelled in forensics, which is why I thought for a moment there must be something unique about this particular case.

  And then I saw it. I should have seen it all along, but I was distracted by the weird costume and the facial contortions caused by the choking. The shape of the face, the nose slightly upturned, the unnaturally long earlobes.

  “She looks, she looks just like my mother.” My voice, normally more of an alto, squeaked as it jumped an octave. Or she looked as I imagined my mother would have looked like had she lived past forty-two.

  “Mother hell! She’s a dead ringer for you,” Jake said. Doc nodded as I looked from Jake to her.

  I looked at the body more closely. Yes, I could see a resemblance, but with my mother, not me.

  “She’s at least twenty, thirty years older than me. And that hair.” I shook the ponytail that held back my shoulder-length light brown hair. I looked nothing like this aging, out-of-shape woman on the table before me.

  And yet, as I examined her face, touched her cold hand, this woman had a familiarity I couldn’t explain.

  “What’s this? What happened here?” I asked as I examined her hand. Her fingertips had been burned off, leaving bloodied scars.

  “Exactly what it looks like. Someone destroyed her prints,” Jake said.

  “You thought this person was me?” My tone was sarcastic and as we stood looking at the one hundred and twenty-first homicide victim of the year, I realized this wasn’t a moment for sarcasm.

  “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight when I saw the body and yes, she reminded me of you,” he said.

  I studied Jake and Doc, wondering how well they knew me. We had been working together for two years, ever since I made the homicide squad and was partnered with Jake Porter, a fifty-something veteran of the unit. Dr. Tracy Bottinger had been the coroner for as long as I could remember and over time we had become good friends.

  “Look at how out of shape she is.” I threw my shoulders back to show off my lean, muscular figure.

  “It’s not just the face, Anne,” Doc said as she pulled down the pants to reveal a scar on the left thigh. It was an old wound and appeared to be sinking into the flesh.

  I looked closely at the scar and then at the woman’s face before taking two wobbly steps back from the table. Jake took my arm, steadying me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

  The scar was the size of an elongated silver dollar with jagged edges. Just like mine. I’d been a beat cop three years ago when I was called to back up detectives who were investigating a drug house on College near 38th when one of the suspects began shooting. I was hit and the bullet tore through the fleshy part of my thigh, leaving me with an ugly scar. Jake was one of the detectives and had been the first to visit me at the hospital.

  “You can’t blame him for thinking it was you,” Doc said.

  “Sorry, Jake.” The words stuck in my throat as I struggled to process what lay on the table before me. “Any idea who this person might be?” It was a lame question, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “No ID. And, as you can see, no prints,” Doc said.

  No prints, no ID. This was turning out to be one hell of a Christmas morning.

  That was how I ended up working a homicide on what was supposed to be my first Christmas off in ten years. We knew nothing about the woman except that she was killed about an hour before the body was discovered at the police entrance of the City-County Building. Doc would have more detailed information when she did the autopsy first thing in the morning.

  A few hours later, when I was supposed to be on my way to my sister’s in Columbus, Ohio, I was in our office in downtown Indianapolis. Another Christmas dinner with Marie Callender. I sighed.

  Jake, who was reviewing the video from the entrance to the building, heard me and looked up. “Would you rather DiNucci or Garrett take the lead?”

  I shook my head. “Those assholes? Not on your life.”

  “Here, take a look at this. I don’t see anything,” Jake said, turning his computer screen to face me.

  I watched the thirty seconds of video showing two dark-clad, hooded figures carry an oversized bundle to the door, huddle for a few seconds, and then scurry away. The flickering images revealed little except that they were of average height and build.

  “Security cameras get a vehicle? They couldn’t have carried her very far.”

  Jake shook his head. “I pulled video from the street cams for three blocks in all directions and nothing. Either these guys carried her a good distance or they knew how to avoid the cameras.”

  “Maybe Doc will find something.”

  “I hope so.”

  While we were waiting for Doc and the autopsy results, Jake checked traffic cameras throughout the downtown area and I reviewed missing persons reports. Maybe some family member somewhere was wondering why our victim hadn’t shown up for Christmas. Again, nothing.

  As I considered what to do next, Doc appeared in the doorway.

  “You got something for us? Anything that tells us who she is?” Jake asked.

  “Nothing definitive. Cause of death, strangulation, probably manual,” Doc said. “She was about your height, Anne, a few pounds heavier. She had at least one child. And she could be anywhere from mid-50s to mid-60s. Hard to tell.”

  “No good news? Nothing to go on?” Jake asked.

  “I’m getting to it. I did find some skin fragments under the nails of her right hand. She could have scratched her killer,” Doc said. “I’m going to have DNA run on that and on her. Maybe that will help us figure out who she is. And Anne, would you mind if I get a swab from you, too? Just to be sure she isn’t some distant relative?”

  She wanted my DNA? I was going to resist, but relented because I knew very little about my mother or her side of the family. That aged doppelganger might turn out to be a distant relative.

  Doc took a cheek swab and sent the samples to the state police lab. They wouldn’t begin working on the samples until tomorrow or the next day because of the holiday so we would have at least a two or three-day wait for results.

  That evening at home as I picked over my microwave turkey and dressing, I plugged the photo of the dead woman into a Google search program. Hundreds of images popped onto the screen, most of women sleeping or lying in repose. I slowly advanced through the photos, finding nothing that resembled the woman until a picture of me appeared. As I compared my image to the visage of the dead woman I saw how much she really did look like me, from the angular jaw to the wide-set eyes, except hers were closed. Another dead end or at least that is what I kept telling myself as more photos of me from Facebook and other sites flashed across my screen.

  Next, I ran the picture of the insignia through the program and quickly hundreds of images appeared. Some took me to the Space Needle in Seattle or the CN Tower in Toronto. A few images of the Indianapolis skyline showed up minus the odd structure from the insignia. Dozens of logos for businesses, sports teams and other organizations appeared in the mix, though none exactly matched the photo.

  I thought I reached another dead end when an image that mirrored the needle with a flying saucer appeared. I clicked on it and as the image—a drawing, really—materialized, I spotted tiny lettering in the bottom right corner. I clicked to enlarge it and although the letters were grainy, the words were clear—Reichl Inc. The name sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t quite place it so I started another search, this time landing on a news story about an entrepreneur launching a tech startup in a dying west side neighborhood. He had purchased an old factory and thirty acres of property a couple of years ago, erected a fence and had security guards posted there, but didn’t say much about his plans. There was another story, from about six months ago, about the b
odies of a man and woman discovered outside the fence. That’s where I remembered the Reichl name from—Garrett and DiNucci landed that case.

  I saved the article as well as a link to ReichlInc.net, the website of entrepreneur Jeffrey Reichl. Maybe the woman worked for him and the insignia was part of some kind of uniform. But the site itself contained nothing but the spaceship drawing on the home page, and when I tried to click past it I reached a login page. I played around for a few minutes trying to get past the firewall, but stopped when a security alert popped up.

  I dumped my half-eaten dinner in the trash and poured myself a glass of a cheap cabernet and settled in to at least get a little Christmas spirit as I watch my favorite holiday film, Christmas in Connecticut.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said as I raised my glass to the TV when the movie credits rolled.

  Two days later Jake and I had followed every lead and ended up with nothing more than what we had Christmas morning—a body that resembled an older version of me.

  “I know it’s a long shot, but do you think we should pull the file on the couple they found on Reichl’s property a few months back?” I asked Jake.

  “You have a death wish? Garrett goes ape-shit if anyone touches one of his cases.”

  “I know but we’ve done everything else we can do until the DNA comes in, and even then we can’t be sure it will tell us anything.”

  “I guess we don’t have anything to lose.”

  Garrett and DiNucci were notorious for keeping most of the information from their investigations in paper files, so I searched the cabinets for the case. When I couldn’t find it, I scoured Garrett’s desk as Jake kept a lookout. The office was mostly empty, but neither of us wanted to risk getting caught rifling another detective’s desk.

  “Here it is,” I said as I pulled the file from a stack of folders and papers.

  We spread the file out on my desktop. It didn’t look like our colleagues had done much to advance the investigation of the two victims, one male and the other female, both relatively young. No identification on either body. I flipped through pages to get to what I really wanted to see—autopsy photos.

  They were at the back of the file—a white man with dark hair and full, jowly cheeks and a light-skinned black woman with close-cropped hair. Jake’s eyes widened as he looked at the victims, each wearing a uniform with an insignia like our victim’s. These two had been shot, a single bullet in the middle of the forehead.

  “What the hell is going on?” I said.

  As we both puzzled over the file, Doc walked into the office.

  “You know anything about this?” Jake asked, showing her the photos of the murdered couple. “And this uniform.”

  Doc studied the photos and then checked the date on the police report. “This happened when I was out of town and Dillon did the autopsies. I never saw these.”

  Until Christmas morning, none of us had seen an insignia like this. Now we had three and damn, it also meant we’d have to work with Garrett and DiNucci.

  “You have anything for us on our victim?” I asked.

  “Well, we got an ID on the skin under the fingernail,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And the DNA belongs to a man named Jeffrey Reichl.”

  “You mean Reichl as in Reichl Inc?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know about the Inc part, but we traced his DNA through some old military records,” Doc replied.

  Jake and I both looked surprised and confused as Doc continued, “He served in the first Gulf War and is in his mid-40s today. He left the military not long after the war ended and last address we have is in Carmel.”

  “And what about the woman?” I asked.

  Doc shook her head. “There was some kind of mix up in the lab and I had them redo the tests. I put a rush on it so we should have them back tomorrow.”

  Even if we didn’t know the victim at least we had a suspect.

  We checked both the Reichl business and his residence in Carmel and were told that he was out of the country and wouldn’t return until next week. I didn’t believe it. Jeffrey Reichl had to be in town and I hoped I could catch him off guard.

  Jake and I took turns watching his home but didn’t see anything until an afternoon four days after Christmas. I had parked outside his house when a limousine turned into the driveway, stopped in front of the house, and dropped off a man who went inside.

  After the limo pulled away I rang the doorbell and after a moment it opened. Before me stood a man, slightly taller than me with a shock of white hair and deep blue eyes.

  “Detective McGraw, I’ve been expecting you. Come in,” he said.

  “I’m here to see Jeffrey Reichl,” I said, trying to sound confident even though I was unnerved by how this man seemed to know me.

  “I’m Jeffrey Reichl,” he replied.

  “Then maybe it’s your son I’m looking for,” I said as I studied his face, covered with brown age spots and carved by deep lines around his eyes and mouth.

  “I don’t have a son. I’m the Jeffrey Reichl you’re looking for,” he said as he swung the door open wide and ushered me in.

  This was the man I was looking for? Damn, he must have done a lot of hard living since the Gulf War because he looked at least twenty, maybe thirty years older than what I expected.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or smirking as he escorted me into a sitting room that would have held my entire apartment. A Christmas tree decorated in nothing but silver and twinkling white lights stood at least ten feet tall in the window while the opposite wall held three large-screen television sets. A faint scent of pine lingered in the room.

  “I develop video games. That’s my creative space,” he said as my eyes were drawn to the wall of screens. “In fact, I like all kinds of games. Playing them. Developing them. Using them.”

  He directed me to sit in one of two Queen Anne chairs by the tree as he picked up a decanter of red wine and two glasses. He poured before I had a chance to tell him no, I was on duty.

  “You must try this cabernet. It’s from my vineyard in China.”

  Vineyard in China? I muttered no thanks even as he handed me the glass. I set it on the table between us.

  “Try it. It’s much smoother than the cheap wine you drink.” His voice was low and rich, almost melodic.

  I wanted to ask him how he knew what I drank, but I held my tongue.

  “Mr. Reichl,” I began.

  “Jeffrey.”

  “Mr. Reichl, I need to know where you were at 2:48 a.m. Christmas morning.”

  “Eastern time?”

  “Yes, sir. Eastern time.”

  “Let’s see. Five-hour time difference between here and Lausanne and yes, I was having Christmas brunch with some friends in my hotel suite overlooking Lake Leman.” He used the French name for Lake Geneva.

  “I’ll need some proof.”

  “Of course. Why don’t you contact my friends directly. They’re still in Switzerland. It’s the Lausanne Palace.” He checked his watch. “They’re still up.”

  We had already confirmed with Homeland Security that his passport showed him leaving the United States on December 20 with no return. The question was how did he get back here Christmas morning to murder our victim.

  “May I ask what this is about?” He studied me, his eyes moving from my face to my feet and before I could reply, he added, almost wistfully, “I forgot how lovely you were…are, even with your hair pulled back like that and those unflattering clothes.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your game is, but this is about her. I want to know if you know this woman.” I shoved the picture of our victim at him.

  Reichl coolly studied the photo. “Hmmm. She doesn’t look…” he paused, as if searching for the right word. “Alive. She doesn’t look alive.”

  “She’s not. She was murdered Christmas morning.”

  “Nasty wound.” Reichl lightly touched his own neck.

  “Mr. Reichl, we found your
DNA under her fingernails,” I said bluntly.

  “How careless of me.” He could have been talking about spilling a drop of his precious wine. He flexed his hands before lifting his glass. “You really should try this. I know how much you’ll like it.”

  This was surreal. Did this man practically confess to murder? From the moment I entered this place Jeffrey Reichl acted like he knew me. I reflexively reached for my glass and took one large swallow.

  “Slowly. You need to savor it,” he said.

  It dawned on me this was a game to him, but I wasn’t sure what kind. I laid photos of the other two victims on the table in front of him.

  “What about these two? You recognize them?”

  “Hmmm. Same uniform. Interesting logo.”

  “Their bodies were dumped on your property on the west side about six months ago.”

  “I really must do something about security.” He sounded bored.

  “Mr. Reichl, maybe we should have this conversation downtown,” I said, my hand on my weapon as I rose.

  “That, my dear, will be a waste of your time and mine. My alibi is foolproof, absolutely foolproof.”

  Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. A text. I read it, and then read it again as I dropped into the chair.

  “Is everything OK?” Reichl asked.

  “Some puzzling information.” I’m sure I looked as confused as I felt.

  A knowing grin spread across Reichl’s face. “It’s the DNA, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not about you,” I said.

  “No, not me,” he said, no longer sounding bored. “It’s that unfortunate woman, isn’t it? And you.”

  “What?”

  “The DNA.” He paused. “The DNA has identified that poor, dead woman as Anne McGraw. You. I’m right, aren’t I.”

  How did he know? Doc had texted me that the DNA tests were a mess because the results said the dead woman and I were the same person. Impossible.

  “What are you up to, Mr. Reichl?” I demanded. I had planned to catch him off-guard with this visit and yet I was the one reeling. Nothing made sense. Reichl coolly swirled the wine in his glass.