by Mary Burton
A handful of tourists had gathered. This was the height of the tourist season in Old Town. Ghost and historic tours ran nightly, and it was common to see large groups of people shuffling past as a guide pointed out the buildings where troubled spirits lingered past their exit dates. He’d taken a date on a city tour about six months ago. Monica. She’d been with the tourism bureau and had suggested the excursion. He’d been out of his divorce less than a year, but backbreaking hours had left him little time to date so he’d still been rusty. The tour had been more interesting, but Monica had been more concerned about incoming text messages than him. By the end of the date she’d called him rigid. Rigid. Because he’d expected common courtesy. Shit.
“Danny-boy, is that the suit you wore yesterday?”
The rusty voice belonged to his partner, Detective Jennifer Sinclair, a tall brunette who tended to wear jeans with a black turtleneck and a worn leather jacket. Today, as most days, she’d swept her thick hair into a bun at the base of her neck. Only on the rare occasions when she wore her hair down did its lush ends brush the middle of her back. She liked to work out at the gym, had an athlete’s physique, but swore she didn’t enjoy sports. Raised by a single cop father, she moved among the detectives and uniforms easily, never falling prey to jabs and jokes and always able to toss back what she received.
Rokov rested his hands on his hips. “I can’t wear a suit two days in a row?”
“You only wear your best suits to court. Court was yesterday. Not today.”
Early this morning, he’d walked Charlotte Wellington to her car parked outside their motel room, left her with a very public kiss, and then snagged his Dopp kit from the trunk of his car. He kept the kit stocked with an electric razor and other essentials. He’d been presentable in ten minutes, but there’d been no time to drive to his apartment and collect a change of clothes. “You’re a regular calendar. You gonna hit me with a weather prediction next?”
Rokov and Sinclair were two detectives in a four-person homicide department. They had been in court yesterday along with the other two members, Deacon Garrison and Malcolm Kier, to hear the summations in the Samantha White murder trial. White, a thirty-year-old housewife, was accused of murdering her husband. Most would have bet the young woman, who’d confessed to crushing her husband’s head with a golf club, would easily be convicted of first-degree murder. None of the public defenders had wanted the case. And then Charlotte Wellington had stepped into the picture, and all bets were off. Wellington had insisted her client had acted in self-defense, and the slam-dunk conviction had dissolved into uncertainty by trial’s end.
“So you gonna ask her out?” Sinclair said.
“Who?”
“Charlotte Wellington. I saw the way you were staring at her in court yesterday. Very intense.”
The jab would have gotten another male cop a threatening glare, but Jennifer reminded him so much of his kid sister all he could manage was a shrug. “Maybe I was paying attention to her summation. Try it sometime.”
Jennifer grinned, unfazed. “So you are gonna ask her out?”
His gaze roamed the lot around the building. “Why would I ask her out?”
“’Cause you got a thing for her.”
A brackish breeze billowed the folds of his jacket. Hands on hips, he asked, “And what birdie told you that?”
“Don’t need a birdie, man. I can read you like a book.”
He smiled, more relieved than amused. She was fishing blind. “Sinclair, as much as I love girl talk, we got a victim who might like some of our attention.”
A half smile raised full lips covered with no lipstick. “Whatever you say, Danny-boy.”
They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and passed a collection of cops and cars with flashing lights. Rokov found the uniform that had been the first responder and secured the crime scene. The guy was mid-forties, short, stocky, and sported a dark crew cut and a thick mustache.
Rokov extended his hand and introduced himself. “You’re Jack Barrow, right?”
“That’s right.” Hearing the sound of his own name relaxed the guy a fraction. “Heard you had a talent for remembering details.”
“Naw, not really. I just remembered you got that service award last spring for working with the kids in the Seminary District.”
“Right again.” Barrow hooked thick thumbs into his waistband.
Sinclair shook hands with Barrow. “Your wife birth that baby?”
“Not yet,” he sighed.
“Damn, boy,” Sinclair said. “What does this make, number four?”
“Five.” He glanced at Rokov. “This gal’s old man trained me when I was a rookie. I think she was in elementary school then.”
Sinclair shook her head. “Please, no visiting the dark ages.”
Barrow tossed her a friendly wink. “She tossed a mean softball.”
“We’re not here to talk about me or your old self,” Sinclair said. “Give us the rundown.”
Barrow’s gaze turned toward the building, and his expression grew somber. Few outsiders could understand how cops could joke in times like this. Cops, however, understood it was the jokes that got them through times like this.
“This one is a real freak show. Sure to give cops nightmares and land on the ghost tour when the details leak out.” Barrow glanced at Sinclair, all traces of humor gone. “I’m sorry you’re gonna have to see it.”
Sinclair cocked her head. “I can handle it.”
“Break your old man’s heart to know you do this kind of work.”
For the first time, Sinclair had no quip.
“What drew you to the building?” Rokov said to Barrow.
“Saw a light in the second-story window. Like a candle flickering. The place is locked up tighter than a drum because it’s unsafe. City bought the building. Supposed to be torn down. Anyway, thought we might have vagrants or druggies so I called for backup and we went to check it out.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hands. “We didn’t find anyone there except the victim.”
“Male or female?” Rokov said. He pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket and a pen.
“Female.”
“You see how she died?”
Morning light cast shadows on Barrow’s face and deepened the creases. “No. The scene makes me think of, well ... better you just go up there and see for yourself.”
“Sure,” Rokov said.
“Watch the stairs. They’re old. Not too stable.”
“Thanks.”
He moved past Sinclair and took to the stairs first, knowing if they gave way, he might have time to warn Sinclair off. Plus he couldn’t shake the thought of Sinclair’s old man cringing when his baby girl entered the scene.
“I could have gone first,” she said.
His partner didn’t appreciate chivalry, so he did his best to downplay it. “Then move faster next time.”
The stairs creaked and groaned and shifted slightly as they climbed past the first floor to the second. Sunlight streamed into the first floor, but instead of cheer, it added an eerie quality that deepened and extended the shadows.
There was only one other cop on the floor and the forensics tech. No doubt, there’d been some concern about structure as well as foot traffic in the dusty room. Plus, the fewer people up here, the better.
Both detectives put on paper booties and snapped on rubber gloves.
They moved toward the tech, Paulie Somers, a crusty guy in his late forties who didn’t tolerate interruptions well. Paulie wore a jump suit, booties, and gloves. Snapping pictures, he didn’t bother with greetings.
Paulie could be difficult to work with but he was meticulous and a master at finding evidence a less experienced tech could miss. He would spend a good deal of time snapping pictures and documenting every inch of the crime scene before collecting data.
When Paulie stepped to the left, it gave Rokov his first real full-on view of the victim, who lay on her back, her hands outstretc
hed, her palms up. Her hands and feet had been nailed to the ground with wooden stakes. A neat white powdery substance neatly encircled the victim’s body.
He’d learned to put aside emotion when he viewed a crime scene. His job was to accumulate facts, details, and anything he could use to catch a killer. And so he focused on the details.
The victim was young, twenties maybe, and she had a thick shock of black hair that swooped over the right side of her face. Her skin was as pale as caulk. Below the roughly hewn stakes, her fingers were curled upward as if she’d been trying to claw free. She wore a black dress and a red leather jacket.
He glanced around the body and the walls for signs of blood: a spray, droplets, pools, something to tell him more about the death. But there was nothing.
“There’s no blood,” Sinclair said.
“No.”
“She wasn’t killed here.”
“That’s my guess,” Rokov said.
“Which means she was dead when she was staked to the ground.”
“Yes.” Gratitude could blossom at the direst times, Rokov thought as he stared at the body.
“Rigor mortis is well established,” Paulie said. Rigor mortis began three hours after death, but the slow stiffing of the muscles didn’t peak until the twelve-hour mark, when the process then began to dissipate.
“Eight to twelve hours since she died?” Rokov said.
“Give or take. And have a look at her legs.” Paulie lifted her skirt to reveal her ankles now stained a bluish purple by blood that had settled under the skin. “Note the lividity. She was upright when she died. Sitting maybe. Sat there for at least an hour before she was moved.” When the heart stopped beating, blood traveled to the lowest point in the body, darkening the skin. “I haven’t been able to get a good look at the underside of her arms, but there appears to be lividity under her forearms as well.”
Rokov studied the victim’s neck for signs of trauma. There was some bruising. “Was she strangled?”
“I don’t know. That’s for the medical examiner to figure out.”
“Knife wounds. Bullet holes.”
“First glance, nothing. But until I remove the stakes, I can’t process and examine like I should.”
“What’s the circle made of?” Rokov said.
Paulie squinted as he glanced through the viewfinder of his digital camera. “I think it’s salt.”
“Salt?”
“Everyday regular iodized table salt.”
Rokov squatted and studied the circle. He could sense Sinclair’s gaze. “Any thoughts, partner?”
“Assuming the substance is salt?” Her voice sounded rough with emotion.
“Sure.”
“Salt has lots of uses. Keeps bugs away. Maybe the killer didn’t want the ants on her.”
Rokov rose. “It’s also used in magic spells.”
She arched a brow. “That’s kinda far-fetched.”
“This whole scene is far-fetched. In fact, when we get the go ahead to walk around, check the corners of the room, and see if there are any bits of salt there.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
The deep tenor of Rokov’s voice erased whatever amusement she’d allowed. “Witches. Really? I thought the Samanthas and Endoras of the world were just fiction.”
“I’m not saying this woman was a witch. But that doesn’t mean the killer didn’t believe she was a witch. He could have put salt in the corner to seal the room.”
“How would you know something like that?”
“I’ve heard tales from my grandmother.”
“She grew up in Russia.”
“Where superstition reigns.”
She opened her mouth to argue but then stopped. They’d seen a lot of crazy shit over the last eighteen months as partners.
Rokov turned to Paulie. “Any other observations?”
Paulie snapped three more pictures before he straightened. “There are ligature marks on her neck, and the underside of her hair and her collar are damp with what appears to be water.”
“Cause of death?”
“Ask the medical examiner.”
The tech was always careful not to weigh in with an opinion. His job, he’d often said when prompted for a comment, was to collect data. He left the fancy figuring up to the detectives.
“Identification?” Sinclair knelt by the body and stared into the woman’s face half cloaked by her hair.
“No ID. No jewelry. And there are red marks on the side of her neck. Looks like he got her with a stun gun several times.” Paulie knelt down and examined the hair draping her forehead. He snapped more pictures and then gently moved the hair back. “Have a look at this.”
Sinclair squatted and glanced down. “She’s been tattooed with the word Witch.” The bold letters covered most of the delicate forehead skin, still puckered red and raw from the tattoo needle. “Shit.”
Rokov’s half-baked theory had been correct, but it gave him no pleasure. “She have any other tats or markings?”
“Not on the exposed areas. But there could be other body art under the clothes.”
“I can’t imagine anyone willingly doing this to themselves,” Sinclair said. “But we’ve seen all kinds of oddities.”
Rokov glanced around the room. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off in frayed strips, and the ceiling was soiled with a dozen watermarks. All the furniture had been stripped out, and a shadow imprint on the back wall suggested there’d been a bar at one point. A thick coating of dust covered the room. “Footprints?”
“Two distinct sets,” Paulie said. “The first I identified as Barrows. He was kind enough not to trample all over the floor, which left me with clear impressions of the second set.” Paulie pointed to the window. “The best impression is over by the window, and I’ve marked it with a cone. I’ve got an electrostatic dust print collector. It will pull an impression.”
Rokov moved toward the footprints carefully to mirror Barrow’s path. “It looks like a size eleven or twelve.” He studied the grooved pattern. “Sneakers?”
“That’s my guess, but it will take time to narrow the brand.”
“The impressions are clear and defined. He walked carefully and with precision.”
Paulie shrugged. “You know I don’t make impulsive calls.”
“I’m not holding you to it,” Rokov said.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll have a report by tomorrow.”
Rokov studied the impression. “Inside back right heel looks worn. He’s favoring the foot.”
Paulie snapped more pictures. “Could be an injury or he could have had a wart at one time, and it changed the way he walks. Doesn’t mean he noticeably favors the foot now.”
“So he moved her here,” Rokov says. “Positions her, stakes her, and then moves to the window to stare at what?”
“The river. The full moon. It was a clear night last night. He stops to enjoy the full moon. Maybe he heard a sound.”
“If he’s got a thing about witches, the moon makes sense,” Rokov said. “The full moon has a lot of power in some circles. Stands to reason he’d be drawn to the moon.”
Sinclair rose. “We need to figure out who she is. I’ll head downstairs and put a call into Missing Persons and see what they have.”
“Good.” Rokov turned to Paulie. “Does she have defensive wounds? Did she fight for her life?”
“I’m going to bag her hands. Hopefully, the medical examiner will find something under her nails.”
Rokov knelt by the victim’s right hand and studied the crude stake that had pierced the flesh of her palm. It would have taken tremendous force to drive the wood through flesh. He wondered if she’d known her attacker. Most murdered women knew their killers. Lovers. Husbands. Boyfriends. Love could turn vicious instantly.
“I wanted you to see her before I pulled the stakes. If I can pull them out now, I can roll her over.”
“Need a hand?” Rokov said.
“I got it.” Paulie slid on workman’s gloves over his surgical gloves and grabbed a hold of the stake. “The floor boards are rotted.” He pulled hard, and the stake wriggled free of the floor and the victim’s palm. Carefully, he moved to the other side and repeated. Then it was on to the feet. The last stake proved stubborn and it took assistance from Rokov to free it.
Paulie laid the stakes out and photographed them. Then very carefully, he turned the body on its side. The victim’s jacket was embossed with the word Magic. He checked the jacket’s label. “Tanner’s.”
Rokov recognized the retailer. “Tanner’s is a shop in Old Town. It has a solid reputation of making custom leather jackets.”
Rokov pulled a notebook from his pocket and wrote down the detail along with the dozens of others he’d noted since he entered the room.
“Okay. You keep doing your thing here,” Rokov said. “Sinclair and I will beat the streets. Maybe somebody saw something.”
Outside, Rokov found Sinclair by the car on her radio. She looked pale but determined. “Thanks. If you get a match, give me a call.”
“No matches.”
“Not yet. But she might not have been missing twenty-four hours yet.”
“Her jacket is unique. The seller is located in Old Town. I’ll double check, but I think he opens at ten.”
“Good.” Sinclair rubbed the back of her neck. “Last night was a Monday night in late October. The streets would have been packed with tourists taking ghost tours and hitting the bars.”
“The retail shops would have been closed by ten, but the bars would have been open until twelve, one, or two.”
“Give or take a few hours, she died last night about one.”
“Yeah. There’s O’Malley’s on the corner. It’s as good a place as any to start. Maybe someone saw someone here.”
Rokov waved to Barrows, Sinclair nodded, and the detectives made their way across the parking lot. Quick strides got them across the street to O’Malley’s.
The pub was on the corner of Union and Prince in a three-level town house that had been built a hundred-plus years ago. Built of old brick, the building had a large glass window with gold lettering and green café curtains. The historic look appealed to tourists.