I nearly ran into Dr. Berg’s assistant, Kenny Strange, on my way out. He was wheeling the gurney toward the apartment.
“Hey, girl. Good to see you.” Kenny was a favorite colleague of mine. He was always jovial and smiling, unless you called him by his last name, which was a sore point with him.
“Hi, Kenny,” I replied.
“How’s that nephew of yours doing?” Kenny was a grandpa to three boys about Nate’s age, so we had always traded stories about our baby boys.
“He’s great. Can you believe he’s nearly three and a half now? It wouldn’t surprise me if he started reading pretty soon. He’s starting to recognize a few words when he sees them.”
“No kidding? My daughter is trying to potty train little Max. It isn’t going too well,” he chuckled.
“Don’t get me started on potty training. Nate is resisting.”
“In here, Kenny,” Dr. Berg called from inside the apartment.
“Glad to have you back,” Kenny said with a wink, wheeling the gurney into the apartment before I could explain that this was a one-time gig.
Baxter emerged from the apartment and came over to stand next to me. We leaned on the balcony railing, squinting in the afternoon sun.
I asked him, “What tipped you off that it wasn’t a suicide? Was it something specific or a gut reaction?”
“A little of both, but mostly the positioning of the chair. Our DB wasn’t a tall guy. I figure if this were a suicide, he would have needed the chair to get close enough to tie the rope to the pull-up bar since it was probably just out of his reach. Once he was ready to do the deed, he would have either stepped or jumped off the chair. His flailing legs might have knocked it over but wouldn’t have had the force to kick it several feet across the room.”
“Good detecting, Detective.”
“There was a fresh mark on his temple, as if he’d been hit. And I noticed the scratches at his neck. It looked like he was trying to get free of the noose. Granted, that could have happened during a suicidal hanging if he’d changed his mind during the act, but trying to get free is more common in homicidal and accidental strangulation.”
“Are we ruling out autoerotic asphyxiation? One possibility is that some not-so-innocent fun went too far and his partner freaked out and bolted.”
Blushing, Baxter replied, “Um…I’m going to say it probably wasn’t that, because the vic was fully dressed and there was no…uh, paraphernalia around.”
I found it humorous that a detective who dealt with sick and twisted crimes on a daily basis was shy to talk about unusual sex acts with me. Baxter was sensitive, especially for a cop. He threw up at first glance of a dead body, and he obviously couldn’t talk openly about sex to a female colleague. His vulnerability was rather endearing. I didn’t let my amusement show, though.
Dr. Berg and Kenny came out the door, guiding the gurney out of the apartment.
“We tried not to disturb too much of your crime scene,” Dr. Berg said, shaking his head. “This is a damn shame. Too many young kids have been on my slab lately.”
A pang of sadness shooting through my heart, I nodded. “I agree.”
Baxter asked him, “Did you find a wallet on the vic?”
“No, we didn’t,” replied Dr. Berg.
“Cell phone?”
“No, sorry. Nothing in his pockets.”
“Can we take another look at his face?” Baxter asked. He turned to me. “You’re positive this isn’t Sellers?”
Dr. Berg unzipped the body bag for us to be able to see the victim’s face.
I took off my gloves. “Anybody got a phone?”
Baxter handed me his. I Googled the Ashmore Voice. On the staff tab of their website, there was a big picture of Eli with his name listed underneath. I put the phone next to the victim’s face so everyone could compare. Eli’s face was bloated and red from being hanged, but his features were recognizable.
Baxter grimaced. “You’re right, our victim is Eli Vanover.”
Dr. Berg said, “Since there’s been some confusion, we’ll do what we can to positively identify the body so there’s no question. Maybe his fingerprints are in AFIS for some reason or he has a distinguishing tattoo. The last thing I want to do is to bring in the wrong parents to identify their deceased son.” Despite the grisly things he had to deal with as a coroner, Dr. Berg was one of the kindest, most empathetic people I’d ever met. He continued, “I’m placing the time of death between noon and two PM today. As for how he died, he’s got petechial hemorrhaging, so I think the preliminary cause of death is asphyxiation. However, with his face and neck being engorged with blood, I would say his jugular veins being compressed by the ligature contributed to his death as well. I’ll verify that once I do the autopsy. Moreover, I’m troubled by the abrasion here on his temple. I think there’s something more going on than simply a suicide, and I can assure you I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I know you will,” I replied. “By the way, Doc, I’m sure you’ll see it, but we’ll need a sample of the blood under the victim’s nails.”
“Of course.” He smiled. “It’s good to see the twinkle back in your eyes. Don’t have too much fun in there.”
As the two of them made their way to the stairs, I turned to Baxter and huffed, “Twinkle? There’s no twinkle.”
Grinning, he replied, “There’s definitely a twinkle. Protest all you want, but you’re enjoying this.”
I put my respirator mask back on and glared up at him. “I am not.”
But as a rush of adrenaline hit me when I re-entered the apartment, I had to wonder if they were right. I did feel more alive than I had in a long time. On the other hand, I had a calm, easy life now. It would be stupid of me to give that up to go back to the gore and cruelty I used to see every day.
Speaking of gore, my first order of business was to take a photo of the stain on the carpet resulting from the victim’s body emptying itself upon death. While I was there, I studied the nubby, commercial carpet itself. It was no surprise to me that it wasn’t in great shape. There were a few noticeable scars in it, much like a chair had been scraped across it, its legs snagging the carpet fibers as it went. I found Eli’s broken fingernail, which I would have to mark, photograph, bag, and tag later. I also took a look at the doorframe, where I found scratches and blood smears at my eye level, which would have been consistent with the victim attempting to grab hold of something to try to pull himself up and take some pressure off his neck. Down at my knee level there were scuff marks on the doorframe as if he’d also tried to get a foothold. The scuff marks could have been from normal use of the pull-up bar, but the blood was fresh and from today. My gut said the scratches were from today as well, and if there were splinters found under Eli’s fingernails, that would prove it. After snapping pictures of my findings in that area, I made a quick note to my voice recorder and found a clipboard and some paper for my rough sketch of the room.
Baxter, armed with a stack of evidence markers and a ruler, stood looking around the room, seeming overwhelmed. “How in the hell are we going to separate the garbage from the evidence? This kid was—is, I mean, a pig.”
“I say we start with the path of entry and exit. Then we can section off the room into quadrants.”
“You’re the boss,” he said.
“Let’s go outside and enter the apartment, just as a random killer off the street would have,” I said, heading for the door.
Baxter laughed. “A ‘random killer off the street,’ huh? Are there lots of those lurking around Carmel?”
“Look, if we assume the killer is Tristan and work the scene with that in mind, I can guarantee we’re going to miss some evidence.”
We stood outside the door, and the first thing I did was crouch down to be eye level with the doorknob. Fishing a magnifying glass out of one of the many pockets of my ugly jumpsuit, I studied the area around the lock.
“There are no fresh-looking scratches on this lock and no other signs of force
d entry,” I noted, checking the face of the door and the doorjamb. “No shoeprints and no damage to the door itself.”
“The victim must have let the ‘random killer off the street’ into the apartment, then.”
“Damn it, Baxter. Would you give that a rest? Maybe he knew the killer.”
“You don’t like to be teased, do you?” he asked.
“Not especially. I’ll need to print this door later.”
“Moving on, let’s say the killer is inside the apartment now.” He stepped inside and looked around. “Where did he, or she, go from here? Did the killer sit down with our DB and have a chat or go straight for the throat?”
“That was a terrible pun.”
“Really? I thought it was clever.” He grinned at me. “Do you see signs of a struggle? Will we even be able to tell with all of this mess?”
I walked slowly next to our supposed path of entry, getting out a flashlight and shining it on the floor as I went. The path was a minefield of dirty laundry, empty food wrappers, crumbs, pizza boxes, dirt, and wads of crumpled paper. If we didn’t run into some kind of rodent, I’d be surprised.
“Hell if I know,” I grumbled.
“What about the coffee table? It looks askew.” He took out his own flashlight and shined it on the floor next to the coffee table. “See those indentations in the carpet? I think the table used to be a few inches to the left.”
“You’re right.” I handed him the camera. “Shoot it.” While he placed the evidence marker and took pictures, I began drawing my rough sketch of the room.
Shining my flashlight under the coffee table, I said, “Check it out. There’s a busted bong under here. As a rule, aside from neglecting to clean them, college kids are careful with their bongs. They’re breakable, and some of them aren’t cheap. I would say it could have been broken during a struggle.” I took an evidence marker from his stack and set it beside the broken glass while Baxter photographed what was left of the bong.
He gestured at several books scattered on the floor by the table. “I wonder if these were on the table and got knocked off or if they were on the floor to begin with.”
I shrugged. “Beats me. Shoot it just in case.”
Baxter glanced between the coffee table and the doorway where Eli was hanged. He switched on his flashlight and illuminated the floor in between. “There had to be a decent amount of struggle here. The clothes scattered in this area look more disturbed than the rest. Some of them are even ripped. I don’t think you could get another person up on a chair and hang him without some kind of fight.”
“Unless he was otherwise incapacitated,” I pointed out.
“Like drugged?”
“Yes, or knocked out. Or even held at gunpoint.”
Shooting me a dubious glance, he asked, “You mean a ‘hang yourself or I’ll shoot’ kind of scenario?”
I wrinkled my nose. “It sounded better in my head.”
He chuckled, bending down to place an evidence marker next to the clothes at his feet.
I thought I saw something sparkle amongst the clothes littering the floor, but lost sight of it. Wanting a better view, I asked, “Can I have the camera back? I think I saw something.”
Baxter handed me the camera, and I took some mid-range photos showing the clothing, then zoomed in on each item individually. In the light of the flash, I saw that sparkle again, so after I took the last photo, I reviewed the close-ups on the screen of my camera. The photo of a pair of jeans caught my eye. Peeking out from under one of the legs was a small, blue rock. I switched on my flashlight and shined it on the floor, crouching down for a closer look.
“Did you see this?” I asked, pointing to my find.
Baxter crouched down next to me. “What is it?”
Placing another evidence marker and a ruler next to the rock, I lifted the jeans leg and took a couple of photos. Then I took out a small plastic pill bottle and some forceps. I carefully picked up the rock, which was about a half-inch long, holding it up for Baxter to see.
“This looks like the same type of decorative glass rock that’s in the fire pit in my backyard,” I said.
“Ooh, fancy,” he said. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharply zeroed in on the rock and his face was serious.
“Not really. I got it at Walmart.” I hesitated. “You look awfully interested in this rock, Detective. Care to share your thoughts?”
“No.” He changed the subject. “Why would a rock from a fire pit be inside a college kid’s apartment? I can’t imagine Ashmore has open fire pits on campus.”
I dropped the rock into the plastic container and labeled it. “No, they don’t, but I’m sure there are other uses for this material. Unless we find a bag of it somewhere in here, someone brought it in, probably stuck in a shoe tread. Could have been the killer; could have been the victim.”
“Could have been anyone,” Baxter pointed out.
I frowned. He was right, but that didn’t mean we could ignore it. “Do you see any more of it?”
Down on our hands and knees, we found four more similar glass rocks in the same area. We also found a few pieces of pea gravel, and since they were near the unusual blue glass, we decided to photograph and collect all the stones. As we were doing so, I couldn’t help but wonder what about the glass rock had Baxter so interested.
He stood up and groaned. “This is taking forever. Do you want to divide up some tasks?”
Smiling, I said, “You don’t work crime scenes much, do you?”
“Not if I can help it. I’d much rather be out catching the bad guys. It’s more fun.”
“I know it’s tedious, but I want us to search for evidence together so we don’t miss anything. Once we’ve determined what we’re going to collect, then we can split up.”
“You’re very thorough. This is going to take all night, isn’t it?”
“You betcha.”
He said, “I had no idea you were such a slave driver. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to kick Durant to the curb.”
“I’ll be happy to turn the investigation over to Durant. Call him up,” I countered.
Holding his hands up, he said, “Kidding. I’m only kidding.” Looking down at his feet, he said, “Hey, this pizza box is crushed, like it’s been stepped on. Is that a shoeprint on it, or am I seeing things?”
I squatted down and shined my flashlight on the mangled box. On the back of the box, there was a faint outline of what could have been a shoe. “Good eye. I can enhance it at the lab.” I took photos, and Baxter collected the box to take with us.
I gestured to the folding chair. “Speaking of shoeprints, I think I see one on the side of that chair. It may be bulky, but I want to take the whole chair as evidence. I have a feeling it’s going to be a gold mine.”
Sizing up the chair, he said, “We’re going to need a bigger bag than the ones in the kit. Be right back.”
I placed another evidence marker next to the overturned folding chair and took a dozen shots of it. I then measured the distance from it to the doorframe, noting the eight feet of distance on my rough sketch. Baxter returned with a much bigger evidence bag for bagging the chair later.
We continued combing the area around the doorway for more evidence. We collected the fingernail I had spotted earlier. In the small hallway that led to a bathroom and a bedroom, we found two more of the blue glass stones. After photographing and searching the bedroom and bathroom and finding nothing amiss, we decided the crime scene was contained to the living room/kitchen combo area and the hallway.
Removing his gloves, Baxter asked, “Are you about ready for a break? I’m starving.”
Just having realized the sun was on its way down, I said, “Yeah, I had no idea it was getting so late.”
“I can have someone run out and get us some dinner.”
I gasped. “Dinner!” My heart pounding, I asked, “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Son of a bitch!” I had stood u
p Rob Larson.
CHAPTER NINE
“What’s wrong?” Baxter asked.
Heading for the door, I said, “I need to make a call. I’ll be back.”
Stripping off my gloves, mask, and foot protectors as I went, I hurried down the stairs and out to the vehicle where I had stashed my purse. I rooted around and found my phone, groaning as I saw the twenty-three missed calls, five texts, and nineteen voice messages. Holy hell. As I scrolled through the missed call list, I noticed that the majority of the calls were from unknown numbers, which probably meant they were news reporters. I had six calls from Cooper, which I was on the fence about returning, and one from Rob.
I listened to the message Rob had left. His deep voice said, “Hi, Ellie. I waited for nearly an hour at your office, but you never showed. I guess we’ll have to try this again some other time. I hope everything’s all right.”
My heart sank. I’d been looking forward to this date, but the moment I got to the crime scene everything else went out of my head. I hoped I hadn’t screwed things up with Rob. The only thing I could do was call and beg for forgiveness. I called him back, nervous about whether or not he would even want to bother with me. His message sounded friendly enough, so maybe I had a chance.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey, Rob, this is Ellie. I’m so sorry about our date.”
“Are you okay? I was beginning to worry about you,” he said.
“I was asked to consult on a police case. I was focusing on my work and completely lost track of time. I feel awful that you waited so long for me.”
“It wasn’t all bad. I got to meet your friend, Dr. Jordan. She’s chatty.”
I laughed. I was sure Sam had given him the third degree. “Sorry about that, too. Do you think we could try this again?”
“I could pick you up now if you’d like.”
Sighing, I said, “No, I can’t get away tonight. How about tomorrow?”
“It’s a date. Same time, same place?”
“Yes. I promise I’ll be there this time.”
Bitter Past Page 9