by Rick Reed
“Key?” Eric asked. “I don’t have a key. When I was here earlier, the door was unlocked.”
With a gloved hand, a tech twisted the doorknob and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. “Well, it’s locked now.”
“I didn’t have a key, and I didn’t lock it when I left,” Eric protested.
Edging the tech aside, Liddell put his shoulder into the door and it gave way.
“Must’ve been stuck,” the tech suggested.
Liddell struck a body-builder pose. “You ever seen such muscles on a mere mortal? Who does this remind you of?”
“Congressman Anthony Weiner during the Twitter scandal,” the tech said.
“The blonde on Charlie’s Angels?” Eric offered, and even Jack laughed.
“Why don’t you start the walk-through with Walker, Bigfoot? I need to talk to Eric,” Jack said.
A tech entered the doorway first, taking digital photos of everything as they made their way inside. Liddell was last through the door, saying “I’ll be back” in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression.
“Your partner’s a funny guy, Jack.”
“Yeah,” he said, instantly dismissing the distraction. “Tell me again why you were here at Nina’s this morning, Eric.”
There was very little shade on the porch, so Eric held up his hand to block the sun. “I’ve already explained this to you—and your chief. Is this your idea of a grilling, Jack?” he asked half-jokingly.
“Answer the question.”
Eric sighed and moved into a pocket of shade before answering. “Trent got a call from Cindy McCoy this morning.” Anticipating Jack’s next question, Eric added, “You’ll have to ask Cindy how she came about the neighbor’s number.”
The elderly woman was no longer on her porch, but Jack noticed the curtains twitch in the window. “Go on.”
“Anyway,” Eric continued, “the neighbor told Cindy she hadn’t seen Nina since yesterday morning, and then reported a loud argument at Nina’s late last night. Cindy decided to call Trent at home to see if he could get someone else to come in and help because she couldn’t reach me. I was at the party. Remember? I had my phone turned off until I saw you head out in a hurry.”
Jack had picked up on the most important detail. “This is the first I’m hearing of this argument. Why didn’t you tell us about that earlier, at the morgue?”
“Hey!” Eric said, holding his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m telling you everything I know.”
“You are now.”
“I guess I forgot,” Eric said, his voice tinged with anger.
Walker stuck his head out the door. “I’m ready for you, Eric.”
“Do I get gloves?” Eric asked.
“Just don’t touch anything,” Walker said, and led him inside.
Jack waited on the porch. He knew that if any obvious clues had been left inside, Walker would already have told him. Awhile later Eric came back out. “I think I should have worn those paper shoe covers,” he complained. “Booties or whatever you call them. There’s no telling what I dragged in there on my feet.”
“Did you step off the paper runner onto the floor?” Jack asked him.
“No. But there’s less contamination issues if I’d had the same thing as your guys.”
Jack knew Eric was used to being in charge, and he decided to shake his tree a little. “Eric, why were you really here?”
Eric acted offended. “I already told you.”
Jack made a point of looking at the old woman’s porch. She was gone now, but Eric saw where Jack was looking.
Jack pressed, “Why would you lie to me? Are you hiding something, Eric?”
Eric’s gaze involuntarily landed on the porch lamp by the door.
Jack fought a smile as he realized he hadn’t looked there for a spare house key. He stretched up and felt a small box of some sort. He pulled out a magnetic case for hiding spare keys. He slid the top back—no key.
Jack extended his palm. Eric’s shoulders slumped. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a brass-colored key, and dropped it in Jack’s hand.
“Why don’t we start again?”
Eric admitted that the door had been locked when he arrived at the house. He claimed he had found the key and used it to enter the house to check on Nina. He swore everything else he had said was true. He obstinately denied having past knowledge of where the key was, but he couldn’t maintain eye contact when he did so.
“Why did you lie?” Jack asked.
Eric looked embarrassed. “I was afraid you’d think just what you’re thinking right now—that we were having an affair. But I assure you I have never been involved with her.”
Jack had a fleeting memory of Bill Clinton saying almost those exact words.
“What else haven’t you told me?”
Liddell came out onto the porch. “You can still smell some kind of cleaner with pine scent inside. Walker says no fingerprints jump out at him. Plus, here’s a weird angle. If she had luggage, it’s gone. Not much in the dresser drawers, several empty hangers in the closet. I couldn’t find any makeup or medicine bottles. And no car in the garage.”
“Well, we know where she ended up. Let’s find out where she was before that,” Jack said.
“Roger that, pod’na. I’ll get her vehicle information and put out a BOLO. We going to call in for help for the neighborhood check?”
“Let’s check the nearby neighbors ourselves,” Jack suggested. “Mostly retirees, so they should have been home last night.”
“You played me, Jack,” Eric said suddenly. “No one saw me with the key, did they?”
When Jack regarded him blankly, Eric’s face went red. “You don’t know anything for sure. Maybe she didn’t own luggage. Maybe nothing is missing. Maybe her car is in the shop for repairs.”
“Ever know a woman who didn’t have luggage? Or makeup?” Jack asked. “Was she seeing someone, Eric?”
“How would I know?” Eric shot back. “If you’re accusing me of something, Jack, just say it.”
“I’m not accusing you, Eric,” Jack lied. “I’m just asking questions. You know how this works.”
Eric looked angry enough that if he truly had killed Nina, he was either a great actor, or could lie with impunity. Whoever killed Nina had gone to a lot of effort to eliminate their presence from the house. It would have taken a great amount of time to wipe the house of latent fingerprints, pack her things, and get out—taking Nina’s car—without being seen.
And what was the purpose of all this subterfuge? The killer had gone to great lengths to make Nina disappear. Was it supposed to look like Nina had gone on an unexpected trip? Or was her killer simply trying to slow the investigation down?
Eric said the neighbor Cindy McCoy had called heard an argument at Nina’s last night. If that was true, Jack assumed the murder took place inside Nina’s home.
Jack needed to find the car and locate the neighbor. He had a good idea where to find the neighbor at least.
“Eric, I want access to Nina’s office,” Jack said.
“Today?”
Jack thought Eric looked uncomfortable. “What have you done, Eric?”
“Look, Jack,” Eric began. “As we were leaving the morgue, Chief Pope said something about Nina’s job being the reason for her murder. I thought I was helping.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew that if Eric had gone in both Nina’s house and her office, he was hunting for something.
“Look, Jack, I didn’t find anything, and I didn’t move anything. I was just looking for an address book or a calendar—anything to help with the investigation.”
Jack had quit listening to the liar. He wished he could take Eric downtown and charge him with interfering or obstruction, but if Eric was involved in Nina’s murder, he would gain nothing by talking to Jack. And he was an attorney, so he would know enough to clam up and ask for one.
“We’ll talk again,” Jack said irritably. “You can leave
for now.”
Without a word or a backward glance, Eric stormed off for his car.
Liddell watched the retreating figure. “You didn’t ask him if he found anything in Nina’s office?”
“He’d just tell another lie.” Jack held his hand out and dropped the key in Liddell’s hand. “A present from—guess who?—Eric.”
Liddell took the key and it turned in the front door lock. “We should give it to Walker and have him bag it as evidence.”
Liddell went to find Walker and to put the BOLO out on Nina’s car.
While Liddell was inside with Walker, Lilly called Jack.
“Dr. John’s here,” Little Casket said when Jack answered, “and he’s brought friends.”
Before Jack could ask whom she meant, the line went dead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Jack and Liddell arrived at the morgue, they saw Dr. John’s old ambulance, or hearse, or whatever he wanted to call it, parked in front. A black Crown Vic was backed into the garage entrance, and a middle-aged man was helping Lilly pull Styrofoam coolers from the trunk. The man wore black military BDU pants and a black knit shirt like a modified SWAT uniform. “I didn’t know you were having a tailgate party, Lilly,” Liddell said as he and Jack approached the open trunk.
“Jack Murphy, Liddell Blanchard,” Lilly said. “Meet Mike Jones.”
Jack noticed the Harrisburg Police Department shield embroidered on the left breast of the knit shirt. He wasn’t wearing a street cop’s gun belt with all the nifty tools of the trade, but he was carrying a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic and a pair of federal handcuffs tucked into his waist.
“Detective Jones. Harrisburg PD.” He extended a hand to Jack and then Liddell.
“Forty caliber?” Jack asked him.
“Smith & Wesson M&P40, double-action, fifteen-round clip and one in the pipe. It’s kickass,” Jones said like he was talking about his child just hitting a homerun.
“Introductions over,” Lilly said. “Before you ask, yes, Dr. John’s here and doing something in his office. Now help me with this.” She held out the cooler and Liddell took it.
“Where do you want me to put it?” Liddell asked.
Lilly turned on him, eyes the size of Ping-Pong balls behind her thick lenses, and said, “You don’t want me to tell you where to put it, but I will if you keep standing there like a big ape.”
She headed off through the garage and into a door in back. Jack led the men after her and entered the autopsy room, where Lilly had already pulled out a steel gurney.
“This is some crazy shit, huh?” Jones said. “You find a body yet?”
“I’m not holding my breath,” Jack responded. He’d read the news about the murders in Harrisburg a couple of years back, but he didn’t remember if they found the bodies to match the heads. “This isn’t Harrisburg’s first rodeo, is it?” Jack asked.
“No,” Jones said. “We had two heads left smack in the middle of Main Street four years ago. Then, two years ago, a head was found on top of a dumpster. And now these two. Never any bodies, though.”
“Any leads?” Jack asked.
Jones said, “We identified the first three victims. They were all meth heads. And I think I know who these two are. The female was a meth head prostitute, and the guy was her pimp and a drug dealer. One of our narcotics guys is verifying that as we speak.”
Those are different from ours. “So you think it was a drug thing?”
Jones rubbed the back of his neck. “Looks like it.”
“Ours wasn’t involved in drugs that we know of. She was a deputy prosecutor here and I don’t think she handled any drug cases. She was dumped at the landfill, so not out in public like yours.”
“And ours was armed when we found her,” Liddell pointed out, and both detectives turned to him. “I mean, we found an arm, too.”
“You have anything serious to add, Bigfoot?” Jack asked.
Liddell grinned and said, “Hey! I’m just proud to be allowed to watch two great detectives putting all the leads together.”
“You boys done bonding?” Lilly asked, wedging between Jack and the Illinois detective. “Doc’s ready.”
They made their way to the autopsy room.
“Let’s see if we can make some headway here,” Jones deadpanned, causing Jack to groan and Liddell to grin.
Deputy Chief Richard Dick finished the telephone call, placed the old-fashioned handset back in its cradle, and studied his reflection in the mirror above the table. He was proud of his shape—not a bit of fat, and his features and prominent nose looked like they were chiseled from a block of stone. He was considered to be ruthless in his dealings with his police officers, and he was glad he had that reputation. Getting cooperation was easier if the rank and file feared him.
His wife of thirty years was in the kitchen making lemonade, just the way he liked it, with real lemons and real honest-to-God sugar. He and Barbara had planned to sit on their air-conditioned patio and listen to Eddie Money on the new surround-sound system he’d had installed out there. From down the hall he could hear “Two Tickets to Paradise” was just finishing up. Next would be “Take Me Home Tonight”—his favorite.
“Who was it, honey?” Barbara asked, and he was pleased to hear her slicing another lemon. She was happiest when she was making him happy. And he was happy that she was that way. Their mutual desire for his happiness was what made their marriage work.
“It’s nothing to stop you from making that lemonade,” he said.
The phone call was from Eric Manson, who was not only the chief deputy to the prosecutor, but also a friend. He called to complain that Murphy had given him a public dressing down, and then had gone as far as to suggest Eric was complicit in a murder. This only cemented Dick’s hatred of Jack Murphy and that Cajun-reject partner of his, Liddell. Dick didn’t tell Eric that he had also been dressed down this morning. Chief Pope had called him after seeing Dick on television and “reminded” him that the police department had a public information officer to release anything to do with active investigations. “Remind” was a diplomatic way for Pope to order Dick to butt out and go home. As deputy chief, he was the titular head of the entire investigations unit and should by all rights be leading this case. Then, to add insult to injury, Pope hadn’t even called to tell him when the victim had been identified.
But their attempt at keeping him in the dark hadn’t worked. He already knew who the victim was. Detective Jansen had called and filled him in just before he received the call from Eric. The victim was a deputy prosecutor, so this case had taken on a new dimension of importance, both to the police department and the news media.
He felt his face tightening, his jaws clenching, and he deliberately had to make the muscles in them relax. Captain Franklin, Jack Murphy, and Liddell Blanchard worked for him. They owed him some courtesy and respect. Marlin Pope may protect Murphy now, but when I become chief of police, all that will stop, by God!
A thought came to him. Jansen had taken it on himself to butt in at the morgue this morning, but if Dick had someone keeping tabs on Murphy, he could stay in the loop. The chief couldn’t object to his giving Murphy an extra investigator. He should have thought of this sooner. He could monitor the case, plus score some points with Eric. It never hurt to have a friend in the county prosecutor’s office.
He picked up the phone and punched in the cell number for Captain Franklin. When he answered, Dick said, “Captain, I’ve decided Jack Murphy needs some assistance with this murder case he’s on. Yes, the landfill case. Now, here’s what I want you to do.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Autopsies are a necessary evil in death investigations, but Jack thought the practice barbaric. With all the advances made in technology, he was surprised the medical field hadn’t kept up. Maybe in twenty years a detective would merely have to scan the deceased person with his iPhone and a computer would tell the detective everything he needed to know. Maybe Apple would come out with an iAutopsy app.
“Earth to Jack,” Liddell said, nudging him.
Jack looked up in time to see Detective Larry Jansen standing in the conference room doorway.
“I didn’t know you attended autopsies,” Jack said.
“Deputy Chief Dick called me in.” The rumpled detective looked around the autopsy room, daring anyone to challenge him.
“I guess Dick wants to double the detectives on this one,” Liddell quipped.
“When is this going to start? I ain’t getting any younger here,” Jansen said, taking a notebook out of an inner pocket and holding it close to his chest while he scribbled something.
“Not that I don’t trust you, Larry,” Jack said, taking his cell phone from his pocket. He made a call to Captain Franklin and spoke briefly, then hung up and said, resigned, “The captain says he’s working with us.”
“Mike Jones, Harrisburg PD,” Jones said, and briefly shook Jansen’s hand. He sensed the bad blood in the air, but Jack didn’t make any attempt to explain.
Lilly poked her head in from the hallway. “Doc’s ready.”
Dr. John stepped on the pedal that operated a microphone suspended over the autopsy table and began reciting. Sergeant Walker was on hand to snap digital photos from every angle while Dr. John examined the decapitated head of Nina Parsons. “We have the head and right arm of a white female. Approximately thirty years of age, dark hair about thirty-five centimeters in length, blue eyes, no obvious scars or blemishes. The flesh of the face shows evidence of animal activity with partial skull exposure, the skull itself being intact.”
Dr. John washed detritus from the open wounds and continued on in medical speak, but Jack quit paying attention. If Dr. John wanted him to notice something, he would point it out. Until then Jack withdrew into his own thoughts.
He knew who the victim was, but not how she had died, or why, or who had killed her. Because of what she did for a living, the obvious place to start was her job, so he needed to find out what cases she was handling. And even if someone wanted her dead, why did they have to do this to her?