by Rick Reed
As they reached the door to Trent’s office, she could hear voices coming from inside. Eric’s door was open and she could see that it was neatly arranged, with a mahogany desk the size of her current office and bookcases full of legal tomes. The door across from Eric’s was closed and didn’t have a nameplate on it. Eric pulled a set of keys from his pocket and put them in Moira’s hand.
She looked at him wide-eyed. “You mean this is mine?”
He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “Listen, Moira. I don’t want you to feel bad about getting a nice office. Truth is, no one else wants it.”
After a moment his meaning sank in.
“This was her office? Nina’s?”
Eric nodded.
Moira didn’t know what to say. The office she was currently occupying was no bigger than a broom closet. But this was Nina Parsons’ office. The woman wasn’t even buried and they were already giving her office away. It somehow seemed wrong.
Moira looked at the keys and then at Eric. He was smiling like a mischievous child.
“Geez, Eric. I mean, what can I say?”
“Thank you, Eric,” he said. “Go on, open it.”
She put the key in the lock and pushed the door open to find the office was the exact opposite of Eric’s inside. To say it was a total mess was an understatement. The room and desk were stacked floor to ceiling with folders and overfilled storage boxes. The bookcases were buried under paper.
I smell a rat, Moira thought.
“And I guess you expect me to clean all this up?” she asked.
“Katie said you were quick to catch on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Franklin was leaning against the front of his desk, having a conversation with someone, when Jack and Liddell filed in.
Jack spotted Eric in a chair in the corner, listening to the captain and tapping some information into his smart phone.
“I’ve asked Eric to sit in on this meeting,” Franklin said.
Franklin circled around his desk and sat down. “Since Eric was unable to attend the meeting last night, and because of the recent news, I thought we should have a quick meeting.”
Eric put the phone away and nodded at Jack and Liddell. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
The detectives remained stoic, and an unnatural silence filled the room before Eric cleared his throat and continued.
“Well, Trent and I appreciate being kept informed, and I’m greatly interested to hear what you’ve discovered thus far. But—”
“But the news media is putting pressure on Trent to release the names of the other victims. Am I right?”
Eric turned to Franklin. “Trent sent me to see what he can release in the news conference this morning. Specifically, anything we need to confirm or deny on our end.”
Franklin explained, “The television stations are now calling us unfair for giving Nina’s name to the newspaper and not sharing it with them.”
“We didn’t give this to the newspapers,” Liddell said.
The captain shook his head. “No, we didn’t. For all we know, this could be drug-related, gang-related, or a personal vendetta against Nina. We don’t have evidence supporting or dispelling any of this, but if we don’t tell the public something, the media will simply report whatever they hear.” He held a copy of the newspaper featuring the cannibalism story. “Like this.”
Eric took the newspaper from Franklin and looked at the front page. “Any ideas where this came from?”
Liddell raised his hand, saying, “I know this one. That’s a newspaper, Eric. They print those at a newspaper building.” Liddell then walked his fingers across his palm. “Then these little guys on bikes deliver them to houses and businesses—”
Jack talked over Liddell, asking, “So, do you want to be updated, or is this a witch hunt?”
Eric glared at Jack. “From what I hear, you don’t have anything except an old woman who thinks she saw a mystery sports car.”
Jack shot back, “Well if you know everything, why are we bothering with this meeting?”
“The prosecutor is concerned, Jack. We have to put an end to these leaks, gentlemen.”
“I agree,” Franklin said. “And we’re looking into it.”
“It’s obvious that someone on the inside the investigation is the source of this leak,” Eric said defensively. “That makes the police department look bad.”
“We’re looking into it,” Franklin repeated.
Jack said, “Well, maybe you should look closer to home, Eric. I think the leak makes us all look like amateurs, and that includes your office.”
“Well, that was all I had,” Eric said, and stood to leave.
“Gee, Eric, I guess you’ve sorted us out. So with turnabout being fair play and all that, I would like to come by and look at Nina’s office,” Jack said.
Eric stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I thought you already did that.”
“I’ve been a little busy, and the prosecutor’s office isn’t exactly open 24/7,” Jack shot back. “Do I have access?”
Eric seemed amused. “By all means, Jack. You can walk back with me if you like.”
“Let’s go,” Jack said, not taking his eyes from Eric’s. “Are we done here, Captain?”
“News conference is in five minutes. But you needn’t be there,” Franklin said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Things were forever changed on September 11, 2001. Security-mindedness became contagious and everyone looked suspicious until they were photographed, fingerprinted, scanned, patted down, and their identification checked nine ways from Sunday.
Jack emptied his pockets into a plastic basket at a Civic Center security checkpoint. Then he was required to lock his weapon in a gun cabinet before going through the metal detector and entering the judicial areas of the building. Jack thought all the security measures were totally unnecessary. What, a cop was going to charge in and decide he was a terrorist?
“Look, Jack,” Eric said, walking through the metal detector. “Can’t we just bury the hatchet?” He slipped back into his five-hundred-dollar Italian loafers.
“My partner suggested the same thing, Eric,” Jack said. Only he suggested he bury the hatchet in Eric’s brain. “Look, I don’t have a problem with you. I just want some answers, and the prosecutor is too busy playing politics to take me seriously. What about you, Eric? Should we call the county attorney again? Or can you answer some questions without benefit of counsel?”
Color crept up Eric’s neck. “I’m not sure what you mean, Jack. Don’t get paranoid on me. If anyone can put this case together, it’s you.”
“Flattery, and all that,” Jack said, thinking he himself had pulled the same manipulative shit on Jansen last night. “You know Trent is more worried about how this murder looks to the public than what happened to Nina Parsons.”
“I think you’re wrong, Jack. But you’re entitled to your opinion, same as everyone else.”
If he was hostile, Eric was going to be hostile. Lawyers were like pit bulls, and they would dig in when confronted. Jack decided to take another approach. “Sorry, Eric. I appreciate you cutting the red tape and letting me in,” he said, and meant it. About half of the information in Nina’s office was confidential, and Eric could have made Jack jump through hoops.
Eric used his key to let them into the foyer of the prosecutor’s wing. He waved to the receptionist and, when the door buzzed, led Jack past the break room and around a corner to the hallway that detectives had nicknamed the “Hall of Shame” because it led to Trent Wethington’s personal office. That’s because the only reason a detective ever came here to get dressed down by Trent for some faux pas in their investigation, or to take the blame for a prosecuting attorney losing a case.
“Nina’s office is down what you guys call the ‘Hall of Shame,’” Eric joked.
Jack smiled. He didn’t know Eric was aware of what the policemen called the hallway. He imagined Eric knew a lot of other things, too.
He’d keep that in mind.
Eric rapped on the door, and when it opened Jack was shocked to see the new occupant of Nina Parsons’ office.
Moira, seated behind the desk, smiled as Jack came into the office. Trent Wethington beamed his thousand-dollar smile as he grabbed Jack’s hand in both of his own and gave it a vigorous shake.
“Jack! How are you?”
Jack wondered if the D.A. was getting senile. He’d been in Trent’s office less than eight hours ago. “I’m fine, Governor,” Jack said, and saw Trent’s smile slip a little.
“Well, not governor yet.”
Moira came around the desk and hugged Jack. “How are you, big brother?”
She had never called him big brother before. Jack wondered if she was trying to send a message to the other men, like, “Hands off. My dog bites.”
He hoped they hadn’t already started hitting on Katie’s sister. He never heard anything, good or bad, about Trent Wethington in regard to sexual liaisons. But he had heard plenty about Eric.
“I’m great . . . sis,” Jack said. “You getting settled in?”
She held up her paper nameplate. “Moira Connelly,” she said, “attorney-at-law.”
Jack tried to picture her as an attorney, but saw only the moody teenager that he’d watched grow up. She had always been so defiant of authority. But she had grown up and she’d turned out okay.
“I told Jack he could go through Nina’s—I mean Nina’s old office,” Eric explained.
Trent’s face stiffened for a second, but then he smiled, and said, “Of course.”
“Do you want me to give him Nina’s files from your office as well?” Eric asked Trent. He’d delivered a stack of Nina’s files to Trent earlier.
“Of course, I’ll get them,” Trent said, and then, smiling at Moira, he added, “She’s a great little gal, Jack. She’ll fit in perfectly here. Just remember, Moira, I take my coffee black.”
Trent left the office, so he didn’t see the moue of distaste on Moira’s face, but Eric didn’t miss it.
“Don’t mind him,” he said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s old school. He doesn’t know we don’t make remarks like ‘little gal’ anymore, and we all make coffee for Trent.”
Jack said, knowing Moira was capable of fighting her own battles, “Can I get to work?”
Eric looked at his watch. “Yikes! I forgot why we came.” He turned to Moira. “We had better go and let the great detective do his stuff.”
“Maybe I can help?” she suggested.
Jack wouldn’t mind help with this colossal mess. “Maybe so.”
Eric’s brow furrowed. “Okay, that can be your first assignment. You have to go through this stuff sometime. But nothing leaves this office without telling me first. Understood?”
Jack wearily made a cross over his heart.
Moira playfully punched Jack on the arm after Eric left them alone. “How about that? I’m working with the great Jack Murphy. So, where do we begin?”
Moira was just joking around. She had completed law school at the top of her class. She had been always a conundrum—half tomboy, half juvenile delinquent, and always the champion of the underdog. Katie had once told him a story about Moira when she was in the fifth grade. Moira had hidden in the school bathroom after class, then sneaked into the science and biology lab and freed all the animals from their cages.
Jack picked up a stack of manila folders that were stuffed with forms. “Look for a label that says, ‘This is why I was killed,’ or maybe, ‘Greatest Hits of MS-13.’”
“MS-13?”
“I forgot, you haven’t heard about that. Well, I’ll give you the nickel tour,” he said, and patiently told her the details they had withheld from the news media. He also offered his own opinion that MS-13 had nothing to do with the murders, but he told her to keep an eye out anyway.
“There is a lot we don’t know about Nina yet,” he said at the end. “Including why someone would be angry enough to kill her and hack her into little pieces.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The big truck braked to a slow roll behind the Evansville newspaper offices. The green dumpsters were always filled to overflowing, and bags would undoubtedly be piled on the ground. The driver had had less than four hours’ sleep and had deliberately saved this stop for last. He was nursing a terrible hangover, and that’s why he was slow to realize that the front of one of the metal containers was smeared with dark red paint. He jammed on the air brakes, jerking him forward and back. The violent motion sent screaming jolts through his aching head.
“Damn kids!” he growled, and swung down from the cab to see if he would need to report the vandalism. If the dumpster just needed hosing down, he could knock on the back door at the loading dock of the newspaper and borrow a hose.
His supervisor was a little dictator, and would have a stroke if they had to bring out another bin. And that would take about three hours because it was a Monday, and the downtown traffic was a bitch to navigate with the big trucks.
Yet as he approached the bin, he saw that it wasn’t graffiti, or paint. A shiver ran through him. It looked like blood, and it was smeared all down the front of the bin. Dreading what he might find, he pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and used it to lift the lid and sling it backward. A swarm of buzzing flies assaulted him. From down inside, he reeled from the miasma of a rotting corpse.
Jack and Moira had plowed through most of the boxes, and hundreds of folders, without finding anything of importance, before Jack’s cell phone buzzed with a message. A few minutes later he and Liddell were driving east on Sycamore over abandoned railroad tracks and into the loading dock area of the Evansville Courier building, where a small crowd of policemen and civilians were separated by yellow caution tape.
So far only a half dozen locals stood at the mouth of the alley, each jockeying for a view of what the police were doing. Jack thought immediately of this morning’s meeting, where the leak to the press was discussed. Shit! There’s no way this is staying quiet. As if on cue, a haggard young man with a camera burst out of the back door of the loading dock and started arguing with a white-clad crime scene officer. Then a Channel Six television van—equipped with an antennae dish—pulled up to the mouth of the alley.
Sergeant Walker, in a white Tyvek suit, complete with a hood and plastic face shield, slapped at flies on his arms as he walked over. “Jack, Liddell.” He pointed down the alleyway. “The driver was making collections, and he saw blood all over the front of one of the dumpsters. He looked inside and found a human head. White. Female.”
A green trash truck was parked inside the crime scene tape. A skinny middle-aged man wearing a faded yellow wifebeater stood next to it. His face was beet-red and he was rubbing his eyes like he was crying.
“That the driver?” Jack asked.
“He knows squat,” Tony said. “Saw the blood, opened the lid, and saw flies buzzing around the head. End of story.”
“Is there a body to go with the head?” Jack asked.
“We haven’t gone through the dumpsters yet,” Walker said, shaking his head. “Nothing at the landfill either. I’ve had guys out there all night going through acres of trash. I’m calling them off this morning, unless you want us to stay out there.”
They were all wondering the same thing. Did Nina’s remains start out in a dumpster and were then dumped in the landfill by a less observant driver?
“Any idea how long this one has been in here?” Jack asked.
“The blood was still wet in places. I’d say no longer than last night, but don’t hold me to that. We’ll see what Dr. John thinks,” Walker said.
“I think we should continue at the landfill for now,” Jack said. “This is the second dismemberment in two days. Fourth if you count the two in Harrisburg. Has Lilly been called?”
“Been and gone,” Walker said. “That’s exactly what she said. And she told me to send this one along when it’s convenient,” he said, referr
ing to the recent remains.
“Is it our guy?” Jack asked the other big question.
Walker nodded. “I think so. We haven’t had a good look, but yeah, I’d say it’s the same type cut.”
“Can we take a peek?”
Walker handed them latex gloves and walked with them to the row of four dumpsters. A new painter’s cloth had been laid on the ground in front of them. A step stool was pushed up to the front of the blood-covered container.
Jack stepped up and peered inside. In the full sun, the dumpsters were harder to see inside. The flies were a swarm of blackness, and then he spotted hair. Maybe blond. And then he could make out the face. It was a white female, probably in her twenties. Hard to tell. Her eyes were open. The mouth was wide open and looked like a bloody hole in the face. Dr. John would have fun with this one.
“Email me some digitals, Tony,” Jack said, and stepped down to let his partner take a look. As Liddell stepped up, the stool groaned under his weight.
“Already have,” Walker said. “They should be on your phone.”
Jack hadn’t looked at his phone since leaving Nina’s—check—Moira’s office.
“Call me when you collect it?” Jack asked.
“You’ll be the first.”
Liddell stepped down and moved away to allow crime scene investigators to do their jobs. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked, almost whispering.
They ducked under the tape and headed for their car. A Channel Six reporter approached them with notebook in hand and a cameraman in tow.
Twenty-six years old, Claudine Setera had been promoted to news coanchor after the previous anchor died of cardiac arrest. Today she wore a black skirt and yellow top that emphasized her fabulous figure and long dark hair. She was naturally dark, not tanned. While she was on the air, she sounded like a Harvard graduate, which she was, but off camera her thick Bronx accent came through.
Her dark eyes widened dramatically as she asked, “Detective Murphy, is it the cannibal?”