by Lisa Black
‘Do you remember Diana Allman?’ She didn’t waste time with pleasantries or small talk or to ask how he fared in the wake of two co-worker deaths in the space of one morning. He would not pretend to care about any of that, which, in a way, made this easier. She didn’t feel up to any sentimental reminiscing about Diana, Darryl, Dr Reese or anyone else right now. Emotions were bubbling too close to the surface for comfort.
‘How could I forget?’ he said. ‘A figure sharp enough to pop a balloon and lips that I bet could— Yeah, I remember.’
‘Did you act as diener for her autopsy?’
‘Me? No.’
That threw her off her stride for a moment. ‘Are you sure? There’s a picture of you from the autopsy, holding her hand for the camera.’
‘Oh, I was there.’ He resumed mopping, thought better of it, and rested the handle against the tiled wall to give her his full, reptilian attention. ‘But I wasn’t diener.’
‘Dr Reese did the autopsy—’
‘Yes.’
‘Then who acted as—’
‘Stone.’
She goggled, which amused the man. ‘Oh, yes. He might be the lord and master now, but ten years ago he was just another rookie pathologist straight from passing his boards, turning green from sectioning the bowel and sneaking a smoke in the specimen room to keep himself from puking. Kind of surprising that he’s risen so far so fast, eh? Makes you wonder if he’s got a picture of the mayor with a goat or something like that.’
Theresa thought back to the autopsy report. The scrawled name could have spelled ‘Stone’. ‘If you weren’t diener, then why were you there?’
‘Miss a chance to see Diana D-cups naked? Not on your life.’
After so many years working around the dead and violent and depraved, there were very few statements that could shock Theresa MacLean, but this very nearly did. And despite how long she had known Mitchell Causer, she still had to fight the urge to throttle him on the spot. ‘She was dead.’
‘And still a D cup. Impressive girl.’
Theresa bit back what she wanted to say. ‘What do you remember about that day? Besides the D-cups?’
Of course, Causer could not answer a simple question. That would have been out of character. ‘Why do you want to know?’
She couldn’t think of a lie and thought the truth might stimulate him to search his memory more stringently than a vague inquiry anyway. ‘We think the murders of Darryl and Dr Reese might be somehow connected to Diana’s murder.’
‘Her husband killed her,’ Causer said immediately.
‘I know. We can’t figure it out either. So, what do you remember?’
‘Got a cigarette?’
‘No.’
She watched him try to think of some other appropriate bribe … They weren’t in a bar, so she couldn’t buy him a drink. They weren’t in a restaurant, so she couldn’t pick up his tab. He glanced her over as if considering what would happen if he requested a sexual favor; his conclusion must have involved bloodshed because he apparently thought better of it and leaned against the steel table, the mop forgotten. ‘Well, let’s see. They found her at night, but of course the county wouldn’t pay overtime so she stayed in the cooler with the rest until the next morning. They let everyone come in and then sent them home. Like they did today – they wait until you’re already up and then they call and tell you to go back to bed. Kind of pointless, but that’s the county.’
‘But you did go back to bed,’ Theresa couldn’t resist pointing out. ‘This time, you didn’t come in when you didn’t have to.’
‘Like I want to see Darryl Johnson naked?’ Causer gave a derisive snort that could be heard on the third floor. ‘So yeah, I sidled in here that morning anyway. I was married at the time and would have gone to the sewer plant if it got me out the house. And there she was, naked as a jaybird. Not even those diamond studs she used to wear in her ears. Her face didn’t look so good – Diana’s. Mottled, swelled up.’
Theresa swallowed, hard.
‘But the rest of her looked okay – yeah, not just her breasts. No bruises or cuts, if that’s what you’re wondering. Nobody raped her, the doc said. No injuries to her goody bag, nothing gooey hanging around, you know. I thought that was strange – what was the point of throttling her until she went limp if you weren’t going to—?’
For once, he exercised the extremely small amount of discretion of which he were capable, and stopped there.
‘But you were photographing the—’
‘I’m helpful that way.’ And he probably wanted to be able to say that he had put a hand on Diana Allman’s flesh. Even if that flesh had been cold and unmoving. ‘Anyway, once Stone cracked the ribs I sort of lost interest. But I remember that her lungs were clear – didn’t smoke. Nothing much in the stomach, what looked like pretzels or crackers or something. Probably how she kept that figure.’
‘What did you guys talk about?’
‘Other than—’
‘Other than the breasts, yes.’
He frowned, apparently thinking hard. ‘Don’t remember. Nothing comes to mind. Reese was tut-tutting and glaring at me because I dared to breathe in his presence without letters after my name. Oh, and his college had named a reading room after him or something like that – he must have given them a boatload of money – and he had to write a speech for the ceremony that night. He probably didn’t even notice the D-cups if you ask me, the old pansy. Then Stone bitched about having to be diener ’cause he had some issue at home that needed tending to – read, missus giving him hell. You think Harris whines, you should have heard Stone back then.’
‘Did they discuss any theories on her murder?’
He gave a surprised look. ‘We knew who killed her – her husband. Not much to discuss, other than wonder which of the myriad ways a woman has of making her guy feel particularly murderous had finally done it.’
Theresa kept her face blank. ‘But James hadn’t been arrested yet. What made you so sure?’
‘I dunno. I just remember talking about the husband.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Who, the husband? I don’t know. I never met him.’
‘Mmm. Anything else?’
He frowned again, started to say something, then stopped. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep.’
‘You looked like you thought of something.’
He fidgeted, which gave Theresa pause. Something that made Causer feel awkward would likely make most human beings faint dead away.
‘Her uterus,’ he started. This time she couldn’t stop her face from grimacing in wary anticipation, and he hastily went on: ‘It looked swollen to me.’
Theresa, not a pathologist, took a moment to catch up. ‘You mean she was pregnant?’
‘I don’t know, do I? I just thought it looked a little … fullish. But the doc said no, so I guess I was wrong. Rare, but still possible.’
Theresa thought over the crime scene photos. Maybe Diana simply liked ginger ale, but it could also serve as a good stomach-settler for the queasiness of morning sickness. Ditto for saltines. And B complex vitamins were also known as folic acid, recommended for a healthy pregnancy. But there had been no mention in the autopsy report, and no reasonably competent pathologist would miss a pregnancy. Certainly not the particular and thorough Dr Reese.
And Diana would have told her, Theresa. She certainly would have told her that. ‘Anything else?’
‘No … no disrespect to your pal, but not really worth getting up early on a day off.’
‘So sorry to disappoint.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t disappointed – the D-cups were real. I lost a ten-dollar bet with Johnson, but it was worth it to know. Like I said, impressive girl.’
Theresa couldn’t wait to get away from him.
FIFTEEN
Shephard found Theresa with her eyes to the ocular lens of a stereomicroscope, poring over the ten-year-old acetate sheets with pieces of t
ape stuck to them. A sharpie marker labeled each sheet: Shirt-front. Shirt-back. Pants-front. ‘What is that?’ he asked.
‘The tapings from Diana’s clothing. I never looked at them.’
He slumped into a task chair, scooted it up to the counter. He looked as tired as she felt … and probably looked, she thought with discomfort. When had she last combed her hair?
‘And what can they tell you?’ he asked with a sigh, as if he didn’t really care about the answer, only that someone else do the talking for a while.
So she started from the beginning. ‘We press adhesive tape to the surface of the clothing or bedding or upholstery, and it picks up loose hairs and fibers and other trace evidence, like paint flakes. With luck, the hair will belong to the suspect and the fibers to the clothes he wore.’
‘Really.’ He seemed a bit perplexed, no doubt wondering why he didn’t hear more about hairs and fibers.
So she added the qualifiers. ‘I can screen the hair for similarities microscopically, but can’t individualize it to the person – that would be sent for DNA. As for fibers, I can tell you it’s red nylon of so many microns diameter, but even if the suspect owns a red nylon shirt, I can’t tell you how many of those shirts were made, how many were sold in the area, how many are still in existence or how likely it is that a fiber from someone else’s red nylon shirt might have wound up on the victim.’
‘They can on TV,’ he pointed out.
‘How nice for them.’
This made him laugh. ‘Okay, then. What can you tell me from these taping things?’
Now she sighed. ‘Not much. I don’t know why I’m even looking at them, other than because they were here and easy to get to. The few hairs are long and black, so almost certainly Diana’s. There’s one short black one, maybe James’, which means nothing since they lived in the same house. Then we have different fibers, cotton, nylon, various colors. The only interesting thing is this weird animal hair – weird only because it’s neither cat nor dog.’
‘People have all sorts of strange things as pets.’
‘But Diana didn’t have any pets. Of course, she did have a backyard and she liked to garden, so she could have come into contact with raccoons or possums or deer, for all I know.’ Theresa paused. ‘She was always trying to give me bulbs and seedlings, but everything I try to grow winds up a thin brown stalk. I wonder what happened to all her flowers?’
Shephard said nothing, waiting out her spell of melancholy.
‘What did Yin and Yang say?’ she asked him.
‘Same thing we did: why would James Allman want to get revenge on the ME staff instead of the cops and the judge who arrested and sentenced him – for a crime, by the way, he pled guilty to? It’s not like he went to the can protesting his innocence. The judge and prosecutor haven’t heard from him. The arresting officers haven’t heard from him. Yin and Yang talked to his parole officer, who thought he was working at Giant Eagle.’
‘How did that get by him?’
‘Because James Allman – not Justin Warner – really was working at Giant Eagle. Part-time, just enough to have a paycheck to prove gainful employment. Giant Eagle found James to be a pleasant and reliable employee. He had been on the late shift, restocking shelves, but recently asked to switch to mornings.’
‘Because he changed to the night shift here.’
‘Sounded like when he finished his stint as a deskman, he went there, worked a few hours, went home.’
Theresa pondered this, pushing around a box of Kimwipes. ‘This guy worked two jobs just to keep anyone from looking more closely at James Allman.’
Shephard nodded gravely. ‘Yeah. That’s a lot more dedication than we usually see from the average wife-killing drug addict.’
‘It’s an incredible amount of dedication – and all to get revenge for his incarceration for a crime that he himself committed?’
‘Guys like him aren’t terribly reasonable. Fair doesn’t enter into their thinking. Something like “it’s my own bloody fault that I’m sitting in this jail cell and I’ve got no one to blame but myself” would never light up their brain cells. Don’t expect logic.’
‘It just doesn’t make any sense—’
‘Don’t expect sense, either.’
‘Then what should I expect?’
‘Violence,’ Shephard said. ‘Expect violence. Whatever this guy is up to, he’s serious about it. And Theresa – your name is on that report.’
‘I know.’
Don emerged from the DNA lab room as if something had abruptly occurred to him. ‘What about where he lives? Allman, I mean.’
‘We did think of that,’ Shephard said mildly. ‘He’s got an apartment off of Eddy Road. But he’s not home. His neighbors have no idea where he might be, and no one has spotted his car. We’ve got a guy stationed there in case he comes home, but of course Allman had a head start. He could be hours in any direction by now.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Theresa said.
‘Why not? He probably didn’t plan to murder Darryl Johnson or he would have done a better job of covering it up.’
‘Maybe he intended to,’ Don said, ‘but Theresa interrupted him.’
She said, ‘We’re forgetting that he left us a message.’
‘Message?’
‘The one written in Darryl’s blood. Confess.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Shephard asked, his patience obviously beginning fade together with the long day.
‘It means the same thing that him working two jobs means. James Allman – provided Justin Warner is James Allman – has an agenda, and he’s expended way too much effort toward it to leave town before he gets what he wants.’
‘And that is?’
‘I have no idea.’
Shephard rubbed an oily face with one hand, clearly displeased with their progress or lack of same. ‘Okay. The situation remains the same, then – you, both of you, are potential targets, and you need to act accordingly.’
‘We intend to,’ Don said. ‘We’ll be doubling up tonight, watching each other’s backs.’
Theresa nodded.
‘I’m happy to hear it,’ Shephard said. But he didn’t look happy at all.
SIXTEEN
When Theresa had woken up to the incredibly annoying vibration of her cellphone nearly twenty-four hours previously, she certainly had not expected the very long workday to end with an intimate dinner in Don’s apartment, alone with him and his pet ferret.
And she could not make up her mind how she felt about that.
On the one hand she had longed (if she were being honest) for years (if she were being really honest) to have Don’s attention without the distractions of the lab and the work and the other county employees. She loved the kid, of that she had no doubt. But no matter how much she tried to school herself to love him like a son or even a younger brother, her mind always traveled to activities best not completed with blood relatives.
She loved his warm brown eyes and his deep, comforting voice and the gentle way he had of asking questions that needed to be asked. Don didn’t do small talk. When he asked how you were he really wanted to know. An answer of, ‘Fine,’ would not be accepted if you were clearly in distress, when most men would be finding an excuse to sidle out of the room. Out of everyone else in the world, her mother and Don Delgado would always be in her corner. She loved him, and seeing him in a snug T-shirt instead of a lab coat was just about doing her in entirely.
However, she also wore a T-shirt, and it didn’t seem to be doing anything to him. The relaxed serenity she found so appealing at work did not abate at suddenly putting up a co-worker in his home. He lived much closer to the lab than she did, and since they couldn’t shake the feeling that something more could happen at any moment, they had eliminated her home in the suburbs from consideration. Theresa’s daughter Rachael was safely ensconced at college, and her mother had gone out of town to visit a sick relative, so if Justin – she still thought of him as Justin – showe
d up at her home he would find no one around to attack. Even the dog had been collected by a neighbor, and no one could find the cats when they didn’t want to be found.
So she had gathered up whatever extra clothes and toiletries she kept in her desk drawer for long-day or really-sweaty-crime-scene emergencies and went home with him. Just not in the way she’d been imagining.
Now they sat at a bistro table in his tiny eat-in kitchen, knees nearly touching under the tiled surface. Apparently, Don considered Chinese to be comfort food – which would not have been her choice; not only had she eaten enough fried rice to last a lifetime during her marriage, but the sodium content would plump up the extra five pounds she perpetually tried to lose. But since she had invaded his space she felt he should get his way on this, and truthfully she would eat live squid if that would make him happy.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said over an order of General Tso’s.
‘This isn’t messy at all.’ Compared to the hundreds of homes she had seen in the course of her work, a few cereal boxes out of place and loose socks visible on his bedroom floor still left him eligible for a Good Housekeeping spread. ‘I like your colors. The pillows on the couch really tie it in with the burnt sienna walls.’
‘I can’t take credit for that. A former tenant picked out the paint, and the pillows were a gift from my ex-girlfriend.’
‘Oh.’ Carefully casual, she asked: ‘Are you dating anyone now? You haven’t mentioned—’
‘No. Not since the shoe psycho.’
Theresa laughed. ‘I remember her.’
He held out one perfectly-formed arm. ‘I still have the scar from that stiletto.’
She caught his wrist and pressed her lips to the smooth skin of his inner arm, without giving herself time to be horrified at her boldness. ‘There. Better.’