Deadly Justice bk-3

by William Bernhardt

  “Beats me.”

  “You’re a hell of a lot of help, Ben. Who else was in the building when you found the body?”

  Ben thought for a moment. “To my knowledge, only myself, Rob Fielder, Herb, and Candice.”

  “The last two say they left immediately after your…encounter with them. What about your buddy Rob?”

  “Rob has been with me all day long, and we only came upstairs about an hour ago. We were together until we found Howard, and we were only separated for about three or four minutes after we found his body. I called you, and Rob called security. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  Mike nodded. “I checked. He did call the security desk downstairs. Left a message on their answering machine.”

  “Anybody who works in this building could’ve stayed late. Just because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Have you got a list of all persons who signed out after eleven P.M.?”

  “We’re working on it. I saw those overweight babysitters you call security guards though. Someone could’ve slipped by them without signing, particularly if it was someone the guards recognized.”

  “I’ve seen them wave people through myself,” Ben said.

  “Even assuming someone could’ve relocated the body in the few minutes you were gone, which is difficult to believe in and of itself, where could they have gone with it? Especially with the elevators out of whack. I don’t think they could’ve moved the stiff off this floor, much less out of the building.”

  “Have you checked for other exits? Maybe some secret, executives-only passageways. Or maybe the windows?”

  “I’ll ask people tomorrow about secret passageways, but it strikes me as rather unlikely. The windows are all, without exception, hermetically sealed. Any other suggestions?”

  Ben pressed his fingers against his temples and tried to remember every second of the past hour. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself with Rob, walking toward his office, opening the door, seeing the body fall….

  He snapped his fingers. “There was something in Hamel’s hand. It fell out when he hit the floor. I couldn’t tell what it was.”

  “Whatever it was, it’s not there now. What did it look like?”

  Ben tried to recall. “It was square and flat. Not large. About the size of the palm of his hand.”

  “And you didn’t look at it more closely?”

  “I was a bit stressed out at the time, Mike. I apologize for not performing the Sherlock Holmes routine to perfection.”

  Mike grunted. “Well, if you think of something more, let me know.”

  “Of course. What’s your plan of attack?”

  Mike twisted his shoulders, sending ripples through his overcoat. “I’m not sure I have a plan, Ben.”

  “Isn’t that what they teach in crime school?”

  “Ben, you have no idea what my schedule is like right now….”

  “You’re not going to let this drop!”

  “Ben, I’m a homicide investigator. There’s no proof so far that there’s been a homicide! Or even a death!”

  “You have my testimony.”

  “I need more. To be specific, I need a body.”

  “That’s just a technicality. You don’t absolutely have to have a body to initiate a murder investigation.”

  “But it sure facilitates matters. The D.A. would appreciate it, too.” He shoved his hands deeply into his coat pockets. “Have you been keeping up with the murders of the teenage girls?”

  Ben nodded grimly. “Three murders in less than two weeks.”

  “Yeah. Grisly, too—heads and hands cut off. Apparently a serial killer with a serious grudge against teenage girls. First bona fide serial killer we’ve ever had.”

  “What’s your point, Mike?”

  “My point is that every available resource in the department, including me, has been diverted to these murders, and given the magnitude of the crimes, rightfully so. How much interest do you think I’m going to be able to stir up for your alleged murder with no corpse?”

  Ben didn’t like what he was hearing, but he knew Mike was right. “Any recommendations?”

  “You could look into this matter yourself. Do some checking on your own. You’ve done it before, and not altogether unsuccessfully. If you can uncover more information, or better yet a corpse, maybe I can pull some men off the serial killer case and put them on this one.”

  “Where would I start?”

  “You need to find out everything you can about the victim. When he doesn’t show up for work tomorrow, people are going to start talking. Listen to what they say. Find out whatever you can about your new colleagues. Given where the body was found, the guilty party may be an Apollo employee.”

  Ben hated to become the company mole. It seemed like a betrayal—only two days on the job, and already he was going to be investigating his co-workers, possibly trying to incriminate them. “I’ll see what I can do. Mike—thanks for coming out.”

  “No problem. If you see your sister any time soon, put in a good word for me.”

  “I could try, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Alas, ’tis only too true. Before I go, Ben—mind if I ask a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “What the hell are you doing working for this big corporation?”

  “I don’t under—”

  “I thought you got this money-grubbing routine out of your system during the Raven, Tucker & Tubb fiasco.”

  “I hardly think that was typical—”

  “Have you read much Samuel Clemens—Mark Twain?”

  “You’re the English major, not me.”

  “Do you know the story of Tennessee gold?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s something Twain’s father talked about when Twain was young. He was always dreaming of easy wealth. Some of his get-rich-quick schemes involved land speculation—Tennessee gold. He never found any gold, but that desire for instant security infected Twain for the rest of his life. Even after he became a successful writer and was relatively secure financially, he continued to pursue the dream. He invested in an unperfected typesetting machine. It was supposed to revolutionize the publishing industry and make him rich beyond his wildest imagining.

  “But there were development problems, complications, demands for additional start-up cash. To make a long story short, the machine drained Twain dry. And it bombed, never made a cent. Instead of being reasonably well-off, suddenly Twain was penniless. To pay off his debts, he went on the road, taking on a nightmarish schedule of speaking engagements—and this was late in his life and during a time when travel was not easy. He wrote a flurry of books of dubious quality. He did almost anything he could for money. He eventually got back on his feet financially, but it embittered him, cost him his health, estranged him from his family, and possibly contributed to the death of his wife and two daughters.” Mike’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Get the message?”

  Ben pursed his lips. “I suppose in your subtle lit-crit way, you’re suggesting that I’m chasing after Tennessee gold.”

  “Yup. And I think you got it the same place Twain did. From your father.”

  “Really? Christina attributed this career decision to my mother.”

  “That’s possible, too.”

  “Better stick with the detective work, pal. As a shrink, you stink.”

  “Says you. Anyway, try to get some sleep tonight. Snuggle with your cat. Forget about the nasty world of serial killers and corpses that tumble into your arms.”

  “Thanks.” Ben felt another chill creeping down his spine. “But I doubt it.”

  11

  THE BRUNETTE DUTY OFFICER at the front desk gave Sergeant Tomlinson directions to the X-ray room. She was good-looking and, by all indications, interested. But he wasn’t. Not that she didn’t appeal. He just had a hunch Karen wouldn’t approve, and he wasn’t about to put his relationship with his wife and daughter at risk for a quick romp with the duty officer.<
br />
  He pressed the button outside the X-ray room, and a moment later the automatic lock released and the door; popped open. Good—Koregai must have received his message. Tomlinson had called ahead and learned that Koregai was doing a rework on the second of the three corpses. Sounded like a golden opportunity to Tomlinson; he crossed town in less than fifteen minutes. Of course, the blaring siren on his car helped somewhat.

  Koregai had been the downtown coroner for years, far longer than Tomlinson had been on the force. In that time, Koregai had become the stuff of legends. Notoriously difficult to work with, he seemed to think that the entire law enforcement division existed solely for his benefit and pleasure. He chafed at commands and resisted all direct orders; pushy demands had a mysterious habit of causing autopsy reports to be delayed or lost. He probably would’ve been dumped long ago, if not for the fact that he was the best in the state at his job, and he was even better in the courtroom.

  Tomlinson approached the table in the center of the dark room. An icy blue female corpse atop the table gave off an eerie glow under the dim fluorescent lighting. Tomlinson didn’t have to ask who she was; the absence of her head and her hands explained everything.

  “I’m Sergeant Tomlinson. I’d like to observe if possible.”

  There was no response from Koregai, not even a grunt.

  Tomlinson decided to take his silence as approval. He read the clipboard at the end of the table. The preliminary autopsy report was on top. Tomlinson scanned the form; the phrase within normal limits jumped out at him time after time. The only deviation from the norm appeared at the bottom of the page. In the space labelled ABNORMALITIES, Koregai had scrawled: No head, no hands.

  Very informative.

  Koregai extinguished the overhead light. He was a short, dark man of Asian-American descent. Hardly friendly, but that was all right with Tomlinson; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than a chummy coroner. Koregai flipped the power switch on a gray box about the size of a toaster oven. A row of green lights danced across the front of the device. He picked up a small metal wand connected to the box by a spiraling cord.

  The coroner activated a small tape recorder, then pressed a button on the wand. A blue beam of light emerged.

  “What’s that?” Tomlinson asked.

  To his surprise, Koregai answered. “Laser,” he muttered.

  “What does it do?”

  Koregai pressed the wand against the top left clavicle of the corpse. Slowly, methodically, he scanned her entire body, an inch at a time. “Theoretically, the synchronized laser light stimulates atoms so as to cause them to emit light in phase.”

  “Oh really,” Tomlinson said. If the police academy covered this, he must’ve been absent that day. “And that’s desirable?”

  “So I am told. It is supposed to make visible what would not otherwise be so.”

  “I get it. Fibers. Trace evidence.”

  “Exactly. Or fingerprints.”

  “Wow.” Tomlinson stepped forward into the blue glow. “What a great gadget. It must be a tremendous help to you.”

  “Hmmph.” Koregai’s gloved fingers moved the wand down the torso. “High-tech vacuum cleaner.”

  Tomlinson observed the subtle note of disapproval and changed subjects. “I’m surprised this hasn’t been done already.”

  Koregai paused for the barest of seconds, then proceeded with his examination. “I have already examined the corpse. Thoroughly.”

  Tomlinson was beginning to catch on. “Then this rework wasn’t your idea?”

  “No. Decidedly not.” Koregai’s fingers pressed against the flesh surrounding her pelvis, letting the light refract at a variety of angles. “They have become desperate, because they want this killer so badly. Unfortunately, they have no clues, no evidence. The killer is too careful. He has cleaned his victim, removed all trace evidence. That is why I found nothing before. That is why I find nothing now.”

  This unwanted assignment might be a hassle to Koregai, but it was a blessing for Tomlinson. Angry, Koregai was uncharacteristically talkative. “You haven’t found anything of interest?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just thought maybe if I knew what you knew, maybe I could find something in the field that would”—he straggled for words; obsequiousness was not his strong suit—“that would assist you in preparing your report.”

  “Are you working on this investigation?”

  “Uh…yes. Unofficially.”

  “Unofficially?” Koregai’s forehead wrinkled, then he resumed his work. “Might as well. The official investigators need all the assistance they can get.”

  Tomlinson suddenly shot forward, jarring the table. “What’s that?”

  Koregai lost his balance and fell to one side. “By all that’s—” He muttered some words in a language Tomlinson didn’t understand. “I want you to leave immed—”

  “I thought I saw something!” Tomlinson said hurriedly. “Something in the blue light.”

  Frowning, Koregai returned the wand to the body. He was scanning the center pelvis, just above the pubic hair.

  “A little higher.”

  Koregai obediently elevated the wand. He moved it back and forth, then rotated it, letting the light sparkle and radiate. After a few more moments, he saw what had caught Tomlinson’s attention. With a small pair of tweezers, he removed a stray hair. He dropped the hair into a glass vial.

  “What do you think it means?” Tomlinson asked.

  “I…don’t know. Will have to run tests…”

  Tomlinson could see that Koregai was disturbed. He was accustomed to being flawless. Now some stupid police sergeant had seen him make a mistake.

  “Look, Dr. Koregai, I’m sorry I startled you like that. I’m sure you would’ve seen that hair in a second. In fact, you probably noticed it when you did your preliminary report. It just didn’t seem important enough to write down.”

  Koregai stopped his work, shut off his tape recorder, and peered at Tomlinson. Gradually, his face relaxed; he realized a peace offering was being extended. “Is there…some way I can help…you?”

  Tomlinson smiled. “I don’t know, Doc. Have you come across anything during your examinations of the three corpses that might give me a leg up? Something everyone else has overlooked, or didn’t think was important. It might be the most trivial detail in the world to you, but it might break the case wide open for me.”

  Koregai stood for a moment, poised in thought. Without speaking, he turned back to the corpse and gently lifted her left breast with the wand. On the underside of the breast, in the blue glow, Tomlinson saw a small tattoo. It was a butterfly, with a garland of flowers across its wings.

  Tomlinson knew that the coroner could determine how long ago the ink had stained the skin. “How old?”

  “The tattoo is of recent origin.”

  “Has anyone else seen this?”

  Koregai nodded. “It’s in my report. But they don’t know what to do with it. They attempted to trace it. Without success.”

  Tomlinson beamed. “Thanks, Doctor. I really appreciate it. And if you get anything on that hair, please let me know.”

  Koregai bowed politely, then returned to his work.

  Tomlinson raced out of the X-ray room. He wished he could follow up on this lead right away, but unfortunately there was a switchboard waiting for him and he was already late. That was all right; he’d probably have more luck after midnight anyway.

  He could understand why no one else knew what to do with the tattoo. They probably classified it as a detail that could confirm a suspected identity, but was of no value in identifying an unknown.

  And that’s where they were wrong. Maybe the tattoo didn’t mean anything to the hotshot detectives, but it meant a lot to Torrdinson. Especially combined with what he had figured out already.

  Tonight he was going to get lucky.

  12

  BEN WAS SLEEPING, OR attempting to, when he felt something cold and wet brush against his
face.

  “What the…!” His eyes opened. It was Giselle, the huge black cat Christina had gifted him with last year. She was standing on his chest, two paws around his neck, rubbing her wet nose against his cheek.

  “Maybe you don’t understand, Giselle. I already have an alarm clock. And it’s not set to go off for another hour and a half.”

  Giselle wedged her furry head into the crook of his neck and purred.

  “What’s the urgency? I just fed you last night.” He sighed. “Oh, very well. I might as well have a baby.”

  He hauled himself out of bed, threw on a robe, and walked into the kitchenette of his small apartment.

  Giselle followed along, close at his heels. Reaching into the topmost cupboard, Ben withdrew a can of Feline’s Fancy and opened it.

  The distinctively fishy aroma filled the room. Giselle raised her head and looked up at Ben expectantly.

  “All right, Giselle, let’s try Stunt A again.” He patted his shoulder with his free hand. “Jump.”

  He waited. Nothing happened. “Jump, Giselle. Jump.” He waited. Still nothing happened.

  “Giselle, the idea is for you to leap into my arms. Then, as a reward, I give you some food. There’s no reason why you can’t master these simple tricks. Now jump!”

  Giselle padded over to her cat-food bowl, plopped her considerable weight down, and waited.

  “C’mon, don’t be so lazy. Work for your dinner. Jump!”

  Giselle lifted her head ever so slightly and stared at him with wide, hungry eyes. A small, pathetic mewling emerged.

  “Oh, all right then.” He bent down and scraped the cat food into her bowl. As soon as he was done, Giselle dipped her head in and began to eat. The mewling converted to a soft purr.

  “Yeah, well,” Ben said, straightening his robe, “we’ll work on the jumping tonight. Next time, no exceptions.” He put a Christine Lavin CD on, then, from a cabinet beside his refrigerator, pulled down a cereal bowl and a box of Cap’n Crunch. On second thought, he dispensed with the bowl and ate it right out of the box. He plucked a mildly dirty glass from the sink and poured himself a glass of chocolate milk. In one satisfying swallow, he downed half the glass, then licked the brown chocolaty mustache from his upper lip.