Code 61

by Donald Harstad

  I finished photographing the rest of the bathroom, having to reload the camera again. I started to talk to myself, and to her, about that time.

  “Sorry, kiddo, but I gotta reload.” There was, of course, no answer. “A few more shots to go. I'll be done in a second, and then we can leave you to yourself until the doc gets here.”

  You do that. Well, I do that. When I'm alone with a freshly dead person. Nerves, I guess. Spooked, or getting that way. That, and it always seems such an intrusion, especially when they're in such a vulnerable position. I always get self-conscious and kind of embarrassed. I have to look at parts of them they'd never let me see if they were alive. And I take photos, to boot. So I try to verbally reassure them.

  “I don't know, but I think you maybe might have done this to yourself. No clothes to get into when you get out of the tub, you know? Nothing laid out in the bedroom. Like you had no intention of ever leaving that tub.” It was possible. There were absolutely no signs of a struggle, as they say. None but those bruises, and they might not be contemporaneous with her death. The plastic curtain didn't even seem to be much disturbed, hanging properly inside the rim of the tub. It was awfully difficult to imagine someone creeping up behind her, stabbing her in the neck, and having her bleed to death. I'd seen a couple of very determined suicides before, including one woman who'd stabbed herself eleven times in the abdomen with a hunting knife. That had to have taken a while. You could do a lot of damage to yourself if you were in the right frame of mind.

  But it still looked … well, wrong. Especially the bruises. But maybe she'd had a fight with her boyfriend earlier in the day. That was possible.

  I remembered that Edith had overdosed on pills, at least once for sure. Only once, as far as I knew, because I'd been a night-shift officer then, and had been assigned to that case. That had been a few years back. Not evidence in and of itself, but a prior attempt was at least an indication that she'd achieved a suicidal frame of mind on at least one occasion. But would that even bear on the fact that we had a knife used this time?

  Hmm. I could almost hear the endless discussions generated by that, late at night in the dispatch center. That, and the discussion about the position of the knife. Would she have dropped it on that side? Wouldn't it have landed (insert choice) blade forward, rear, up, down, more to the left, more right? … I almost felt I owed it to the night shift to resolve this one quickly.

  There was a voice behind me, out in the bedroom.

  “Carl, you in there?”

  Lamar.

  “Yeah, Lamar. You might want to stay out there…. ”

  I was too late, because as I turned to go to the bedroom, Lamar came to the doorway of the bathroom. His limp was more pronounced than usual, like it got when he was really tired. Don't ever let somebody tell you that gunshot wounds go away, even after years have gone by.

  He stopped, more from habit of not disturbing the scene than out of any kind of surprise or shock. We'd both been to these things before, many times. For me to try to intercept his gaze, or to usher him back into the bedroom, would have been an insult. So I just stepped aside and let him look. He took about a full minute, and then cleared his throat.

  “Suicide, ya think?”

  “Not sure yet, Lamar.”

  “Probably, though?”

  “Probably, yes. The ME hasn't gotten here yet. I have some questions about those bruises.”

  He looked directly at me for the first time since I'd heard his voice. “I know we hear this all the time … but she just wasn't the type, Carl.”

  “She did try it before.”

  “That was before she had the kid,” he said. “That little girl of hers means too much to her. She'd never leave her this way.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “The kid's been with my sister most of the time,” said Lamar. “Edie, here, hates that, and hates her mom, too.” He paused, and corrected himself. “Hated. Anyway, she's been trying to get back on her feet, get the kid back. She'd never give up like this.”

  Some things are really hard to say, particularly to a friend. But you just have to, sometimes. “That could be, boss,” I said. “That could be. But we better wait for the toxicology report, you know.”

  “Yeah. But I don't think she does dope anymore.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you're right.”

  We both looked at Edie for a few moments.

  “The neck, they said?”

  “Yeah, and that bothers me a little, too. At least for now.”

  He made no move to advance, to see the wound himself. “Oh?”

  “I can't get a real good look until we move her, but … ”

  He looked at me, eyebrows raised. I didn't want to promote any ideas, but he was also my boss.

  “You know how self-inflicted wounds like this tend to look like the subject was trying to saw wood? Back and forth, angle changes, and lots of small cuts and scratches where they're off, and where they hesitate?”

  He nodded.

  “This looks like a one-shot deal to me. So far, anyway. Sure no hesitation marks.” I shrugged. “We don't want to read too much into that, but that's what it looks like.”

  “Yeah?” Lamar looked at me expectantly.

  “And the bruises, like I said. On the other hand,” I went on, “there's no sign of a struggle in the vicinity of the tub, or in the next room. You can see that. There's no clothes or anything. Either that she took off or that were laid out for her to put on. Like she was never going to get out of the tub, and knew that.” I took a breath. “The clothes bit bothers me, Lamar. I have to admit … ”

  We were both quiet for a while.

  “You gonna need help on this? At least for a while?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said. Another officer never hurt. There always seemed something for them to do. “Borman will be okay.”

  “You sure?” asked Lamar. “He's takin' those social worker classes…. ”

  “Yeah, that's okay,” I said. “He needs the experience, and he's already halfway familiar with the case.”

  “You got him, then. Did I tell you that Doc Zimmer's doing the workup?”

  “Okay. That's good.” Dr. Henry Zimmer, a local MD. Acting as a Deputy County Medical Examiner, being closest physician to the scene. At this point, we didn't require a forensic pathologist; we needed someone to pronounce Edie dead. We couldn't do that, and it was considered bad manners to just drop an obviously deceased at the nearest ER.

  “And DCI, maybe?” Lamar asked.

  DCI was the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation. As a state agency, if we called for one of their agents, if we needed a forensic pathologist, he'd be charged to them. Along with the crime scene processing team, if needed. Tempting. But the state was busy, too, and we always hate to call DCI unless we really need them.

  “Probably not yet, Lamar,” I said. As I looked at him, though, I began to realize that this had been more of an order than a question. “Although, if this were to be a murder … ”

  “They really hate to get called in late,” finished Lamar.

  We looked at each other.

  “It's always best to be sure,” I said.

  “True.”

  We were both silent in our thoughts for a moment.

  “Lamar, tell me the truth. Would you feel better if we called DCI?”

  “Yep.”

  I reached out and patted him on the shoulder. I'd never done that, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. “Let's go make the call.” I certainly didn't want to leave him alone with the body.

  As we were about halfway through the bedroom, Lamar said, “Hey, Carl?”

  I stopped, and turned toward him. “Yeah?” I thought he'd found something.

  “Get Hester. Request her by name, okay?” He paused, embarrassed. “I mean, I know Edie's dead … but I'd just like a female DCI agent on this one.”

  “Sure.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a
rolled newspaper. He handed it to me. “You might want to check out the article here, when you get a chance.”

  “Okay.”

  “I'm glad you're gonna get Hester.”

  He meant Hester Gorse, Special Agent, Iowa DCI. Hester and our department went back a long way. She was one of the very best, without a doubt. And what he was trying to say was that he didn't feel too comfortable with male officers examining Edie's body, or going through her personal effects. He'd have to go with me, of course, but Hester would ease his mind just by her presence. The problem was, DCI almost never sent a specific agent on request. They had a rotational assignment procedure, generally based on agent availability, but also designed in part to provide a wide base of experience for their general crim agents. It also served to prevent any hint of collusion between the local requesting department and any specific DCI agent, defense attorneys occasionally being known to grasp at straws. We'd just have to see.

  Borman directed me to the phone downstairs. I quietly told him to stick with Lamar. He nodded.

  “Oh, and consider yourself assigned to the case until further notice. Authority Lamar.”

  “Oh! Uh, thanks, Carl.”

  “Think nothing of it. You need the experience. I need the help.”

  The first DCI agent I talked with at the Cedar Falls district office wasn't sure, but thought Hester was at home. He gave me the home phone number of his boss, Alan Hummel. Lamar and I had known Al for nearly twenty years. I explained the situation, in some detail, emphasizing Lamar's relationship with the deceased, and the condition of the body.

  “Boy, Carl. That's a shame. But you do need an agent because of the suspicious nature of the thing, right?”

  “Yes.” Like I'd say differently.

  “But you say it's a suicide?”

  Well, that was what I'd said, standing in the hall of the huge house, and not being too sure just who was able to hear me. “This isn't a secure line.”

  “Got it.” He paused. “Look, as far as I'm concerned, you've got Hester. I'll have State Radio give her a call. If she's not at home, they'll page her. I'll instruct them to contact your office as soon as they get an ETA.”

  “Thanks, Al.” “And, Carl, be sure to tell Lamar he has my sympathy.”

  As I hung up, I saw Toby, the young man from the front steps, standing in the room across the hall. He was staring at me.

  “I hope that was a local call,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, I hope that was a local call,” he replied.

  I've always found that, when dealing with someone who's trying to win the Junior Dickhead award, it's most rewarding to play things irritatingly straight, but vague.

  “No, it was long distance,” I said, smiling. “Sorry to dash your hopes.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but I held up my hand and dialed the sheriff's office.

  “Hey, can you spring some more people for me up here … maybe two, if you can? Three or four'd be good. I've got folks moving around up here, and I have better things to do than control foot traffic.” The dispatcher said she'd try. “And,” I said, “Hester should be on her way up pretty soon.” Just a way to inform and alert the dispatcher that things might get really busy in a while.

  Done with that, I put the phone back on the receiver. Toby resumed our conversation as if I'd never made the second call.

  “Who pays for it, then?”

  Again, I smiled. He was really trying to get some attention. “Is the phone in your name, Toby?”

  “No.”

  “Whose name is it in, then? Do you know?” The last question surprised him a bit, I saw. Unexpected turn, when he'd thought some sort of confrontation was coming.

  “Jessica Hunley.” The way he said it, I got the impression that I was supposed to know who Ms. Hunley was. I didn't, but I'd find out. I was also going to find out why Toby was here, if it wasn't his phone. Guest? Resident? Patron? But it could wait.

  “Then, can I rely on you to tell Ms. Hunley that I used a credit card?”

  “Well, yes. Yes. I'll do that.”

  “Excellent,” I said, heading for the stairs. “Don't go too far, Toby. I'll get to you pretty soon, now.” I went up a couple of stairs. “Oh, Toby … thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For getting the message to Ms. Hunley for me.”

  “Sure.” He sounded just a little uncertain, but not ready to concede anything. Good for him. I knew he'd be a witness of some sort, to whatever it was we really had here. Not that I'm cynical, but it's never too soon to start working on a witness.

  I stopped on the landing, and looked at the newspaper Lamar had handed me. It was today's copy of the Freiberg Tribune and Dispatch. All six pages of it. On the front page, lower left, was a headline: “Dracula Visiting Freiberg?” The article was about our window-peeking incident from two days ago. No names. But it quoted a “young lady” as describing the window peeker as having “enormous fangs” and “just hanging in space outside my second-floor window.” The article was mostly tongue in cheek, naturally, but the damage was done. Shit. Just what I needed to muddle a case. I could almost hear what Harry was going to say about this.

  I put the paper in my back pocket, and continued up the stairs. I wanted a cigarette again.

  When I got to the top, I motioned Borman over. “Go sit on that Toby kid downstairs, will you? I don't want him wandering off. Get his full name, address, all that shit, and see if he'll do a voluntary statement.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don't interrogate him, though. Not yet. No specific questions about what's happening here today. Just background data on Edie, and her,” I said, indicating Hanna, who was still on the bench in the hall. For the first time I became aware that she was in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, with incongruous six-eyed work boots on her feet, unlaced. She did get up in a hurry, I thought. And hasn't been inclined to go back to her room to dress. I noted that because it made what I'd heard quite believable.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Be firm, but nice.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Do we know for sure what his connection is here? He said he lived here. That true?”

  Borman nodded. “He's one of the residents here, as far as I know. Long-term house-sitters, as far as I can tell. I found that out from the lady EMT who's talking to Hanna. There are about six of 'em, I guess.”

  That was why the locals called it the Dropout Dorm. Not school dropouts. It was sort of a matter of pride in Nation County's four high schools that we'd had precisely two dropouts in the last ten years. The “Dropout” came from dropping out of the mainstream. Something I'd always thought to be a harmless idea.

  “Six?” More than I'd expected. “So, where's everybody else?”

  “Some of 'em have gone to work already. And there's one girl raking leaves in the backyard.”

  Well, Jesus Christ. “Uh, you want to get her into the house? Keep an eye on her, too. The damned leaves can wait.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Easy.”

  “And get her to fill out the same forms Toby does. And find out who the others are, okay?”

  He started to go by me, and I stopped him. “Hey,” I said, lowering my voice, “you happen to know who this Ms. Hunley is?”

  “Owns the house,” he said. “Lives over north of Chicago, I think. That's what the lady EMT told me.”

  “North of Chicago” covered a lot of territory. “See if you can get an address.”

  As he left, I found myself wondering if I were standing in a hotel lobby. Six? Well, the Mansion was easily big enough to hold that many. I just hoped there weren't any more potential witnesses being overlooked because they were outside doing yard work.

  SIX

  Saturday, October 7, 2000

  09:24

  Dr. Henry Zimmer arrived at exactly the same time that the office called and told us that Special Agent Hester Gorse was en route from her residence, and had an ETA of abou
t forty-five minutes. Things were beginning to move, finally.

  Doc Zimmer was a large guy, and altogether an exceptional MD. Doctors just don't like being commandeered for medical examiner duty, because it either means that they have to leave their office, or to show up on their day off, or come out in the middle of the night. But Doc Zimmer never, ever complained. He was always cheerful, friendly, and very good at what he did.

  We told him who it was, and where. He instantly expressed his condolences to Lamar.

  “Lamar, I'm really sorry.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “It seems like just yesterday that I delivered her daughter.”

  “Yeah,” said Lamar. He spoke to both of us. “Look, you don't really need me, so I better get over to my sister's for a while.”

  “Before anybody else tells her?” I asked.

  “Nope,” said Lamar. “She's the one who told me who it was, this morning. That's why I told the office to send you.”

  That was a real compliment, coming from Lamar. He was very reluctant to discuss his sister's side of the family with anybody. I felt kind of flattered.

  “How's she taking it?” I asked, just to be polite.

  “Her? Hell, she's already talking about suing the lady who owns this place. She's just bein' herself.”

  When he entered the bathroom, Doc Z. just said, “Oh, boy.” He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and started to examine the body, moving very slowly and carefully, and not moving her about much at all. At one point he gently lifted her head, and studied the gaping wound.

  “More a stab than a cut.” Then, “Seems to be some rigor present in the neck and jaw.”

  Rigor mortis is a strange thing. It's the phenomenon that causes the muscles to stiffen after death. It starts when the body gets to about room temperature, half an hour to an hour or so after death. The smaller muscles stiffen completely first, the larger muscles lagging a bit behind. It lasts about twelve hours, and then subsides in another twelve or so. At that point, rigor in the neck told us that she'd likely been dead for more than a half hour. Given that I'd first observed her body about an hour before, it was hardly a revelation. But you have to start somewhere.