by Blair Howard
If this man’s not on steroids…
He came out of the shop wiping his hands on an oily rag which he then stuck into one of his belt loops.
“Yeah. What d’you want? This about Jasmine? You found her?”
“Maybe,” I said, flashing my badge. “I’m Sergeant Gazzara; this is Detective Tracy. Can we have a word, in private?”
He nodded. “C’mon through. We can use the office, right, Henry?”
Henry nodded, squinting up at me under the shade of his hand, the cigarette ash almost down to his knuckles.
“You said maybe?” Joe asked, as he sat down on an old car seat. I looked around. There was nowhere else to sit, other than behind the great man’s desk. “The girl they found in the quarry, right? It’s her?”
“As I said, maybe. We haven’t yet identified her, which is why I’m here. We collected prints from Jasmine’s bathroom, which we hope will tell us yes or no. I need your prints so we can eliminate them.”
“From her bathroom? I don’t go in there. Why do you need mine?”
I looked hard at him. “I just told you. To eliminate them—”
“Yeah, but,” he interrupted me, “I told you I don’t go in there. So I don’t see why.”
“Are you refusing to provide them, Mr. Thomas?”
He shrugged, “I don’t see any point in you having them. So yeah, I guess I am.”
“Now, why the hell would you do that?” Tracy said, stepping forward while entering a number on his cell. “You got something to hide?”
Before Thomas could answer, Tracy had his phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, “Yeah, it’s me. I need to know if there are any warrants out on a Joseph Thomas. He lives on…”
“Okay, okay,” Thomas said, rising to his feet. “Keep your friggin’ hair on. You can have my prints. I just didn’t see any need, is all.”
Tracy grinned and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Okay. That’s another point for nerve. He might not be utterly hopeless.
Tracy took Thomas’ prints while I continued to question him, though at this stage I couldn’t ask much without blowing my chances for a more in-depth interview later. I needed a positive ID first.
I agreed with Tracy on one thing: Thomas probably had something to hide. The guy had that shifty “I don’t want to talk to you” look about him.
“When did you last see Jasmine?” I asked.
“Shit. How the hell should I know? Weeks ago, I guess. The night she went missing?”
Why the hell do some people insist on answering a question with a question?
“That would have been the Friday, the eleventh?” I asked, checking the calendar in my phone.
“Yeah… I guess… I dunno. Might have been the night before. I don’t always get outta here on time, like. She’s a wild one, likes to be out with friends, or whatever.”
“Whatever? What does that mean?”
He shrugged, “Nothin’. She’s like all kids her age. Don’t like being told what to do. You know. Cletus and Arlis, they ain’t the strictest parents. All kids needs a whuppin’ now and then. Keeps ‘em in line. Didn’t do me no harm. Jasmine’s… well, she does what she wants, mostly. Michael too. Sophia, not so much, but she’s the baby. You know how that goes, right?”
With a 12-year gap between me and my older sister, I had essentially been an only child. So, no, I don’t know how that goes. But I let it pass.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask where he was the night Jasmine was abducted, but I didn’t. For one thing, I wasn’t investigating the missing girl case. Not yet, anyway. For another, I wanted to identify the girl in the morgue and get a more accurate time of death before I started asking about alibis. Doc had called while we were on the road to tell me that Dr. Wu was already on his way and would be arriving at the forensic center around three-thirty that afternoon.
Tracy had wrapped up his work and put away the ten-cards with Thomas’ prints, so I just nodded and told him thanks and goodbye. We’d leave the full interview for another day, if and when it was needed.
As we walked to the cruiser, I looked at my watch. It was almost three o’clock. I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten since before eight that morning; I was ravenous.
“I need something to eat, Detective,” I said to Tracy as I hit the starter. “I’m thinking something quick and easy. How about you?”
“Sounds good to me. You want a burger or… what?”
“No, something lighter, a salad, I think. Then we’ll head back to forensics. Dr. Wu should be there soon. Wendy’s drive-through?”
He shrugged by way of agreement.
Wow. Such enthusiasm.
I threaded the car through the heavy traffic heading north on I-24 through the Ridge Cut.
Chapter 5
Doctor Jason Wu was something of an enigma. I’d met him before, a couple of times. An extremely intelligent Asian-American man, medium height, frighteningly thin, quiet almost to a fault. Even when offering his opinion, he had to be prodded and pushed, preferring to put his thoughts on paper rather than to provide them verbally. That day, I intended to push him. First, I’d had to get back to the department and hand in the latents and ten-cards to Margo Harris, our resident fingerprint expert; it was almost three-forty-five when we walked into Doc Sheddon’s den.
Doc was leaning with his back against the stainless-steel sink at the foot of the autopsy table, his arms folded across his chest, peering over the tops of his half-glasses as he watched Wu work. Carol Oats had taken up a similar position on Doc’s left—yin and yang if ever I saw them.
Tracy asked if he could stay out in the waiting room. I said he could. There was little to learn from Wu other than a more precise time of death, and even that was doubtful. From what I knew of forensic entomology, the outside temperature was a huge factor when considering the activity of the insects, eggs, and larvae that infested a decaying body. So, knowing how high the temperature was inside the pipe, I had my doubts as to how close the good doctor could get to an accurate PMI.
He looked up as I entered the autopsy room, acknowledging my presence with a slight nod. “Sergeant,” he said. Then he returned his attention to the work at hand… said hand inserted deep in the victim’s abdomen, Carol’s neat stitching now in tatters.
I took my stand at Doc’s right side; together, we watched as Wu lifted sample after sample from the cavity and inspected them through a huge round magnifying glass before transferring tiny samples to slides and then to the microscope. And all the while, not a word passed his lips.
Doc glanced sideways at me, smiled, shook his head and shrugged. “He’s thorough. I’ll say that for him,” he whispered in my ear.
Wu looked up at him, cocked his head to one side. “I heard that, Doctor Sheddon,” was all he said, as he returned to his minute examination of a fat white maggot that squirmed and wriggled in the grip of his tweezers. The bend of his back, the cocked head, the fierce concentration, all reminded me of a buzzard pecking away at…
Oh, Lord, don’t go there…
Finally, he stepped away from the body, stripped off his gloves, and doused his hands liberally with cleanser from a dispenser on the wall. He took up his iPad, flipped through several screens until he found what he wanted, tapped rapidly on the screen, and then laid it down again.
“Doctor Sheddon,” he began. “You estimated the time of death as being sometime between the sixteenth and eighteenth of the month. That must have been difficult for you, considering the advanced state of putrefaction. Would you care to enlighten me as to how you arrived at that finding?”
Sheddon colored slightly. He wasn’t used to having his work questioned, and Wu sounded like an unforgiving professor.
“I arrived at my finding because of the advanced state of decomposition. Under normal circumstances, in a more temperate environment, I would have placed the PMI at three to four weeks. However, on testing the morning, mid-day, afternoon, and evening temperatures inside the pip
e, and finding the range to be extreme, I decided the stage of decomposition we see now could, and probably would, have been reached in a much shorter time: eight to ten days.”
“Yes. Well, I disagree with you, slightly. My own estimate is that she died seven to eight days ago, sometime between eight o’clock on the evening of the twentieth and ten the following morning.”
Doc looked sideways at me and winked, but said nothing.
He’s thinking about that sausage biscuit, I just know it.
“Infestation,” Wu continued, “begins within minutes of death. That being so, she must have been exposed to the elements when she died. The accelerated putrefaction is, as you say, due to the high temperatures to which the body was subjected.”
Wu returned to the examination table. “As you see, the larvae of lucilia sericata…” he paused and looked at me, then said, “the common green bottle fly, are fully developed. Some, unable to find a more suitable place to pupate, have already done so within the body.”
“So, Dr. Wu,” I said. “Just to be sure I fully understand, you’re saying she died just seven days ago, not ten. You’re sure?” I knew as soon as I asked the question I was in trouble. You don’t question experts in their field.
“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped. “Now. If we’re done. I need to get back to Knoxville. Do you have any… legitimate questions before I leave?”
I smiled sweetly at him, “Yes, Doctor. I do. Dr. Sheddon thinks she was killed mid-morning. That would mean, according to your findings, that she died on the morning of the twenty-first, perhaps even as late as ten o’clock. Do you agree?”
“Excuse me?” He looked at Sheddon. “Please explain how you came to that conclusion.”
And he did. And Wu stared at him, nodding slowly.
“Ye-es,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. “That could be a factor. Circumstantial, of course, but a factor. Perhaps. If that’s all?” And away he went.
I was excited. Never once did I expect to be able to tie the time of death down so precisely.
“Okay, Doc,” I said. “I’m calling it between eight and noon on the twenty-first. You agree?”
He shrugged, then said, “If what he said is accurate, then yes. Go for it. If he’s wrong, though, or if I am… well, you know the consequences.”
“Aw, c’mon, Doc. This is the best possible news! Don’t be such a spoil sport.”
“Okaaay… but…”
“But what?” I asked, still smiling.
“I’d run it by Harry if I were you. He has a nose for these things, and—”
I don’t believe it. Even Doc?
I had known I’d face skeptics, of course I would. Harry’s a force of nature, so I was rarely the center of attention during an investigation. Seeing me alone, people were bound to wonder if I could run the whole show. Hell, I wondered the same thing myself.
But Doc knew me better than most. He knew I pulled my own damn weight. This was a surprise. I had to admit, if only to myself, it hurt.
“Are you saying I’m not up to it?” I asked, still half-joking.
“No, not at all. But as they say, two heads, right?”
I nodded, mentally crossing my fingers. “I’ll do that.” When hell freezes over. “Before I go though, let me run something by you.”
“Okay.”
“She was killed mid-morning on the twenty-first. But Wu said she was exposed to the elements. Killing her outdoors in broad daylight seems pretty unlikely.”
He nodded, thoughtfully.
“So, I’m thinking the crime scene has to be somewhat private. But it can’t be completely closed off, or else the flies couldn’t get to her. Right?”
He looked skeptical. “Yes and no, I suppose. Those little suckers will find a body within minutes in the open air, but even in a closed environment, they’ll find it sooner rather than later. And if she was dumped in that pipe soon after death—”
“Right, but if you and the Wu are sure she was killed mid-morning on the twenty-first, it’s a strong bet she wasn’t dumped until after dark, so again the question is, where was she? She was still alive ten days after she was abducted. She was held somewhere for ten damn days. Where?”
“Ah, when you find the answer to that question, you’ll also find your killer, I think.”
I was on a roll. “And he went out and got her breakfast less than an hour before he killed her. That just doesn’t make any sense! What kind of person does that?”
He shrugged, pushed himself away from the sink, took a couple of steps toward the autopsy table, and looked down at the girl’s face. “Who knows?” he said, more to her than to me. “What kind of person does this?”
He sighed, turned away from the table, and said, “Lilo will be here later this afternoon. He’ll make her a little more presentable, but I would try to keep the parents from seeing her, if you can.” He looked at his watch. “Well, Kate. You know how to reach me.” He stuck out his hand.
I shook it and thanked him. Then I went out into the lobby to collect m’man Tracy. I found him reading a gun magazine.
“Well?” he asked.
“Between eight AM and noon on the twenty-first.”
“Woah, that close? He’s good!”
I smiled, “Well, it wasn’t all him. It was Doc who tightened it up…”
My phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Margo, and my heart skipped a beat. The moment of truth had arrived.
“Hey, Margo. You have good news for me?”
“I do. We have a match. The prints you gave me match those of the victim.”
I smiled grimly. “Thanks, Margo. I owe you a beer. I need you to dust the kid’s room, but we should let the family know before you go busting in there. I’ll have Detective Tracy go talk to them and let them know you’re on your way, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s okay. But considering the overtime, you owe me a scotch, is what you owe me.”
“Fair enough. Talk you tomorrow morning.”
I turned to Tracy, “It’s her. It’s Jasmine Thomas.” I looked at my watch. It was almost six. I was tired and in no mood to face the Thomases that evening. I needed to think…
Well, Dick wanted Homicide; a little trial by fire might not be the worst thing.
“Go tell the family the bad news, Detective Tracy,” I said, quietly. “Just the facts, no more. And tell them they need to let Margo Harris dust Jasmine’s room for prints.”
I paused. Then I said, “Look at me.” He did. “They cannot see her. Not yet. If they ask, make some excuse. If they insist, tell them I’ll arrange something. Got it? Good. Meet me in the office at eight-thirty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
He looked put out, but he nodded. I dropped him off in the PD parking lot and left him to it.
I didn’t bother to go into the office myself. I’d had enough. I wasn’t in the mood to go home either, so I made the call.
“Harry. You home? I’m on my way. I need a big old hot bath, a glass of wine, and spectacular dinner. You up for that?”
Yeah. Harry was up for that.
Chapter 6
Harry was in the kitchen when I arrived.
Thank God.
He had wild rice cooking and two slabs of salmon ready for the grill. The bath was waiting, and he had just uncorked a very drinkable Riesling. I swilled down a half glass, held it out for a refill, then headed for the bathroom.
I threw some salts into the bath, put my hair up, stripped, stretched. I turned on the whirlpool jets, and then gently lowered myself into the steaming water, lay back, and closed my eyes. For what must have been all of ten minutes, I lay there and let the water wash away all my cares and woes, and then…
“Hey, you gonna lie there all night?”
I jumped. Harry was standing over me, towel in hand.
“Jeez, Harry. Just go away and let me drown, okay?”
“Nope. Not okay. The rice is done, the grill’s hot, and I’m starving. Now get your fat ass out of there and let’s eat.”
“Fat ass? Fat ass? What fat ass?” I hauled myself up out of the water and turned my back to him, so that he might check it out. I twisted round, looked at him over my shoulder. He was grinning like a baboon.
Do they grin, baboons? I wonder…
“Yeah,” he said. “Nice and fat.”
I spun around, wrapped my arms around him, and cut him off with a kiss, long and hard.
“Fat, my ass,” I said when I came up for air. “Now, just look at you. You’re all wet and… Oh, but you just want to eat, right?”
“Right,” he said, lifting me bodily out of the tub. “But right now, salmon isn’t on the menu. You are.”
And I was.
It was after eight when we finally sat down to eat. I was more worn out than relaxed, tell you the truth, but I will say this: Harry Starke sure knew how to turn me into a shivering pile of leftovers.
I sat down while he threw the salmon on the grill, then he joined me. I was in one of his t-shirts, and well into my third glass of Riesling. He was wearing a tee and boxers, sipping on a large glass of very expensive scotch.
How does he drink that nasty stuff?
The salmon was out of this world; the rice, by then, had been cooked down to mush. Even so, it hit the spot, and I was in one of those moods where nothing mattered but the moment.
We left the dishes to fend for themselves and went into the living room, to the huge sofa Harry had set in front of a vast, floor-to-ceiling picture window. Harry’s favorite spot on earth and, I guess, mine too. At least it was in those days.
I met Harry when I was just out of the Police Academy. That was in 2000; I was twenty-two, he was thirty. And rich as hell, though you’d never know it. His mother had died a couple of years earlier, leaving him a small fortune in property and investments; he’s more than tripled it since.