No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  "Hell, you live closest. What took you so long, Mackenzie?" Rodriguez grinned, his words fogging the air.

  Being on call, she had her evening interrupted by the chirp of her cell phone, the jaded voice of her partner on the other end of the line. She'd just popped in her latest DVD acquisition and was chowing down on a mega bowl of cereal. Nothing that couldn't be interrupted.

  "Quit your whining, Rodriguez. Your wife would probably love to get a whole five minutes out of you."

  Irregular gusts whipped between the buildings, gaining momentum. She walked beside him down the sidewalk next to the main cathedral, heading for the smaller church. The darkened stained glass encased in stone brought back memories of an untainted childhood. But she hadn't seen the inside of a church in a very long while. Somewhere along the way, real life had severed the link.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't get any complaints in that department, thank you very much." Raising an eyebrow, he badgered her. "At least I got a life, such as it is."

  "What are you talkin' about? I've got a life. I was spending some quality time with Walt. Just started the Platinum Edition of The Lion King before I was so rudely interrupted."

  Normally her penchant for classic animated Disney had been a secret she kept all to herself. A ritual lovingly instigated between a father and daughter. But Tony had found her Cinderella DVD on her coffee table once, before she'd tidied up and shelved it in her small media room, another eccentricity. Without the excuse of having kids, or even a husband for that matter, she'd been busted and had to fess up. So she'd been forced to contend with his incessant ribbing ever since.

  "Sorry. What can I say? It's all about the circle of life, Raven." He shook his head and shrugged, gently bringing her back to the reality of their situation in Disney lingo.

  "Hakuna matata, my friend." She grimaced against the chill. "No worries."

  The idle chitchat allowed her to prolong her sense of normality—in denial that she'd soon look into the glazed eyes of another victim, sharing the intimacy of death. But casual conversation at the scene hadn't always been a part of her demeanor. In her first few investigations, she had remained stone quiet when she crossed the yellow tape, the pit of her stomach wrenching with anxiety. Now, she and Tony talked about nothing, their humor masking something neither of them wanted to discuss. But she'd never learned how to rid herself of the twist in her gut. It came with the territory.

  Out of habit, she felt for the CPD badge clipped to her jeans belt loop under her sweatshirt. She moved it to an outside pocket of her leather jacket. It would give her clearance through the yellow tape and beyond the line of uniformed police officers protecting the integrity of the crime scene.

  "What do we have, Tony?" She pulled a small notepad and pen from her jacket, making a note of the date and time. Tugging at the bill of her ball cap, she continued toward the front steps of the chapel. "DB in a church? What a world, huh?"

  "I don't know. Maybe dying in a church is like getting sick in a hospital. Could be worse, I guess."

  A young officer held his hand up, but let them pass when she tapped her detective's badge and muttered in reflex, "Homicide." Then she indulged in the twisted banter only another cop would appreciate.

  "Dead is dead, Tony. No matter how you slice it."

  "Don't say slice, Mac. Trust me on that one."

  Donning her game face, she walked through the main door, snapping on her latex gloves. Down the main aisle and to the left of the altar, lights were ablaze. Crime-scene investigators were already hard at work taking photos, dusting for prints, and bagging and tagging evidence. Staring at the wall to her left, she caught the macabre sight, barely aware she held her breath.

  Flash. The split-second flare of a camera cast a sickly pallor onto the face of the dead man. Flash . . . Flash.

  A man in a rumpled suit hung from a crucifix. His body covered the porcelain likeness of Jesus Christ, strapped in front of it with rope. As she looked at his suit, an odd thought found fertile ground in her mind. Dressing for work this morning, did the man deliberate on his choice of suit or contemplate his shirt color? All of it . . . so pointless. Raven's world had grown colorless, accented by varying shades of mortuary black. This same theme had infringed on her peace of mind more than once lately.

  "You all right?" Tony reached for her elbow. His dark eyes centered on her, blocking out everyone else in the room.

  "Yeah." She waved him off. "Just thinking about something else. It doesn't matter."

  "There is nothing else, Mackenzie. For people in our line of work, it all begins when we cross the line. Remember that." He smiled faintly, falling into the role of her training officer once again. After she nodded, he turned and blended in with the others.

  "It all begins when we cross the line," she repeated one of Tony's favorite sayings to reinforce the thought— getting her head back in the game.

  But crossing the line for Tony meant the crime-scene barrier set in yellow tape. For Raven, it took on a more symbolic meaning. Crossing a line meant risk. And in taking that risk, change would be inevitable. Was she prepared for a change in her life? When she gazed around the room, a familiar thought gripped her.

  "There's gotta be something else, Tony. At least, I hope so," she whispered as if in prayer. And St. Sebastian's was a good place for that.

  Raven drew closer to her partner. She heard him give a directive to one of the beat cops. "Canvass the neighborhood. See if we can catch a break, find someone who caught some suspicious activity outside the chapel. You know this neighborhood best. Grab yourself a team."

  The senior CSI, Scott Farrell, jutted his chin in greeting. "Hey, Raven."

  "Hey, Scott. You just about ready to bring him down?" she asked as Tony joined them. Her gaze traveled up the wall following the rope that suspended the cross and the body. "Looks like a job for more than one person. What do you think, Tony?"

  "Yeah, looks that way. Our priest over there says they haul the cross down for cleaning. That's the only reason it's not permanently attached to the wall. Without the DB, one person can break a sweat just with the crucifix. But with the added weight? Yeah, it's at least a two-person job," Tony replied, watching as two CSI techs strained to lower the body. "So we're looking for more than one suspect with no respect for the church. Two to hoist, but only one to do the carving."

  Raven scribbled a note, then focused on the sign pinned to the dead man's shirt. The words were printed in ink. Safety pins fastened the scrolled message.

  Seek the truth, Christian!

  "No respect for the church, but what do you make of the sign?" she countered. "Religious fanatic?"

  "Could be." Her partner sighed. "Zealots are the worst to figure. Maybe digging into the vic's background will tell us something."

  Looking over her shoulder to the priest sitting in a pew three rows back, she asked, "We got a witness?" Even from this distance, she saw the man shaking, his eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of the body being lowered.

  "No. No such luck. That'd be way too easy," Tony replied, a look of compassion on his face. "That's Father Antonio. He found our DB and called in the nine-one-one. No sign of forced entry. The chapel is usually open at this hour."

  Lowering his voice, he added, "The good father is pretty shook up. Once we get the body bagged and off the premises, we'll talk to him. See if he remembers anything new."

  She studied the priest. Short, dark hair framed a full face with childlike eyes. Yet after what he'd seen tonight, she felt certain he'd be irreparably marred by his experience. When she started to turn away, he caught her eye for an instant. Raven understood the pain conveyed in that look. She wanted to smile, but couldn't bring herself to do it. A slow nod was all she managed, but it had an impact. The priest returned her gesture, then closed his eyes briefly before sinking into the pew.

  "Easy now. Lay him down easy," Tony directed.

  With the cross and body lying flat on the floor, a CSI team member snapped countless photos. Raven
felt like an interloper into the dead man's final moments. The horrified expression on his face was frozen in time, immortalized as evidence by the camera.

  Raven scrutinized the body and noticed something peculiar. "Where's his coat? On a night like this, he should've had a coat." Tilting her head, she tried to get a better look. "And his tie is missing. Expensive suit like that would have a tie."

  "Good eye, Mackenzie." Tony nodded. "And the slice and dice with a knife might make it personal."

  Once the cameraman left, Raven stepped closer to the body and directed her question to Farrell. "Shouldn't there be more blood? I mean, a wound like that?" Kneeling, she stared dispassionately into the mutilated face of the victim. Her training helped to obscure the horror, but she knew this would be one more image to keep her up nights. "There's no arterial spray, either."

  "We'll know more after the autopsy, but yeah, it looks like this isn't the kill site. There'd be more splatter in the church if the cut were made here. And check this out, fresh drain over dried." Scott knelt by her, holding a pencil in his gloved hand. He pointed to the dried stains on the man's suit. "The minimal pooling we see at the base of the cross was probably only made when the body was first hoisted up. What little blood was left at that point. That'd be my guess for now. With the temp in the room, won't have anything definitive on time of death until the ME does the postmortem. But my best guess at this point is two to three hours."

  Her partner narrowed his eyes and stared at the face of the dead man, pointing a gloved finger at his temple. "What's this? Looks like some kind of bruise."

  The CSI man leaned closer. "'Bout the size of a nickel." Pulling back the shirt collar of the victim, he pointed out, "Looks like there's another contusion here, on his neck. Not prepared to give you an answer on that one. We'll know more from the ME."

  "And what's that smell?" Tony asked, sniffing the air near the vic's face and clothes. "Something medicinal or chemical?"

  Raven closed her eyes and inhaled, sensing the first thing out of order. "Alcohol. I smell rubbing alcohol." With another whiff, she added, "It's all over his suit."

  "I'll run an analysis on that, skin and clothes," the CSI man offered. He gave direction to one of his techs. "No sign of defensive wounds, but let's get those hands bagged. We may get some trace under his nails."

  "Robbery's not the motive. Check out his Rolex." Feeling for the man's wallet, Tony found it tucked in his breast pocket. "And he's still got his money and credit cards, but no gun in his holster. Guy might've used it, though." Directing his next comment to the CSI man, he asked, "What about gunshot residue? We'd better check for GSR on his hands. See if he fired it recently."

  With the dead man's jacket open, her partner found an ID badge with photo clipped to his belt. "Our vic is Mickey Blair." Concern registered on his face when he looked at Raven. "And it looks like things just got more complicated."

  Tony held the badge for her to see, and Raven sighed. "Well, how'd we get so lucky? We'd better let the chief know."

  "Let me know what?" The booming voice of Chief Sanford Markham echoed down the aisle. With the press out front, the man never failed to take full advantage of a good photo op.

  The tall, elegant black man walked toward them, dressed in a tux with a long wool coat and scarf buffeting in his wake. Raven always suspected the man had been born on Krypton, a distant relation to Superman with his x-ray vision and supernatural hearing. And now it would appear Chief Markham had a life outside the office, something she couldn't claim. In reflex, she stood at attention when he neared.

  Tony had been slower to react, but quicker on his reply. "The man worked for Dunhill Corporation as security. Nothing like a high-profile murder investigation." '

  "This man might only be a foot soldier. Maybe it doesn't have to be high profile," Chief Markham contended, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. "In fact, I insist on it. This type of case can get ugly fast. I want low profile with every i dotted and every t crossed."

  "Everything by the book, yes, sir," Tony replied, with a glance toward Raven. "Like always."

  "Not just 'by the book,' Detective. I know Fiona Dunhill. She can be a tough woman if she chooses to be, and politically well-connected."

  "What are you suggesting, sir?" Tony's body stiffened.

  "I'm not suggesting anything except to get the job done quickly, and with a little finesse, Detective Rodriguez. Make sure you cooperate with Mrs. Dunhill to the extent possible, without compromising the case. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir. Crystal." Tony waited for the man to turn and head toward the exit before he muttered, "Clear as mud."

  "I heard that." Without missing a step, Chief Markham lifted his hand and shook a finger in admonishment. He kept walking, but bellowed over his shoulder, "And can you two dress a little more professionally when you talk to Fiona Dunhill? Quit taking fashion tips from Vice and Narcotics."

  Raven's jaw dropped. She glared at the back of the chief's head as he left the chapel. Very uncharacteristic for a murder scene, a low rumble of laughter echoed through the room. It ended when she tried to catch the offenders. Even Father Antonio had been distracted enough to break his solemn expression with a faltering smile.

  Tony only shrugged, checking out her attire. "Personally? I've always liked your taste in sweatshirts." With a grin, he tugged at the brim of her cap. "And your Cubs cap is way cool. A sure sign of a bleeding heart, always rooting for the underdog."

  Her father's Cubs ball cap and her family home, a small bungalow on the fringes of the northern suburbs near Lincolnwood, northwest of Wrigley Field, had been part of her inheritance. Sergeant John Mackenzie had died in the line of duty fifteen years ago when she was nearly seventeen. With her mother dead just after her birth, she'd been practically raised by the Central Station House, without a female influence in her life. Coming from a long line of police officers, Raven had little choice but to pursue law enforcement as a career. It was a connection to her father—a bond they shared that transcended his death.

  "You're not exactly Mr. GQ, Tony. Look at you." She fought to hide a smile. His Menudo concert T-shirt was his prized possession. She didn't have the heart to make fun of it. "I guess between the two of us, we're walking billboards."

  "Don't be slammin' my tee. I love Menudo," he mumbled under his breath, hand over his heart in mock sincerity.

  "I know, Tony." She indulged the man with a pat on his shoulder.

  "Ricky Martin was in Menudo. Did you know that, Raven?" he whispered, adding a conspiratorial wink.

  "Yes, Tony. And I'm livin' 'La Vida Loca.'" She nodded, humoring him. She made some final notes in her book, but couldn't resist a quick glance down at her attire.

  She had to admit she'd been influenced by Tony's usual fashion choices. The man worked undercover and came from the ranks of Narcotics. And being called at all hours, Raven paid little attention to her work clothes. She usually pulled her dark hair into a quick ponytail and poked it through the back of a ball cap. If she needed to deliberate over a case, she'd usually turn the cap around, rally style. Her good-luck ritual. It helped her think more clearly.

  Over the years, she'd sacrificed fashion for function, working in a male-dominated career. Wearing makeup and donning anything remotely feminine always drew unwanted attention. These days, her fashion accessories included her badge, handcuffs, cell phone, a nine-millimeter Glock tucked into her shoulder holster, and a .38 strapped to her ankle. Being a gear freak, like most cops, she ordered more equipment and clothing from Galls law enforcement Web site than she did from any hoity-toity fashion catalog.

  "Come on. Back to work." Tony's voice summoned her. "You done here, Raven?" After a quick nod from her, he gave the order, "Go ahead. Bag him."

  When the gurney rolled down the center aisle, with her partner following, Raven wandered toward Father Antonio and sat beside him. Someone had given him a cup of coffee. The Styrofoam cup shook in his hands every time he sipped.

 
"The caffeine will probably keep me up tonight, among other things." He raised the cup, but stopped and lowered it again, avoiding her eyes. "Sorry. I don't know what I'm saying anymore."

  "It's okay, Father. I understand. I'm Detective Raven Mackenzie. And that's my partner, Detective Tony Rodriguez." She shook the hand he offered. Tony waved from a distance, then joined them. He sat in the pew in front.

  "Tell me what happened, Father Antonio," she began.

  "Not much to tell. I came here to take confession. Got to the chapel just after dusk, maybe a quarter after seven. I was running a little behind my schedule, so I wasn't paying much attention, I'm afraid. That's when I found . . ." His voice trailed off. He took another sip of coffee. The dark, steaming liquid quaked in his grip. With the cup now held in his lap, Raven stared down into the dark ripples of his coffee when he spoke.

  "I was praying when I heard the dripping sound. I thought we had a roof leak in the chapel." He tried to find humor in his assumption, but his laughter sounded more like a choked sob.

  With the priest's last remark, Raven found the eyes of her partner, to see if he'd caught the same thing. But his face was unreadable.

  She persisted, "Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, Father?"

  "It was dark," the priest replied. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he were reliving the moment. "The chapel lights are usually on, but they weren't when I came in."

  "And did you know the deceased, Father? Did he come to church here?" she asked.

  "No. But I didn't—I couldn't look at him." The priest shook his head, struggling to block the memory.

  "Can you think of anything else?" she prompted.

  The young cleric shook his head, staring into his coffee cup.

  "Well, if something comes to you, anything at all, call me. Even the smallest detail might help." Raven handed him her business card. Touching his arm, she got him to look her in the eye. "Be sure to get some help in dealing with this, Father. Don't try and do it on your own. Call me if you need a referral."