Chapter 31
After an hour Paul must have found it impossible to avoid Jimmy any longer because he walked back to the porch where Jimmy was forced to sit, now alone. Winston had gone inside, after using the excuse that he needed a nap. Maybe the old man did, but Jimmy thought it more likely he’d had all he could handle and that he’d needed to hide inside the security of his home, away from the commotion and prying eyes. Jimmy hoped he rested; Winston didn’t look half as well as when they’d met five days earlier.
Paul began speaking as he climbed the steps and took a seat in Winston’s empty rocker. “We’re not bringing in GPR. Forensics is sending a team to dig. If the dog’s wrong, then this is it. Any further expense on this case, unless it’s pretty much a sure thing, has had the kibosh put to it.”
“I’m thankful they agreed to this much, and I know that it was only because of your influence,” Jimmy said. He knew that without Paul’s help the dog and handler and anything else that might have been required wouldn’t have been possible. In his opinion, although ground-penetrating radar was a useful tool a dog could prove almost as efficient with cadavers, and was cheaper.
“Thanks, Paul. This means a lot to the Hilton family.”
Paul inclined his head. He didn’t waste time with false modesty in denying his involvement. He knew Jimmy understood the hoops he’d had to jump through to get the dog and a team to sift the soil. It was another of the games that were required of detectives. Find the guilty party by whatever means necessary. But don’t use the ‘whatever means’ without clearing it first or you could pay for it yourself.
The sky was darkening with every second that passed. Rain would be here soon. A capricious breeze swirled around the porch, fitfully stirring a thick, unruly lock on Jimmy’s forehead. The air had become heavy and damp, which made his hair curl even more. It had been his bane since he was a teenager. He’d tried creams and jells, nothing worked. Finally he’d given up and just accepted the fact that his hair would lie down only if it were inclined.
“Did you put protection on her?” Jimmy asked after a brief pause.
“Who?” Paul asked, and then answered his own question. “Abby? No, I told her to stay inside, with the shades drawn and the doors locked. Not that it’s any concern of yours.” His eyes were narrowed and glittered with repressed anger.
Jimmy knew he was skating on thin ice by pursuing the subject, but also knew he wouldn’t be able to drop it until he’d made his fears clear.
“If it was Mason --?” Jimmy stopped, leaving the rest unsaid. He’d thrown out his concern. It was up to Paul now; it was his case, his girl.
“True. But are you sure the shooter wasn’t after you?” Paul asked coldly.
Jimmy hadn’t considered that idea seriously, but he took time to consider it now. It only took a few seconds for him to rule that out.
“No, I haven’t been back in town long enough to make any new enemies.”
“I can tell that from the way your face looks,” Paul replied, derision dripping from every word, making it a point to stare hard at Jimmy’s eye and cheek.
Jimmy shrugged and grinned sheepishly, attempting to explain even though he knew he was wasting his time, “The first time it was a couple old enemies that would never shoot me because I’m too much fun to mess with. Trust me. They don’t want me dead. And then Monday I collided with a door.”
“Uh huh.” Paul shook his head, his face mocking. “Right.”
At that moment a white van turned into the driveway and Paul stood up.
“Stay here, or go into town,” he said, dismissing Jimmy. “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
“I’ll stay, if you don’t mind,” Jimmy replied, even though he felt the first rumble of his stomach growling. It was already 11:30. He knew the investigation wouldn’t be finished for hours and belatedly, he wished he’d thought to pack a lunch.
“Suit yourself,” Paul said over his shoulder, as he hurried to greet his team.
Jimmy felt a stab of envy as the other man walked away. Paul was on top of his game, a man that had a job to do and one he’d proven he was good at. Jimmy was good at his, too. But sitting on a porch rocking just didn’t seem to be as involved. When he’d been a detective, he’d found it difficult not to take a shovel away from one of the techs to go at it himself. He had never been a patient sort and here he was, sitting, on what to him, was definitely a back burner. This was eminently harder.
After a quick conversation, no doubt hurried because of the impending rain, two of the masked, coverall-clad forensics team staked a square roughly ten by ten feet, while the rest carried tools from the van and set up a large open tent over the area in an attempt to protect the site. The pine trees and their thick, low-spreading branches complicated the task. Although not able to make out the exact words being used, Jimmy could tell by the loud exclamations that cursing was involved. He grinned to himself, thinking that the branches weren’t as hard to deal with as the trees’ roots were going to be. The trouble the techs were having and going to have, for some reason, made him feel a little better. Like maybe sitting on a porch wasn’t so bad after all.
Two of the team worked the square, starting with long-handled shovels. Each started from a corner and worked toward the center, going down only two or three inches of soil in the first pass. The other two screened and sifted, with occasionally one of these stopping to take pictures. It was slow, tedious work.
The rain began, but was little more than a drizzle and more of an irritation than problem. In addition to the huge tent, tarps had been attached to the north and west sides for further protection; the direction the rain and wind came from. Fortunately for Jimmy, the view from the porch remained unobstructed.
Jimmy didn’t leave his spot, although it was becoming chilly. Although he was damp, cold, and hungry, he owed it to the missing woman and her family to remain at his post. And, more than that, he wasn’t willing to give Paul the satisfaction.
Two hours in, he heard a shout and watched through the gloom as the team exchanged shovels for trowels. The mind-numbing effects of the hours of immobility and the monotony of watching such tedious work abruptly left as he realized the team must have reached stained soil, a sign of decomposition. From here on, they would carefully scrape, or brush, every speck of dirt, careful not to disturb what lay beneath.
Winston stood at the screen door. Jimmy had been so engrossed in what was playing out before him that he hadn’t noticed when the man came out. Winston stood staring for a few long minutes, then slowly turned and wearing an aura of hopeless defeat, dragged himself back inside the house. Jimmy watched as the door closed behind him, again feeling the old man’s pain, then his eyes were drawn back to the tent. Anticipation fluttered in his belly. This day’s events were a tragedy for Winston and Ruth, but Janet Hilton had to be found. Her family would have their closure.
At three forty-five they found the first bones. The metacarpals were first to come to light; the victim’s right hand and arm slung over her head as if to block out the sun. It had been five long years since the young woman had basked in it; now in spite of the rain, the day was too bright.
Trowels were used with extreme care and then brushes came out. The investigators carefully dusted away dirt, dark and rich from years of thick layers of pine needles composting beneath the trees. Within minutes the bones of a hand and those of the lower arm were exposed. Below those, the top and front of a skull, it’s ghostly, pearly-white color mute testimony to what had transpired. The bones were clean; insects and decomposition had seen to removing the flesh, although a faint odor lingered. The breeze that carried it to Jimmy on the porch was mixed with the earthy smell of the loam and the sharp, tangy citrus of disturbed pine needles.
Craving a better view, Jimmy stepped off the porch and inched closer. He got to within thirty feet, before stopping at the boundary set by the yellow crime scene tape.
Light rain drizzled down, wetting his hair, shoulders, and face, but he paid it no mind. In fact, he wasn’t even aware of it.
The clothing that remained on, and around, the cadaver was in strings and tatters. The forensics team extracted the ragged pieces that had rotted loose from around the skeleton and carefully bagged them. No one was paying him any attention, which made it harder to fight the urge to slide under the tape.
Dull, wispy brown hair, sparsely attached to the skull, clung to the investigators’ gloves, complicating the extraction. Almost the same shade as the soil surrounding it, the clumps of hair stuck out here and there like a punk rocker’s idea of a fashion statement, dolled up for a rave. For some reason this brought an old expression into Jimmy’s head; the one about all dressed up and no place to go. He flinched, thinking the thought was macabre and even disrespectful. He was glad it wasn’t something he’d said out loud.
It took an additional three hours to uncover the rest of the skeleton, between the trowels, brushes, and photo taking. The remains, tentatively identified as those of a woman, lay partially on its back, legs and arms sprawled as if it had been rolled over into the shallow grave. One hip was higher than the other, the leg bones on that side extending out and over the other side. The remaining arm, the one not having the aversion to sunshine, was twisted underneath the body in what would have been a painful position in life.
Questions went through Jimmy’s mind. How long had the body been here? Possibly several years by the condition of the remains. How had she died? This he wouldn’t venture to guess, leaving it to someone better qualified – the forensics coroner working the case. Was Grant Mason the killer? He considered this most likely, given that the remains were found here on his grandparents’ land. And, the most important question for him, was it Janet Hilton? He didn’t have to wait long before he got a provisional answer.
“Here’s her driver’s license,” a member of the group said, separating a small, embossed square of plastic from a jeans pocket, which he handed over to the detective. The white jumpsuits, bulky gloves, and masks made the team look more like astronauts exploring an alien land than scientists toiling on a farm in Ohio. Traffic on the road was brought to a halt whenever one of them stepped out from behind the tent. Fortunately, that wasn’t often, although there were currently three cars parked on the side of the road. Three vehicles that the occupants thought had a legitimate excuse, because they were neighbors, to intrude in someone’s personal tragedy.
“Is there a purse?” Paul asked.
“Don’t see one,” the woman said. “The killer must have stashed it someplace. The victim must have been carrying her license in her pocket for some reason.”
It made sense. Jimmy remembered that the two women had gone to a bar after the play and that Janet had most likely jammed it into her jeans after showing her ID to the bartender, instead of taking the time to put it away in her purse, expecting to do it later. But later, for her, hadn’t come.
He waited fretfully as Paul took his sweet time studying the license, flipping it to look at the back, before again turning it over and staring intently at the front. When he thought he couldn’t take the suspense any longer, Paul finally spoke.
“It’s amazing how long plastic lasts. Some of this stuff is nearly indestructible. Best invention of the modern age, except for computers, of course.”
Jimmy waited, knowing this was Paul’s big moment and he was entitled to drag it out as long as he wanted. He remembered the rush of adrenalin, the sheer jubilation involved in solving a murder. But on his end the wait was hard.
Then, finally, relief.
“You’d think he’d have been smarter than that, wouldn’t you?” Paul asked of no one in particular. “It was really stupid of Mason not to check her pockets. And stupid to bury her on his grandparents’ farm. Most killers are foolish. They leave so much evidence behind that it makes it easy. Well, we’ve got him now.” Paul smiled as he said this, his face brimming with confidence, his posture perfect, showing every inch of his six-foot-two inch frame. He reminded Jimmy of one of the strutting candidates that had dominated the last election. Not a very charitable thought, but amusing to Jimmy never the less. He continued to stare at Paul, as his thoughts continued their progression. The detective had a right to be proud, but Paul was showing another side, one Jimmy hadn’t known existed. If there were political ambitions under that well-manicured appearance and expensive suit, this would certainly be the man’s ticket in. Odd that he hadn’t seen signs of this before. He half expected one of the forensic cameramen to take a picture of Paul, documenting his success. So it could be leaked to a tabloid.
He watched as Paul waved the little square of plastic-coated paper around in triumph, and heard the words he’d been waiting to hear.
“Got him! This is Janet Hilton’s driver’s license.”
Chapter 32
As he drove back to town, Jimmy placed a call to Edward Hilton. He had contacted the man the evening before to give him a heads-up on what was happening and he knew Hilton would be anxiously waiting for any result. After telling him there was a good possibility that Janet’s remains had been found, he was met with a lengthy silence.
“We won’t know for sure until there’s a match with the dental records,” he added as gently as he could, feeling clumsy and awkward. He needed to stay objective, which was made doubly difficult. It was the man’s daughter he was talking about. To Hilton, she was a laughing child of three hugging his neck, a girl of sixteen dramatic over a little fender-bender, an excited young woman plotting with her mother an upcoming wedding. She wasn’t bones, rotted clothes, and dirty, wispy hair under a pine tree in a drizzling rain. Telling the family that a loved one’s remains had been found was something Jimmy had always hated. Until then most held onto the hope that the person was somehow alive, an unrealistic hope maybe, but one he understood.
“The police have her driver’s license,” Jimmy quietly added, knowing the finality of his words and regretting the pain it would cause.
“Umm,” Ed Hilton began. He cleared his throat and began again. Jimmy could almost feel the man trying to pull himself together. “When will they release the body?”
Jimmy didn’t have the heart to tell him that there wasn’t a body, only bones and hair. This was something he felt the coroner, detective, or the funeral director should do. It wasn’t his responsibility. Considering it, he thought Hilton probably also knew this sad fact, but with the shock of the moment, wasn’t thinking straight.
“That’s up to the coroner and how quickly they can get her identified. Because they have everything they need with you supplying her dental records, I expect she will be released within two weeks.”
“We need to plan the memorial.” The man’s voice was small and heart-wrenchingly sad.
Jimmy remembered that they hadn’t had a service to say goodbye, understanding that to do so meant they would be relinquishing all hope. Most families were like that. But now the Hiltons would have to. Closure was a necessary part of the grieving process.
“Positive identification should take place within two or three days, if not sooner. Det. Paul Lewinski will contact you with that. I hope the method of death will be determined by then, too.”
“Yes,” the voice on the other end shakily said. “He has my private number.”
“If there’s anything else I can do for you,” Jimmy said, “Please call me.”
“Thank you. I will,” Ed Hilton said quickly, his tone now business-like. He cleared his throat again and added, “The rest of your fee will be in the mail by the end of next week.” He was professional again, as if he’d somehow in those few seconds regained control.
“Mrs. Hilton and I would like you to attend the memorial. It would mean a lot to us,” he continued in the same stiff, detached way.
After accepting the invitation, and at the same time wishing there was some way he could
avoid it, Jimmy hit the ‘end’ button on his cell phone. He had attended the funeral/memorial, of the murder victim of every case he’d solved as a homicide detective. He’d never wondered why before, but now realized it must have been his way of letting go, his own closure. He’d noticed that quite a few detectives did the same, and surprisingly, even some beat cops, especially if they had known the victim for years. Disgruntled and unhappy with the road his thoughts were traveling, he wondered if such conscientiousness was also required of a private dick, and after brief reflection, decided that, at least in his case, it was. He wondered how big, extravagant, and by that respect, even more uncomfortable, the memorial would be. A lot of big shots, and those desiring to be, would be attending. Moneyed people and anyone with political ambitions would put in an appearance, at least for the benefit of the press, which would make the event a zoo. This brought to mind other questions. He wondered if Paul would be there. And Izzy.
He was still pondering whether it would be wise to see the young woman again with Paul so obviously irritated with him, when he pulled into a parking slot across the street from his office. His plan was to update the Hilton file and check for messages left on the office phone. Because it was late, still raining, and was claustrophobically dark, he didn’t want to park around back, feeling it better to walk across the street where there were more working street lamps and less chance of a mugging.
A motor sounded behind him and he was instantly on guard. Being shot at has a way of doing that to a person. With his hair twitching at the base of his neck, he scurried, his feet moving faster than they were used to, until he’d crossed the street, then he whirled around, his hand on his gun. The car, an ancient Lincoln Town car, purred up to and then putted past him. The driver, a wizened-up, little old man wearing an even older felt hat, kept his eyes glued to the road, not noticing, or caring, that he had put a spring into Jimmy’s step.
Jimmy smiled in self-conscious relief, thinking he’d been around death and murder victims too much lately and that he’d lost his nerve. He watched as the man and his car glided away, hesitate at the light at the end of the block, and then continue down the street. Just as he turned back toward the door to the office building, the shriek of a bullet beside his ear and the pop that followed put his heart in his throat. Splinters flew from the carved wooden numbers that hung above the building entrance. With lightening swiftness born from his years as a cop and the fear of the moment, he pulled his gun and dropped to one knee, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for a possible target.
A Cincinnati Cold Case Page 19