by KJ Kalis
Dawson wrinkled his nose. “Expired is not exactly what I’d say. We’ve identified the body as Ben Boyd, your missing janitor. Can’t be sure yet, but it looks like he’s been murdered.”
The color drained from Dr. Laffer’s face. “No, no. That’s horrible.”
“Did you know him?”
“Of course not. I work across campus.” Dr. Laffer stopped for a moment as if he realized how awful his answer sounded. “I mean, we have thousands of employees. I can’t be expected to know all of them.” He cleared his throat. “How did he die?”
“We don’t know.”
That was the troubling part of the case, Dawson thought, listening to his coffee maker bubble and spurt. He’d grabbed a couple of quick hours of sleep, a shower, and put on another ill-fitting suit. They got more uncomfortable by the day.
As he poured the coffee into a travel mug, he thought about the day ahead. Paperwork and more paperwork. More interviews and a visit to the coroner’s office. But he realized he had a stop he wanted to make first.
On his way out the door, he called the station, letting the dispatcher know he was in service. “Are you coming in?”
“In a while. Can you make a note in the log that I’m stopping at Rebecca Blake’s apartment again?”
“Sure.”
There was something about Rebecca’s apartment that bothered him, he thought,
adjusting his hands on the steering wheel. What was it? His mind played through the images of the visit from a few days before. There was nothing about her apartment that was extraordinary. A sofa, two chairs — all looked like they had been purchased at a discount store. No dishes in the sink, mail stacked neatly in the kitchen. Even her closet was arranged with the shoes lined up on the floor by category. Heels, tennis shoes, sandals. Dawson snorted as he pulled into the parking lot. He wished his house were as neatly kept. He was lucky if he remembered to take out the trash.
The woman that ran the apartment complex was sitting in her office, sipping what smelled like coffee that had been sitting in the pot for too long. “Detective Dawson, I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
Dawson ignored her comment. “I need you to open up Rebecca Blake’s apartment again.”
The woman’s face froze. “Sure. Of course.” She stood up from the desk and opened a box hanging on the wall. There were sets of keys studded inside. The jingle of metal on metal told Dawson that she found the set she needed. “This way.”
Dawson followed her in sullen silence. He wasn’t in a chatty mood. They took the elevator to the second floor, Dawson following the woman down the hallway, her skirt swishing around her thick calves, her flat shoes making an occasional squeak on the tile hallway floor.
“I’ll just wait here while you…” the woman said, standing back from the door as it swung open.
“What’s that?” he interrupted.
The woman peered around the corner. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Look. That. What’s that?” Dawson moved forward into the apartment, his hand on the butt of his gun. A box, painted with the words, “Furniture. Handle with Care,” was sitting in the middle of the living room.
“I’m not sure. I, ah, I didn’t let in anyone else. Maybe the night person did? How strange…” the woman stammered.
“You have no record of this?” Dawson said, over his shoulder, looking around the corner into the small kitchen. It looked the same as the last time he had been in the apartment, save for the big box.
There was silence for a moment, Dawson moving quietly through the apartment, checking the closets and the bathroom. As he walked back toward the living room, the woman was still standing outside of the apartment door, peering in.
The box. Questions pushed through Dawson’s head. Was it just a delivery that had been scheduled? Maybe it was something Rebecca had ordered? Dawson stared at it, walking around all four sides. There was no packing label. Strange, he thought. “You’re sure there’s been no delivery?”
“I mean, not that I know of. Sometimes our residents let people in. Honestly, I have no idea. I’m sure it’s fine, though. Our people get deliveries all the time.”
The whole scenario seemed strange to Dawson. Sure, people got deliveries all the time. It was possible that Rebecca had ordered a piece of furniture previously and it was delivered, but who had let them in? Wouldn’t the delivery company have left it at the office or taken it back to their warehouse if she weren’t home? It wasn’t like it was a small package that could fit in her mailbox, which reminded him, he needed to get her mail and add it to the evidence pile. “Can you do me a favor?” he said, looking at the landlord. He stared right at her, hoping that his look would tell her not to argue. That was the last thing he needed right now. “Can you go take your ring of keys and get her mail out of her mailbox for me? I needed to add it to our evidence.”
The woman stammered, “Okay… I can, but what would you hope to find there? I’m sure she just has utility bills, and that’s all.”
His stare hadn’t worked. “It’s procedure. Could you do that for me?” Dawson tried a soft smile this time, hoping that would help.
The woman wandered off. Dawson breathed a sigh of relief as he refocused on the apartment. He believed his initial assessment was correct, but he took a few minutes to walk the apartment again. Nothing seemed to be out of place. And yet, there was the box.
It just didn’t sit right with him that someone had dropped off a large box of furniture inside of Rebecca’s apartment after she had been reported as missing. Out of his pocket, Dawson pulled a utility knife. He closed the door to the apartment. Better if prying eyes weren’t standing in the hallway with their video camera. Not that there was anything to see, but the less questions the better.
He opened the blade on the knife and pressed it between the layers of cardboard on the edge, pulling down. Whoever had sealed the box had used a lot of tape, he thought. He pulled the knife out and reinserted it at the top of the box pulling it from right to left, slicing a section open. He pressed his fingers in the corner, pulling the cardboard forward towards him. The box appeared to be empty. Strange, he thought. He folded the blade back into the sheath and stuck it back in his pocket. He pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of the inside of his suit jacket and turned on the flashlight app. Harsh white light flooded out. He used his left hand to pull the cardboard down again and held the phone up with his right hand, leaning forward.
As the light cut through the darkness, he could see that the majority of the box was empty. He gave the box a little jiggle, noticing the weight was at the bottom. “Awful big box for something just at the bottom,” he muttered, pushing his cell phone farther inside and pulling the cardboard down so he could get a better look.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he thought he saw hair. “What the...?” he gasped, realizing that the furniture box didn’t hold furniture. It held a body.
For a moment he held his breath, wondering if it was Rebecca and if she was still alive. He could only see the side of her left cheek, and the top of her knees. It looked like she had been folded up in the bottom of the box. The color of her skin was gray and mottled. He knew she was dead.
Within three minutes of his initial phone call, two police cruisers had pulled up outside of Rebecca’s apartment complex, securing the elevator, the second floor, and the front door to her apartment. Eighteen minutes later, the forensics unit arrived, complete with a vast array of gloves, cameras, and other evidence gathering equipment.
Dawson had brought the landlady back up to the second floor, positioning her with one of the officers just outside of the apartment door. She was hysterical. “Listen, I need you to calm down.”
A giant sob followed by a hiccup came out of the woman’s mouth. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m so upset. I barely even knew her.”
Dawson nodded, wanting to tell her to get it together, but that wouldn’t be professional. He had enough problems on his hands without having a
complaint lodged against him. “Okay, Ms...?”
The woman wiped her nose and looked up at him with watery eyes, “Roxanne. You can call me Roxanne.”
“All right, Roxanne. Is there video surveillance here at your complex?”
She nodded, shoving a wad of tissues under her nose. “Yes, there is some. I mean, it’s not everywhere, but you can see some of the complex. Trying to cover all of it would be too expensive,” she looked up at him as though she had just committed a crime. “I mean, the lives of our residents are totally worth it. I’ll have to look into that. I’ll call them this afternoon.”
Dawson tried not to shake his head, or at least not visibly. “I’m glad to hear that you have some video surveillance. Where is it viewed from?”
She pointed back down the hallway. “From the office. There’s a station in the back. I have everything recorded,” she said, her eyebrows jutting up onto her forehead.
“That sounds fine. I’m going to have an officer go down with you. We need to secure the surveillance video that you have and start processing it. I’ll send along another officer and a forensics person once we get this taken care of here.” He gave the officer standing at the door a little nod. “Can you take her down to the office and get started reviewing the video footage?”
The officer nodded.
“Download everything from the last week. 24/7. I want it all.” Although Rebecca had only been gone for a couple of days, Dawson knew that pulling the video footage from at least the last week, and maybe even longer, might give them a clue as to if someone was watching the building or if there were any patterns with cars or visitors they needed to know about.
Dr. Murphy arrived with little fanfare. “Another one?” he said, setting down what looked to be a toolbox just inside the apartment door.
Dawson nodded. “Unfortunately. I feel like I’ve seen a little too much of you recently.”
Dr. Murphy smiled, “I feel the same way.” He turned to the box. “Whatcha got there?”
Joking between police officers and the other specialties they worked with, whether attorneys or the coroner’s office, was one part of the job that Dawson still liked. The camaraderie of people who’ve been through tough times together gave him the feeling that he belonged to something for once. “My guess? I think you’re going to find that’s Rebecca Blake.”
Dr. Murphy peered down into the box. “You move anything?”
Dawson shook his head. “Nope. Left it all fresh and ready for you.”
“Any obvious cause of death?”
“Not that I can see, but then you’re the expert.”
Dr. Murphy gave a brief nod to his assistant. Very carefully, they tipped the box down, laying it flat on the carpet. Dawson stepped forward and carefully cut the rest of the cardboard open so that Dr. Murphy could get to the body inside.
As they lifted one side of the cardboard off, Dawson could hear the click of digital cameras going off in the background. The forensics team didn’t stop to ask questions, they just photographed everything they could find.
The sight was sad in a way that pierced Dawson’s heart. He was surprised by that. Rebecca Blake was huddled at the bottom of the box, her knees up to her chin, her feet pointed inward, her big toes touching. She didn’t have any shoes on. Her hair had been pushed off to the side and her eyes were closed. Dawson chewed her lip. “Any idea if she was put into this box alive or dead?” He asked Dr. Murphy who was squatting next to the box.
“My guess would be that she was already dead when whoever did this put her in the box. I would assume she’d fight her way out of a cardboard box if she had still been alive, wouldn’t you?”
Dawson was embarrassed by Dr. Murphy’s comment, his stomach tightening. He knew better. “Yes, of course. That makes sense. Any idea how long she’s been in the box? Or how long she’s been dead?”
Dr. Murphy shook his head, trying to move Rebecca’s arm away from her body. “Rigor is still active. Based on the position of her body, I can’t get a liver temp right now, but I will once we get back to the lab. My guess? I think she’s been dead anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. After that, we would see the rigor mortis start to wear off.” He stood up, giving a curt nod to his assistant. “I’ll know more once we get her back to the lab. And just to save you from asking, other than a few puncture wounds, I can’t see her cause of death.”
Dawson’s mind raced back to Ben Boyd’s body. “Any similarity between the puncture wounds on her in the puncture wounds on Ben Boyd?”
Dr. Murphy pulled off his rubber gloves and turned to stare at Dawson. “At first glance they sure do. Looks like you’ve got a big problem on your hands, Detective Dawson…”
23
Kat was on her second cup of coffee by the time Van got back in the room after talking to Stephanie. “How’s Steph?”
Van nodded, “She's okay. Her sister’s a mess. But that’s not what’s interesting…”
By the look on Van’s face, she could tell that something more had happened in the time he’d been gone. “What’s that?” she said, folding her forearms on the table.
“I just got a call from Detective Dawson.”
“You did? I didn’t think we’d ever hear from him again.”
“They just found Rebecca Blake’s body…” The words hung in the air, Kat’s stomach clenching into a small fist, “Oh my God, what happened to her?”
“That’s the thing. They don’t know. He asked us to come to Rebecca’s apartment building. I guess he’s the one that found the body.”
While Kat was happy to hear that Detective Dawson called, the timing seemed a little off. She furrowed her brows, “What do you mean? Why is he calling us now?”
Van tilted his head to the side. “Well, I think the old codger has finally figured out he’s up against something bigger than he can solve himself.”
A shiver ran down Kat’s spine. Regardless of Detective Dawson’s opinion about them, the picture was becoming clear. In the last few days, four people had lost their lives, likely from the same person. She swallowed, “Yeah. Okay.”
Kat wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing Detective Dawson again, not to mention viewing Rebecca Blake’s body. After they had seen what the killer did to Chelsea, she couldn’t imagine what they would be facing. All she could hope was that Dr. Murphy beat them there and took her body away before Kat had to look at it. She felt her breathing draw a little shallower. She stood up from the kitchen table but didn’t move. “Kat? Are you okay?” Van asked.
In the back of her mind, she could hear the yells from the IED attack echoing in her mind. “I just need to sit down for a minute before we go.” The room swirled around her as she sat down. She dropped her head between her knees and tried to take long deep breaths, hoping that this episode of PTSD would go away as quickly as it came.
From the other side of the kitchen, Kat heard TJ’s low voice, “She okay?”
Van answered, “I think so. She just needs a minute.”
By the time the words came out of Van’s mouth, Kat tried to sit up. The room was still swirling around her, but not as bad. “An episode?” Van asked, his jaw set. She knew he was worried about her.
She nodded. “Yeah, I just couldn’t catch my breath. I think I’m okay now,” she said, standing up. “Give me a minute and I’ll be ready to go.”
More than anything, Kat wanted to do what she had promised — help Stephanie figure out what happened to her niece — but there seemed to always be a cost to their cases. The game this killer was playing, Kat still couldn’t wrap her brain around it. The fact that lives were in danger, lives that Kat couldn’t identify, and couldn’t help protect made her feel completely out of control. She just wanted things to go back to normal. Back to hearing about Jack’s day at school, his friends, researching stories in the community. She wanted her peace back. As she walked to the corner of her kitchen, retrieving her purse so she could go with Van, she realized she’d never have her peace back, not
as long as the Sauk Valley killer was loose in the community.
She glanced at TJ, “There’s plenty of food in the refrigerator. Help yourself. We’ll be back in a little while.”
Van furrowed his brow at her. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this? Maybe you should just stay here with TJ and the dogs. I can handle this part.”
“No!” The words came out more strongly than Kat intended. “I’m tired of having everyone tiptoe around me. I’m fine. So, what if I get a little lightheaded from time to time? It’s no big deal,” she snapped.
She could tell by the look on Van’s face that her comments had startled him, maybe even hurt him. But what she said was true. She felt like ever since the day TJ had pulled her out of the Humvee in Afghanistan, people would avoid upsetting her as soon as they knew she had PTSD. She wasn’t broken, or maybe she was broken, but just a little. Either way, there was work to do. She couldn’t sit on the sidelines while everyone else was in the fight to save the community.
“Well, okay, let’s go,” Van said, keys jingling in his hand.
As soon as she got into Van’s truck, she felt bad, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”
“It’s okay. We’re all under a lot of stress right now.”
She shook her head, “No, it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. But I’m also tired of being treated like I’m a hot mess. I’m doing much better than I ever have before. It’s just this case…”
Van reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “It’s a tough one, especially with Stephanie’s niece being involved.” He pulled his hand back, setting it on the steering wheel, pressing his lips together. “I just don’t understand how we have four bodies and no leads. That’s just not possible.”
As the neighborhood passed by them, people out walking, other cars headed to work or errands, Kat wondered about what Van had said. They passed stores and schools and even a small park on a corner that had a sign posted advertising a fall carnival coming up in a few days. Life was moving forward, but it wasn’t moving forward for the families who had lost someone. Van was right. Every criminal made mistakes. It was just a question of figuring out what those mistakes were so they could understand who they were up against.