Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “I don’t know of any mice with fingerprints in the national database. Do you, Steph?” Gus chided.

  “Smart ass,” Sonellio barked. “Someone’s been hanging around in my yard. I found torn denim on one of the fence caps and a pair of binoculars in the shed.”

  “Binoculars?”

  Sonellio opened the shed. He handed me a large Ziploc bag with binoculars enclosed. He also handed me a small Ziploc containing a purple section of the tape, which had presumably been used to seal the shed doors. “Someone’s been using my yard to spy on the neighbors. They obviously know that I’ve been away.”

  “So you want us to run the prints?” I asked.

  “Would you, please? The whole thing is kind of creepy, and I don’t want to bother the local police. I’m a former Chief of Detectives, for Christ’s sake—I don’t want to feel like I’m some kind of nuisance.”

  I looked at Gus and took the Ziplocs from Sonellio. I doubted that the local, second-story man had a set of prints in the IAFIS database, but humoring my old boss was the very least I could do. He had certainly done plenty for me. “No problem, boss.”

  “It’s probably a local junkie looking to score some quick money for dope,” Gus said.

  “Could be,” Sonellio replied. “But my house has been empty for months, and no one has tried to get in.”

  “I can’t believe you lifted the prints off the tape yourself. You still own a fingerprint kit?”

  Sonellio laughed and then held his chest. My mind wandered to the small tank of oxygen I had seen sitting on the kitchen floor. “Not in thirty years. I bought a one-ounce bottle of gentian violet at Walmart for $2.99. I diluted it and used one of those travel-size spray bottles. I got some partials. I don’t know if there’s enough there for a match.”

  “You’ve still got it, boss,” I said.

  “And now you’ve got it, Stephanie. Find out who’s been sneaking around my yard.”

  I raised my hand and spread my second and third fingers to form a Vulcan Salute. I didn’t know how much time Sonellio had left, but I wanted to bestow my best wishes, “Live long and prosper.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Anya Kozakova shuddered when she heard loud rapping on her apartment door, even though she was expecting a visitor. It sounded as if the door was being struck with a sledgehammer and would be knocked off the frame. She looked through the peephole and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. The courtyard window was exactly opposite her door, and the hallway was usually bright and well illuminated during daylight hours. Now, however, the massive individual standing outside her door prevented most of the sunlight from reaching the peephole.

  “Tillerman?” she asked in her heavy Russian accent.

  “Yes.”

  She opened the door. Michael Tillerman held up a thick, white envelope. “Can I come in?”

  Kozakova nodded apprehensively and then stepped aside so that her massive visitor could enter. She closed the door behind him. She reached for the deadbolt, eyed her visitor once again, and then moved away from the door without engaging it. Just in case, she thought, I may have to run.

  Tillerman handed her the envelope. “Here, count it,” he said, “Two thousand dollars, all twenties.”

  She pointed to the kitchen table. “Have a seat,” she said, trying to sound as strong and confident as possible. Her life in Soviet Georgia had not been easy. She had learned to project a stoic and impersonal demeanor in the face of a potential threat in order to appear fearless. It was a defense mechanism that had proven invaluable to her many times in the past. Tillerman took off his jacket and sat down. She sat down opposite him and began to count the cash. She made ten stacks of bills: two hundred dollars in each pile. She finished counting the money and stuffed it back into the envelope.

  “Don’t you want to put the money away?” Tillerman asked.

  “What is the point?” Kozakova was a powerhouse but certainly no match for Tillerman. “You could snap my neck in two seconds. “Медведь (med-ved’),” she mumbled.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s Russian for bear. You look like some kind of huge creature.”

  Tillerman had come directly from the gym. His hair was wild and his muscles were still pumped. His shoulders and arms extended out of his athletic shirt like broad tree limbs. “Don’t worry,” Tillerman said. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “Good, I don’t want to die. Did you bring your electronic ID tag?”

  “Da.” Tillerman’s lips and chin twisted in opposite directions, forming an odd smile.

  “That’s funny,” Kozakova said. “Now you’re a funny bear.”

  Tillerman reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his electronic security tag. He placed it on the table.

  Kozakova took the tag over to her workstation. She was a brilliant programming engineer. She had assembled an array of modified computers and processing devices, which she had cannibalized from bits and parts that had been discarded by high-end gamers and computer geeks. She had learned to program in C++ and Python before she turned twelve.

  “You’ve got a lot of equipment over there,” Tillerman said. “What is all of that?”

  Kozakova turned back and saw that Tillerman was examining her equipment with interest. “You’re an engineer?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then there is no point in trying to explain. You wouldn’t understand.” She entered several commands on the keyboard. After a moment, the LEDs on a small device began to flash. She swiped Tillerman’s security tag through it and then stood up. “Here,” she said as she handed the tag back to Tillerman. “You can go.”

  “That’s it?” Tillerman asked with surprise in his voice.

  “That’s it. You’ll have access to all of Vicor’s restricted areas—all of the programming was completed before you arrived. You think you paid two thousand dollars for nothing? I put in five hours of programming time on your silly little security tag.”

  He looked at the tag in his immense hand before he slipped it back into his pocket. “I see. I am glad that you took your assignment seriously.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know better than to poke the bear.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Goodness, it’s the baby madda.” Glenaster Tully sprung from his desk chair the moment Gus and I walked into the medical examiner’s office. Tully was Jamaican and spoke with a heavy accent. He was beaming with exuberance as we embraced. “Cha-lee-see, you look like a blossoming orchid.”

  Really, a blossoming orchid? Oh well, maybe it was one of his Jamaican things. It sounded like a sweet analogy, at any rate.

  Tully turned to Gus and gave him a playful elbow in the side. “Nice work, baby papa. You two are going to have a beautiful child.” Tully was the kind of guy you just had to like. He was happier than a family of chipmunks—cartoon chipmunks, anyway. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m great, my friend—happy, healthy, and ready to kick some ass.”

  “You ain’t slowed down yet?” Tully asked.

  “Nah. I just carry a supply of barf bags with me at all times. Otherwise, I’m good to go. How about you?”

  “Fabulous, mon, really fabulous. My kids are coming to live with me. They’ll be here next month.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered that Tully had a family in Jamaica, but he rarely spoke about them. I tried not to appear surprised. “That’s great. What about your wife?”

  Tully’s smile disappeared for a moment. “Nah, mon, that’s a fuckery. She done picked up with another mon—don’t want the kids neither.”

  “Fuckery?” Gus asked.

  “Yeah, mon, she’s messed up,” Tully said. “She’s not doing right by the kids.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How old are they?”

  “Eight and ten—I ain’t seen them in two years. My heart’s breaking, Cha-lee-see.” He looked at the floor, and when he looked up all traces of unhappiness were gone.
“I just rented a bigger place. Can’t wait for them to get here.” He pulled out his wallet and showed us a picture of his children.

  “Cute kids!” Gus said.

  “They look like their father. I’m really happy for you.” I gave Tully a second hug. “Oh, hey, can you check these for prints?” I handed Tully an evidence bag, which contained the binoculars and tape sample that Sonellio had given us. I didn’t want to bring up Sonellio’s name—he was a very private man. “It may have to do with our investigation.”

  “That’s easy,” Tully said as he took the bag from me. “No problem.”

  “So, do you have any test results on John Doe yet?”

  “Just starting to come through now. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  We followed Tully over to an examination table. Plastic evidence bags containing the hair and scalp samples that had been frozen to the pump station water pipe were lying on the table.

  “What do you think?” Gus asked.

  “The hair looks like a match to the John Doe that was found in Kowsky Plaza—same texture and color. We won’t know for sure until we have a DNA workup, and that will be late tomorrow. I looked for the section of scalp that had been ripped from Doe’s head when it was frozen to the pipe, but the area is too small and the hair follicles are too dense. I didn’t find anything.”

  “What was in the crushed syringe?”

  “Special K.”

  “Ketamine. I’m not surprised.” Ketamine is a very strong tranquilizer which is commonly abused on the street. “He likely died of hypothermia while under sedation and froze due to his close proximity to the Hudson water inlet.”

  “Hey!” Tully protested good-humoredly. “Who’s the expert around here?”

  “Oops. Sorry. So what do you think?”

  “I think you know your shit, Cha-lee-see. Maybe you can cover for me when I go on vacation with my kids.”

  “No way, Tully. I belong out on the street, just me, Gus, and the barf bags.”

  “How far along are you? The nausea should be subsiding,” Tully said.

  “Yeah, it’s getting better. I’m past the halfway point.”

  “Is the baby kicking yet?”

  “Only when I eat burritos.”

  Tully laughed. “That ain’t the baby kicking. That’s your mama gas.”

  Where is this conversation going? First I’m a blossoming orchid and now I’ve got mama gas. Time to move on. “How about the autopsy?”

  “Did you find Special K in the tox screen?” Gus asked.

  “Ain’t back yet. Everything is slow on account that we had to defrost the body—maybe later today, but I would say it’s likely because John Doe didn’t take off his clothes.”

  “You’ll have to explain that one to me.”

  “When body temperature drops too much, the heart rate becomes slow and weak, and the blood vessels widen. It makes the victim feel hot and confused,” Tully said. “They want to remove all their clothes before they finally slip into unconsciousness. Then the heart stops. There are lots of stories about mountain climbers found naked and dead on a mountain with their clothes lying nearby. There was no evidence that John Doe was bound. I think John Doe didn’t take off his clothes because he was unconscious.”

  “That’s a drag,” Gus said.

  “At least he wasn’t’ feeling any pain. I know we’re testing for specific Y-STR markers and haplogroups, but those reports aren’t back yet—even with current technology, we need a full eight hours. I’ll let you know when they’re in.” Tully checked his watch. “You nice folks clocking out after this?” He reached into the pocket of his lab coat and gave us a quick peek at his one-hitter pipe. He checked to make sure that he wouldn’t be overheard. “I’ve got some great shit.”

  Gus seemed shocked. “Jesus, you’ve got pot?”

  Yes, Gus, he’s got pot. He’s been smoking as long as we’ve known him. I think the painkillers had knocked Gus for a loop.

  “Where’d you get it?” Gus asked.

  He scored it on the black market. He bartered for it with nylon stockings and Hershey Bars. Jesus, Gus, what kind of question is that?

  “I got me some good friends,” Tully said with a sly smile. “What y’all say?”

  “Not for me. Thanks.”

  “Ah, Cha-lee-see, it can’t hurt you.”

  “I gave up wine. Do you think I’m going to smoke pot?”

  “I could use a hit,” Gus said.

  My eyes must have popped out like I was Roger Rabbit. “What?”

  “Have some sympathy. My back is killing me,” Gus said. His comment shed light on the silly questions he had asked Tully. I guess it was Gus’ way of testing the waters. “I just had a random drug test—I doubt I’ll be asked for a urine sample any time soon.”

  “I thought you were standing kind of funny,” Tully said. “This shit will fix you right up.”

  I gave Tully a kiss on the cheek. “Fine, you heal the baby papa. I’ll wait in the car.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Brian Spano wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and screwed the cap back onto his empty bottle of water. He checked the time. He had five minutes left on his dinner break and was determined to enjoy every minute of it. He still had a few minutes to rest before going back on the clock. He shook the crumbs from the plastic bag in which his tuna fish sandwich had been packed and pressed it flat with his hands before replacing it in his blue and white Igloo lunchbox. The lunchbox bore the name: Little Playmate. It was the lunchbox his seven-year-old son considered dorky and would no longer take with him to school. It was hardly a man’s lunchbox, but Brian wasn’t throwing anything away these days. Lunchboxes, plastic bags, Poland Spring water bottles; he used and recycled everything until they were completely shot. Divorce had taken everything from him, all except for his son Alex, whom he saw every other weekend.

  When did everything get so bad? He had three minutes left to revel in the solitude of leave me the hell alone. He had three precious minutes left to purge his mind and forget about child-support payments and threatening letters from his wife’s attorney.

  Good thing that I’m so small, he mused. It doesn’t take much to fill me up.

  They were just kids when he and his wife first met on summer break after high school graduation. He was naïve and she was clueless. They were both lonely. She became pregnant with Alex before the fall. The fall, he thought. It was a metaphor for his life.

  His electronic Timex watch beeped. He stood as if by cue and walked to the door of the employee cafeteria. The sign on the wall read: Vicor Pharmaceuticals, Employee Suite. A packet of salt had been left behind on one of the lunch tables. He put it in his pocket. Nothing goes to waste.

  He had been checking the inventory of the clinical test medications once per week, but the company’s compliance department now felt the routine insufficient. He was now required to check the inventory twice each week. It was an extra two hours work, which had to be completed within the confines of his regular shift. “Good going, compliance department,” he said aloud.

  It was 9:30 p.m. The building was usually dead silent at that hour, but Spano heard noises coming from within the storeroom as he approached. He swiped his security pass to enter the room. He immediately saw torn cartons of drugs on the floor. A towering shadow rose over him. He had to crane his neck in order to see the face of the behemoth that stood before him.

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing in here?” Spano said. “You’re not supposed to—” A huge hand grabbed him by the throat and choked off his words. He tried to grab his attacker’s arm, but it was too thick for him to get his hands around. He couldn’t breathe. In the next instant, he was suspended in the air, his eyes level with the wires that had been torn from the ceiling security camera. He felt lightheaded. His son’s face flashed before his eyes, and then he heard a snap. His world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “How do you feel?”

  I had been watching Gus sleep
for the past few minutes. Frankly, I was admiring him and thinking about how his strong jaw and thick, brown hair might translate if we had a little boy. I watched as he opened his eyes to greet the morning. He stretched in response to my query, testing his injured back.

  “I think it’s a little better.”

  I stroked his hair. “I guess Tully’s weed did you some good.”

  “It definitely helped me relax.” A hint of embarrassment was present in Gus’ response. He obviously felt guilty about toking with Tully. He must have been in great discomfort to do something like that, even though it was at the end of our shift. I wasn’t going to take him to task over it. I gave him a mental get out of jail free card. I hated the idea of him filling his lungs with smoke—especially now with the boss succumbing to the ravages of lung cancer. One free pass, mister, that’s all you get.

  I snuggled next to Gus. I heard him sigh, and then his breathing became heavy. Before I knew it, he had fallen back to sleep. I peered over his shoulder and out the window. I wasn’t quite ready to get out of bed, but my mind was already back on the clock. I began to think about our visit with Tully and the meager amount of new information we had learned from him. We learned that John Doe had been drugged with ketamine—or Special K, as it was known on the street. Special K had become a pretty popular street drug, particularly at dance clubs and raves. It had psychoactive properties and could alter mood and behavior. At low doses, it produced a mild, dreamy feeling, as well as a feeling of being slightly outside one’s body. Higher doses produced a hallucinogenic effect. And to think, they use it on horses. Some people will try anything. We were still waiting for John Doe’s DNA report, so we had no idea if he was in any way related to victim number one. I didn’t feel like the whiz-bang detective everyone needed me to be, nor did I feel like the detective I wanted to be. I wondered if the childbearing process had altered my thought processes. Was I less clever than I used to be? There was a pair of murders to be solved and I didn’t feel as if I had made any progress. One of the maternity books I read referenced something called pregnancy brain. Maybe that’s what’s going on.