She took it and applied a smear under her nose; it helped mitigate the stench of the corpse. “Detectives. What’ve we got?”
She could see the basics already: female, white, quite dead.
“Found by a couple of sightseers on a ‘disaster tour.’ Saw more than they wanted to, that’s for damn certain.”
“ID?”
“Nope.”
“Cause of death?”
“To be confirmed by autopsy, but she was shot in the chest. Twice.”
Patti frowned. “That’s not the Handyman’s MO.”
“True. But that is.”
She followed the direction of his gaze. Right hand missing.
“No sign of the hand?” she asked.
“Nope. That’s not to say a dog or wild animal couldn’t have carried it off, but there’s no doubt it was ‘removed’ first.”
Patti fitted on latex gloves and squatted beside the victim. When dumped, the victim had been fully dressed. Like her body, the garments had begun to deteriorate in the hot, humid air. Patti moved her gaze over her, starting with her head, forcing herself to go slowly. Long, bleached-blond hair-she’d needed to have her roots done. Dangly earrings, flashy. Two necklaces, both gold. She had indeed been drilled in the chest. Point of entry for both: her left side.
Patti lowered her gaze. Wearing thong panties and low-cut blue jeans. “No sexual assault is my guess.”
“But maybe sex. Then a ride and bang bang, tomorrow never comes.”
She nodded. Wouldn’t be the first time some guy got rid of his honey after enjoying himself one last time.
But was that the Handyman’s way?
Until now, they’d never had enough of a victim to know.
Patti shifted her gaze. Left hand intact. Long, square-tip nails, most probably synthetics. Red polish. Half dozen bangle bracelets adorning the wrist.
“Hello, friends.”
Deputy Coroner Ray Hollister had pulled this one. Lucky him.
He looked at the victim, then scowled up at the sunny sky. “Nobody can convince me global warming doesn’t exist. It’s too damn hot for May.”
As if on cue, they simultaneously murmured their agreement. He slipped into his gloves. “Somebody want to fill me in?”
Patti did, quickly. He nodded
He examined the victim’s left hand. “No defensive wounds. Nails all intact. Bet they’ll come back clean.”
“Means she didn’t fight,” Spencer said.
“Most probably didn’t see it coming.” The coroner frowned, studying the wound. “Interesting entry point,” he said. “Her left side. Gun was quite close to the victim when fired. Notice the tattooing.”
Sure enough, a telltale “tattoo” circled each wound. Upon discharge, particles of burned gunpowder and primer exploded from a gun’s barrel, depositing on both shooter and victim. Much could be learned from the amount and patterning of the particles, including the angle and distance of the shooter. The tighter the circle, the closer the gun.
“First shot,” he said, pointing to the smallest circle. “Second,” he continued, indicating the other.
Patti agreed. “We’ll need to take a good look at the bullet’s trajectory.”
“Wonder why he didn’t shoot her in the head,” Tony murmured.
“Maybe he thought it was too messy,” Spencer offered. “Or too visible.”
Patti nodded. “What if they were in a car? He’s driving, has a gun tucked in a handy position-”
“Pardon the pun.”
“-and squeezes off a shot before she knows what’s happening.”
“No big mess for the world to see.”
“The shot doesn’t kill her. She slumps in her seat, he rips off another one.”
“It does the trick, if not immediately, soon enough. He drives on. Nobody notices a thing.”
The coroner carefully examined the other entry point, then glanced up at her. “From what I’m seeing, your scenario could work, Captain. But so could others.”
Lucky them. “How long’s she been dead?”
“My ‘in the field’ guess, four or five days. It’s been hot. We’ve had a couple good rains and she’s totally exposed. Give me some light.”
Spencer directed his penlight beam to the spot the coroner indicated-one of the wounds. The light revealed a squirming world of activity-bugs, doing their part in the decomposition dance.
“Ultimately the insects will tell the tale.”
The lab’s entomologist would collect samples of the insect life on the corpse and provide an estimated time frame based on the stage of growth or development of the larvae.
“A Bug’s Life,” Tony quipped. “I’ll never look at that kid’s movie in quite the same way.”
“What about the missing hand, Ray?”
“Gone,” he deadpanned.
“We need to know if this is the work of the Handyman. Can you compare this sample to the originals?”
“I’ll do the best I can, though I specialize in flesh, not bones.” He suddenly looked impatient. “Mind if I get to it? I’m about to get sunstroke.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, simply set about his business.
Patti looked at Tony. “Get Elizabeth Walker. I want her to compare this victim’s severed wrist bone with the samples found in the Katrina refrigerator. ASAP.”
She shifted her gaze to Spencer. “We need a name. The sooner we ID her, the sooner we-”
“I think I can help there,” the coroner said.
They looked down at the man, crouched beside the body. Very carefully he eased a gloved finger under one of the woman’s necklaces and lifted it away from her shirt.
The sun caught on the gold pendant. Gold twisted into curving, ornate letters. They spelled Tonya.
53
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
11:05 a.m.
Spencer looked at Patti. “What? You know who this is?”
“Tonya Messinger. It has to be. Yvette’s friend, the one she said was missing.”
She hadn’t been fabricating.
“Tonya who?” Tony asked.
Patti ignored him and looked at her watch, expression concerned. “I’ve got to go. Keep me posted. Every detail.”
“Go?” Tony frowned. “Captain, with all due respect, this is too big for you to step back from now.”
“I agree,” Spencer said. “Seems to me you need to call an end to your leave. I suspect full support will be available now.”
Tony looked at Spencer. “Support for what?”
He went on as if Tony hadn’t spoken. “If this really is the work of the Handyman, Franklin’s off that particular hook. And you know what that means.”
The chief would be out his jailed suspect. And be anxious to land another.
It changed everything.
“I’ll think about it,” Patti said. “Yvette’s still the best lead we have. And I made a promise to keep her safe.”
“We can do that better as a team than you can alone.”
“Keep who safe?” Tony asked, confused.
“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”
Patti started off; Spencer stopped her. “I’m going to need to question her.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Yes, you will. I’ll make certain she’s available.”
He watched her walk away, then turned back to Tony. “I suppose you’d like me to cut the crap and tell you what’s going on.”
“I’d appreciate it, Slick. Now would be good.”
Spencer filled in Tony as best he could, skimming over facts that would prove troublesome for Patti. If Tony suspected he was still being partially bullshitted-which he probably did-he was a good-enough friend not to say so.
When he’d finished, Tony said, “You need to question Borger.”
“Absolutely.”
“Mind if I ride shotgun?”
“It’ll be like old times.”
They left the scene to the techs and coroner’s reps. Once b
uckled into the Camaro, Spencer dialed Patti. “Tony and I are on our way. Where are you?”
“Yvette’s apartment,” she answered.
“Twenty minutes,” he said, then hung up.
He dialed Elizabeth Walker next. “Big news. We’ve got ourselves a new Handyman victim. Or what appears to be one of the Handyman’s.”
“You want me to evaluate the amputation?”
“Give the lady a gold star. When can you be here?”
“Three hours. That’s the best I can do.”
“Call me when you’re thirty minutes out. I’ll meet you.”
He hung up and Tony sent him an amused glance. “What did we do before cell phones?”
“Don’t know, man. Lived like animals.”
Tony chuckled. “Speaking of you being an animal, have you called Stacy yet?”
“Patti probably did.”
“Way to weenie out. She should hear it from you.”
He hadn’t spoken to her since she moved out, a fact Tony was aware of. “What about my manly pride? My dignity and-”
“Jackass stupidity? Seems a bit of crow-eating might be in order.”
Spencer scowled at him. “You suck, you know that?”
Tony laughed. “Just my opinion, Slick.”
Grumbling to himself, Spencer opened his phone and dialed Stacy. “Hey,” he said when she answered.
“Back at you,” she replied.
“I wanted to let you know, looks like you and Patti were right. Tonya Messinger turned up dead today.”
“Where?”
“Lower Ninth. Shot twice. Right hand severed.” He heard her sharply indrawn breath. “Yeah, things just got freaky. I’m on my way to interview Yvette. Patti’s with her.”
“What are Patti’s plans?”
“Don’t know yet. What’re yours?”
“What do you hope they’ll be?”
Spencer angled a glance at Tony, who saw it and grinned.
“Tell her you love her,” Tony said. “That you’re a jackass and want her back.”
“Is that Tony?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Being a jerk. I’ll keep you posted.”
Patti buzzed them into the courtyard, then met them outside Yvette’s door. “What’s the latest?” she asked before they even cleared the threshold.
“Talked to Elizabeth Walker. She’s on her way. Asked her to call me when she was close. I’ll meet her at the morgue. The techs are finishing processing the scene now. They’re giving this top priority.”
“Good. Anything else?”
They shook their heads, and she led them into the living room. There, they found Yvette huddled in a corner on her couch.
“Hello, Yvette,” Spencer said. She didn’t reply and he introduced Tony. “This is Detective Sciame.”
She flicked her gaze over him, then went back to staring at the wall.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer went on. “I know she was your friend.”
“I told you,” she said, meeting his eyes, tone accusing. “You didn’t believe me.”
“No,” he admitted, “I didn’t. But I do now.”
“You called me a liar, Detective.”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry so doesn’t cover it.”
“I understand. I need your help, anyway.”
“Fine.” She drew her knees tighter to her chest. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything about the Artist.”
“You mean all the stuff I already told you and you didn’t believe?”
“Pretty much.”
She looked frustrated but did as he asked. Everything she told him, he had heard before. It began when she received a love note from someone calling himself the Artist. She received four in all, one containing five hundred dollars-the exact amount of money Marcus owed her.
“Tonya delivered the note. She saw the money and I confided what was going on. She recognized Jessica from the picture in the paper and also remembered that some guy had sent similar notes to her.”
Patti stepped in. “Tonya was already missing when I came on board. Judging by what we saw today, she was most probably already dead.”
Yvette brought her hands to her face. He saw that they trembled. “It’s my fault,” she said. “She tried to help me. Now she’s dead.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t kill her.”
“I wish I could believe…if she hadn’t agreed to help me-”
“But she did,” Patti said firmly. “Let’s not let this bastard get away with it.”
“When’s the last time you heard from the Artist?”
“Tuesday the eighth I woke up and found a note he’d left.”
“In your apartment?”
“Yes. And a locket.”
“A locket?” he repeated, frowning.
“Tonya’s. Her picture was in it.”
“Just hers?”
“Yes.”
Spencer and Tony exchanged glances.
“I know that’s weird, but maybe she broke up with some guy, got rid of his picture, but kept the necklace.”
Spencer frowned slightly and looked at Patti. “Tuesday the eighth. Wasn’t that the date you began your leave?”
She said it was, and he turned back to Yvette. “And you haven’t seen or heard from him since?”
Patti answered for her. “No. Not here or through the club. I have the locket and note.”
“I don’t feel so good,” Yvette said, jumping to her feet.
They watched her hurry from the room. Spencer glanced at Patti, saw her concern. “She okay?” he asked.
“She does that a lot. It’s starting to worry me.”
“What about security tapes from the Hustle?” Tony looked from Patti to Spencer. “Could be our guy’s pictured-”
“Already been down that road,” Patti said. “They flip ’em every thirty-six hours. Besides, Tonya was the only one who knew what this guy looked like.”
“And she’s dead.”
“What’s our next move?” Tony asked.
“Twenty-four-hour protection for Yvette,” Patti answered. “We get Captain Cooper’s okay to make Stacy’s living arrangement here official. Get a team to Messinger’s condo. I want it searched, pull out all the bells and whistles. We also need a positive ID on Messinger. See who you can find. Family, boyfriend-”
“Borger.”
“Too involved.”
“She might have a record,” Tony offered. “That’d put her prints on file.”
“Check it out, ASAP. If so, talk to Hollister. See if he can get a couple good prints from her.”
Spencer looked at Tony, who grinned.
She glowered at them. “What?”
“Kinda bossy for a person on leave-”
“-a person who’s too stressed-”
“-dare we say overwhelmed-”
“-to perform her duties.”
“Can it, clowns. Captain Patti O’Shay is officially back in the saddle.”
54
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
2:00 p.m.
Spencer stood in the doorway to Patti’s office, watching her. With a series of phone calls, she had spoken to the chief and was officially back in charge of ISD, had arranged round-the-clock protection for Yvette, gotten Stacy “officially” installed as Yvette’s roommate and ordered an investigative team, which included Tony, to Messinger’s condo.
She was, quite simply, amazing.
“Glad to be back under your command,” he said. “Even if I’m pissed at you.”
“Sorry, but I had to play it the way I did.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I’d trust you with my life. But I won’t jeopardize your career.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
She smiled slightly. “And that, Detective, is bullshit. I’m your immediate ranking officer and your aunt. I would never take advantage of my position that way.”
“I�
�m still pissed.”
“I can live with that.”
His cell phone went off, keeping him from retorting. “Detective Malone.”
“It’s Elizabeth Walker. I’m thirty minutes out.”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
The morgue had not been built with comfort in mind. No warm, fuzzies here. Just stainless-steel tables and work stations, cold tile floors and refrigerated cadaver drawers.
The job brought Spencer here way more than he liked. Frankly, even after all these years on the force, the place still gave him the creeps.
He and Elizabeth arrived at the same time. “Thanks for dropping everything and coming in,” Spencer said, falling into step with her. “We’ve waited a long time for another crack at this guy.”
“Fill me in.”
“Woman. Dead four or five days. Shot. Right hand MIA.”
They entered the building and crossed to the attendant. Though the woman recognized them, she asked for ID.
“Here to examine the Jane Doe brought in today,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Lower Ninth ward.”
She nodded. “Sign in. I’ll tell Chris you’re on your way.”
In his twenties, Chris was tall, thin and pale. His communication skills ranked up there with those of a rock, and Spencer decided he spent way too much time with dead people.
“She’s right here.”
The process was extremely efficient. Chris rolled the examining table into the refrigerated room where the bodies were stored on stainless-steel, racked trays. The trays rested on rollers and the shelving was totally adjustable, which allowed the bodies to be stacked, basically, one on top of another.
As they watched, Chris raised the table until it was the same height as the fourth shelf, then rolled the tray out onto it.
On the tray lay Jane Doe’s remains, zipped nice and neat into a black body bag.
“Where do you want her?”
“Under the lights, please,” Elizabeth answered.
She snapped on gloves, crossed to the table and adjusted the surgical lamp. “Before I left, I took a minute to review my findings on the City Park Jane Doe and the original samples. I brought my notes and photos. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
She unzipped the bag. Her expression didn’t change; her attention went immediately to the amputation site.
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