The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6)

by Mike Markel

  “So it’s what? A misunderstanding?”

  “Well, according to the county, it’s a misdemeanor possession of a controlled substance.”

  I shook my head. “How about the three kids who didn’t come to the meeting this morning? Did you run them down?”

  “According to the notes from the secretary in the sociology department, Maria Ortiz is a member of the Talking Cougars—”

  “What?”

  “The debate team. She’s in Wyoming now, at some regional championship. She didn’t attend class last night. Anyway, she’s clean. Oliver Huntley was in his chemistry lab at eleven this morning. He’s clean, too. And the third one is Zach Gilcrist. The secretary couldn’t reach him.”

  “He in class?”

  “I looked him up on the student system. No, he didn’t have a class this morning.”

  “Did you try calling him?”

  “Yeah, he’s not picking up.”

  “He in our system?”

  “Couple of underage drinking misdemeanors. Driving with an expired license.”

  “Hand me his transcript, would you?” Ryan fished through the stack of pages Mary Dawson, the dean of students, had given us this morning. I looked at it. “Shit, he looks as stupid as me.” I paused a second. “What address have you got on the douchebag who made that wisecrack about Krista being up in the bedrooms?”

  Ryan flipped through the pages. “Martin Hunt is at 1200 Petrie.”

  “So is Zach Gilcrist.” I nodded. “Is that the fraternity?”

  Ryan hit a few keys. “It’s Alpha Phi Sigma.” He gave me a big smile. “What made you think of that?”

  “It’s my superpower. I channel douchebags.”

  “I also ran Robert Rinaldi, the professor’s son. He’s clean.”

  “Okay, good. Now, how are we gonna identify Krista?” I sat down at my desk.

  “Let me try the sociology department. If they paid her an honorarium for coming to that class, they’d have a tax form on her.”

  I nodded as Ryan phoned Linda in sociology. He asked her; she put him on hold. “Okay, thanks, Linda.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll try Vice.” I phoned Harry Weber and asked if he knew a twenty-something working girl, European accent, goes by Krista. He asked if I knew who ran her. Told him no. He said it didn’t ring a bell but he’d ask around and get back to me. I hung up. “Shit. Okay, what’s next?”

  Ryan started paging through his notebook. “Until we can run down Krista, we can interview Cletis Williams—the state education board guy—and Richard Albright. He’s the angry student.”

  I heard my phone hum from inside my big leather bag hanging on the back of my chair. I fished it out. Robin, our evidence tech, had sent me a text: “Talk?”

  “Why does she do that?” I picked up the phone. “Now I have to call her.” I punched in her number and hit Speaker. “Hey, Robin. You and Harold got something already?”

  “Harold hasn’t finished the autopsy yet, but I’ve got some shit for you.”

  “You free now?”

  She was. Ryan and I headed downstairs. I stuck my head in her little office, but she wasn’t there, so we walked a few more steps to Harold’s big lab. Ryan held the heavy door open for me. He’d do that anyway because of the way he was raised, but in this case it was so he could push me inside if I tried to run away. I really didn’t like the lab.

  It was cold and noisy, the whooshing of the HVAC system bouncing off the tiled floor and walls. A vague hospital smell hung in the air. At least it didn’t stink of shit, piss, and mold, which it often does. Instinctively, my eyes were drawn to the big steel gurney. Harold’s wide back blocked the top half of a cadaver. The legs, from a forty-something female, were puckered and a little veiny. I assumed it was Virginia Rinaldi.

  I stayed close to the door. “Cause of death?” I said to Harold.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got it. Want to come over? I’ve pulled her scalp back.”

  “No, that’s okay. Just tell me.”

  He pointed to the long table that ran along the far wall. “Let me show you the picture I just took.” Harold began to lumber over toward one of his computers along the wall. “We did a BAC. She’d been drinking. Alcohol was .05.”

  “Probably not enough to send her down the stairs.”

  “Everybody’s different. With her body mass, if she had a normal tolerance for alcohol, probably not. But some people are pissed at .02.” Harold touched a key on the computer, and an image of her skull appeared on the screen. He pointed to an area above her left ear. “See those little lines?” He was pointing a pencil at some spidery lines radiating out from a central spot, like a windshield after a head hit it hard.

  “Someone konk her?”

  “I don’t think so. Usually, there are characteristic marks from a weapon. You know, a brick, a baseball bat. But there are no marks of a weapon on her scalp. It’s an indistinct bruise, most probably from hitting the stairs.”

  “So it’s a fracture?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t sawed off the skull to take a look at the brain yet, but my bet is she died of a brain bleed.”

  “That’s not conclusive for homicide, right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. She could’ve tripped and fallen down the stairs.”

  “With or without the alcohol.”

  “Exactly. So I’m not ready to sign off on it. I might find all kinds of other interesting stuff when I open up her wrist and when we get the tox screen back. But Robin’s ready to call it.”

  Robin was standing off to the side, studying a clipboard. Her head jerked up when she heard her name. From twenty feet away I could see a blotchy red creep up her neck from Harold’s comment. She outcurses a run-of-the-mill gang-banger, but compliment her and watch her pale skin go all crimson.

  “What you got, Robin?”

  “Hi, cops.” She tried to flash me and Ryan a smile, but she was too flustered to pull it off.

  “Why is it a homicide?”

  “There’s some tissue on the wall going down the stairs showing that she really went down with some force.”

  “Where was the tissue?”

  “Some of it’s almost a meter off the stairs.”

  “She could’ve been wobbling pretty good at the top of the stairs, tried to catch herself, got all twisted up, banged up against the wall as she came down.”

  “It’s possible. But I think some motherfucker took a deep breath and pushed her down the stairs.”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because the vic has a broken fingernail with some tissue under it. Looks like a defensive wound.”

  “This motherfucker got a name?”

  “I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it. One other thing: I think she made two trips down the stairs.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You remember her body was on the stairs? There’s some fresh-looking tissue on the rug at the base of the stairs. Could be from a scrape on her face. Plus, there’s a fiber strand from the rug in her hair. And one more thing: There’s a partial fingerprint over her carotid artery.”

  “Usable?”

  “No, she had some perspiration on her neck, so the print didn’t stick. But I think the guy put a finger or two on her neck to feel for a pulse.”

  “So you’re saying the first trip she makes it all the way to the rug?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Maybe she falls down the stairs, comes to rest on the rug. She tries to pick herself up and climb the stairs. Can’t make it.”

  “Then her body would be pointing up the stairs,” Robin said.

  I sighed. “Ryan, help me out. Tell me how it could’ve been an accident.”

  He stood there a few seconds, his brow furrowed. Then he shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Robin said, “He threw her down the stairs once. Then he picked her up and carried her up the stairs again.”

  “Because he checked and she still had a pulse?” I said.

  Robin s
hrugged her shoulders. “That’s the way I’d interpret it.”

  “He couldn’t just squeeze her nostrils shut for half a minute and save himself a trip?”

  “Well, I would have found that easier to do.” Robin paused a beat. “I’m just saying she went down the stairs twice. You want me to run the DNA from the tissue under her fingernails?”

  “Yeah, I do. Get me the name of a strong, stupid killer.”

  “I’ll need thirty-six, forty-eight hours to cook it.”

  “You figured out who our mystery woman is?”

  “Couldn’t find one piece of paper in the house to identify her. Not in her bedroom, not in her bathroom. No meds. Nothing in her clothes. Nothing in the professor’s bedroom. I gave the professor’s computer and phone to Jorge.” He’s our IT guy. “He’s working on it now. He’ll identify her.”

  “And see if she has another computer and a phone at the university, will ya? Get that to Jorge, too.”

  I heard my cell buzz. I moved off to the corner to take the call. “Sorry,” I said to the others in the lab. “Seagate.”

  “Detective, this is Mary Dawson. At the university?”

  “Yes, Dean Dawson, what’s up?”

  “I got that information you wanted on Robert Rinaldi, Virginia’s son.”

  I put the phone on Speaker and waved Ryan to come over. He pulled his notebook and pen out of his suit jacket pocket as he walked over to me. “Great, go ahead.”

  “Robert is a student at Reed College, in Portland. He lives with another student: Thomas Rafla. The roommate’s number is (424) 555-0693.”

  I glanced at Ryan, who nodded to tell me he had it. “Okay, Dean Dawson—Mary—thanks a lot for getting that information for us.”

  “You’ll keep me in the loop?”

  “Everything I can.” I ended the call. “All right, Robin, thanks. Harold, would you mind letting me know when you enter the report on the system?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “And I’ll call you if it’s something other than the brain bleed.”

  “That’d be great.” Ryan and I turned and headed upstairs to see if the roommate thought Robert Rinaldi was sufficiently pissed off about the new girlfriend to throw Mom down the stairs twice.

  Chapter 8

  Thomas Rafla answered on the second ring.

  “Mr. Rafla, my name is Karen Seagate. I’m a police detective in Rawlings, Montana.” There was silence, which I get a lot when I mention Rawlings, Montana, to someone out-of-state. I heard him breathing, so I knew he was there.

  “I’m sorry.” He paused. “Say again where you’re phoning from.”

  “Rawlings, Montana. Small city. Big state.”

  “All right.” The syllables came out slowly, as if he were conceding we all should be permitted to live wherever we want, but that I had made a puzzling choice. “And you say you’re a police detective?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I said. My name is Seagate.”

  “What an interesting name.”

  “It’s my ex’s. I’m not wild about it.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” He paused, in case I wanted to discuss my marital situation a little more. I didn’t. “How can I help you, Detective Karen Seagate?”

  “Mr. Rafla, your roommate is Robert Rinaldi, is that correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Okay, Robert’s mother is named Virginia Rinaldi. She’s a professor at Central Montana State University, right here in Rawlings.” I paused. “You with me so far?”

  “I am aware that Robert’s mother is a professor. I will take your word for it that there is a university in your community.”

  “I need to get in touch with Robert, but he’s not picking up. Do you know where he is?”

  “I do not.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Let me think.” And that’s what he presumably did, for a good five seconds. “It was perhaps two or three days ago.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He did not mention a location. He said his mother’s into … I want to remember the phrase … she’s ‘into some shit again,’ and he vowed to ‘put an end to this.’”

  “That’s all he said?”

  “Those were the words. He was very angry. We’re nearing the end of the semester, not the most convenient time for a lengthy road trip.”

  “Do you know what he meant, about putting an end to this?”

  “When he mentions his mother, he does not provide details. From the little he has told me, she is selfish, vain, hotheaded, and occasionally ruthless. She sounds delicious—much more interesting than Robert.”

  “He hates her?”

  “As only a loving son can.”

  “All right. So you think he’s not in Portland, right?”

  “I haven’t seen his car in its spot behind our building in several days. For all I know, however, he could be in Portland or any other place, busily cleaning up whatever shit in which his mother now finds herself.”

  “Listen, Mr. Rafla, it’s real important I get in touch with him, so can you give me another minute?”

  “Yes, of course. I must say, your call has made his absence more interesting than it was a few minutes ago.”

  “Has Robert mentioned any of Mother’s romantic partners? Any men? Women?”

  “On several occasions, Mother has broken off personal relationships because the partner has not shown her the proper respect, has not given her adequate space, has not invested sufficiently in the relationship.”

  “Was that men? Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Robert would talk about that kind of stuff?”

  “Her romantic life?”

  “Her sexual orientation.”

  “Oh, I see. He never said anything that would lead me to conclude that he cares at all about her orientation. That’s the least of his challenges in dealing with her.”

  “What about a father? Robert ever mention a father?”

  “He has mentioned that he does not know his father’s identity. His mother seems to know, but she won’t reveal that secret. She told him once that his identity is unimportant. The man has fulfilled his role, she said. He is now out of the picture.”

  “Like he was a sperm donor? Something like that?”

  “Definitely a sperm donor, although whether it occurred through an agency or in a minivan, Robert does not appear to know. On his birth certificate, the father’s name is listed as Unknown.”

  “Okay, Mr. Rafla, thanks a lot. Listen, it’s real important I get in touch with Robert, so would you take my name and number and, if he checks in with you, you tell him to get in touch with me, okay?”

  “I definitely will, Detective Karen Seagate. And I must say, you certainly have piqued my interest in the relationship between Robert and Mother. I will pay more attention when he next mentions her.”

  When I supplied my contact information, he made noises like he was writing it down. We ended the call.

  I turned to Ryan. “You’re a college kid. A cop calls. Wants to know where your roommate is. Aren’t you a little bit curious about that?”

  “Not if I’m less interested in my roommate than in my own reflection in the pool.”

  “Do you find it strange that she was this hot-shit professor of sociology who seems to have pissed off everybody in her life?”

  Ryan paused to think for a moment. “Not really. From the stories my dad used to tell us, the one thing that links all professors across all the disciplines is a sense of entitlement and righteous indignation.”

  The phone in my leather bag buzzed. I fished it out. The screen showed Robert Murtaugh. “Yeah, Chief.”

  “I got that information you asked for.”

  “Great.” I blanked on what he was talking about. “I’m here in the bullpen with Ryan. Let me put you on Speaker.”

  “No, not on the phone. Come to my office.”

  “Be right there.” I ended the call and turned t
o Ryan. “What’s he’s talking about?”

  Ryan and I turned to head over to the chief’s office. He thought a second. “Cletis Williams. The state board of ed guy. Why he quit.”

  “That’s it.” My brain was turning into Swiss cheese at a frightening rate. “Thanks.”

  Margaret, the chief’s gatekeeper, looked up and gave us an official nod. “Go right in.”

  The chief was seated at his desk, looking at his screen. “Sit.” He pointed to the two chairs facing his desk.

  “This about Cletis Williams?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I made a few calls.”

  “Who’d you talk to?”

  He shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell us. Probably smart. “I’ve got part of the story. Not too interesting.”

  I shrugged. “It’s early. We’ll take anything we can get.”

  “It was at a monthly meeting of the state board of ed. Each of the college presidents got a half-hour to make their case for the annual tuition rise. It was Central Montana’s turn. President Billingham was doing a PowerPoint about how the state’s funding of the university was going down in a straight line. You know that story. Anyway, Virginia Rinaldi was seated there, in the audience—”

  “She was there officially?”

  “Apparently not. But they’re open meetings. So she stood up and made some inflammatory comments about the state abdicating its responsibility to the citizens of Montana, just like it did the month before when it voted down some legislation that would protect LGBT people. She went off on a rant about how the board was just the puppet of the legislature, which wanted to keep Montana white, straight, poor, and stupid. The chair of the board, a man named Bjornson, tried to cut her off with his gavel, but the damage had been done. It embarrassed President Billingham—and shook up the board members, too. The board members were muttering among themselves, you know, trying to figure out who Virginia Rinaldi was and how to respond to her. Cletis Williams didn’t realize his microphone was on. He was whispering something to another board member sitting next to him. A number of people in the room were sure they heard him call her a dyke. The audience started muttering, and it took a little while to get the meeting under control.”

  “So how’d it get in the newspaper?”