Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  Back at my desk, I saw the blinking light on my phone and ran over to it. I grabbed it and hit the message button.

  “Okay, Robin’s got the DNA.” We rushed downstairs to her office.

  “Hey,” Robin said. She turned down the horrible music coming out of her computer speakers.

  “Well?” I said.

  “No small talk, Karen? No ‘How was your weekend, Robin?’”

  “After you tell me whose DNA was under Hagerty’s nails we’ll go back to your place and have a pillow fight, okay?”

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I gave her a nasty look. “Okay, there were two sets of tissue under his nails. One is our friend Connie de Marco. The other is a gentleman named Warren Endriss.”

  “How’d you get Connie de Marco?”

  “She’s on file in Colorado from her days hooking.”

  “And who the hell is Warren Endriss?”

  She smiled. “How the hell should I know who the hell Warren Endriss is? You’re the detective. Ryan, do you know who the hell Warren Endriss is?” Ryan shook his head no.

  I said, “How’d you get his name?”

  “He was on a bone-marrow donor directory in San Diego in 1993.”

  “But that’s the only hit you have on him?”

  “That’s it. Sorry.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “You’re welcome, Karen.”

  Ryan said, “‘Shit’ is Karen’s way of saying thank you. If you do a really great job, she might tell you to go fuck yourself.”

  “Oh, okay, that clears things up,” Robin said.

  “You two done?” I said.

  Ryan looked at Robin, who nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Let’s go, Ryan, we gotta figure out who Warren Endriss is.” I turned to Robin, placing a hand on her shoulder tenderly. “Robin, dear, thank you so very much for analyzing the DNA for us. Your excellent work is going to be pivotal in solving this crime. And remember, Robin, I love you, just the way you are.”

  “Now you’re creeping me out,” Robin said, shuddering.

  Ryan and I started for the door. I stopped and turned. I patted my heart with my right hand, then pointed to Robin as Ryan and I left the lab.

  “What next?” Ryan said once we made it back to our desks.

  I thought a moment. “Well, we’re running out of possibilities. I want to call Allen Pfeiffer and see if he can help us track down Warren Endriss. While he’s working on that, I think we need to interview Connie again. Other than that, the only other possibilities are Dolores Weston, Dr. K, and Jon Ahern. You got any other ideas?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, tapping his pencil on the desk.

  I picked up the phone and punched in Allen Pfeiffer’s number at the FBI.

  “Pfeiffer.”

  “Allen, this is Karen Seagate. Mind if I put you on Speaker?”

  “That’s fine. What’s up, Karen?”

  “I need some database help on this Hagerty murder. We’ve got some DNA evidence pointing to two people: a Connie de Marco and a Warren Endriss. E-N-D-R-I-S-S. Connie de Marco’s here in Rawlings with us. We got her DNA from some solicitation charges a few years back. She was also a user. We can cover that one. But we can’t place Endriss. Our tech identified him from a bone-marrow donor database in San Diego in 1993. We’ve got a couple of other possibilities: Timothy Sanders, normal spelling, the guy who founded Soul Savers, and Jonathan Ahern, the other guy in the debates.”

  “That’s A-H-E-R-N?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Sanders comes from West Chester, Pennsylvania, went to Loyola University Chicago, lived in Colorado Springs for a while. He’s now living in Waco with his partner, Stephen Friedl. F-R-I-E-D-L. Ahern lives somewhere around Atlanta. Used to be some sort of legislative aide for a state legislator there named Johnny Trautman, now deceased. Ahern says he used to be an accountant. That’s all I have.”

  “Okay, let me see if I can run this down for you. I’ll get back to you. Might take an hour.”

  “Thanks, Allen, I appreciate it.” I hung up and turned to Ryan. “Want to call the hotel, have them track down Connie and get her up to her room? She’s probably out smoking somewhere.”

  Ryan made the call. Then, we grabbed our coats and drove out to the hotel. We knocked on her door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “Ms. de Marco, Detectives Seagate and Miner.”

  “Yes, I remember you,” she said. “Hello.”

  “We’re coming to the end of our investigation. Maybe a day or two more, at most. I understand it’s been a real imposition on you and the others, having to stay here in the hotel.”

  “I spend a lot of time in hotels. Doesn’t bother me.”

  “Can we talk with you a few minutes?”

  “There’s two chairs,” she said, pointing to the desk chair and the reading chair. She sat on the edge of her bed. The bed was made neatly. The room was made up like it is before a guest enters. On the night table lay the TV remote, the room-service breakfast card, and the TV guide, neatly lined up against the table edge.

  “We’ve got the DNA results back from the tissue under Mr. Hagerty’s nails. It belonged to you.” I stopped there. She stood up and began to unbuckle her jeans. “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I want to show you something,” she said.

  Ryan said, “You want me to leave?”

  “No, stay,” Connie said.

  She pulled her crimson turtleneck over her head and removed it. She folded it carefully, the sleeves behind the back, then once across the chest, and placed it on top of the pillow. She reached her arms behind her and unfastened her bra, removed it, and folded it so the cups fit together. She placed it on top of the turtleneck and walked over to me.

  She held out her arms, palms up. Pointing to her inner arms, she said, “These tiny brown marks are tracks from when I was using. There are some more on my stomach, right here,” she said, pointing. She walked over to Ryan. “Let me show you, too, Detective.”

  Her breasts were ten inches from Ryan’s face as she showed him the needle tracks. He pulled his head back, blushing. Connie stepped back from Ryan, then walked back over to me. She turned around.

  Her back was covered with long brown scars, running from between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine. A set of eight tracks were fresh, dotted with crimson scabs. She walked over to Ryan and showed him.

  “Because Mr. Hagerty was so heavy, he would lie on his back, with me on top. He would have me bend down, put my palms on the mattress above his shoulders. From that position he would suck on my nipples and rake his nails down my back, as if we were lovers. As if we were in love. If I had killed Mr. Hagerty, the scratches would be in front.”

  She turned around to face me, holding out her arms again. She moved closer to me, lifting her breasts with her hands so I could see the undersides. She then repeated the procedure in front of Ryan.

  “Would you like to see the rest of me?” she said to me.

  “Would you put your clothing back on, please, Ms. de Marco?” Connie walked over to the bed, slipped the bra on over her shoulders, and hooked it. She pulled on the turtleneck and loosened the zipper on her jeans. She tucked her blouse in carefully and pulled up the zipper, buttoned the jeans, and fastened the belt.

  “Detective Seagate, Detective Miner, in my life I have done many bad and stupid things. I have been sexually humiliated for many years by many hundreds of men. But I am not a murderer.” She looked directly at me, then at Ryan. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Ms. de Marco,” I said, my voice soft. “We appreciate your cooperation, and, as I said, we hope to be able to let you get on with your life as soon as possible.”

  “There’s no need to hurry, Detective Seagate. This is my life.”

  Ryan and I stood and left the hotel room. I looked back to see Connie rolling the desk chair back into the kneehole of the desk, aligning it properly.

  We were silent as we
drove to headquarters. Back at my desk, I saw my message light. It was Allen. I called him back.

  “Pfeiffer.”

  “Allen, Karen. Get anything?”

  “Yeah, let me start with Timothy Sanders. He was born Timothy Skarzenski in Detroit. Family lived in Milwaukee for a year, eventually moved to West Chester. He went to Loyola Chicago like you said, then lived in Colorado Springs, then Waco.”

  “Just like I said?”

  “Just like you said.”

  “And what about Jonathan Ahern?”

  “That one’s a little messier. The story about living near Atlanta, working for the Georgia legislator, all that checks out.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “He died in 1991.”

  I sighed. “Say again.”

  “Jonathan Ahern was born in 1921 and died in 1991. He owned a plumbing business in San Diego. He paid taxes until 1989. Then he started paying taxes again in 1999.”

  “So my guy’s grabbed Ahern’s identity?”

  “Could be. I can’t connect the dots yet.”

  “What have you got on Warren Endriss?”

  “Endriss: born in 1965 in Sacramento, went to Sac State—”

  “Major in accounting?”

  “Yeah, accounting. Lived in San Diego until 1998.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he went off the radar. No taxes, no Social Security payments. Nothing.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Can’t be sure, but sounds like there was this guy named Warren Endriss living in San Diego until 1998. He grabs the Social Security number of a dead guy named Jonathan Ahern, moves to Atlanta, starts working for a Georgia state legislator.”

  “Allen, thanks a lot. Talk to you later.”

  “Anytime, Karen. Good luck.”

  I hung up. I called Jon Ahern’s room at the Courtyard. No answer. I hung up and called the reception desk, asked to speak with the uniform.

  “Hey, this is Karen Seagate. Who is this?”

  “Officer Truman.”

  “Truman, I’m trying to get in touch with Jon Ahern. He’s not picking up in his room. Do you know where he is?”

  “Just a second,” Truman said, checking his notebook. “Sorry, Detective, I have no record of where he is.”

  “Okay, have someone from the hotel let you into Ahern’s room, then call me back immediately.”

  “Right away.”

  I hung up. Ryan was on the phone to someone. “Is there a guy on the driving range? Forty, forty-five years old. Six one, one ninety?” Ryan paused. “Check the snack bar, the men’s room. Yes, I’ll hold.” He shook his head. “All right, thanks.” To me, “He’s not at the driving range.”

  My phone rang. “Seagate.”

  “This is Officer Truman. Ahern’s not in his room. The room is made up. I checked with Housekeeping. They didn’t have to make it up today. He didn’t sleep in it last night.”

  “Thanks, Truman.”

  Ryan was on the phone. “Ms. de Marco, Detective Miner. We’re looking for Jon Ahern. Have you seen him?”

  “Not in a few days.”

  “Ms. de Marco, I know you’ve been straight with us. This is really important, so I’m going to ask it again. If you know where he is, the best way to help him out is to tell us where he is. Have you seen him?”

  “Not in a few days.”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “I haven’t seen him, and I don’t know where he is.”

  “All right, Ms. de Marco. Thank you. Sorry to bother you again.”

  I said to Ryan, “Come on. We need to check his credit cards.” We rushed off to the chief’s office, brushing past his assistant.

  “Chief, we identified the murderer. It’s Jon Ahern. He stole a dead guy’s identity, and he’s on the run. We need authorization to check his financials. All we need is his credit cards.”

  “Another one on the run? Have you considered interviewing your suspects while they’re still in town, Seagate? You know, to cut down on expenses?”

  “That’s really good advice, Chief, and I’m gonna take it next time, but right now I need your okay to look at his credit cards.”

  “Will the two of you be going on another flight anytime soon?”

  “Don’t know. We think he’s either in Atlanta or San Diego.”

  “This time, it better be three of you coming back.”

  “Got it,” I said as we rushed out of his office and back to our desks. “Ryan, you find out the banking organization in Atlanta, I’ll do San Diego. We just need the credit cards from last week through now.”

  “I’m on it,” he said.

  “I’ll call the prosecutor and ask him to put a rush on the authorization.”

  We made the calls and got the authorization.

  “Okay,” Ryan said, “Now what do we do?”

  “Now we wait,” I said. “Where do you think he went: Atlanta or San Diego?”

  “I’m guessing Atlanta. That’s where he’s been the last eight years. Maybe there’s a wife or something in Atlanta.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “When Sanders split, he went all the way back to his childhood, to Milwaukee.”

  “It’s Connie. They were in love. Ahern couldn’t take Hagerty humiliating her.”

  “I don’t think so. I believe Connie all the way. The way she took off her shirt in front of us. She wasn’t screwing Ahern.”

  “Well, we’ll see. This is exciting, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said. “Until we figure out why he did it. Then it’ll probably just be real depressing.”

  We tried to think of something to do, but neither of us could face starting the pile of forms we would have to fill out just for the trip to Milwaukee.

  An hour later, an aide rushed up and handed me two envelopes. I tossed one to Ryan.

  “It’s a blank for Atlanta,” Ryan said after a minute. “There’s nobody from there with credit cards that match our guy.”

  “Here he is,” I said. Jonathan Ahern, with the right Social Security. Okay, buddy, where’d you go?” I said, scanning the printout. “He flew to San Diego yesterday. He rented a car. No listing for a hotel yet. You know what I want to do, Ryan? You stay here, track him for me. I’m gonna go down to San Diego and pick him up.”

  Chapter 10

  I made the flight reservations, drove home and packed a small bag, and made it to the airport. I got the full workup in security: the belt, the shoes, the wand, and the frisk. I figured it was because my black eye was now a ghoulish neon green, and my left wrist was still in a brace. The first leg, to Denver, looked like it was going to be only half full. That was a relief. I wasn’t looking forward to having to sit next to anyone, and I didn’t need a screaming baby nearby.

  I sat down at the gate next to the one where my plane would board. I was close enough to see and hear what was going on but far enough away to be alone. A mom, her little girl, and a uniformed woman from Southwest walked up to the gate for the Denver flight. The little girl had a pink plastic suitcase on wheels. I couldn’t hear them, but I could follow the narrative.

  The mom knelt down in front of the little girl, talking to her. The mom’s hands were busy, straightening and rearranging the girl’s blouse, making sure she had a tissue in her jeans pocket, checking that the shoelaces were knotted securely. The mom would be telling the little girl everything would be all right, mostly to reassure herself.

  Then the airline woman leaned down to get closer to the girl’s height, and the mom reached out and took the airline woman’s hands. This would be the mom handing over physical custody of her daughter to the airline woman. Mom would be showing the little girl that this was her temporary mom, you can trust her, honey. I could tell the mom hated this part and was getting really scared, wondering if the airline woman was indeed trustworthy, whether her daughter would survive the flight, whether she would ever see her again.

  The mom hugged the daughter once, twice, kissed her s
everal times on the cheek, on the top of her head, and, with her hand to her mouth, stood up. The airline woman took the little girl’s hand and reached out to the mom. This would be where the airline woman became the adult, reassuring the mom, who was starting to come undone.

  Taking the little girl by the hand, the airline woman walked over to the counter and began talking with the attendant. The mom stood still in her tracks, her hands fidgeting, then waving to the little girl, who was talking to the attendant, not even looking in the mom’s direction. The airline woman escorted the little girl through the door and into the unknown. The mom didn’t leave. It was too soon. She stood there.

  I wondered why the girl was going on the flight alone. It was probably just a shared custody visit. But maybe it had been something worse, somebody sick or dead. How many times does a mother have to worry about her child? Is it measured in hundreds or thousands? How often must a mother picture her child afraid, crying, hurt, dead? Even if the child has been fine every time, will a mother ever believe, really believe, that the child will be okay this time?

  Even if the mom has strapped the child into the car seat a thousand times to run some errands in the car, will the mother ever stop worrying that something—a length of drainage pipe fastened to the bed of the semi, a boulder dropped from the overpass by a teenage moron, a drunk who’s run out of liquor—will break through the glass and steel that protects her baby and stop time?

  I was relieved when the fuzzy metallic voice of the woman at the counter announced boarding. Running around, working the case was the only thing kept me from thinking myself into a deeper and deeper pit. I got on the line to go though the gate, down the stairs, out onto the tarmac, and over to the plane. I grabbed a seat in an empty row, closed my eyes, and tried to tune out the flight attendant’s always-helpful refresher on how to operate a seatbelt.

  Would it be so bad if, just once in a while, they let her explain something slightly more interesting, such as why the oxygen bag doesn’t inflate even though oxygen is flowing?