Deadfall

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Henry left as well, his job finished there until they were ready for him to remove the body.

  Mac opened the box and slid a white-and-pink fingerprint card from a manila envelope. “You want to try the ink pad, Kevin, or the real stuff?”

  “Better try the ink pad first, before we make too big of a mess.

  This guy’s got fairly long fingernails, so it should make for a good grip with the print spoon.”

  Mac pulled a metal fingerprint spoon from the kit and handed it to Kevin. The spoon looked like a shoehorn with a trigger guard on one end. He then grabbed the circular black ink pad from the box, taking off the lid and setting the pad on the edge of the table next to the victim’s arm.

  “I’ll hold the fingers, and you try to roll the card.” Kevin turned slightly for a better vantage point.

  Printing a live person was difficult enough; printing a dead one was awkward at best. Kevin hooked the print spoon under the left index finger and pulled it over the back of the hand until it made a distended arch. “Give it a try, Mac.”

  Mac moved in next to Kevin, grabbing the ink pad off the table and rolling it over the pad of the finger. He then folded the print card around the box labeled for the left index finger and rolled the paper card on the top of the inked finger.

  “How’s it look?” Kevin asked, still holding the lifeless hand.

  “Not great.” Mac showed Kevin the card. “What do you think?”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Poor quality.” Kevin let the hand rest on the table and stepped back. “The prints don’t have enough ridge detail. We’ve got to get the skin off his index finger and thumb, then dry them before they will roll.”

  Kristen came in, holding a stack of papers. “Looks like our guy may not be one of the drowning victims after all.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Mac stepped over to the empty autopsy table where Kristen was laying out the faxes she’d gotten from the Coast Guard.

  “Vic number one on the drowning was Latino, only about sixty-four inches, and had some false teeth. Our guy’s got a perfect smile and may have gained some water weight, but he couldn’t have grown over a half a foot.”

  Mac and Kevin both looked over the grainy fax pictures of the drowning victims. “What about the second guy?” Mac asked. “From what Chris said, he was about the right height and weight. Right hair color.”

  “He does, or did.” Kristen slid a piece of paper to the front of the table where Mac was standing. “But take a look under the scars, marks, and tattoos section on the NCIC report.”

  “‘Drowning victim number two had his appendix out and had a shamrock tattoo on his right shoulder,’” Mac read the report over her shoulder. Kristen turned for a moment, her face inches away from his. In that moment, Mac wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He stepped back and looked away, annoyed by his animal instincts and feeling like he’d gotten caught stealing.

  Kristen didn’t seem the least bit offended. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the moment. He expected a smart remark, but none came.

  Kevin rounded the corner of the table and took a look at the victim’s shoulder. “No tats on the shoulder or anywhere else I can see.”

  “And no appendix scar,” Kristen added, not missing a beat.

  “This guy is a totally new unsub.” Glancing at Mac, she added, “That’s slang for unidentified subject.”

  Mac knew that but didn’t trust himself to speak. He clamped his jaw and tried to focus on what Kevin was saying rather than on the testosterone-induced state he’d fallen into.

  “We tried to roll a set of latents.” Kevin showed Kristen the print card. “The skin’s just too saturated.”

  “I’ll get the blow dryer.” Kristen tossed Mac a knowing smile.

  “Help yourself to one of my scalpels on the counter, boys.”

  Kevin selected a scalpel. “You ever done this before, Mac?”

  “Done what?”

  “Guess that answers my question.” Kevin handed the scalpel to Mac.

  Mac frowned. “Are we cutting his fingers off?” Mac remembered reading something about obtaining fingerprints by removing the dermis.

  “No, we are not. You are going to do the cutting. I’ll hold the print card and the ink. All you need to do is cut around the dermis on three or four of the fingers below the first knuckle and remove the skin.”

  “Oh.” Mac’s tone seemed a little too high and uncertain. He slipped on a fresh pair of gloves as Kristen returned to the room with a vintage blow dryer that had duct tape wrapped around the handle.

  “You actually use that thing?” Mac nodded toward the dryer. “Doesn’t look too safe.”

  “Me use a blower? Are you kidding?” Kristen touched the tips of her spiked burgundy hair. “This is the lab blow dryer. It came in with a woman three or four years ago, tucked inside the body bag. Bathtub incident—either it fell into the tub with her or someone threw it in. Of course, the other possibility is that she was using it as a bathtub toy. However you look at it, I don’t think she ever missed it. It may not look so good, but it’ll dry those prints out after you get the skin off.”

  “I guess my lucky number came up.” Mac glanced down at the victim’s hand and braced himself. “I get to take them off.”

  “This I’ve got to see.” Kristen grinned in Mac’s direction, not meeting his eyes.

  Mac wondered at her sudden shyness, but only for a moment. Determined to keep his mind on the task, he held the tip of the middle finger, cutting around the base with the scalpel, and then tried to slip the skin off the bone. It wouldn’t give.

  “Twist it a little,” Kristen said. “It’ll break loose.”

  Mac set down the scalpel, held his breath, and twisted the skin on the finger, eventually sliding it off the end.

  “Good.” Kevin extended his gloved right hand, sticking his index finger toward the skin sample. “Go ahead and slip it on.”

  “This isn’t a forefinger. Does it matter?”

  “No,” Kevin answered. “I’ll just make sure I roll the print in the right box. It’s easier for me to roll prints with my right index finger.”

  Feeling queasy, Mac slid the piece of finger skin from the victim over the top of Kevin’s extended finger. This would not go down as his favorite part of being a detective.

  Turning toward Kristen, Kevin said, “Doc, would you mind doing the honors?”

  “Be happy to.” Kristen turned the blow dryer on low speed, holding it about six inches from the skin sample and waving it back and forth. After about five minutes of drying, Kristen turned it off. “That should do it.”

  Kevin then rolled the ink pad over the finger and applied the print to a fresh card. Smiling at the results, he said, “That’s more like it.” On the card was a clean latent fingerprint that was quality enough to run through the AFIS computer at the crime lab and hopefully get a match.

  “Let’s get a few more, Mac.”

  Mac removed the skin from both thumbs and the index finger on the right hand, going through the same process to recover several more quality fingerprint samples.

  “I’m impressed.” After blowing dry the last one, Kristen wrapped up the cord around the dryer and set it aside. “Nice job, Mac.”

  Kevin slipped off his gloves after the skin samples had been set neatly on the edge of the autopsy table. “Mind hanging on to those for a while?” he asked Kristen. “At least until you release the body?”

  “No problem. I’ll have Henry wrap them up in the body cavity with the internal organs after he bags them. We still have to get a look inside his noggin, but I’d be surprised if anything comes of it. I’ll get heart muscle samples and a dental mold before he goes into the freezer, in case we need DNA or a dentist to ID this guy later.”

  Kevin thanked her. “Mac and I are going to get these prints and the bullet to the lab, so page one of us if you turn up any more surprises.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll hold on to the corps
e until I hear from you on the next of kin. There’s plenty of room in the freezer if we need to hold him for a while. I’ll also grab some head and pubic hair samples for you in case they come into play later.”

  “Great.” Kevin nodded. He seemed stiff, his jaw set. Again Mac wondered what was going on with his partner. Since this wasn’t the time to ask, he pushed it to the back of his mind, thinking he’d talk to him later.

  Mac and Kevin walked out in the hall to collect their gear. “You okay to run with this one, partner?” Kevin asked.

  “Sure, but two in a row?” Mac secured the latent prints inside a paper envelope, placing it back inside the print kit so not to smudge the acquired samples. He didn’t want to have to repeat the process again.

  “You need the experience.” Kevin rolled the bullet inside a paper fold and placed it into a plastic evidence bag.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Mac rubbed his forehead, trying to assimilate all the mismatched details ricocheting in his head.

  “You okay, partner?” Kevin frowned. “You look a little unsettled.”

  He looked unsettled? “Nah. I’m fine. Just not used to slicing up fingers.” Mac shot a glance back inside the autopsy room as Kristen was weighing the brain from their victim. Henry had placed the internal organs inside a clear plastic bag and neatly tucked the little package inside the body cavity. He had just begun his closing handiwork on the body, stitching up the chest and sternum with nylon thread in preparation for transfer to a funeral home, once the body was released.

  The men stopped on the steps.

  “Looks treacherous out there.” Kevin slipped a pair of wool gloves out of his coat pocket and carefully made his way down the ice-coated stairs. The rough concrete gave them minimal traction.

  Mac pulled on his own gloves and grabbed the metal railing for balance. “I left the motor running, so the car should be warm and the windows thawed.”

  “Good. Let’s give it a shot. We’ve got good tires, so as long as there aren’t any crazies besides us trying to drive in this stuff, we should be okay.”

  Mac clicked on the remote to unlock the Crown Victoria, then he half-walked, half-skated to the driver side door. Ice had formed around the doors and crackled as Mac and Kevin yanked them open.

  Inside, Kevin snapped his seatbelt and warmed his hands on the heater. Mac shivered as droplets of ice melted and trickled down his neck.

  “Hang on.” Mac eased the car out of the parking space. “So far, so good.” He tossed his partner a grin and turned south onto Grand Avenue in North Portland.

  “Smart-mouth.” After a few minutes, Kevin leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

  “Praying again?” Mac asked.

  “No. Thinking. It’s none of my business, but are you and Kristen involved?”

  “Me and the doc? You’ve got to be kidding.” Mac was glad for the darkness. Even with the frigid weather he could feel his temperature rise. “She’s just a big flirt—you know that. I was playing along, that’s all.”

  “Yeah.” He grunted and shifted slightly in his seat. “So, you’re still seeing Linda?”

  Mac hesitated. “Sort of.”

  “What kind of answer is that? Did you break off the engagement? What?”

  “I don’t know, Kev. She’s still ragging on me to go to counseling with her, and I keep making excuses.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes . . . I guess.” Mac sighed. “I’m not sure what I want. Linda is a beautiful woman, and she’s been more understanding about my work lately. I feel like I need to give her a chance.”

  “Ah, Mac, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. I stopped having girl problems more than thirty years ago when I met Jean.”

  “You lucked out, Kevin. Jean is great.”

  “She is.” He smiled. “Don’t settle for second-best, Mac. If you’re not sure, maybe you need to let things cool off. Date other women. I have a feeling Kristen wouldn’t mind. Or Dana, for that matter.”

  Mac felt his cheeks flush. “What makes you think that?”

  “Discernment, my boy. Both those women get all starry-eyed when you’re around. Don’t know what they see in you, but . . .”

  “Dana is dating someone, and Kristen is . . . strange.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me there, partner. All I’m saying is follow your heart.”

  My heart? Right. Mac had no idea which direction his heart was taking. One minute it leaned toward Linda, the next toward Dana, and today he’d even found himself tilting in Kristen’s direction.

  Mac tried to stop at a red light, but the wheels had other ideas. Fortunately, there were no cars at the intersection. He managed to regain control of the car and set off again, moving at a decent clip once he reached a heavily traveled road where the ice hadn’t had a chance to settle in. Fifteen minutes later they were downtown, parking in a Police Only space in front of the Justice Center on SW 4th Avenue. The multistory building served as the county jail and a Portland Police Bureau precinct. The twelfth floor was home to the Oregon State Police forensic lab scientists for the entire metropol-itan area. The crime lab, one of many maintained by OSP, satisfied several forensic needs of the criminal justice system, including DNA testing, ballistics, drug testing, and latent print comparison.

  Kevin grabbed their evidence, and he and Mac entered the building through large glass doors at the street level. Once in the foyer, Kevin flipped open his wallet badge to show the security officer at the front desk. Mac pulled his sport coat aside to display the badge he had clipped to his belt. The officer buzzed them through the electronic lock and went back to his paperwork. They rode the elevator to the twelfth floor then hurried down the long, carpeted hallway, which displayed large photographs of crime-scene investigations dated fifty years or older. In the pictures, officers were shown using large cameras on tripods with flash powder.

  “This one is my favorite.” Kevin paused and pointed to a black-and-white photo of a dining room that had several overturned chairs. The room looked like a rustic cabin with hundreds of holes in the walls and furniture, connected by countless strands of string.

  “Hmm.” Mac rarely took time to look at the pictures. He promised himself he’d check out the history behind them someday. “I’ve always wondered what that was all about.”

  “That was in the 1940s in the central Oregon area. Some desperado killed a local lawman—I can’t remember which one, but it wasn’t a trooper—and was holed up inside this cabin. The local sheriff rounded up a posse, and they turned the house into Swiss cheese. They’re using string to work out trajectory patterns.”

  “That’s a lot of string,” Mac said.

  “Isn’t that something? Here we are sixty years later, and string is still the best thing we have to work the same type of investigation,” Kevin said.

  “We have lasers.”

  “Those things are nice for measurements, but give me string any day if you want to see what went where and who shot who.”

  Mac and Kevin entered the forensic lab and stopped at the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist was gone, so Mac reached over the counter and buzzed them in.

  A lab tech saw them come in and stopped. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Bledsoe and this is Detective McAllister from the Portland office.”

  The lab tech nodded. “We’re closed for the day.”

  Kevin lifted his bag. “Detective Sergeant Evans phoned ahead to let you guys know we were bringing in some homicide evidence in for exam. Could you let the criminalist supervisor know we’re here?”

  “Sure. Hang on a sec.” He disappeared around a corner and returned a minute or so later. “Criminalist Sprague will be right with you.”

  “Thanks.” Mac dug in his pocket for a tissue to wipe his dripping nose.

  “You’re welcome, and I’m going home.” He shrugged into a leather bomber jacket. “I heard the weather’s pretty bad out there.”

  “Freeway’s
still open, but watch the side streets,” Mac responded. “Come morning I have a feeling we’ll be locked in.”

  Moments later, Allison Sprague, a forensics supervisor at the lab, emerged from around the corner in a white lab coat. “Hey, Mac and Kevin. How are you guys doing?”

  “Been better. It looks like we jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Mac answered. “We fished a floater out of the river today, and it turns out he picked up a bullet somewhere.”

  “Sergeant Evans said you needed an AFIS run on some prints and a bullet frag entered into IBIS.”

  “Yeah.” Mac placed the envelope containing the print card on the counter. “We thought our victim might be one of two men who fell off a barge in a tug accident, but the cursory identification didn’t match up at the lab. So we lifted some prints.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Allison opened the envelope.

  Kevin placed the plastic bag containing the bullet on the counter.

  “Doc Thorpe pulled this out of his chest during the autopsy. He’s been dead for at least a couple of weeks, maybe longer.”

  “I can run these prints through AFIS tonight. Hopefully your guy has a criminal history or a military background. If so, he should pop right up. The bullet will have to wait until tomorrow, though. Both our ballistics guys are out of the office until morning.” She glanced at the window. “At least I hope they’ll be in tomorrow. Weatherman says we’re probably going to wake up to about two more inches of this.”

  Mac groaned. “Tell me again why I live in the Northwest?”

  “We’ll worry about ballistics later,” Kevin said. “Right now I’m more concerned with the prints. If we can get a starting point on the owner, it’ll give us a lead on the investigation. Hopefully we won’t have to pore over missing-person reports for the western United States—that could take weeks.”

  “If we get lucky, I could have them in about thirty minutes.”

  Allison took the bag from Mac. “You guys are welcome to wait here or grab some dinner and come back.”

  “I’m sorry for the trouble, Allison,” Kevin said. “Hope you didn’t have plans.”