by Mark Gilleo
“Stating the obvious, again?” Wallace asked.
“I guess I am,” the doctor answered, standing up from his hunched position.
Wallace looked at the clothes and shoes resting in the metal pan on the tile floor near the table. He picked up a pair of jeans and water dripped from them. “His dress seems normal for winter in this area. Jeans, worn hiking boots, an old winter coat.”
“Yes, nothing unusual there. But it doesn’t tell me how he got into the river. Hard to explain with the cold weather we have been having. Not many people are out there taking walks by the banks. Not even too many people up near the canal.”
“And the fish aren’t biting.”
“That’s true. Which is good for me. Drowning victims look better in the winter when the fish haven’t been picking at them.”
“What about toxicology?”
“We did a prelim, but didn’t find anything. The full results should be done in a few days. I will check for the usual suspects.”
“What do you think?”
“I know he drowned. His lungs were soggy; his stomach was full of Potomac water. Could have been unconscious when he drowned, but I don’t know that for sure yet. But then, I guess figuring out the circumstances under which he drowned is your job.”
“I guess it is.”
“Can you give me an approximate time of death?”
“I’m having one of the assistants research the water temperature for the last couple of weeks. I should have a guess for you in a few hours.”
“Off the top of your head?”
“Don’t hold me to it, but I would say two, three days max. I think we saw fifty degrees over the weekend for a minute or two, so somewhere in that timeframe. I mean, it has been cold and there has been a fair amount of ice on the river already.”
“Maybe that was the intention. Maybe someone dumped this guy in the river hoping it would freeze completely and that it would be another month before he popped to the surface.”
“Possible. Sinister, but possible.”
“Can I get some fingerprints and dentals? I still need to I.D. this guy.”
“Already did. The prints and dental x-rays are on the counter,” the doctor said, gesturing to the small work area in the corner. “The prints are a little messy, but thanks to freezing water, you might be able to get something from them.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Oh, I have one more thing...”
“What’s that?”
“His natural hair color is blonde. The brown is just a dye.”
Wallace walked into the station and handed the prints to his occasional partner, Detective Nguyen, a second generation Vietnamese-American. He was impeccably dressed in a light brown suit, shoes shined. His hair was short and he had a goatee, both attributes an intentional effort to look serious and older. “Could you run these through the database and see if anything comes up.”
“Still in a tiff with forensics?”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
Detective Nguyen, still a baby by police-tenure standards, looked at the set of prints. “Not exactly clean.”
“You wouldn’t be either if you spent a few days in the Potomac.”
“Are these from the guy who ruined lunch down at the Waterfront?”
“Same guy. White, male, in his thirties. Tattoo. Died from drowning. Could be accidental or homicidal. We are waiting for toxicology.”
“Good thing that body didn’t come floating up there during the summer. All those tourists and visitors. Someone would have lost their lunch.”
“A small victory for us, a poor consolation for the victim,” Wallace said. He nodded towards the envelope he had just handed to Nguyen. “How long to run those through the database?”
“A day. But if it’s a priority, I can get it pushed through.”
“A day is fine. Someone will probably call in to I.D. the guy anyway before the prints are run. The M.E. thought the guy had been dead for a few days at the most. He doesn’t look homeless. Someone will be looking for him.”
Two hours later Nguyen appeared at Detective Wallace’s desk. Nguyen’s part-time partner was on what he called REM patrol, something he was known to do after lunch. “Sergeant?”
Wallace opened his eyes. “Yes.”
“I got a hit on the prints.”
Nguyen led Wallace to the far side of the precinct, through a maze of wooden chairs and ringing phones, and down a flight of stairs to the basement. Detective Nguyen pushed open the door to a glass room and a wall of new sounds rushed forward to greet them. Wallace followed Nguyen to the far corner. “I ran the prints myself and got a hit from the National Prison System database.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is James Beach. Convicted felon. Did four years in Petersburg, Virginia. Long rap sheet. Most recently did time for drug charges and kidnapping. They caught him outside Bristol, Virginia with a trunk full of meth and a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“A boy scout.”
“Has served time for assault with a deadly weapon and auto theft. Had a couple of DUIs.”
“Make that a choir boy.”
“For the last eighteen months, he has been quiet. No arrest. No infractions. Meets with his parole officer in Richmond every month. I have a call into his P.O., and am waiting to hear back.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Call Petersburg. See if there is anything else we need to know about him.”
Chapter 34
Ariana peeked her head inside the warehouse before fully committing herself to the doorway. It was a habit she forgot she still possessed. She remembered the first time she had caught a rifle butt to the head for inattentiveness to her surroundings. Or rather, she remembered the headache and welt that persisted for a week after impact. It had been a non-lethal blow, from a teacher, but it made its point. When you are in operational mode, don’t let your guard down. Even at home.
She stepped inside, and moved towards the large green button on the hanging controller pad near the door. Her eyes roamed the limited horizon as she raised the roll-up door on the far parking bay. She pulled her car inside and shut the door behind her.
As she walked away from her Toyota towards the office, Karim exited the community bathroom.
“Bathroom break?”
“Don’t worry, we are following protocol. As you can see, everyone is still in the room.”
Ariana walked over to the sleeping quarters’ door and opened it. “I need to speak with Karim for a moment. We can start on lunch after prayer.”
Syed and Abu looked up at Ariana from their seat on their cots. On the floor was a pile of playing cards. “Fine,” Abu answered. “In another fifteen minutes, everything Syed owns will be mine.”
“Lucky you,” Ariana answered. “From here I can see all his worldly possessions.”
Syed tried to smirk but it came out as a scowl.
“Just a few minutes.”
In the office, Ariana shut the door and removed her coat. She had left before dawn, without make-up, wearing jeans and a button down sweater. Her nipples stiffened to the cold in the room and Karim noticed immediately.
“The package has been delivered,” she said, drawing the blinds on the windows in the office.
“Your neighbor?”
“With any luck both the young man and his mother.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. I was careful.”
“How long?”
“A day or two. If it works.”
“You don’t sound confident.”
“It was not a perfect product. That will require a little more time.”
Karim sat in the chair and Ariana moved behind him, drawing a finger across his neck.
Karim felt her touch and his body responded below the waist.
“Killing the boy and his mother is a risk. Maybe an unneeded one. It will draw attention to us.
To you. We are in no immediate danger from your neighbor. He knows nothing. A little nosey perhaps.”
“I assure you that he’ll be less trouble dead than he is alive.”
“Perhaps.”
“Besides it was necessary,” Ariana said. She moved slowly behind him and he tried to turn to track her. She gently pushed his head so it was staring forward. “And exhilarating,” she added slowly.
“The thrill of the hunt? Isn’t the thrill better when the prey knows he is being hunted?”
“Not always. Killing can be enough of a thrill regardless of the prey.” Ariana moved to the front of Karim and her sweater was open, her firm breasts straining from beneath a black bra.
“How long has it been?” Ariana asked.
Karim tried to count the years in his head, but his attention was elsewhere. “Too long. A lifetime ago.”
Karim stood from his chair and Ariana met him in the distance between them. He leaned to kiss her and she turned her head. His lips redirected towards her neck and she let out a quiet moan.
A minute later Ariana’s jeans were on the floor, her legs supported over Karim’s elbows. She scratched at his exposed chest as her hips raised to meet his thrusts. She pushed him back as she felt him nearing the point of no return, and guided him to the chair. Straddling him, his face in her bosom, she pulled his hair as she took control.
The Wood Artisans cabinet and furniture workshop was down the street from historic downtown Manassas, thirty miles from D.C. The train station that had once been a stopover on the way westward, now served commuters heading east into Washington on the Virginia Rail Express. The VRE ran trains during rush hour, taking some of the burden off of eastbound I-66, a road at such overcapacity that an inline skater with a missing wheel could keep up with the pace of traffic.
The Wood Artisans sat two blocks from the station, past the brick storefronts and the Starbucks, on the other side of the tracks. The warehouse stretched for a New York City block, which was the rough equivalent of three Manassas blocks. The front half of the warehouse was a showroom, offering custom made furniture ranging from bedroom ensembles to dining room sets that cost more than a compact car. Behind the decorated wall of the showroom was a cavernous workshop where a dozen carpenters practiced their trade in a dying industry.
Ivan Kozlowski was a fourth generation carpenter.
Seated at a long workbench on the back wall of the warehouse, Ivan grabbed the newspaper which was still wrapped in the plastic bag that protected it from the elements until the neighborhood residents found the energy to fetch them from the end of their driveways. The era of the paperboy was dead. And with his death was the end of doorstep delivery. Papers were now thrown from moving vehicles driven by middle-aged immigrants or retirees. But curbside delivery did have its advantages.
Ivan pulled the newspaper from the plastic bag and an imperceptible puff of white escaped from the paper as it hit the workbench, mixing with a thin layer of wood dust that covered everything in the warehouse. Ivan ripped open a small bag of sugar and poured it into his coffee. He pulled his daily dose of donuts from the nondescript white bag and placed them on a napkin. He swiped at the front page of the paper and the dust on the photo of the President on the front page. He wiped his hand across the workbench one more time before grabbing the paper and shaking it, just to the left of his gourmet breakfast.
As he did every Wednesday, Ivan spent the fifteen minutes before work going through the mid-week advertisements in The Post. The fifty cents he saved by stealing his neighbor’s paper would cost him his life.
Chapter 35
Clark’s blue Honda Civic turned left at the pair of oak trees off the two-lane country road. He passed through the open gate and admired the crest of the mountains in the distance as the car crept up the long driveway. He pushed the open map next to him into the back seat and read the number scribbled on a piece of paper lying in the passenger seat. He checked the address on the house one last time. After a tank of gas, two pit-stops, two maps, and three different sets of directions from the locals, Clark had reached his destination.
He zipped his jacket and stepped from the driver’s side. He stretched his back as he walked towards the white country house and up the stairs to the large front porch. The screen door was hanging cockeyed, the upper hinge holding onto the wooden frame with more authority than the lower one. A set of weathered rocking chairs sat empty, angled towards one another, a small table pinched between them.
Clark knocked on the frame of the precariously hanging screen door and waited before knocking again. A stiff wind blew through his denim jeans and Clark cursed, thankful that he wasn’t living in the mountains of southwest Virginia, at least for the winter. The Blue Ridge Mountains in the summer were great for hiking and fishing. Spring brought wildflowers into full bloom. Autumn was simply breathtaking. But winter, with the trees barren and the ground frozen, was not his favorite time of year.
After knocking twice on the door, Clark peered into the living room window from the front porch. He took a few paces down the porch, the planks of wood creaking, and peeked into the dining room. He knocked on the window and announced his presence one more time. Another cutting breeze was the only response.
He walked back towards the front door, flipped the lid on the mailbox attached to the house, and peaked into the empty metal container. He looked at the leaves and twigs strewn about the porch and on the green welcome mat at the foot of the door. In his unprofessional detective opinion, no one was home, nor had they been for a while.
He began to wonder if the call he had made to a Foreign Service Officer in Pakistan, a man who felt passionately about his recently stolen cell phone, was just an additional scene in the Candid Camera episode that was rapidly becoming Clark’s winter vacation.
He had called Pakistan over the weekend, out of morbid curiosity. Curiosity stirred up from a mentally deficient woman in her seventies. A woman whom he happened to love more than anyone in the world.
The man in Pakistan had given him a second number made from the same missing cell phone. Clark took the number to Switchboard.com, a website that matches addresses and phone numbers, and vice versa. When the second number from the stolen phone matched with an address, and that address was in Virginia, Clark knew he would be in his car first thing in the morning.
In hindsight, Clark would have preferred to sleep in and read the Post with a cup of Joe.
Clark took one lap around the yard and the eerie stillness of the old frame farmhouse made Clark nervous. The yard was deserted, the summer grass long since dead. Brown patches of weeds dotted the edge of the yard where it blended into the first layer of pasture. He announced himself as he made his way around the house, not sure of what he would say if someone actually answered. Clark thought about his explanation and then considered that it’s not every day someone drives to a farmhouse to ask about a cell phone call made from a stolen phone in Pakistan. Clark mumbled something to himself that sounded like a self introduction and then caught himself. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked aloud.
Five minutes later Clark walked back towards his car, the empty house yielding no warm bodies, no greetings, no coffee, no clues. Clark’s hands were chilled by the air. As he unzipped the pocket to his blue winter jacket his keys fell to the ground. A breeze blew over his back as he reached for the keys in the gravel driveway.
A pile of odd-looking stones caught Clark’s attention and he grabbed one along with his keys. He brought the stone to eye-level. It felt light. The shape was asymmetrical. Clark looked down at the pile near the left front fender of his car. Then he raised his glance back at the empty yard and beyond the house.
He returned his focus to the ground, his eyes dancing across the small objects that littered the end of the driveway and continued into the yard. He shuffled his feet in measured steps, following the trail for a few yards in front of his car before bending over again and retrieving two more objects. As he ran his hand across the gro
und, he noticed a dozen more of the curious objects resting in the indented strips of matted dead grass where a vehicle had been driven. The sound of a slamming door in the distance broke his concentration and Clark stood from his crouch. He was getting spooked. He waited for a moment, took another lap around the house, and decided he had seen enough.
Chapter 36
The Nelson County Sheriff’s office was wedged between the Lovingston General Store and the Lovingston Post Office in a row of old townhouses turned storefronts. Combined with a single-pump gas station across the street and the sawdust-floor watering hole half a block down, the handful of buildings hovering around a sidewalk statue of General Lee made up bustling downtown Lovingston and served the ten thousand habitants of the rural Virginia county. Charlottesville was down the road, twenty minutes away by Nelson County time, the standard answer for how long it took to get anywhere in the sprawling jurisdiction. If it was more than twenty minutes away, it was a safe bet the person giving directions had never been there.
Sheriff Laskey leaned back in his old wooden desk chair and the spring supports squeaked as they absorbed his weight. The sound of the chair was part of the office, as much as the old black phone with the authentic bell ringer, the dark wood bookcases on the walls, and the Mayberry-like jail cell in the back room that held the occasional drunk for a few hours until they sobered up. Real legal perpetrators were sent down the road to a larger facility in Charlottesville. Incarceration at the sheriff’s jail didn’t include a meal plan and the law just wouldn’t permit long-term guests with empty stomachs.
Sheriff Mike Laskey worked ten minutes from the house where he had been born on a worn kitchen table his grandfather had built from trees on the Laskey family property. His father held his mother’s hand as the local veterinarian tended to the business-end of the delivery and, on a sweltering summer day in 1947, Michael J. Laskey joined the world of the living with a wail. The umbilical cord was cut with a butcher’s knife sterilized in a pot of boiling water, and young Laskey was three months old before he saw his first doctor. It was an aversion to medicine he never got over. Not even when gangrene set in on the middle toe of his left foot after a failed dancing lesson with a cow.