The big African American often wore a sorrowful look and right now was certainly no exception. He had in his big hands a Nikon D5100, a digital single-lens reflex camera. Cell phone photos made for unacceptable crime scene evidence—you needed a camera with twelve megapixels or more, plus image sensors and manual exposure settings. That’s what it took to produce photographs that could be enlarged to sixteen by twenty inches for court exhibits.
Booker’s mellow, seen-it-all baritone intoned, “You consultin’ on this, Keith? Doesn’t seem like much to do here.”
They were gathered around the suspended corpse as if it were some bizarre mobile art piece; around them famous faces stared, many of them with big movie-poster smiles that were undimmed by this death.
Krista answered for her father. “Pop’s potentially a material witness, if this isn’t a suicide.” She turned to him. “You were in this shop talking to the victim, what, ninety minutes before this must have happened?”
Her father said, “About that, yeah. Didn’t look at my watch.”
Booker’s attention went from the corpse to Krista, then to the former police detective. “Material witness? . . . You two think this isn’t a suicide, Keith?”
Looking dour, he said, “I don’t have to tell you the rule, Booker.”
All death inquiries should be conducted as homicide investigations until the facts prove differently.
“I know the rule,” Booker said, not at all defensive about it. “You spend much time with Davies on this visit, Keith?”
“Maybe half an hour.”
“State of mind? Fit the suicide profile, you think?”
He shrugged. “Hard call. Dan and his boyfriend broke up recently.”
“Acrimonious?”
Her father nodded toward the suspended corpse, whose presence loomed over all. “If you check under that T-shirt, you’ll find he’s taped up for three broken ribs. Courtesy of his ex’s shoe. So, yeah. Acrimonious.”
Booker and Krista exchanged glances. That information spoke to suicide, all right, but just as much to murder.
“If we’re looking at a staged scene,” Krista said, “that could mean Davies was dead before that rope went around his neck. Already strangled, or possibly poisoned.”
Her father said to Booker, “You’re probably going to want to ask for an autopsy.”
That meant sending the body to the Winnebago County Coroner’s Office in Rockford, where such procedures were handled. And her pop’s “probably” was just a courtesy of one cop not telling another cop what to do.
Booker said, “I’ll clear that with our county coroner, but yeah. For one thing, lividity might tell us right away if the body’s been moved.”
Krista was no forensics expert. But every cop knew that postmortem lividity, or livor mortis, indicated the settling of blood in the lowest portion of a dead body. That when the heart stopped functioning, blood settled due to gravity, leaving a bruised effect.
Her father shook his head. “Don’t think so. Davies died right here in this shop, not long after I saw him. My guess is, in this very room. His body would had to’ve been on the floor for a good twenty minutes for lividity to give away the body being moved.”
Krista said to Booker, “You’ve called ISP Crime Scene Services.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Oh yeah,” Booker said. “They’ll be droppin’ by with all the toys.”
The Galena PD had no forensics; the Illinois State Police would need to work the crime scene.
Booker asked Keith, “What about the ex?”
“Lee Jeffries. I think he’s a waiter at the Green Street Tavern.”
That was just up the block and across the street, attached to the DeSoto House Hotel.
Krista said, “Have him rounded up, Booker. Bring him in for questioning. Would you be offended if I did the interview?”
“If I were,” the big man said, “I wouldn’t tell you. Rumor is you’re the chief. Look, if this turns out to be a homicide, I would gladly bounce the whole damn deal over to you. Maybe Keith could consult again. I got three child abuse cases on my desk and two domestics, one very damn nasty.”
Booker was the best child abuse investigator in the state.
“That’s a deal,” Krista said. “I don’t know if Pop is up for consulting . . .”
“I’d be happy,” her father said, not looking at all happy, “to get in on this. If the chief here wants me.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Krista said. “But even if this turns out to be suicide plain and simple, and doesn’t require too much of your attention, Booker . . . I still need to stay on top of it. Daniel Davies was in the Pistons, you know, and this tragedy will throw a very dark shadow over their reunion and our Music Fest.”
Booker had started nodding halfway through that. “Chief, I knew Danny. He forgot more about rock and soul than I ever knew! And I definitely do not like standing here with his poor damn dead body dangling like a frickin’ side of beef. Off duty, I play with two of those Piston boys over at the Corner Stop, remember.”
“I know,” Krista said. “Like I said, you were great the other night.”
Big shoulders shrugged. “So, yeah, sure, I will hand this off to you if it’s a homicide. Why not? You solved two of the biggest homicide cases this area ever saw.”
She smiled a little in her dad’s direction. “I had some help.”
“You did. You did at that. But while I’m fine with goin’ off and takin’ care of the business I already got on my plate, don’t you two hesitate to call me in off the bench.”
Krista almost laughed—that mixed metaphor called into question which plate Booker was invoking, a meal or home base—but the dangling Piston discouraged that.
Her dad said, “Danny lived upstairs. Has anybody checked it out up there yet?”
“No,” Booker said. “You two wanna take a tiptoe through? You can get there by the stairs off the back room.”
“You want us to put booties on or anything?”
Booker shook his head, then, only half kidding, he said, “Not unless when you peek in there, you see blood or bodily fluids on the floor. And I kinda think the action is confined to this area. Could be wrong, though.”
“Never know,” her father said.
Krista had not been at this nearly as long as her father or for that matter Booker Jackson; but she had already learned that you never did know what you might encounter in this line of work. Particularly at a crime scene.
Krista said to her detective, “When you’ve got what you need for photos, get him down. Need any help?”
Booker shook his head. “No, Deitch is on the back door in the alley. I’ll volunteer him.”
Krista and her father went into the storeroom, where the lights were already on, found the door open to the second-floor stairs, and headed up, Krista taking the lead. Midway in the stairwell, she glanced back at him and, heel of her hand on the butt of her holstered Glock 21, her eyes asked a question.
He nodded, and she got out the gun.
The odds that she might need the weapon were long, but this was suicide with quotes around it, meaning the possibility of homicide made taking precautions prudent.
They came up into a kitschy ’50s-style kitchen—all pink and mint green and pale yellow—but everything was topsy-turvy, with clear signs of a frantic, even frenzied search, furniture turned over, upper cabinet doors open, contents scattered on the floor, open under the sink, too, with cleaning products scattered. Flung here and there were colorful dishware and bowls.
It was like Pee-wee Herman’s Playhouse suffered a home invasion.
With the Glock held out before her, she raised an arm and glanced back at her father, barely whispering, almost mouthing, “Let me clear it first.”
He stayed in the doorway.
She cautiously explored the apartment—laid out like a boxcar, echoing the shop downstairs, starting with this kitchen. As she went, she carefully checked potential hidi
ng places, including closets and even under the bed, in the next boxcar down the line, a bedroom all in shades of green with blond furniture.
It must have been something to behold before it got upended.
Two throw pillows from the bed were gutted and on the floor—white with black trim, a drawing of Fabian on one and Frankie Avalon on the other, both slit through their smiling faces. Two velvet paintings of shirtless Polynesian men were on the floor, the paper covering the backs of the framed artwork torn away. Dresser drawers were dumped, their contents gone through. A closet door was open, the clothing on hangers tossed. The contents of the upper shelf, hats, scarves, were pitched, too.
A green-and-pink-tiled bathroom off the bedroom had a tub with shower curtain, behind which no one was waiting, not even Anthony Perkins with a knife, though her reflection in the mirror over a ’30s-era deco sink did startle her for a moment.
Glock still at the ready, she moved slowly into the spacious living room. About half of it was in ransacked disarray, but then—curiously—the other half was intact.
“Clear!” she called.
She waited in the living room till her father joined her. He was looking around, his eyebrows up as he took it all in, an impressive collection of midcentury camp, even in this trashed state.
All around them were pieces of furniture that had likely walked through the door of the shop below, even better and more desirable than that merchandise—the coolest ’50s items, a boomerang coffee table here, an amoeba-shaped table there. Coats and such were dumped out of the front closet, which had a ’50s-style sliding door. Framed geometric modern art prints and the covers of the two Pistons LPs autographed by everybody in the band had gone from the walls to the hardwood floor.
Yet some of the furniture remained untouched: a gondola-style sofa, its blond three-tier end tables, and several fiberglass molded chairs—all these remained upright, like miraculous mobile homes that somehow survived the tornado that took all their neighbors.
“Remember, earlier,” he said, “when you called me a detective? Well, I must be one. Because I can tell somebody was looking for something.”
“You are good,” Krista said.
“Now you tell me why they stopped searching midway through this room.”
She frowned. “Did we interrupt somebody?”
Her father was already at the front windows, looking down the street. “Doubtful. They could’ve gone out the front way, here, but not without Officer Clemson stopping them.”
“What then?” Then, eyes popping, she answered her own question: “Duh! They found what they were looking for. But what?”
He was over at the coat closet now. He was down on his knees. “Check this out.”
She came over. Knelt. He was pointing to a place in the back on the floor where he had found a loose piece in the wainscoting. It revealed a cubbyhole about seven inches wide and three inches deep—an empty cubbyhole.
“Whatever they were looking for,” he said, “was small enough to hide in here . . . and, yes, they did find it.”
NINE
When Keith and his daughter returned from upstairs, Booker had finished taking photos and the remains of Daniel Davies had been cut down—above the knot, maintaining its evidentiary value—and laid out on the floor, to await a body bag.
Booker said, “No sign of the coroner yet. Anything upstairs?”
“We may have a homicide here,” Krista said. “Place was tossed. Somebody looking for something.”
“Which,” Keith said, “they found,” and reported on the wainscoting hiding place.
Krista said to her detective, “Rick Jonsen died of an apparent heart attack Labor Day weekend. Found floating in a hot tub. Call the Arnolds Park PD and see what you can find out.”
Booker squinted skeptically at her. “What do a heart attack and a suicide have to do with each other?”
Krista’s expression was bland but her words weren’t. “If this isn’t a suicide, maybe the heart attack was something else, too. We have two dead members of the same rock group here, Booker. Why, do you like coincidences?”
Big hands came up in surrender mode. “Not one damn little bit.”
Keith said, “We want to know who found him, and whether the Arnolds Park PD viewed it as a suspicious death. Was there an autopsy, the whole nine yards.”
Krista added, “And see where the late Rick Jonsen ended up. I don’t recall a funeral locally.”
Booker was squinting again, but the skepticism was gone. “Ran his latest rock group out of Des Moines, I believe. Called it the Rick Jonsen Experience, if I remember right.”
Keith said, “I don’t imagine there was much chance Jimi Hendrix sued him over it.”
“Well,” Krista said, “find out what they did with him. If there wasn’t an autopsy, we may need an exhumation. May need one in any case.”
Booker cocked his head. “Might be gettin’ ahead of ourselves, Chief.” He indicated the body on the floor, rope still around its neck. “Maybe oughta wait for this autopsy.”
She shook her head. “We may be a small town, Detective Jackson, but we can walk and chew gum at the same time.”
Booker grinned at Keith. “She’s callin’ me ‘Detective Jackson’ now. That seem like a good sign to you?”
Keith said, “Not at all.” He turned to his daughter. “I don’t know to what extent, if any, I’m going to be involved in this . . . other than to provide a statement about the time I spent this morning with Dan Davies. But right now I’m going to suggest I accompany you to the Corner Stop, and not for a drink on duty.”
She was thinking. “The Pistons should be rehearsing there right now.”
“They need to be informed of this,” Keith said. “And we need to see how they take it.”
Keith and Krista walked to the Corner Stop at Main and Perry, and were a block away when the muffled “Girl Can’t Help It” emanating from the place began making itself heard.
At just before two o’clock on a Saturday in May, the downtown Galena sidewalks had some foot traffic, tourists starting to show up, though not in the droves to come. Nonetheless, strollers would pause appreciatively at the window where the band, its back to them, was rocking, the visitors eventually moving on to buy caramel corn at the All American Popcorn Store, perhaps, or a six-pack of soda pop at Root Beer Revelry.
The sign at the angled entry said CLOSED but the door was unlocked, and Keith and Krista went on in. Everyone in the band saw them and gave them big smiles and continued playing and, in Rod’s case, singing.
The guys were in jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with the names and sometimes faces of other bands—Rod had on a gray T-shirt with the logo of the ’60s rock group, Love, whose lead singer had also been African American. Silver fox Steve’s tee was white with the bull’s-eye logo of the Who, whose great drummer, Keith Moon, made that a logical choice. Dark-haired Brian wore a black Vanilla Fudge T-shirt with the four floating heads of the band, including his favorite bass player, Tim Bogert. Only cue ball–noggin Phil was wearing a Hot Rod & the Pistons tee—dark blue with the logo and a pic in which both Rick and Dan were still alive, cocky, and well.
Keith and Krista positioned themselves in front of the postage-stamp stage and took the music in with smiles—there would be time enough for smiles to be in short supply—and Keith was struck by how good the group sounded as a four-piece. The lack of a rhythm guitar appeared to have hurt very little, though Steve’s drumming seemed a trifle sluggish.
The club had the lights up and revealed itself as the slightly dingy dive it really was, chairs on tables with their legs up like tired chorus girls. From the back somewhere trundled Donna, probably fresh from a smoke in the alley, again in a Corner Stop T-shirt and jeans, shortish yellow-brown hair permed, her broad face, which was still almost pretty despite some hard years, wearing a big smile.
Krista whispered, close enough to her father’s ear to get her remark in over the music, “She’s in a better mood than last time.�
��
He looked at her quizzically.
His daughter leaned in again. “She was pissed she’d been left off the guest list for the Col preview.”
“I saw her there last night.”
“After I got her on that list.”
Donna came up to them. “Boys are pretty good, don’t you think? Phil sounds better than my ex ever did, meaning no disrespect to the dearly departed.”
Nobody figured Donna had shed many tears over the loss of hubby Rick.
“They’re doing fine,” Keith said, working his voice over the finish of the song.
From the stage, which was only up a foot off the floor, Rod said into the mic, giving his words a voice of God quality, “Didn’t you Larsons get enough of this last night? Keith, my man, where were you when we loaded in today?”
“Sorry,” Keith said with a quick grin. “Please don’t dock me.”
Steve, from behind his drum kit, laughing, said, “We’d have to pay you first to do that.”
Rod asked, “Any requests? You two probably know what’s on our list as well as we do. Maybe better.”
Krista called out, “I was hoping you fellas could take five! We need to go over some things.”
Everybody was still smiling, but those smiles were quickly fading—this young woman was the chief of police, after all. The guitarists put their instruments on stands, Steve rested his sticks on his snare, and Rod—who always stood as he played—came out from behind the twin keyboard setup.
As they came down off the stage, Donna asked them, “Beers?”
The guys all thought that was a good idea, but Keith and Krista passed. The musicians took chairs around a big round table that had room for Keith and Krista, too. A seat was open next to Brian, and Krista took it, which of course did not surprise her father. That left a chair for Keith next to Steve, who gave him an anxious look. The drummer’s eyes were red—not in the bloodshot, post-tears way Danny’s had been, earlier—but in a manner that went well with the familiar skunk-like scent that the drummer brought with him.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 9