by Alex P. Berg
I replaced the negative and my glove and headed back into the living room, mentally preparing myself for the prospect of digging through filth in search of more incriminating evidence. It didn’t have much storage space, so I got to work on the kitchen, pulling open drawers and cabinets in search of additional contraband. I’d gotten about two-thirds of the way through, finding little more than pots, pans, and empty boxes of cereal, before I heard a clamor at the door.
Moss pushed through the front, and close behind her followed two EMTs wearing white shirts, navy pants, and matching caps. They carried a collapsible gurney between them as they wormed into the bedroom.
I followed them in, moving to the side as they expanded the gurney. Justice offered to help, but the medical techs waved him off, saying they worked better together. With a couple grunts, they shifted the man onto the gurney and draped his lower half with a blanket, all while the man muttered something unintelligible and fluttered his eyes.
I didn’t pay much attention to him. I kept my gaze on Gillian. On her gaunt face, her hollow cheeks. There was no question she was the one in the blackmail photos, and yet the rosy color I remembered in the thief’s face at Vernon and Daly’s was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was the way she lay there, barely breathing, her face pale, but I couldn’t square her image with the one that burned in my memory from the night before.
The EMT’s pushed the man out of the room, and Moss and Justice followed them. Meanwhile, Dean sidled up to me. “Find anything else?”
I nodded, watching Gillian’s chest rise and fall from weak breaths. “She turned her bathroom into a makeshift darkroom, and I found the negatives. She’s responsible for the blackmail.”
“Or at least some of it,” said Dean.
I met Dean’s ice blue eyes. From them I could tell he’d noticed the same things I had. “There’s no black duffel here, Dean. No hundred thousand crowns in cash. And perhaps most importantly, no floppy hat and no sunglasses.”
Dean nodded glumly. “No murder weapon either, so far as I can tell. It’s possible CSU will find traces of blood or ash or other remains, but I doubt it.”
“What does it all mean?” I asked.
Dean pursed his lips. “It means this case isn’t solved yet, and that Gillian’s testimony, if we can get it, might be our best bet for understanding what the hell really happened.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I headed out of the break room with a mug of coffee warming my hands. The aroma of the beverage was more reminiscent of how an empty mug might smell rather than one filled with fresh brew, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Unless I brought my own beans from home, whereupon the coffee I brewed would promptly be consumed by everyone on the third floor, then the tepid tea-like concoction was the best I would get.
My ears perked as I headed back to my desk, tickled as they were not only by Justice’s smooth, deep rumble but also Moss’s sultry mezzo-soprano and Dean’s even baritone. I found the three of them in their chairs as I turned the corner.
“You’re back.” I smiled. “So soon, too.”
Moss, still in her leather jacket, snorted. “Yeah. Those last six hours really flew by.”
As we’d finished at Gillian’s dumpster of an apartment, Dean snagged Moss and followed the ambulance to the hospital, leaving Justice and me to oversee the CSU team and bag the remainder of the evidence, as well as to ensure that none of the remaining blackmail cash mysteriously disappeared. That was a lunch and several coffee breaks ago. I’d started to wonder if they’d make it back to the precinct at all.
I crossed to my desk, ignoring Moss’s glances at my steaming mug. “I take it from the lack of sullen faces that Gillian and her beau pulled through.”
Dean had already hung his coat. He leaned back in his chair, foot crossed over his knee. “It’s too early to make that proclamation, but it’s looking better for them, Miss Cross especially. She’s in a bad way and will be for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours—the vomiting has already started, and the shakes will only get worse—but she was able to open her eyes, nod in comprehension when spoken to, and even answer a few questions, albeit it with one or two word responses.”
“So you were able to interrogate her after all?” I asked.
Moss cocked an eyebrow at me. “You know how when you talk to a dog they tilt their head and look confused and occasionally whine? More like that.”
“While not inaccurate,” said Dean, “it’s not the best metaphor. The dog doesn’t speak because he can’t, not because he chooses not to.”
Justice’s chair sagged under his weight. “She was holding out on you, huh?”
Dean shrugged. “I’ve seen enough people clam up in response to questioning to know what it looks like, even though a veil of heroin. She wasn’t lucid by any means, but she made her choice.”
“So much for her shedding light on the past twenty-four hours, then.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was warm but tasted sour and lemony.
“Time’s on our side,” said Dean. “Once she sobers up and realizes how deep of a hole she’s in, she might change her tune. The same goes for her boyfriend, or whoever it is we found her with. Where do we stand on the evidence?”
Justice sat up. “We’ve got her dead to rights on extortion. We checked with Vernon. That’s his duffel we found in her apartment, and though the bills weren’t marked, it’s safe to say she was blowing though his cash. We can also charge her with numerous drug offenses, but as far as murder?” He shook his head. “The most dangerous item we turned up from her home was a chef’s knife, and although CSU still has some materials to process, there’s no reason to believe we’re going to find physical evidence of Stella Vernon’s murder. We can’t pin it on her, not with what we have.”
Dean sighed. “I didn’t expect you’d turn anything else up, but I could hope.” He rubbed his chin, upon which the barest layer of stubble had cropped up. “I hate cases where we can’t find a weapon. In this one, we don’t even know where Stella Vernon was murdered. One step forward, two steps backward it seems.”
“Maybe we should focus on motive instead of means,” I said. “As I see it, Gillian might’ve had quite a motive to murder her sister.”
“How so?” asked Justice.
“We know Gillian was behind the blackmail of JT Vernon,” I said. “She used nude photographs of herself, but Vernon blamed Stella for them. Obviously, Stella knew they weren’t photos she’d taken, unless she too thought she’d taken them in a drug-induced stupor, but she defended herself of the charges to her husband and wrote the same in her diary. If I were her, I wouldn’t let an attack like that fall by the wayside. I would’ve tried to figure out who’d taken the photos, and who’s to say Gillian is the only one who investigated her past? Perhaps Stella found out about Gillian and realized she was behind the photographs. She might’ve confronted her sister, threatened to turn her into the police if she didn’t explain everything to JT, return the money, and destroy the photos. Gillian, being the unsavory sort, wouldn’t have gone along with it. Perhaps she killed Stella to keep her quiet.”
“That’s a lot of mights and perhapses,” said Moss. “While it’s a decent story, we don’t have any evidence to prove it. Besides, it doesn’t explain crucial elements of the murder, like why Stella’s remains were left in the aviary.”
Justice cleared his throat. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but are we sure Stella is dead and not Gillian? Or rather that Gillian isn’t Stella?”
All of us turned to stare at him.
“What do you mean?” asked Dean.
“We got a positive identification on Stella’s remains, but because of the fact that the remains were cremated, we’re not entirely sure how old they are. What if Stella died a while ago and Gillian stole her identity? Consider Stella’s drug addiction. That she was often gone from her home, that she’d isolated herself from her friends. Those all could’ve been results of her worsening depression, but they might’ve also been because
she quite literally was no longer herself. Because Gillian had taken over her life.”
Moss frowned. “You know I love you big guy, but we have literally zero reason to believe any of that. You’re pulling theories straight from your keister.”
“I’m willing to entertain any theory,” said Dean, “but I’ll admit, that one’s far fetched. I’d be more willing to believe the most simple theory that everyone is ignoring, which is that JT Vernon killed his wife. They were in a loveless marriage, after all. He believed Stella was cheating on him, taking lewd photographs she’d leaked to someone who in turn was blackmailing him. He admitted he was furious about it. He believed the presence of the photos imperiled his campaign, which as far as I can tell is more important to him than his relationship with his wife was. Heck, from our most recent discussion with him, it seemed as if he was already trying to figure out how to spin his wife’s death into a sob story. If we’re going to throw about baseless accusations, that’s the one to toss.”
“And it is indeed baseless,” said Moss, “because the evidence doesn’t support that theory either, even if it doesn’t specifically refute it.”
Dean sighed. “Don’t I know it.”
“Excuse me? Detectives?”
We looked up to find a heavy-set officer with a thick mustache standing at the edge of the cubicle cluster.
Either Justice knew him, or he read his name tag. “Yes, Officer Reed?”
“There’s a man in the lobby here to see you,” said Reed. “Says his name is Radoslaw?”
“The zookeeper?” I said. “What does he want?”
The officer shrugged. “Said he had some information he needed to share, but he wouldn’t tell the duty officer in charge what. Said he needed to speak to you. Mentioned Officer Phair by name.”
The other detectives all looked at me, but I shrugged. “I’ve spoken to him a couple times. I guess he remembered me.”
Dean nodded, as if that answered it. “Let’s go see what he has to say, then.”
All of us got to our feet and followed Reed down the stairs. We found Krzysztof Radoslaw seated on one of the benches in the lobby, dressed in the same tattered canvas jacket I’d always seen him in. His skin was even yellower in the artificial lights than it was outdoors, and the bags under his eyes seemed to have grown, making it look as if he’d lost a fight.
We all stopped a couple feet shy of him. “Mr. Radoslaw? I’m Detective Alton Dean. I understand you’re here to speak to us.”
Radoslaw gave a glum nod as he stood. “That is correct.” He coughed as he finished his short sentence, but luckily it only lasted a few short bursts instead of devolving into the long, hacking stretches I’d endured at the circus. “I am here to turn myself in.”
Dean cocked his head. “Turn yourself in for what?”
Radoslaw’s eyes were sad, but he spoke without hesitation. “For the murder of Mrs. Stella Vernon.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I sat in the same interrogation room in which I’d helped question the lewd photographer, instead this time it was Dean who sat next to me and Radoslaw on the other side of the table. The zookeeper hunched in his chair, shoulders slumped and head bowed. I don’t think he was afraid to meet our eyes but rather too tired to do so.
“I’d like you to walk me through the night of Mrs. Vernon’s murder, Mr. Radoslaw,” said Dean. “What exactly happened that evening?”
“Mrs. Vernon arrived after dark.” Radoslaw tapped his wrist. “I do not wear a watch, so I do not know what time. Late. After midnight, I think. She would drop by the circus to spend time with the animals, as have I told Officer Phair. I could not sleep that night, due to my cough, which is how I was awake when I saw her enter the aviary. She was quiet. Did not look at me, or say a word, though I think she noticed me as I followed her. She sat in the middle of the aviary in a single beam of moonlight that filtered through the leaves overhead. I stood there, watching her as I listened to the trill of the cotingas, and after a while… I snapped.”
“What do you mean, you snapped?” I asked.
Radoslaw stared at the table. “I killed her. I cannot explain why. Perhaps I developed a fascination for her. Seeing her there, skin so pale, so quiet, such sadness in her face. I could not take it. I ended it for her. The suffering.” He shook his head. “She will be better now. At peace.”
“How did you murder her?” asked Dean.
“I put my arm around her neck, and I squeezed,” said Radoslaw. “I strangled her.”
“She didn’t cry out?” said Dean. “Or fight back?”
“She was lost in her own world at first,” said Radoslaw. “Once she realized what was happening, she tried to cry for help, but could not. I had too tight of a grip on her neck. She kicked and swatted at me but could not do much. I am strong, even if I do not look it.”
Dean gave a slow nod, his eyebrows furrowed. “Then what?”
“There is a fire pit on the grounds, behind the main tent. The hands gather there for beers sometimes. Mostly we use it to burn refuse. That is where I burned her body.”
One of my eyebrows crept up. “On a wood fire?”
“Yes. We had a number of pallets to burn. I stacked several, then placed her on top.”
“It takes a large funeral pyre to cremate a body, Mr. Radoslaw,” I said.
The man shrugged. “There were many pallets.”
Dean cracked one of his knuckles. “Let’s back up a bit. How did you get Mrs. Vernon’s body to the pit?”
“I carried her,” said Radoslaw.
“All by yourself?” said Dean.
Radoslaw coughed, hacking four or five times before getting his breath back. “As I said, there is still strength in my bones. I have spent my whole life laboring.”
“No one saw you carry Mrs. Vernon’s body to this fire pit?”
Radoslaw shook his head. “I guess not.”
“Did you use any accelerants to get the fire going?” asked Dean. “Anything from the pyrotechnicians’ pen?”
“Just matches,” said Radoslaw.
“How long did it take for the body to burn?”
“A few hours, I suppose. Again, I do not wear a watch.”
“And no one stopped by during that time?”
Again, Radoslaw shook his head.
“Did you strip her down before you set her on the pallets?” I asked.
Radoslaw lifted an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“Just curious. You said you’d developed a fascination with her. Was it sexual?”
“No,” said Radoslaw.
“Did you rape her?”
Radoslaw’s cheeks darkened, and genuine anger crossed his face. “Absolutely not.”
Dean rapped his fingers on the bare metal of the table. “So you stayed by the fire throughout the night. No one saw you. As the wood burned to coals and Mrs. Vernon was reduced to ash, what then?”
Radoslaw swallowed and stared at the table. “I gathered her remains and took them to the aviary. It seemed fitting I should leave them there given her fondness for the birds.”
“How did you get the remains there?” asked Dean.
“I carried them,” said Radoslaw. “They did not weigh much.”
Dean snorted. “That’s not what I meant. Surely they were hot, having roasted in a fire for hours.”
“Oh.” Radoslaw nodded. “I used a shovel. Put them in a wheelbarrow.”
“You just said you carried them,” I said.
Radoslaw stared at his hands. “I misspoke. You have to understand, I am flustered. None of this is easy for me to admit.”
“Speaking of,” said Dean, “why are you admitting to it? You told a different story to Officer Phair and Detective Moss previously. Why change your mind?”
Radoslaw sighed. “It is the guilt. I cannot sleep. I have barely eaten in days. And I—” Another round of explosive coughs cut the man short. This batch wasn’t as easily dissuaded as the last, causing Radoslaw to double over the ta
ble and hack and sputter, each of his coughs resonating like drumbeats.
“Do you need a glass of water, Mr. Radoslaw?” asked Dean.
He waved Dean off as he straightened, taking a few deep breaths to still a tremor going through him. “I fear I have little time left to make amends. That is why I am here. I killed Stella Vernon. Please take me away, or give me a notepad to write down my story. Whatever the process. Please. I want it to be done with.”
Dean pursed his lips. He was quiet for a moment before nodding. “Very well. We’ll get you that notepad. Phair?”
He gestured to the door, and we both got up and headed into the adjoining hall.
Dean had barely closed up behind him before I opened my mouth. “He’s full of crap. He didn’t murder Stella Vernon.”
Dean smiled. “What gave it away? The wheelbarrow flub, or the uncanny strength that allowed a dying man to carry a woman and stack pallets one atop another as they were cordwood?”
“Or maybe the fact that we didn’t find any wheelbarrow tracks heading into or out of the aviary,” I said. “Or the minuscule probability of none of the other people who live at the circus inquiring about the massive bonfire he claimed burned all night, or the similarly tiny probability of him scooping the melted glob of Stella’s engagement ring into the wheelbarrow alongside the rest of her remains.”
“Or even that said bonfire wouldn’t have been hot enough to melt the ring in the first place,” said Dean. “Trust me, I agree with you. Radoslaw is lying. The question is why.”