by David Archer
“I’m not even going to ask how you got a look at the crime scene,” Carol said. “You finding anything else?”
“Just a couple of odd things. I went out to the Medical Examiner’s Office and visited with Doctor Hartley, who was doing the autopsy on Samara. I was hoping the angle of the gunshots would have indicated someone taller than Karen, or maybe left-handed or something, but they aren’t conclusive in any direction. The only unusual thing was when he said they ran the prints on the body, but didn’t come back with anything. Samara has been arrested numerous times, his prints should be on file. However, I just learned that there was another man with Samara when he moved into the apartment a few days ago. The guy was only known as Zeno, and nobody knows where he is today, but the general description I got of him could also fit Samara. I’m starting to wonder if the victim was really him.”
“Good grief, Sam,” Carol said. “If it’s not, that would almost certainly throw motive out the window.”
“I thought of that,” Sam said, “but if the guy looked enough like Samara already, the DA would probably just say she only shot the wrong guy. I’m going to have Indie do some checking on this, see if we can figure out who this Zeno character might be. Of course, if he was hanging around Samara, you’d expect his fingerprints to be on file somewhere, as well, though, so there still should be some kind of an identification coming back.”
“Good point. Keep me posted, will you, Sam? If it turns out the victim isn’t who they think it is, there’s a good possibility I can use that.”
“I’ll let you know if I find out anything more. If you talk to Karen, tell her I’m on this.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket, then pointed the car toward home.
Sam pulled the Corvette into the garage and entered the house through his office. The hallway led to the kitchen, and he found Indie busy making dinner.
“Hey, babe,” she said with a smile. She was using a hand mixer on what appeared to be mashed potatoes, so he leaned close to give her a kiss.
“Hey, yourself,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of root beer, then sat down at the table. “How was your day?”
“Ha, don’t get me started,” Indie said. “I decided to take it easy for a little while and sat down to watch some TV, and I made myself a cup of tea. You know me, I was holding it on this huge belly of mine, when your baby decided it was time to play football. Kicked the cup right out of my hand, and I ended up wearing most of it. I had to get a shower before I could go and pick up Kenzie from school.” She turned around and looked at him, and scowled when she saw him trying to hold back a chuckle. “It’s not funny, Sam. The tea was hot, for one thing, and sticky.”
“Well, the sticky part comes from all the sugar you add,” Sam said, grinning.
“Shut up, I need it,” she replied. “This kid is sapping all my energy. And, oh, Kenzie gets to play Mrs. Santa Claus in the Christmas program. She’s all excited about it, so be ready when she realizes you’re home.”
Sam started to speak, but what came out of his mouth was a loud, “Ow!” His right leg jerked, and Kenzie’s cat, Samson, went tumbling across the kitchen floor. “Samson! You keep that up, and I’m having you declawed.” He looked up at Indie. “Silly cat just dug all his claws into my leg.”
“Probably thought it was a tree,” Indie said, her own chuckle paying him back for the grin.
Kenzie heard him yell, so she came running in from the living room. “Daddy! Daddy, I get to be Mrs. Santa!”
Sam held out his hands and Kenzie leapt up into his lap. “You do? Wow, that’s awesome. I can’t wait to watch.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. I get to wear a wig, so I’ll look old like you.”
Indie burst out laughing while she dropped the beaters into the sink. “Kenzie,” he said, “Daddy isn’t that old.”
The little girl looked at her, her eyes full of innocence. “He’s a lot older than me.”
Sam agreed that she was right, and Indie prepared to serve dinner. She had stuffed some of the thickest porkchops Sam had ever seen, then baked them in the oven while she heated up green beans and made the mashed potatoes. With the potatoes now nice and fluffy, it took only a few minutes to set their plates on the table.
Once they were seated, Kenzie said grace and they dug in. Sam complimented his wife on her cooking for about the thousandth time, and they talked about the upcoming Christmas program, but Sam held back on discussing the case until they were finished and Kenzie was back to watching TV.
With the dishes in the dishwasher and the leftovers tucked safely into the refrigerator, Indie rejoined Sam at the table. “Okay, so tell me what’s going on with Karen,” she said.
“Well, a couple things I want you to put Herman on. First, I went to see the medical examiner today, just wanted to ask a few questions about the wounds on the body. The ME turned out to be a doctor I’ve met before, and he invited me in while he was finishing the autopsy. It turns out the fatal shot was to the back of the victim’s head, so the exit wound pretty well eliminated his face. They ran the fingerprints, but strangely enough they didn’t come back with an identification. Seems odd to me that a man like Samara wouldn’t have his fingerprints on file, somewhere. Is there any way Herman can check that out?”
Indie smiled at him. “That’s easy,” she said. “I had Herman find everything he could on Daniel ‘Digger’ Samara this afternoon, and I’ve got just about anything we could want. Date of birth, Social Security number, all of it. If he was ever fingerprinted, it will be tied to that information.” She picked up her laptop and set it in front of her, then started tapping away at the keyboard. “Herman has a backdoor into the FBI’s Next Generation Identification database, which has replaced their old fingerprint-only database. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to find out if Samara’s prints were ever submitted to them.” She hit the enter key and watched the screen as lines of code flowed across it, but it was less than a minute later when a half-dozen links suddenly appeared. “Aha,” she said as she clicked the top link. She read through the text that appeared for a moment, then grinned.
“Samara is definitely there,” she said. “Want me to print out his fingerprint card?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, do. This makes me wonder why the police haven’t already checked this way. I can take this back to the ME tomorrow morning and we’ll know pretty quick whether the victim is Samara or not.”
“It’s printing out now,” she said, and then she got up and went to the printer in the dining room. She returned a moment later and handed a sheet of paper to Sam.
The page held a copy of a fingerprint card identified as Samara’s, as well as a photo of the man. Sam folded it up and put it in his pocket.
“Okay, now I wonder if Herman can find anything about known associates of Samara. There’s a guy named Zeno who was with him when he came back to Denver a few days ago, but he seems to have disappeared. The problem is that the description I heard of him today could also match Samara. Think you can find anything?”
Indie was already typing away. “Zeno is an unusual name,” she said. “Sounds like it might be Greek or something. Taking a look now—okay, there are only seven people named Zeno in the entire Denver area, and if I expand that to the state I get twenty-six. Do we know anything else about him?”
“Only that he was pretty big, around Samara’s age, and had brown hair.”
“Okay, that eliminates most of these guys. I’ve got six left, one in Denver and the rest scattered around Colorado. Here’s the one who lives in Denver.” She turned the computer so Sam could see the monitor screen, and he was suddenly looking at a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Daniel Samara.
“I’d bet that’s our guy,” Sam said. “Any chance you can get an address on him?”
“I can get you his brand of underwear, if you want.” She tapped on the keys for a few more seconds, and then her eyes suddenly went wide. “Sam,” she said. “His
name is Zeno Markakis, and he’s listed as living about down in LoDo. According to what I’m seeing, he makes his living as a delivery driver. He’s on Facebook, but his page is pretty vague. Doesn’t look like he uses it very much. No police record at all, which does sound strange if he’s hanging out with people like Samara.” She clicked another link, and then another. “I’m seeing something strange,” she said. “This guy looks to be pushing fifty, but if I went by the information on the Internet, I’d say he’s about three years old. There’s absolutely nothing about him that’s older than that.”
Sam chewed the inside of his cheek for a couple of seconds. “It’s probably a fake identity,” he said. “He probably changed his name about three years ago, which would account for not finding anything prior to that time. Any way to check that out?”
“I’ve copied his photo,” Indie said. “Herman is running it through the FBI facial recognition system. That’ll take a couple of hours, probably, but since the FBI now keeps photos of all Americans, even if they’ve never been arrested for anything, he should turn up.”
She pushed the computer away and looked at Sam. “So, what happens if it turns out the body isn’t Samara?”
“I figure the DA would try to claim Karen shot him anyway, mistaken identity. There is no guarantee that it would have any impact on a jury. I still need to find out who really killed the victim, whoever he is, or Karen could be looking at life in prison.”
Indie took her head. “What about her kids?”
“She asked me to go by and let them know what’s happening,” Sam said, “and I did. David is eighteen, so they can stay in the house for now, but if this goes bad they may need our help. They’re both still in high school at the moment, and I don’t know that they can support themselves.”
“We’d be there for them,” Indie said. “I feel sorry for them, I can’t imagine what they must be going through.”
“Well, I’m sure they don’t believe their mother committed murder. David wanted to help me out, but I told him to stay out of it. Last thing I need is for those kids to end up in trouble, or in the line of fire if it turns out the killer is still around.”
“Yeah. Did you learn anything else today?”
Sam told her about visiting the crime scene, and about meeting Snake, Nikki, and Booker. “Nikki is the only credible witness the state has, but she admits readily that she did not see Karen actually kill anyone. She only saw her kneeling over the body, which is exactly the way Karen said it. Booker, on the other hand, is saying that he actually saw Karen knock on Samara’s door, then open fire on whoever answered it. Snake tore down the crime scene tape and opened the door to the apartment so I could go inside, and the bloodstains alone are enough to discredit Booker.”
Indie gave a shiver. “Snake, Booker? Those sound like names out of some bad detective novel. Real criminal type names.”
Sam grinned at her. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said, “but Snake was a surprise. I know he’s the leader of the Devils, so he’s undoubtedly a criminal himself, but he actually seemed concerned about seeing justice done. After Booker told me his story, Snake seemed relieved when I agreed that he’s full of crap. I got the impression that, for some reason, he doesn’t want Karen to be convicted of this crime. Makes me wonder if he knows who the killer is, and is keeping his mouth shut.”
Indie looked at him. “Do you really think so?”
Sam grimaced. “I’m not really sure if I do or not,” he said. “I guess, if I had to put a name to the feeling he gave me, I’d say he thinks Samara—or whoever it was—deserved to die, but he doesn’t seem to want Karen to be in trouble over it. It’s like he might have some idea who did it, but he’s being protective of them.”
The computer suddenly chimed, and Indie jumped. She reached over and pulled it back toward herself, and then her eyes went wide. “Wow, that was fast,” she said. “We got a match on facial recognition for Zeno, but, Sam—things might’ve just gotten a whole lot worse.” She turned the computer so Sam could see the screen.
There on the display was another photo of the same man, but it was the words on the screen that caught Sam’s attention. Zeno Markakis was actually Alexander Kingsley, and had spent the last fourteen years as an undercover agent of the FBI.
“Holy crap,” Sam said. “If that’s him on the slab down at the morgue, this just became a freaking nightmare.”
“No kidding,” Indie said. She pulled the computer back around and started typing again, then got up and went to the printer. She came back a moment later with another sheet of paper showing a fingerprint card. “Alexander Kingsley’s fingerprints. They were not in the usual database, which is why nothing came back when they were run through the system. I got them from his FBI personnel file, instead.” She looked at him sadly. “Sam? What are you going to do if it’s him?”
“I’m going to be calling on an old friend,” Sam said. “For the moment, though, can you get me the number for Doctor Jasper Hartley? He’s the medical examiner I met with today, so his number may be unlisted.”
“Like that would stop Herman,” Indie said with a grin. “Um, you want his home or his cell number?”
Sam opted for the cell number and Indie read it off to him. He dialed it quickly and it was answered only a few seconds later.
“Doctor Hartley.”
“Doc, this is Sam Prichard. Remember me from earlier today?”
“Oh, yes,” Hartley said. “What can I do for you, Sam?”
“Well, first, can you tell me if you ever were able to identify the body we were talking about today?”
“Not as of an hour ago, when I left. Why?”
“I’ve gotten my hands on a copy of Samara’s fingerprints, but I have possible reason to believe that he isn’t the victim. If I’m right, the victim is probably an undercover FBI agent named Alexander Kingsley. I’ve just learned that he was posing as a man named Zeno Markakis and has been hanging around with Samara the last few days.”
Hartley was quiet for a couple of seconds, then came back on the line. “If you’re correct, this is going to cause quite an uproar. Give me an email address. I’m at home, but I can get into my computer at the office remotely and send you the prints we took off the body. Just do me one big favor, and if it turns out you’re correct, let me know first. Okay?”
Sam gave him his email address and promised to let him know as soon as possible what he learned. Indie opened their email program and the message with the attached fingerprint card arrived only a couple of minutes later. She opened the attachment and printed it out, then fetched it and brought it to the kitchen table.
Sam laid all three fingerprint cards down side-by-side, and he and Indie looked at them over together. After only a dozen seconds, Sam shook his head. “This is not good,” he said, and then he looked up at his wife. “Daniel Samara is still alive, and is probably the man who murdered Agent Kingsley.”
Sam called Hartley back. “Doc, I’m afraid I was right. The body you’ve got at the morgue is Special Agent Alexander Kingsley of the FBI. We’ve got to notify the department as well as the FBI, but this falls under your office’s jurisdiction. How do you want to handle it?”
Hartley sighed. “As much as I hate to do it,” he said, “I think we need to do this immediately. Can you come down to my office right away? And bring those fingerprints with you?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”
“Good. I’ll contact the police department and meet you there.”
Sam disconnected and told Indie that he needed to run downtown, then kissed both her and Kenzie and headed out to the Corvette. He opened the garage door, started the car up and backed out, and then closed the garage again before driving away.
He arrived at the Medical Examiner’s Office in time to see Hartley and Detective Rivers, along with three other men and two women, entering the building. He parked the car across the street and hurried to catch up, and then Hartley led all of them down to a
small conference room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I appreciate all of you coming. As I said on the phone, this is a matter of great importance.” He spotted Sam and motioned for him to come to the head of the table beside him. “Some of you know Sam Prichard. He’s a private investigator, formerly a detective with DPD, and he’s working on the murder case that has one of our detectives sitting in jail. He and I were talking earlier today, and it struck him as odd that we hadn’t been able to get a fingerprint match on the victim, so he apparently pulled some strings with somebody and got hold of a couple of fingerprint cards. Sam, you want to tell them what you found?”
Sam took the three sheets of paper out of his pocket and unfolded them, then held two of them up side-by-side. “This is a copy of the fingerprint card of one Daniel Samara, which is who we believed was the victim in this morning’s murder. This second one is the fingerprint card as the prints were taken off of the victim here at the ME’s office. It’s quite obvious, when you get the chance to really look at them, that they are not a match. The victim is not Daniel Samara.”
He shook out the third sheet of paper and held it up. “This is a fingerprint card that I had to go through special channels to get. The fingerprints on this sheet match those taken from the body here, so well that even a layman would be able to spot it. There is virtually no doubt that the victim is the man to whom these prints actually belong, and that happens to be Special Agent Alexander Kingsley of the FBI, who has been in a deep cover assignment for almost the last three years. He has been posing as a minor criminal named Zeno Markakis, who has coincidentally been a compatriot and associate of Daniel Samara. He was last seen in the company of Mr. Samara within the last couple of days, and because he bears a striking resemblance to Samara, his body was mistaken for that of Mr. Samara when it was discovered.”