Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Heinz’s native Glaswegian accent rose to the surface as the medical examiner worked himself into a frenzy.

  ``Plumbing?’’

  Heinz shook his head. ``Bloody plumbing can’t cope with all the fluids and tissues. Too many autopsies. We had blood and water pooling on the floor, if you can believe it. Had to resort to storing some of the poor souls in refrigerated trucks outside. Wait till the press gets a hold of this. They’ll have a bloody field day. And you know who’ll be to blame.’’

  ``Let me guess. Budget problems?’’

  ``Aye, and a bit more.’’ Heinz sighed as the beginnings of a smile began to form. ``Anyway, you didn’t come this way to hear me blather on about money problems and that’s not why I asked you. Who is this, by the way?’’

  ``Clatterback. John Clatterback, sir.’’

  The younger detective bowed his head slightly in deference to the doctor.

  ``Sir, is it? Well that’s a damned sight better than what most of you lot call me. Welcome aboard.’’

  Heinz handed Brant a manila envelope. A report had been prepared with the findings from the woman’s autopsy. The results, much as Brant had imagined, were conclusive. She’d died of a single gunshot wound to the head.

  ``Am I missing something?’’

  ``Let me.’’ Heinz snatched the report back. ``This woman was in perfect health, with the exception of the damage to her skull and brain caused by the impact of a projectile we refer to around here as a bullet. Her heart, liver, kidneys…all in good shape. Obviously not a drinker or smoker and I couldn’t find any evidence of drugs either in her system at the time of death or past drug use. Her face was beaten quite badly as you know. Blunt force. Someone used their fists. We also found skin cells not her own under her nails, which would indicate she had time to fight back. An indentation on her forehead would seem to indicate that whoever killed her pointed the gun directly against her skin. Curious, since the shot was actually made at the back of the skull.’’

  ``Maybe the shooter changed his or her mind, decided looking into her eyes was too much? That would seem to indicate the killer had a conscience. Maybe someone who knew her if they were able to get so close to her?’’

  Heinz considered the theory. ``Maybe, you might be right. In any event, the point of entry and the trajectory of the bullet in the brain would seem to indicate the killer must have been a good deal taller. Either that or the woman was on her knees and the killer was pointing down. And by the way, you’re a lucky man. We recovered the bullet.’’

  The medical examiner took a plastic zip lock bag from his lab coat and placed it on his desk. The bag contained a single bullet, its tip a twisted bud resembling a flower made of molten metal.

  ``It’s a pretty basic bullet. We’ve had a hell of a time with Black Talons and such lately. Bloody things are a godawful mess, I can tell you. They fragment on impact, you see. The sharp and jagged edges mean we have to be extra careful when we remove them lest someone gets their finger sliced open. Hell of a lot of damage those buggers can inflict, too. No, this one was quite benign if you ignore the fact it still killed the poor woman.’’

  Heinz smiled.

  ``So whoever shot her didn’t want to look at her face AND he or she didn’t want to cause a mess?’’

  Heinz shrugged. ``It’s a theory. I wouldn’t want to speculate on what the killer was thinking. Beyond my pay grade.’’

  ``Where did you find the bullet?’’

  ``Here.’’ Heinz drew a line down his face. ``The left side of the jaw. The mental foramen to be exact. The point of entry was the right side of the skull behind the occipital bone.’’

  ``So the shooter was right handed?’’ Brant asked. Heinz shrugged.

  ``I’ll leave that to the forensics boffins.’’

  ``Time of death?’’

  ``The degree of putrefaction and insect activity indicates two days.’’

  ``Insect activity?’’ Clatterback’s eyes had narrowed in thought.

  ``We found maggots but no pupae. That would seem to indicate death took place between two and ten days ago. Combine that with the state of decay, and I’d say about forty-eight hours roughly. You must have seen the maggots.’’

  ``We did,’’ Brant said, his gag reflex kicking into gear at the memory.

  ``What about location? There was an absence of blood.’’

  ``That’s a good indication that she was killed elsewhere and the body moved. The maggots were indicative of an urban environment. Forensics also found some metal shavings. Maybe a factory floor? But the location where the body was found was highly contaminated. I wouldn’t draw too many conclusions from that.’’

  ``Can we narrow the location?’’

  ``We can try,’’ Heinz said. ``Forensics also found mouse dander and hair on the skin.’’

  ``Dander?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Shit. Mouse shit.’’

  Brant frowned in thought as he and Clatterback rose to leave.

  Heinz continued: ``I’m not sure if this is relevant to your investigation, but you do know that she had had a child?’’

  ``Ah, no, that’s a new one on me.’’ Brant resumed his seat.

  Heinz nodded his head. ``We checked to see if she’d been raped or had engaged recently in sexual activity. No body fluids down there that weren’t supposed to be there and no recent tears. No pubic hair that wasn’t her own and no fibers. She wasn’t raped.’’

  ``But she’d had a child?’’

  Heinz nodded again. ``Scarring from an episiotomy. I’d say by the looks of the trauma that it wasn’t…err…an easy birth. Not by a long shot. Probably quite traumatic. And there were some other signs that pretty clearly indicated she’d had a child. I don’t know if it matters but there you are.’’

  Brant considered Heinz’s findings.

  ``Any chance you can tell me when she gave birth?’’

  Heinz shrugged. ``The scarring was mostly healed but not completely. As I said, it was quite traumatic. It’s possible she’d had the baby within the past year. I’m afraid I can’t be more precise.’’

  Brant nodded, filing the information for possible use in the future. As the medical examiner had said, perhaps the fact she’d given birth wasn’t relevant to the case. Then again, maybe it was.

  ``So what’s the next step?’’ Clatterback asked when they were seated in Brant’s three-year-old Hyundai Elantra.

  The day was bright. Cooler than before and slightly less humid. The sky was blue and fresh, washing the buildings around them with light.

  ``What did you get out of that?’’

  Clatterback shrugged. ``Just what he said. Was there something I was supposed to get?’’

  The younger detective made air quotes with his fingers, emphasizing the last word.

  ``You really are a newbie, aren’t you?’’

  Clatterback folded his arms defensively, his droopy smile replaced by a sheepish frown.

  ``Get to know the good doctor. He may seem like a prick, but he’ll be your best friend.’’

  ``I’ll keep that in mind.’’

  Brant indicated and pulled the Hyundai out of its parking space and into the flow of traffic on Albany Street.

  ``I’m talking about the angle of the bullet and the type of bullet,’’ Brant said finally. ``The killer knew that woman.’’

  Clatterback shrugged. ``I guess you’d know better than me. I’m just along for the ride.’’

  ``No, I’ve decided you’re going to pay your way. Now tell me something about shoes.’’

  ``A handful of boutiques sell Jimmy Choos in Boston. You were right,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``Don’t forget it,’’ Brant snorted.

  To make the search easier, they decided to focus on the downtown and a narrowly defined zone in close proximity to where the body had been found.

  The thinking was simple. First, they’d spend time checking the obvious places, the high-end shopping streets and more exclusive shops in a narrowly define
d area near Back Bay and in spitting distance of Copley Place. If that failed, they’d widen the net.

  The first two stores were time squandered. In each case, the shopkeepers were reluctant to make the connection.

  Their first stop had been a boutique off Boylston Street hidden amongst a warren of glass and steel office buildings. A ponderous woman took an inordinate amount of time searching a catalog of customer names and invoices before throwing her hands in the air in frustration.

  The second store was little better. A prissy middle-aged man had stared at them over the rims of his tortoise shell eyeglasses and shook his head almost immediately.

  They were third-time lucky. A woman working the front counter in a boutique off Washington Street displayed a glimmer of recognition when shown the picture of the shoes worn by the dead woman.

  ``We sell those here,’’ she’d said, scrutinizing the photos on Clatterback’s phone with a look of determination.

  She was standing behind a glass display. Shoes of various sizes shone under halogen lights. Red velvet lined the shelves. Around them, sharply dressed women floated from counter to counter. Men in dark suits wore looks of bored indifference. Marble floors and high ceilings adorned with plaster moldings cried out money.

  ``Perhaps we could step into the back room,’’ the girl said in soft, hushed tones when she saw Brant reach for his notebook. ``We can speak more freely.’’

  She was about twenty, dark-skinned and classically beautiful. She wore a black oversized sweater. Cream-colored pants hugged her thighs, emphasizing the shape of her body with tasteful discretion. High heels made her appear tall but not overly so.

  She led the way, guiding them into a room filled with shelves stacked with binders and books. A row of filing cabinets lined the far wall. In the corner, file folders had been placed neatly atop a battered wooden desk.

  ``May I see the picture again.’’ She extended her hand to take the handset. A gold Rolex hung loosely on a thin wrist.

  Clatterback flipped through the pictures on his mobile phone, pausing and enlarging the snapshot they’d taken of the shoes. The girl took the phone, examined the photo and pressed her lips together.

  ``There’s a good chance that’s from us.’’

  ``How can you be sure?’’ Clatterback asked. Brant shot a warning in the other detective’s direction. ``Sorry for being stupid, but shoes seem pretty much the same to me.’’

  ``Are you married?’’ The girl let the question hang for a moment. ``No, I didn’t think so.’’

  She crossed to one of the filing cabinets, pulled a drawer open and began searching through a dozen or so folders.

  ``Here we are,’’ she said finally, a triumphal note in her voice. ``Yes, this is it.’’

  Brant took the folder.

  ``They’re called the Nanson Flat. Your basic black handle from last year’s spring collection. Not the most expensive, but practical. They were popular last season. We were one of the only stores to carry them.’’

  Brant examined the colored photocopy the girl had pulled from the file. She was right. The photocopy of the flat leather sandal called the Nanson Flat was identical to the shoes they’d found on the dead girl.

  ``And how much do these cost?’’

  The girl retrieved the folder.

  ``Just shy of $1,000.’’

  Brant turned back to the photo on Clatterback’s mobile phone.

  ``So you’d know who bought these shoes?’’ Clatterback asked. ``Is there a serial number or something?’’

  ``We don’t computerize much around here as you can probably tell,’’ she said. ``The owner likes the personal touch. Says it makes the customers feel like they’re getting a more intimate experience.’’

  ``How well do you recognize your customers?’’ Brant asked.

  ``As I said, the owner likes the personal touch, and many of our customers are regulars. Has something happened? What’s all this about?’’

  Brant handed the girl a printout, a hard copy of the photo they’d taken of the woman’s face.

  ``This won’t be easy to see,’’ he said with sympathy.

  The girl’s face fell flat as her eyes set on the beaten face, the bloated cheeks and the purple bruises.

  ``She comes in every couple of weeks. My God, how did she end up like that?’’ The girl gasped, her voice a conspiratorial hush as a hand went to her mouth in horror.

  ``You’re absolutely sure she’s a customer?’’ Brant asked again, marveling at their luck.

  ``I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly confident she’s a regular.’’

  ``Does she come in by herself,’’ Clatterback asked.

  ``Alone?’’ The girl frowned dismissively. ``Oh no. She was accompanied by a gentleman.’’

  ``Do you know this woman’s name? What about the man?’’ Brant asked, his voice hopeful as the thrill of the chase began to build.

  ``Sorry, I don’t know them by name.’’

  ``Can you describe the man?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Athletic. Maybe younger than most of the men we get.’’

  ``So not your typical male customer?’’

  The girl shook her head. ``No, not typical at all. Most are executives and a bit older. This gentleman was much younger.’’

  ``Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’’

  The girl furrowed her brow in consideration as she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes.

  ``Maybe. I can’t be sure. I might have something that can help.’’

  Brant made a scratch in his notebook while he waited. The girl seemed to be considering something. Finally, she produced a spreadsheet. One column was filled with the names and descriptions of each pair of shoes sold within a specified time. The dates ranged back at least two years. A second column included the purchase price. The remainder of the spreadsheet contained names, telephone numbers, email addresses and any other pieces of information the customer had been willing to give.

  ``Here it is,’’ she said, pointing with the tip of a pen to an entry in the middle of the spreadsheet. ``Allison Carswell. She bought a pair two months ago. Cash.’’

  ``Would you have an address for Ms. Carswell?’’ Brant asked.

  ``There it is in the last column. The Aberdeen Lofts. Near the Broadway T Stop.’’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ``Yes?’’

  The voice on the other side of the door was muffled but hard. A female’s voice but tough nonetheless, like its owner had been chewing on glass.

  ``Police. We have some questions.’’

  A lock unlatched, then another. Finally, the door cracked open wide enough to reveal a pair of eyes and the hint of a face. Brant produced his badge and waved it in front of the sliver of open space. The woman cleared her throat.

  ``How’d you get up here?’’

  ``The doorman let us in.’’ Brant withdrew his ID. ``This would be a lot easier if you’d open the door.’’

  ``Why do you want to talk to me?’’

  Brant let the question hang. ``Allison Carswell,’’ he said finally.

  The door closed. There was the sound of a chain sliding along its track and the door swung open.

  The face that belonged to the voice was a surprise. He’d expected a middle-aged woman. Instead, they were greeted by an Asian woman in her mid twenties dressed in a pair of jeans and angora sweater. The sweater hung casually on broad, athletic shoulders. The woman had high cheek bones, an oval face and an aquiline nose. She had full red lips and straight black hair that fell to her shoulders in a stylish cut.

  ``What’s happened to Allison?’’ the woman asked, a wary tone to her voice.

  ``May we?’’ Brant said, asking for permission to enter with the wave of his hand.

  The woman stood aside, ushering them into the apartment.

  The Aberdeen was a newly constructed building of loft apartments in South Boston. Real estate agents would describe the neighborhood as up-and-coming or trendy and hip. Brant saw it for
what it was — a modest working-class neighborhood sucked under by a developer’s hungry eye and insatiable thirst for cheap land to build cookie-cutter condos that could be flipped at double the price of construction. Long-time residents, meantime, would be priced out and pushed away, forced to vacate homes they could no longer afford. He’d seen it before and it made him angry. Yet another inequity in a city and country that had become immune to the plight of the working class. Why cater to the ninety nine percent when the one percent controlled the wealth and the means of creating it.

  Brant had more than a passing interest in the area. His parents had grown up not far from the Aberdeen in a part of South Boston known as Dorchester Heights. His mother had been a beauty from the Lithuanian community, his father the rare Protestant in a neighborhood best known as working class Irish American. It’d been a rough neighborhood of small clapboard houses, alcoholic fathers, June Cleaver housewives and crushing poverty.

  The Brants had been one of the early ones to escape Dorchester Heights. Brant’s father had served in the Korean War and upon his return home had enrolled in local college. University followed, then onto the State Department where Brant Sr. got a job as a foreign service officer. Brant had been born in South Boston, but had only lived in the two-storey wood-framed terrace home they’d owned at No. 36 Story Street for three years before the family took up their first posting abroad in Malaysia.

  Though he had little memory of growing up in the neighborhood, Brant still felt a deep affinity for the area. Which made the recent gentrification all the more difficult to watch as row after row of homes succumbed to the wrecking ball.

  Still, there was no denying the Aberdeen was impressive. It had a pink marble facade topped by a cap of gray. The building’s prow thrust upward with the confidence of a ship’s bow, then tapered in steps. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered city views while outdoor balconies offered that rarity of rarities in the city center — access to a private patio.