“Pierce. — Yes, sir. On my way.” Pierce hung up, a frown creasing his forehead. “We have to go.” He quickly unlocked his car and popped the lock on the passenger side.
“Troubles?” Kate asked, quickly getting in and buckling up.
Pierce started the car and carefully pulled out into traffic before answering.
“They found Henry Bell.”
8
Shoreline near the Thames Barrier
Hagen sighed deeply, adjusting his fedora and squinting as the SOCOs turned on yet another spotlight. It was justified, of course; evidence had to be collected and the twilight was rapidly fading into night. Placing the lights securely, was especially difficult in the silt and mud of the riverside, but they were proving to be quite adept at anchoring the large metal stands.
Hagen turned in time to see Pierce’s Jetta pull to a stop. He watched as his sergeant emerged, followed closely by Kate Gardener. Interesting, thought Hagen with a smile. Pierce was notoriously private and, to his knowledge, had only seen one woman, a reporter, during his time with the Met. The relationship had not ended well, and since then Pierce seemed satisfied to keep his private life, if he even had one, extremely private. It seems the pretty American may have stimulated a change there as well.
“Sorry we’re late, sir,” Pierce offered as the two joined him.
“No rush. He isn’t getting any deader,” Hagen observed, then turned to Kate. “Good evening, Miss Gardener.”
“Crisp, isn’t it?” Kate looked around at the scene. “Crane isn’t here?”
Hagen shook his head. “Not that I’m aware. Paul?” Owens appeared around the corner of the Police Incident Unit van. “Paul, is —”
“Mr. Crane isn’t here, Miss Gardener. When the call for officers went to Lambeth, he said you would be on-scene.”
Kate frowned. “Would have been nice if he’d let me know. Did he send —”
“Equipment? Yes,” Owens replied. “It’s all in the van.”
Kate nodded and walked toward the back of the PIU van. She found Monaghan standing at the back, her own crime scene kit sitting beside her in the back of the van.
Kate smiled. “Same M.O., huh?”
Monaghan nodded in the affirmative. “From what we’ve gathered, and haven’t gathered.” She watched Kate pull out her camera bag and quickly load a fresh SD card into it. “First solo. Are you ready for this, Kate?”
Kate lifted the camera up to her face, looking through the viewfinder and making adjustments to the aperture. She lowered the camera and nodded quickly. “I’m fine. Lead on.”
Kate and Monaghan began the walk to the crime scene itself. A uniformed police constable held up the line of blue-and-white police tape that served as the perimeter of the crime scene area. The two women quickly ducked underneath and slowed as they approached the area where the body was located. Monaghan stopped, turning toward Kate and gesturing toward the body.
“You’re on.”
Kate stepped forward toward the body, her hands shaking slightly as she uncovered the camera lens and readied the camera for shooting. It didn’t matter how often she did this, it was always the same. First the shakes came, not hard ones, just enough to get her adrenalin going.
This second victim was in much worse shape than the first. Henry Bell’s body was covered in bruises, cuts, and welts, and there were small burns on his forearms. The veins on his arms were blown, probably from regular intravenous drug use. The body was filthy, mud caking the sides and matting the hair into clumps. The genital area was savaged, vicious cuts tearing the entire area beyond recognition. A gaping wound remained where the victim’s penis and scrotum had been, as if they had been pulled from the body rather than cut off.
Kate closed her eyes, swallowing hard. The adrenaline rush had settled into the pit of her stomach, tying it into knots and causing her salivary glands to start over-producing. She swallowed hard again, trying to resist the urge to vomit a little.
Showtime. Kate took a deep breath, raised the camera to her face and opened her eyes.
Everything changed when seen through a viewfinder. Distance, colors, light, all pushed back slightly. The glass served as a kind of shield, preventing the violence and damage, the blood and death, from coming through and touching you.
Kate breathed out slowly, then began taking pictures. She circled the body, taking picture after picture, at least five or six shots for every step she took.
After completing one circuit, Kate crouched down and began circling the body again, taking more pictures from the new angle.
Returning to the spot she started from, Kate took one more shot, and stopped. She hesitated, then slowly lowered the camera from in front of her face to look at the crime scene with her own eyes again.
Kate could feel her muscles cramping, her bad knee whining for her to stand up and relieve the pressure on it. She could feel the tension in her shoulders, the instinctive need to get away from this scene, from death. She enjoyed the feeling… It made her feel human amidst all this evil.
Monaghan watched the younger woman with concern. A first time at a crime scene could make or break anyone in forensics. Lab work was one thing, textbooks, films in class, but to actually be on scene, to see the blood and smell the death… Stronger people had been undone by it.
Monaghan reached out, placing a hand gently on Kate’s shoulder. She felt Kate’s body stiffen under her touch.
Kate cleared her throat, blinking back the tears that welled in her eyes. She swallowed hard, said, “I’m done,” and promptly stood. She turned and walked away from the crime scene toward the river.
“We’re ready to move the body now,” Monaghan announced and the transport officers immediately began to pull equipment out of the van, readying the body bag and cart.
The three detectives watched as the body was lifted carefully into the body bag, zipped in. Then the bag was lifted on to the cart and strapped on securely.
“Wheeling that out may prove difficult,” Hagen said, turning toward Pierce as he finished.
Pierce was not looking at the crime scene, however. His eyes were fixed on the river – and Kate. She was standing near a piling, rubbing her neck and moving it from side to side, as if trying to work the stiffness out.
Suddenly, she stopped, her eyes fixed on the ground beside her. Kate glanced up at the crime scene, then back to the ground. Then her gaze shifted away from the crime scene, and down the shoreline. She began to walk away.
Hagen watched the agitation building in Pierce’s body, his movements becoming restless. It was obvious he wanted to go after her.
“Sir?”
Hagen turned to the speaker – not Pierce, but Owens was standing beside him.
“Would you like me to follow Miss Gardener, sir? Make sure she’s all right?” Owens asked.
Hagen saw Pierce turn out of the corner of his eye, waiting as expectantly as Owens to hear what Hagen would say. Hagen smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Paul. Take a torch and be careful.”
Owens quickly jogged off after Kate, fiddling with the switch of the torchlight as he went.
***
Kate walked along the Thames riverside, hopping on rocks and dry gravel patches in an effort to stay out of the mud. So far, so good, but she was not entirely sure her kicks were going to survive the night. Memo to self: Never wear the TARDIS high-tops to work.
Kate hopped to a large dry patch, big enough for both feet, and looked at the ground beyond.
A wave-like pattern ran through the mud and sand. Smooth in parts, then a serious of bumps, as if something had been dragged along and hit a snag along the way. The direction of the silt mounds and mud grooves around the drag area indicated that whatever, or whoever, was being dragged, it was definitely going to the crime scene area.
Kate sighed. So, this guy wasn’t killed here either.
The sound of sloppy footsteps behind her was punctuated by a light Glaswegian-accented voice saying, “Find something, Miss Gardener
?”
Kate looked up and into the face of Detective Constable Owens. He was barely average in height, at least for a guy, but quiet attractive in that boy-next-door sort of way.
“Be careful where you’re stepping, Constable. It looks as if something was dragged here.”
Owens looked back toward the light and noise that marked the crime scene. “Or someone.”
“Yeah. You got another flashlight?”
Owens raised the hand holding his torch. “Just the one.”
“Guess its single-file, Indian-style then.” Kate looked for a dry spot and started forward again. Owens shook his torchlight, whacked it once hard with the other hand, and the light came on brightly.
The two walked single-file for several meters.
“Whoever it was dragged whatever it was a hell of a long way,” Owens observed, “And through the mud.”
“It wouldn’t be that difficult. Not with the right kind of drop cloth or plastic sheeting, and a good grip. Not that I would know this from personal experience or anything.”
The drag marks came to a stop in a vacant lot. Kate glanced around. The crime scene, and all its activity, was almost completely out of sight. The buildings surrounding the area were tall and old, many reminding Kate of the derelict power stations and factories across the Hudson in Jersey City. It was clear from the debris both large and small that this lot was being used as an informal dumping area. Most of the debris wasn’t much bigger than a computer monitor or medium-sized cardboard box, which made the van a bit of a standout, to say the least.
A lone, dark VW van sat maybe twenty-five meters away. Owens stepped around Kate to take the lead and the two cautiously approached the van.
Owens raised his torch up, shining it through the van’s windshield. The front seat was cluttered, full of the usual well-loved-vehicle litter and more. Empty food containers, torn-open envelopes, a few receipts, and soiled clothes.
Owens shone his torchlight toward the rear of the vehicle. A sheet of plastic separated the front seat from the back area, its transparency diminished by excessive scratches, a yellowish film, and brownish spatters and streaks.
Owens handed his torch to Kate. “Hold this for me, please.” Kate took the torch, while Owens quickly gloved up his hands. He started to reach for the handle of the sliding rear door, but Kate put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Wait a minute, whoa, where’s your gun?”
“We don’t carry firearms,” Owens replied matter-of-factly.
Kate was incredulous. “What do you mean you don’t carry firearms?”
“We can only carry them under special circumstances.”
Kate gestured to the van. “I think opening an abandoned van of unknown origin and contents qualifies as special circumstances, don’t you?”
Owens glanced at the van, then back to Kate, completely oblivious.
Kate closed her eyes in exasperation. “Oh my God, I’m in an episode of Scooby-Doo.” She growled in frustration, and then opened her eyes again. “Screw it, go ahead.”
Owens started to reach for the door again, then stopped. He glanced around him, quickly spotting a large piece of metal on the ground nearby. Owen stepped over and picked up the piece of metal, revealed upon closer inspection to be a section of lead pipe. He stepped back to the van, struggling to ignore the smirk on Kate’s face.
Owens held his breath. “Ready?”
Kate nodded and raised the torch up, illuminating the door area.
Owens reached out, pulling the handle slowly until he felt the locking mechanism release. Then, he quickly slid the door open, allowing it to slide back on its own as he joined Kate in jumping back away from it.
The two shared a look of relief before stepping forward in unison. Kate raised the torch up, shining it into the back of the van so that they could both look in.
The van interior was draped in the same type of plastic that separated the front seat from the rear. Here, however, it was impossible to see through the plastic because it was covered in blood. The walls, the ceiling, all were spattered with brownish bloodstains, old ones. Small pools and large smeared areas of fresh blood covered the floor of the van, as well as smears going up onto the walls.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this is the primary crime scene. What do you think?” Kate waited for a reply that did not come. She turned to look at the young man beside her. “Hey, you okay?”
Owens swallowed hard. “Jinkies.”
Kate smiled. “Yeah, me, too. Better call the cavalry, tell them we need, like, mucho forensics down here.” She watched as Owens began punching numbers into his mobile, then turned back to look at the van again.
Kate took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “Jinkies,” she murmured.
9
8 September 2011
DNA Lab, FSS Lambeth
Jimi entered the busy lab, and passed a handful of paperwork to a waiting Owens.
“Blood work and toxicology reports as requested,” Jimi began. She removed her glasses and used the bow to point to the paper Owens was looking at. “Pancuronium present in Mr. Bell and you will be pleased to know that all missing genitals have been accounted for.”
Owens skimmed the paperwork. “The plate on the van is listed to the victim. The prints on the steering wheel were smudged, but the Fingerprint Bureau managed to lift some partials. They’re running them through the database now.” His mobile rang, and Owens stepped away to answer it.
Kate was leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes closed. Jimi walked over slowly, clearing her throat.
“Yes, Jimi?” Kate inquired quietly.
“Know that Helen Flynn everyone’s talking about?” Jimi replied in a low voice.
“Mm-hmm.”
Jimi held up a small clear plastic bag. “I found this in the glove compartment while I was collecting samples.”
Kate opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with a photograph of a young girl.
Helen Flynn was tall for her age, being barely fourteen when she was killed. Her hair was long and straight, falling almost to her hips, and the fringe around her face was soft and feathery. Her skin was smooth and possessed that light golden tan that came at a high price in tanning salons. Her eyes were large and blue, carefully made up with miles of dark lashes and subtle eye shadow. In addition to her mature height, she possessed a very mature body. Maybe her mother was of Mediterranean descent, thought Kate, and seconds later she found herself thinking of Shakespeare and the equally sensual Juliet. People usually missed that aspect of the play. So often, it was cast with a waif-like young girl, fragile and with no figure, when in reality, Juliet would have been more voluptuous. That was why Kate only watched Zefferelli’s version; he was the only one that got it right.
Kate took the picture, looked at it a moment. “’It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.’ She looks like Sharon Tate.” Kate observed. “Ironic, huh?”
“What’s ironic?” Kate whirled around, almost crashing into Neville Crane.
Kate was startled, not simply by his sudden appearance behind her, but by his appearance itself. He was a slender man, but he almost looked gaunt now, the hollows under his cheekbones joined by equally shadowy regions under his eyes. He looked drained of energy and smiled weakly as she looked at him.
Kate handed the photo to him as she replied, “Helen Flynn. Quite the beauty. She looks so different without the cuts and bruises.”
“Anyone would,” Crane replied tightly. He looked as if he was about to faint.
“Hey, Crane, you all right? You’re not looking so good,” Jimi commented.
“No, I... I think I’ll go home,” he answered curtly. Crane shoved the photo back at the two women and quickly left the room. Jimi quickly grabbed it before it dropped to the floor.
Jimi frowned. “He’s been odd lately, you notice?”
Kate shrugged. “Maybe he hit his head when he fell.”
“Fell? W
hen?”
“Roller-blading near the River. He said that’s how he hurt his wrist.”
“He told me he injured it lifting equipment into the van on the way to the Regent’s Park crime scene,” Jimi replied, looking confused.
“Why lie about it?” Kate frowned.
“Maybe he’s hoping to pull Statutory Sick Pay or something,” Jimi suggested.
Owens hung up his mobile, and re-joined the women by the doorway. “I just spoke to Sergeant Pierce. Fingerprint Bureau came back with a match on the van prints.”
“Wow! That was fast. Anyone we know?” Kate asked.
Owens nodded. “John Dempsey.”
“Bloody hell,” Jimi replied, whistling.
10
42 Whitfield Street, Marylebone
Hagen and Pierce watched the front door of Dempsey’s flat block from the comfort of Hagen’s BMW.
Hagen raised his insulated beverage mug to his lips and carefully sipped the hot spiced chai within it. Its warmth was a welcome relief for his chilled bones. He and Pierce had been sitting in the vehicle for what felt like hours. Hagen glanced at his watch and sighed. “Mister Dempsey is running late.”
“He’s going to be a lot later than he thinks,” Pierce replied. Hagen watched the younger man fiddle with his cigarette lighter. Pierce was something of a chain smoker, so this length of time without a cigarette must be killing him. Dempsey had better hurry up, thought Hagen, his gaze returning to the door.
Hagen had initially been apprehensive when Pierce had been assigned to his squad. While the detective sergeant had a brilliant record as a police constable, and could boast of his military past if he desired, many at the Met felt that his youth, his Irish background, even his good looks, all boded ill for his future there. Five minutes after Pierce sat down in his office, Hagen knew he was the right man for the job.
He glanced at Pierce again, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips as he asked, “Did Paul tell you what Miss Gardener said about the fact that we do not carry guns?”
The Memory of Trees (Kate Gardener mysteries Book 1) Page 5