“Then why not stay in law enforcement? Stay here in Barstow, where, despite what it says in the Prinze’s scandal sheet, everyone knows that you’re a first-class detective and demonstrably incorruptible.”
“Not everyone, Dad.”
“How much was in that briefcase that Taylor Prinze’s lawyer tried to give you?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I never counted it, never touched it. When his lawyer, Baronholtz, opened it and showed me the money, I left the room. I’ll bet they have the whole thing on video.”
“The D.A. should subpoena that.”
“They should. But of course, Baronholtz will try to stall that until the trial is over.”
“Does Chelmin know that they tried to bribe you?”
Will shook his head. “I should probably tell him.”
“No, son. I will. Finish what you’re telling me about why you couldn’t stay in Barstow and be the best cop on the force. And maybe someday, the chief.”
“I want to fly, Dad. I want to follow in my father’s footsteps, even if it’s just for a few years. I want to find out if I’m good enough to be an Army aviator, and then I want to be the best one that ever was. War or peace. Or at least the best pilot that I can.”
“Grow up, Will. You sound like a high school kid with stars in your eyes.”
“I was pretty sure that you wouldn’t understand, Dad. But you asked.”
“And what if you’re not good enough to fly helicopters? What if you don’t get in? What if you get in, then wash out of flight school? Or you manage to win your wings, then they have you hauling colonels and generals around—a flying chauffeur. What then?”
“Then I’ll know what I can and can’t do. It’s only four years. I’ll travel some—see other parts of the world, maybe. And then maybe I’ll get out and go back to law enforcement. Maybe try to get into law school—I’ll have some GI Bill money to help.”
“We’ll talk about this again, son.”
“Fine.”
Nine
At half-past eight the next morning, Chelmin found Will drinking coffee and reading a file in the detectives’ squad room.
“Real nice suit,” he said, and Will blushed.
“Let’s go see your dad,” he said, and the younger man, carrying his coffee and the file, led the way.
They found Arthur Spaulding in his office talking with a rotund man with a lined and deeply tanned face under a fringe of white hair. The older man was dressed in a baggy beige suit that might have been new thirty years earlier.
“Harold, this is Rudy Chelmin of Army CID, and of course you know my son. Rudy, meet one of my predecessors, Chief Tom Bainbridge.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” Chelmin mumbled, suppressing his annoyance. There was a killer to catch, and he wanted to get moving.
“Chief Bainbridge used to run security at the Marine Depot. He’s retired now, but he’s willing to help you in any way he can out at the base.”
“I’ll be working with Malone, the NCIS agent out there,” Chelmin said.
“A good man,” Bainbridge said. “Did you know that he’s quite a painter?”
Stifling a sigh, Chelmin shook his head.
“Landscapes, mostly. Very realistic. Tell you what—three’s a crowd. If it’s OK, I’ll just poke around the base on my own. I still know a lot of people out there, department heads, managers, secretaries—they might tell me things they wouldn’t want to tell NCIS.”
“Run that past Agent Malone, and if he has no objection, it’s fine with me. And thank you—it could be a big help.”
Bainbridge nodded, smiling. “Something wrong with your leg, Chelmin?”
“I don’t think so, Chief. Haven’t seen it since 1991.”
Will said, “What does that mean?”
“A Navy doctor on USS Comfort took most of it off.”
“In 1991?” Bainbridge said. “Then you were a Task Force Taro Marine?”
“Ancient history. Right now, I’ve got a killer to catch. Chief Spaulding— a couple of things. I’m aware that Will might testify in the Prinze murder trial, and…“
“Spoke to Dennis Swartz, the district attorney, ten minutes ago,” the chief interrupted. “The trial is in the San Bernardino Criminal Courts Building. He’s still not sure if he’ll put Will on the stand. They’re arguing pre-trial motions today. Judge Anthony will rule on those tomorrow, and assuming no hitches, jury selection will begin after lunch. It could take a couple of days. Opening statements Friday, and then the state’s witnesses, probably that afternoon. So, he’ll be free to do whatever you need him for until then. His testimony can’t take long, then they’ll want to cross him, but even so, not more than a day, I would think.”
“That sounds about right,” Chelmin said. “I have a request: We’re going to look into this missing person, and if it turns out to be the Farrell woman, find her killer, if we can. I’ll be out at the base, and I’d like Will to work the city side. It would probably make things easier for him if he was carrying a Barstow PD badge.”
Arthur Spaulding smiled. “When Will left, I put him on vacation leave. He had about forty days saved, so he’ll continue to draw his salary until that’s used up. Then he’ll go on inactive status. Now he’s back on duty for as long as he’s here. The city of Barstow has a strong interest in protecting our citizens, including those who work on the base. You’re welcome to any resource I can provide. You have my full cooperation.”
“Thanks, Chief. The Monterey County Medical Examiner will email his report to the NCIS at the Marine Base. I took the liberty of giving him your email. Will should expect a set of fingerprints and the autopsy report any time now. I’ll get a copy out at the base, and we’ll call and talk about it.”
Ten
The coroner’s report arrived a few minutes after eleven. It included a detailed autopsy report, a fingerprint card, a photo of the deceased, and the determination that the cause of death was hypothermia resulting from prolonged exposure to cold, as indicated by the presence of multiple hemorrhagic lesions on her stomach lining, a condition known as Wischnewsky spots. Death had occurred before she was placed on the train. The victim was severely dehydrated, and her stomach was empty except for traces of red wine.
No needle marks or wounds had been found, and the only fibers present were tiny fragments of a type of rope commonly found in homes using window sash weights, which include most in California built before 1980.
Her blood alcohol was less than .001 percent, and there was no indication of common poisons or opiates in her blood, but there were trace amounts of gamma-Hydroxybutyrate acid (GBH).
Blood samples had been sent to the FBI Crime Lab for further analysis.
Because the body was nude and there were unmistakable signs that she had been bound with multiple ligatures while alive, death was attributed to “at the hands of another,” which is coroner-speak for murder or manslaughter.
Will printed the report and read it twice.
Then he logged onto Google and looked up GBH. He discovered that it was a mild sedative, naturally produced in the human body and also found in red wine. He read on to learn that larger doses of GBH rapidly induce deep sleep and that it was sold by prescription as “Xyrem.” GBH was sometimes used as a “date-rape” drug.
Will called the NCIS office to learn that Chelmin was in the field with Malone. After borrowing a patrol car, he decided to get lunch.
On his way to his favorite Mexican joint, he passed the Desert Chronicle’s offices and was surprised to see a Marine Corps sedan parked in front. On impulse, he pulled a U-turn and parked next to it.
Eleven
Malone and Chelmin waited in silence in the office of the managing editor of the Desert Chronicle as fifteen minutes ticked by. Then the glass door swung open to admit a lanky, handsome man in early middle age. His full head of dark red hair was just beginning to show gray at the temples.
“Sorry, sorry, I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Lincoln Prinze said, �
��we have a late-breaking story, and I had to tear out the front page and redo it. How can I help the Marines today?”
Malone displayed his badge. “Special Agent Marcus Malone, Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”
Chelmin held out his badge. “Special Agent Rudy Chelmin, Army Criminal Investigation Division.”
Malone held up an enlarged photo of Kendra Farrell’s ID card picture. “Mrs. Kendra Farrell, a data entry supervisor at the base. Missing for ten days now.”
Chelmin said, “We think that we found her body yesterday up at Fort Fremont. We were hoping you might run the Marine Corps photo in your paper, along with a brief story asking anyone with information about her to contact the NCIS office at the base, or Barstow PD.”
Prinze leaned forward to take the photo. “We can certainly do that, and we’re happy to do so. Tomorrow, page one. Is there a reward?”
“Not at this time,” Malone said.
The agents rose in unison. As he turned to leave, Chelmin paused. “I understand Taylor Prinze’s trial starts today. Is that your son?”
Lincoln frowned. “My brother,” he said. “Half-brother, actually. My mother died when I was in junior high, and my father remarried.”
“I’m sorry for your family’s troubles,” Chelmin said.
“Not worth worrying about,” Lincoln Prinze said. “Taylor was framed by a dirty cop, and our lawyers will soon make that plain. Our new page-one story? It’s about that dirty cop. He’s wanted for murder at Fort Fremont, and he went AWOL from Army basic training. I’ve heard that he’s back in town, and if he is stupid enough to show up to testify against Taylor, the county sheriff will arrest him.”
Twelve
The door to the Desert Chronicle building opened and Malone and Chelmin appeared, squinting in the midday sun. Will got out of the squad car.
“It seems that you’re a wanted man,” Malone said, with a big smile.
“Let’s not go there,” Chelmin said. “He’s here on Army business, and if that two-bit scribbler is foolish enough to run that story, young Spaulding here will wind up owning his newspaper.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Chelmin?”
“Nothing you need to worry over. I’ve been on the road with Malone here. Did the autopsy come in?”
“Let’s have lunch at Cafè Jalisco, and I’ll fill you in,” Will said.
“Mexican food?” Chelmin said.
“The best in town,” Will said.
Thirteen
“Buenas Dias, Señor Detective,” said an elfin, dark-skinned, fifty-something man wearing an immaculate green apron over a blue polo shirt and matching jeans.
“Buenas Dias, Señor Huerta,” Will replied.
“What can I bring you and your friends?” Huerta said, smiling.
“Tres especiales,” Will said.
“No menu?” Chelmin asked.
“The menu is in Señor Huerta’s head, Mr. Chelmin,” Will said. “It’s all good, but the daily special is always awesome. If you don’t like it, he’ll bring you something else.”
“Then I guess I’ll have the special,” Chelmin said, shrugging.
Malone smiled. “I bow to your experience,” he said.
“Something to drink?” Huerta asked.
Malone ordered a Dos Equis, Will asked for a Coke, and Chelmin settled for tap water.
When Huerta went to fetch the drinks, Will turned to Malone.
“How long have you been out at the base?”
“This is my second tour. First one, about eleven years ago, a little over a year. This time, two and a half. I’m planning to retire next July,” he said.
Chelmin said, “You buy a house somewhere?”
“Not yet. Thinking about Costa Rica or Belize. Someplace where a GS-14’s pension will stretch.”
“You’re not married,” Chelmin said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Tried it, twice, but it didn’t work out. So, I’m free as a bird. What about you, Chelmin?”
Chelmin shook his head. “My wife died while I was in Kuwait."
Will said, “Cancer?”
Chelmin set his jaw. “Run over by an Abrams tank.”
“An accident?” Malone asked.
Chelmin shrugged. “Officially. When I got out of the hospital and her letters caught up with me, I came to a different conclusion. But that’s ancient history. Dead is dead.”
Huerta returned with a tray and began setting plates with a single large burrito before each man.
Chelmin sighed, picked up his burrito, and took a small bite.
A smile spread across his face in slow motion. He took another bite.
For the next five minutes, Will summarized the Farrell autopsy findings. Then he picked up his own burrito and began to eat, meanwhile watching the others digging in with obvious relish.
“Mr. Chelmin, do you like your especial?” Will said.
Chelmin nodded, took another bite of his burrito, and chewed quietly, lost in thought.
He swallowed, then put the burrito down. “This is really odd. The coroner said that Kendra Farrell died from hypothermia?” he said.
Will nodded. “'Prolonged exposure to cold.’”
Chelmin turned to Malone. “How cold does it get around here at night, this time of year?”
“It’s been down around freezing the last week or so, give or take,” Malone replied.
Will said, “Maybe her killer stashed her someplace—a car, maybe—for a few days?”
Malone nodded. “Possible. And as you know, there are lots of little shacks and cabins out in the desert.”
“That might explain why she was dehydrated,” Will said. “It gets real hot in those cabins during the day, even in winter.”
Chelmin’s phone rang, and he pulled it out, put it to his ear, and listened, before breaking the circuit. He put the phone away, then picked up his burrito and took another bite, washed it down with a gulp of water, and stared out into space for a long moment. “We should try to find her car,” he said and looked at Malone. “Registered on the base?”
“It was. If I remember right, a three-year-old Camry, silver. I’ll get you the plate, ASAP.”
Chelmin nodded. “Send that to Barstow PD, too. Will, can you put out a statewide bulletin on her car, and to the Nevada state police?”
“I’m on it.”
Chelmin picked up his burrito, took one more bite, then set the remains on his plate. “Malone, do you have access to a helicopter?”
“I can get one from the Twentynine Palms Marine Base, but except for emergencies, they need a day’s notice. Probably lay one on for tomorrow?”
Chelmin turned to Will. “What time is sunrise?”
Will pulled out his phone, punched a few keys, waited. “Sunrise is at 0644.”
“OK,” Chelmin said and turned back to Malone. “Lay that bird on to crank here at 0630. We’ll see a lot more in the desert in slanting morning light.”
“I’ll call aviation ops as soon as we’re done here,” Malone replied.
“Hold on,” Will said. “We’re missing something: How did Kendra get on that train? There’s no station in Barstow. The only place that trains stop around here is on the base.”
Malone nodded. “There are two sidings.”
Chelmin said, “Even so, there might be some useful forensics in her car. Let’s order the chopper, and if we still need it tomorrow, it’s worth a couple of hours flying over the desert. In the meantime, the first question that needs answering is why? Why was Kendra Farrell killed?”
Will said, “I’ll go by her apartment and see what I can find.”
Señor Huerta appeared, looking anxious. “The especial was bueno?”
Malone said, “Estupendo!”
Chelmin said, “What do we owe you?”
Huerta smiled. “No cargo por los polícias.” No charge for police.
“He says that every time,” Will explained, then pulled out his wallet and put a ten and a twenty on th
e table.
“Gracias, amigo,” he said, as Chelmin and Malone got to their feet.
Chelmin said, “Malone, how 'bout you and I go back out to the base and talk to Kendra’s boss and to her co-workers?”
Fourteen
Malone and Chelmin left Will at the restaurant and headed back to the Marine base in the NCIS sedan.
Malone asked, “How do you want to work this?”
“What if I talk to her boss, and you interview some of her co-workers? We’ll both try to find out with whom she was friendly.”
“That works for me,” Malone said.
Ten minutes later, Malone drove through the gate, nodded to the Marine sentries, and parked his car behind a long building with a sign that said USMC Police Department.
“How big an operation you running?” Chelmin asked.
“On paper, three agents, a secretary, and a driver.”
“On paper.”
“My best agent, Galloway, is on temporary duty as Agent Afloat on USS America. The guy he’s replacing got run over by a forklift day before yesterday—on the hangar deck. The America is an LHA, an amphibious assault ship. Carries a dozen Ospreys, several choppers, about ten gunships,” Malone said. “And a thousand Marines.”
He shut the engine down and pulled up the parking brake. “Henderson, my junior agent, is on leave. His wife is in Baghdad having a baby.”
“His wife is Iraqi?”
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