Stone Cold

by James Glass

  “Was there blood on his face, shirt or hands?”

  “There wasn’t any blood on his face but there was on his shirt and hands.”

  Crane gave a sideways glance. This looked cute when my dog Sam did it, but this man couldn’t pull it off. The rolls of fat along his neck were bunched up like a traffic jam. His jowls opened. “He had blood on his shirt?”

  “Yes.” I managed to say, staring at his triple chin. A bead of sweat glistened along the edge. It hung there for a long moment before dripping to the floor.

  “When he left the crime scene earlier that evening, did he have blood on his shirt?”

  “No.” The answer escaped my lips too fast. Maybe I should have thought a little longer. Maybe no one would notice.

  “Are you certain?” his question drawn out, with emphasis on the word certain.

  I glanced at the jury. Twelve sets of eyes staring back at you can be intimidating. Anxiety lingered in my rib cage, hot and unyielding. It felt like one of those fireball candies had become lodged in my chest. I needed to extinguish the burn and fast.

  “Asked and answered,” Veronica objected.

  Thank you. Her objection felt like a cold glass of milk washing over the fireball, driving the anxiety back into my gut. The fire wasn’t out, but contained for the moment.

  Counsel raised a hand in surrender before the judge chimed in. Crane then asked me, “Could he have gotten blood on his shirt before the accident?”

  “Objection! Calls for speculation between the crime scene and the accident in which Detective Watson cannot ascertain due to she was not with Sergeant Hayes at that time.” The words spewed from Veronica’s lips as if she were reading them from a card.

  Meeks sighed. “Sustained. Can you move it along, Counselor?”

  “Were there any other occupants of the second vehicle?”

  “Yes. The driver’s wife.”

  I knew where he was going with the questions, but he was taking his time. A few of the jurors who had perked up when he started talking about the accident twenty minutes ago now seemed bored. With any luck it would remain that way.

  “Were the first responders trying to get her out of the car?”

  “No. She was sitting in the back of an ambulance by the time I arrived.”

  He tapped his pen on the pad. “Hmm. The same one your partner was in?”

  “No. There was a second ambulance on scene. That’s where they had her.”

  “And what about the driver of the car?”

  “What about him?”

  The sarcasm caused a few of the jurors to laugh as well as some of the peanut gallery in the audience. Even the judge chuckled.

  “Good one,” Crane said, trying to take the joke in stride. “Where was the driver of the car located when you arrived on scene twenty-two minutes later?”

  I rubbed my clammy palms along my thighs. The jurors were about to get a wakeup call. Good for the defense—bad for the prosecutor.

  “In the front seat.”

  “I see. And was he able to get out of the car on his own?”

  “No.”

  “Were the firemen busy trying to get him out?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I would think they would’ve got him out by the time you arrived twenty-two minutes later.”

  Why did he keep hammering the fact I arrived twenty-two minutes later? My anxiety slowly crept up my esophagus. I sipped some water to wash it down.

  “His head was located in the backseat.”

  Several people in the courtroom gasped.

  Crane turned and scanned the crowd gathered in the courtroom. “Will Sergeant Hayes be at this trial?”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He died that night at the scene.”

  “Detective Watson, would you repeat that? I didn’t hear your answer.”

  I looked at the glass of water and thought about taking another swig. Beads of condensation rolled down the sides and onto the arm of the witness chair. How I wanted to shrink and dive into the glass and be cooled by the icy liquid. Instead I swallowed hard. “He died that night at the scene. Heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He said it in a way that didn’t carry any genuine concern. “Can you explain to the jury what happened?”

  “After Sergeant Hayes was hit by the drunk driver, he got out of the car and rushed to provide aid to the other vehicle. The driver was already dead, but the wife screamed in the passenger seat. After calling nine-one-one, Hayes tried to get the door open, but the mangled car…” my voice trailed off.

  “And how do we know this isn’t secondhand information you’re telling the court right now?”

  “His actions were caught on tape by the dash cam.”

  “Dash cam? What is that?”

  “Every police vehicle, including detective vehicles, has dashboard cameras installed.”

  He nodded. “Thanks for the clarification. Please continue.”

  My stomach gurgled. I didn’t know if it was hunger or nausea. I hadn’t thought of this night in many years. My eyes began to water. I tried to keep the wetness contained, but a tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. I hate crying. It makes me feel helpless.

  “Sergeant Hayes disappeared from the camera for a moment. I can’t swear to this, but it sounded like he opened the trunk to his vehicle.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “When he reappears back in the video he has a tire iron in his right hand. He used it to smash the passenger window. After getting the wife out and away from the scene he went into cardiac arrest.”

  “Isn’t it possible the knife became contaminated when he grabbed the tire iron?”

  “I doubt it. We didn’t find any tears or holes in the bag.”

  “Now when you say bag, is it paper or plastic?”

  “You mean like the cashier used to ask at the grocery store?”

  Laughter erupted in the courtroom.

  “That’s enough,” Meeks said in a stern voice. “Check your sarcasm at the door, Detective Watson, or so help me I’ll find you in contempt.” So one sarcastic comment was the limit around here.

  “Sorry, Your Honor. The bag was paper.”

  Crane walked toward the jury box. “So, what you’re telling us is there’s no way the knife could have been contaminated from the accident?”

  This was going from bad to worse to downright horrible. The scariest part is how fast it was happening. Suddenly, I felt all alone. Crane may be fat, but not stupid. I’d been three steps behind him during his cross-examination. I needed to find a way to get ahead of this guy. I would need to be patient though, bide my time until I found a crack in his armor. Then I’d be able to crawl inside, dig around, and uncover his agenda, his plan of attack, and use it against him.

  Before I could answer Veronica said, “Asked and answered.”

  Meeks agreed.

  The defense attorney smiled. His perfect white teeth may have looked innocent to the jury, but I found the smile threatening. He leaned forward and spoke in a firm voice. “Then isn’t it possible the reason my client’s blood could have been on the knife is if your partner used some of the blood from the crime scene?”

  My temper flared, but I knew he was baiting me. I sipped more water to cool down.

  Veronica stood. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Well apparently the Supreme Court didn’t think so.”

  “Your Honor,” Veronica snapped.

  The judge closed his eyes and opened them slowly. A vein throbbed in the middle of his forehead. “Mr. Crane, you will behave yourself or I will hold you in contempt.” Meeks turned to the jury. “You will disregard the defense’s last remark. It was out of line and very unprofessional.”

  Crane tapped a pen on the legal pad. “Detective. Did you notice if the trunk of Sergeant Hayes’ vehicle was open or closed when you arrived twenty-two minutes later?”

  �
�Open.”

  Damn it. There it was. The reason we lost the knife…and maybe this case.

  My heart pounded so hard I thought it might explode. A warm sensation rushed over me like a flood. It felt like I had sunk to the bottom of a deep lake, my legs stuck in the thick muck and mire. I tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t.

  The fat bastard waddled back to his seat. He slapped Lucius on the shoulder as if to say everything would be okay. And why not? He’d just steamrolled over me.

  “Your Judgeship, since the hour is fast approaching 3:00 p.m., I’d like to stop here for the day and resume again on Monday.”

  The judge tapped his gavel. “Court’s adjourned. We will recess until 9:00 a.m. Monday morning.”

  Great. Now the jury would have all weekend to think about the twenty-two minutes.

  Chapter 5

  Friday, 7:30 p.m.

  Today was a rough day. Trials normally didn't get me this stressed…well, actually they did. I keep telling myself the next one will be different. Fear seems to be in my DNA. The doctors told me years ago it was because of the trauma I went through as a kid.

  I think about the day my stepfather died. For years, all I could remember was what they said. That my mother heard me screaming, rushed into my room, and found him on top of me. He was dead, blood oozing from his neck. I was under him, the knife in my right hand. That's all. Simple.

  I didn't serve a day in jail. I didn't live another day with my mother, either. The court forgave me. She didn't. I'd killed her man, taken her livelihood. The person who brought me into this world left town and never looked back. I ended up in foster care. My stepfather had taken my innocence. My mother had stripped me of my dignity. Still, sometimes I can still hear my mother’s screams, the police, the social workers, the decision not to prosecute her for letting that bastard of a husband do what he did to me, and the judge’s decision to set me free—

  It was all there, coming back to me. Why now? I don’t know. Life had a twisted sense of humor. Ugh.

  I drew a bath, poured in Epsom salts, and stepped into the tub. I immersed my body into the steaming water, and with a cry of relief I inhaled the saline vapor.

  Sam, short for Samantha, my German shepherd, lay on the floor next to the tub. I scratched between her ears. “This is exactly what we need after a hard day, huh girl?”

  Sam wagged her tail, turned her head sideways and licked my palm. Then she rested her head on her paws, her big, brown eyes staring up at me.

  The salt penetrated my nostrils. Beads of sweat formed on my brow as the mist hung in the air. My breathing slowed.

  Eyes closed, my muscles relaxed and soon the cramps floated away.

  My cell rang, bringing me out of my tranquility.

  Let it go to voicemail.

  The mobile chirped. A text. I tried to ignore the intrusion, but my mind wouldn’t let me. I glanced at the screen.

  187

  Well, at least I was still alive, which was more than I could say about that poor soul.

  Chapter 6

  8:35 p.m.

  The ragged warehouse door screeched on its tracks. The smell of damp concrete lodged as a taste in the back of my throat as I stepped inside. Moonlight punched through holes in the roof. Shafts of light illuminated bats in rafters, cobwebs, and critters flitting and crawling about. The deserted warehouse was cavernous, the emptiness ominous.

  I walked through a dilapidated door in the back. The odors reeked of decaying flesh. A leaky faucet dripped into a wide, rust-stained basin.

  “What do we have?” I asked Ray Soriano, the medical examiner, his back turned to me, on his knees.

  At the sound of my voice, Ray glanced over his shoulder. He scratched his balding scalp with a gloved hand. The lines on his face creased as he squinted under the bright overhead lighting. “It’s a real mess, Rebecca.”

  I crouched next to the victim lying on his back. The left leg folded at an awkward angle under the body. The right, bent at the knee. Both arms extended above the head. The lips stitched together with twine.

  Ray turned his attention back to the corpse. “There’s petechial hemorrhage in the eyes but I don’t see any signs of strangulation.”

  I looked at the basin then back at Ray. “Do you think he was drowned?”

  “That would be my guess. His clothes are wet, but I’ll know more when I get him on the table.” He pointed with a finger. “Bruising around the wrists indicate this guy was restrained.”

  “Any ID?”

  “Nothing.”

  I opened the app on my cell, Mobile Offender Recognition and Information System, MORIS for short, and scanned the victim’s fingers. I also took a photo of his face. MORIS had the ability to recognize someone through fingerprints and facial recognition, as long as they were in the system.

  Waiting for identification to come back, I stared at the lips. My stomach churned as I studied the detail used to sew them together. It was bizarre. Not something a detective sees every day. “Time of death?”

  “It’s only an estimate, but I’d say approximately twenty-four hours.” He cleared his throat. “There is one thing worth noting. I believe the killer is making a statement.”

  “You mean besides the victim’s mouth.”

  Ray shrugged then opened the flap of the flannel shirt. The overhead lighting illuminated the chest. Keep thy tongue from evil was carved into the flesh.

  “Know what it means?”

  He laughed. “You’re the detective.”

  Normally his sarcasm doesn’t bother me, but I didn’t want to be here. My bath was calling me back, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I shook my head. “Then can you at least tell me what type of instrument the murderer used?”

  “Not sure, but whatever it was, it’s sharp.” He paused. “There’s something else. The killer wrote the words ante mortem.”

  Before death. I studied the body. “This guy really pissed someone off.”

  “Yup.”

  Footsteps approached. I turned and saw my partner, Tony Francisco. He was tall and athletically built on a 220-pound frame. He had played for the Miami Dolphins—a third-string wide receiver until a knee injury ended his career.

  His suit was disheveled, his face unshaven, both out of character for him. He wore the kind of stylish suits that would land him on the cover of GQ.

  I smelled the faint scent of perfume…something sweet as he hunkered next to me. “Who’s the flavor of the week?”

  Francisco gave a sideways glance and cocked a brow. “How do you know I didn't sleep in my clothes, man?” With his Texas accent and Hispanic heritage, it came out as “mainˮ.

  “The lipstick plastered on the side of your face, genius.” I couldn’t stop a smile.

  Ray chuckled.

  Francisco ran a hand through his thick black hair. His cheeks flushed.

  My mobile chirped and I read the screen, then said, “Our victim is Lee Green.”

  Chapter 7

  10:20 p.m.

  “Have you identified the victim?” Lieutenant Charlie McVay, commander of the Robbery-Homicide Division asked.

  Two men wearing blue coveralls with Coroner stenciled in white letters lifted the body bag onto a gurney as I held my cell phone next to my ear. Moonlight reflected off the black vinyl surface. Crickets chirped in the distance. Mosquitoes swirled around my head. I swatted at the swarm, but it didn’t seem to help. Bug repellent seemed good about now.

  “His name is Lee Green.”

  The two men loaded Green into the back of the coroner’s van.

  “Anyway, he was a defense attorney.”

  I heard a sigh on the other end. “You got his current address?”

  “Yes. Francisco and I plan to do a search of his place tonight.”

  “You guys need some help? Want me to send over a few more detectives to assist?”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary. Francisco’s over there now doing a door-to-door canvass of the area and getting s
tatements from the neighbors. Once I get the search warrant, we’ll contact the Super to let us in.”

  Chapter 8

  It was quarter to eleven when I arrived at ‘the late’ Lee Green’s residence on Lakewood Estates, a search warrant in hand.

  The Super, Chuck Riley—well, Homeowner’s Association President, as he put it—was in tow. His beady eyes, small chin, and cropped brown hair reminded me of a chipmunk. He seemed harmless enough but talked non-stop on the ten-minute drive from the gatehouse. I took him for a sales representative. Actually, if he lived out here on a golf course, maybe he owned a car lot. I didn’t ask, not because I didn't want to know, but I didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire…so to speak.

  “Did you know Mr. Green?” I asked in between one of his breaths.

  He scratched the small patch of stubble on his chin. “How well does anyone really know somebody?”

  When I didn’t answer, he yammered on.

  “Mr. Green moved in about a year ago.” He removed a set of keys from the pocket of his red and yellow checkerboard slacks as we walked along the sidewalk to the front door. Insects swarmed the porch light. Several buzzed by my ear. I shooed them away.

  “We don’t just let anyone move into Lakewood Estates, Detective. There’s a rigorous background check. And that’s one of many obstacles you must pass to move in.” His smile revealed large white teeth. I didn’t know if they were real or dentures. Didn’t care.

  “Do you know if he’s married?” Normally we get this information beforehand, but being after normal working hours, I would have to wait until morning. Time I didn’t want to waste. Although my partner was canvassing the neighbors, I didn’t want to call and interrupt him during an interview that might be fruitful.

  He turned the key, unlocking the deadbolt. “Mr. Green’s divorced. Not sure where she lives, but I’m sure you can get that information.”

  I nodded. “Did they have any children?”

  He shrugged.

  A real wealth of information.

  Headlights reflected off the windows of the large house as a sedan pulled onto the cobblestone driveway. The driver side door opened.