Tom stood and tasted the salt of his tears and blood on his lips. Carol’s nightshirt had ridden up to expose her trimmed pubic hair. He became aware of his arousal and fought back a throat full of bile. He had to get out, he’d been there too long already, but he needed some jewelry and cash first. To make it look good.
He trashed the jewel boxes and knick-knacks on the dressers and nightstands. Pieces of colored, shaped glass that bounced when they hit the floor, too heavy to break. Dumped the contents of the drawers. He knew there was nothing here but paste, the real jewels in the walk-in closet. Marty told him what to take, made him write it down so he’d get the right stuff, look like a knowledgeable thief. Threw around shoes, clothes, hat boxes, anything to make a mess. Stuffed jewelry into a Crown Royal bag, then stood with a handful of cash to catch his breath and be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.
The television seemed louder than before in the unnatural quiet. Some movie on HBO from the language. He listened to it for a minute, hearing only the voices, not what they said, the sound muffled by the weight of the house’s sudden stillness. Tom felt his heart beating in his chest and ears, wondered if he could hear it if he tried. Stood perfectly still to listen and what he heard was a sound like a person coming up from a long time under water, and movement.
From inside the house.
His watch read 10:23. Marty wasn’t due until midnight and he wouldn’t come back early tonight of all nights. Someone must have heard. Did they come over, or call the police? The police would have knocked, rung the doorbell, something. They wouldn’t just come in. And they wouldn’t come sneaking around. They’d announce themselves. He’d watched ten thousand cop shows. “Police! Is anyone home?” They’d do that, right?
Time to go. He pulled shut the bag full of jewels. Left the cash. Too bulky. All he wanted now was out. He stepped back into the bedroom and heard what sounded like sobs and saw Carol Cropcho wasn’t on the bed.
Oh. Fuck. Me.
He heard her crying on the floor the other side of the mattress. He dropped the bag and fell to his knees to look under the bed. Her hand swept back and forth reaching for the phone. He got to it first. Carol screamed, “No!” loud and long and broke into sobbing as he threw it against the wall.
Tom rose and came around the foot of the bed. Carol screamed, hysterical now, gibberish coming out, too frantic to form words. She threw whatever she could reach. A baseball-sized glass sculpture he’d dumped onto the floor hit his shoulder like a rock. The next one would have dented his temple if he hadn’t got his hands up. He turned the corner of the bed. Saw the bruises on her throat and the panic in her eyes as she scrabbled around the floor for something else to throw. He picked up an oblong piece of the same type she’d been throwing by the narrow end and drove it into the side of Carol’s head. The first one put her down. The second probably finished the job, but he didn’t stop until bits of blood and brain spattered onto his gloves and cheeks. He stopped and his eyes eased into focus. The left side of Carol’s face and head were completely stove in, hard to tell where hair stopped and gore started.
Tom almost made it to the toilet before he vomited.
CHAPTER 3
Ben Dougherty leaned against the doorframe of the Cropcho bedroom and watched Rick Neuschwander work. He didn’t touch anything. He didn’t say anything. Neuschwander even more methodical than usual, homicides not everyday occurrences in Penns River. He picked up anything on or around Carol Cropcho’s body that might be evidence; never touched the body itself. Strict letter of the law, Neuschwander should have waited for the Medical Examiner, but the ME had to come from Allegheny County and time was wasting. It didn’t take House to know Carol was dead, half her brain on her face.
“How much longer, Noosh? My hands are starting to sweat in these gloves.”
“Take them off.” Neuschwander didn’t look up. “Just don’t come in here. Go talk to the husband or something.”
“Willie’s doing that. I’m waiting for you.”
“Go help Willie. Try some of that ‘good cop-bad cop’ shit. Get a confession.”
“You see anything makes the husband look guilty?”
Neuschwander eased a glass sculpture eight inches long into an evidence bag. The glass was caked with blood and hair and something Doc guessed was brain. “All I see is stuff. I don’t know what anything means until the tests come back from the lab. The husband called it in, though, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Isn’t the guy who called it in guilty about half the time?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And isn’t the husband usually who kills a wife?” Neuschwander sealed the bag, wrote something on the evidence tag.
“Right.”
“So you have at least a seventy-five percent chance he’s the guy and you want physical evidence, too? I thought you were supposed to be good.”
Doc peeled off the gloves, put them in his jacket pocket. “When should I come back?”
“I got most of what I need. Half an hour, assuming the ME drags his ass in here by then.”
Doc went downstairs to find the kitchen and get a drink of water. Willie Grabek leaned over the island, jotting notes. Doc took a glass from the drain board and filled it from the tap.
“How’s the husband?”
“About what you’d expect.” Grabek wrote a few lines in his pocket notebook, flipped back a few pages. “Thursday’s his night out. He works downtown, meets a couple of guys at Veltri’s for prime rib and a few beers after. They hook up with a couple other guys for a rotating Hold-Em game and he gets home around midnight. Done it almost every Thursday for three years.
“Tonight’s game was in Holiday Park, before you get to 380. The husband dropped twenty bucks. Got home about quarter to twelve. Thought it was funny the alarm was off and the lights were on upstairs. Said the wife was always asleep when he got home, he’d just slide into bed beside her. Went up the stairs, saw the mess, found her when he came around the side of the bed.”
“He mentioned he lost twenty dollars?”
“I asked.”
“How come?”
“Because I’m gonna ask his friends, too.”
A murmur of voices from the living room. Doc nodded in that direction. “Who’s with him?”
“Paramedics are giving him something. He’s pretty shook up.”
“Where’s he going to stay?”
“Brother’s coming for him.” Grabek checked his watch. “Should be here any minute.”
Doc finished his water, put the glass on the drain board. “You like him for it?”
“Not really. He called it in and he’s the husband. That’s two strikes, but his alibi’s too easy to check. You get a time of death from—what’s his name? Upstairs.”
“Neuschwander. No, but he says it’s been at least a few hours from the drying of the blood and what he can see of lividity.”
“So make it around then-thirty. The nine-one-one call came at eleven-fifty-two. His boys say he was with them past eleven o’clock, quarter after, and he’s home free.”
“Yeah, but what do you think of him? You worked a lot of these, thirty years in the Burgh. How’s he strike you?”
“I don’t put too much faith in first impressions. Only cops I know solve cases off hunches are on television. Still, he seems legit. People act all kinds of different ways when something like this happens. He was rattled, not hysterical. Didn’t take it personal when I asked about his alibi, did they have family trouble, stuff like that. Distracted enough to seem for real.”
Doc leaned back against the sink. Grabek read over his notes. Together barely three weeks, their first serious case. Paramedics had the husband, Neuschwander had the crime scene, and neither knew enough about the crime or each other to have much to say.
Doc broke first. “It’ll be another half hour before he’s done upstairs. How about we talk to some of the ghouls?” The emergency vehicle lights had attracted half a dozen neighbors to the sid
ewalk in front of the house.
“You go. I wanted to work in the middle of the night, I could’ve stayed in Pittsburgh.” Grabek’s eyes showed he’d had a few, maybe more, before the call came in. His breath was fine, but anyone standing close would smell the alcohol in his sweat. “Thought this was a nice quiet town, maybe I’d scare a kid smoking reefer once in a while. Live off the salary and send my daughter to Penn State with the pension. I’m here three lousy weeks and I’m out of bed working a genuine whodunit.” He took a seat at one of the elevated island stools. “It’s cold out there. I’ll call you when Neuschwhatever’s ready.”
Doc walked to the front door. He’d heard Grabek’s story before. Guy was smart, experienced, and the laziest prick Doc had ever worked with. Lived in the gray area between drinking too much and being a drunk. Still, it was only three weeks. Some people’s virtues took a while to surface.
Outside, police and emergency lights reflected off the clouds; it would look like half the town was on fire to someone on Coxcomb Hill. Two hours ago Argonne Drive would have been as quiet as a nursery at nap time. Dark enough to be peaceful, sufficient light for everyone to feel safe. No one around but the stray kid sneaking in or out. Maybe someone taking a dog for an evening stroll in the still. Safest place in the world.
Mike Zywiciel kept a knot of the curious away from the house. He had his hands full with a neighbor who looked like he’d been over-served and wanted to make up for it by going out of his way to act responsible now.
“Listen, Officer, uh, Zy-wuh-keel, how are my kids supposed to sleep with those goddamn lights flashing in their bedroom window?”
“It’s Zuh-wiss-ee-ul, sir, and I’m sorry. We have to keep them on while the street’s partially blocked. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
The man leaned over, traced the letters on Zywiciel’s nametag. “Yeah, right. Zy-wuh-keel. What did I say?”
“You said Zy-wuh-keel, sir. It’s Zuh-wiss-ee-ul.” Pronouncing every syllable.
“That’s what I’ve been saying, Zy-wuh-keel. Says right here: Officer Zy-wuh-keel.”
“Actually, sir, it’s Sergeant Zy-wuh-keel, and I’m going to have to ask you to step back a little. We’ll get these lights out as soon as the medical examiner’s done.”
The neighbor looked like he wasn’t finished debating the lights or Zywiciel’s name when Doc interrupted them.
“Hey, Eye Chart. What are you doing out in the field? I thought you requested per diem for anything farther away than Clementine’s.”
“I just come to see how detectives justify drawing a check. Patrol cops actually go to crimes in progress. Nothing much to do by the time you guys get here.”
“Don’t forget I rode patrol with you. You taught me everything you know. Took you almost twenty minutes.”
“Shouldn’t have taken me that long if you had any talent. What do you need?”
“I know your guys did a quick canvass of this crew, names and addresses, basic statements.”
“Yeah. They’re searching the area now. We’ll get the other shifts out tomorrow to catch people when they’re awake.”
“I want to cut a few from this herd while I wait for Noosh to finish up with the scene. Anyone worth starting with?”
Zywiciel lit a cigarette, shook his head. “Uh-uh. Take your pick. No one here knows dick.” He switched to his generic “female citizen” voice, an octave higher, hinting at a room temperature IQ. “Oh my God, Carol’s such a sweetheart, Marty’s such a nice guy, what’s the world coming to?” Returned to his normal voice. “You know. The usual bullshit.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll start with her.” Doc pointed to a forty-ish woman whose idea of bundling up didn’t include hiding her cleavage. “Looks like she might have a couple of guns in that housecoat.”
“I talked to her already. She has issues with authority.”
“She doesn’t like cops?”
“I don’t think she likes anybody. I get the feeling she’s only flashing her knockers to show us what we’re missing. You get up close and they’re not all that impressive”
Zywiciel was right: Michelle Prince didn’t appear to like anybody, and her breasts didn’t justify her high opinion of them. She didn’t have much to say about the Cropchos, not wanting to speak ill of the dead and Marty suffering like he must be. She didn’t spare anyone else. Doc could have kissed Grabek on the mouth for calling him back to the house.
They found Neuschwander in the bedroom packing up. “It’s all yours, soon as the ME’s done. I’ll get what I have here out to the lab soon as I get it logged and separated. When it comes back is anyone’s guess.” He held up a hand before Grabek could speak. “This ain’t the big city. We suck hind tit on this kind of stuff. I’ll give them the usual ‘violent offender at large’ spiel, so maybe you’ll get it in six weeks instead of eight. Except for the DNA. Jesus Christ couldn’t come down from heaven and get you DNA results in less than four months.”
“You have DNA?” Doc said.
“We should. She put up a hell of a fight. There’s skin, blood, and fiber under her nails. The ME will bag her hands and send what we find to the lab. If you luck into a suspect in the next few days, he’ll have scratches on him. Willie, you talked to the husband. Did he say anything about puking when he found her?”
“No.”
Neuschwander smiled. “Someone did. I’d guess he lost it when he got a good look at her. I see some swirls and a wipe pattern, so he tried a half-assed clean-up job, but I got a good enough sample to use.”
“What do you think happened?” Grabek said.
“I don’t know how it started, just how it ended. Television’s on and she’s dressed for bed, so let’s say she’s watching whatever HBO had on at ten.”
“I thought you didn’t have time of death.”
“That’s just a guess. The ME will take her temperature here and check her stomach contents at the autopsy.”
“Speaking of which, where the hell is the ME?” Grabek said. “This call went out a couple of hours ago.”
“Didn’t you hear? There was gang trouble down Wilkensburg tonight. Two dead for sure and a couple wandered off they’re not sure about. He’s been busy, but I just talked to him. He’s on the way.”
“What’s our guy doing in Allegheny County?”
“Allegheny County is our guy. We don’t do enough business here in Neshannock to rate a full-time ME, so we borrow whoever’s on call in Allegheny. Sometimes they get backed up.”
Grabek stared like he held Neuschwander personally responsible and had more to say, as usual. Doc kept the conversation on track.
“Let me get this straight. What the hell kind of burglar walks into the bedroom not too late at night with the TV on?”
“Home invasion,” Grabek said. “He might like the idea of someone home. Might even have looked for a place with the lights on.”
Neuschwander shrugged and opened his hands. “Could be. No rational burglar would do it that way. Even a cat, some guy gets off creeping rooms with people in them, even he’d do it in the dark. No burglar likes to be seen.”
“You really think it’s a home invasion, Willie?” Doc said.
“I can’t say for sure, but I’ll see if there’ve been any others in the area.”
Neuschwander closed his equipment case, said, “I don’t have anything argues against it. Anyway, he comes in, she sees him, they fight. Hell of a fight, from the mess and the scratches she must have given him. Bruises on her neck say he choked her. After that I’m not sure. She either gets away and he beats her with this piece of glass,” he held up the evidence bag, “or he got tired of choking her, or pissed, or whatever, and bashed her head in. Autopsy should tell us more.”
“Sexual assault?” Grabek said.
“Not that I can see.”
“Anything else?” Doc said.
“He’s done this before.” Neuschwander paused while both detectives looked away from the body to his face. “Not the murder, I do
n’t know about that, but the theft. He knows his jewelry. See this mess spread around the room? All paste and cheap shit. The good stuff was in the closet.”
Grabek leaned in for a view of the closet. “He still left a lot of cash and stones behind for a pro.”
“Maybe something startled him. Maybe he figured he’d been here too long. All this damage took time and made noise. Could’ve thought he’d been heard.”
Zywiciel stood in the doorway. “Examiner’s here with the wagon.”
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner talked with Neuschwander for a few minutes before bothering with Carol Cropcho. Bagged her hands, took some notes, told them what he thought. Coming from the big city didn’t make him any smarter than Neuschwander; he taught them nothing they didn’t already know.
Patrol officers canvassed awakening homes as first light crawled over the tops of the eastern hills. Doc and Grabek walked to their separate cars.
“You want to hit the Clarion for the two-twenty-nine breakfast before we go see Stush?” Grabek said.
“It’s two-sixty-nine now,” Doc said.
“Since when?”
“At least a week.”
“Bastards. I knew I made a mistake coming here.”
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner’s The Shortlist.
1
CAMERON
No Happy Endings Page 13