“Not much.”
I watched Kreiger tear off the top sheet of the note pad, and toss it across to me. “Why don’t you and Markham check this out? You won’t be able to talk to Starbuck for several hours yet.”
“Right.” I took the slip of paper and rose to my feet.
“By the way,” Kreiger said, also rising, “how’s Markham doing?”
I hesitated before answering. “He’s pretty strong minded. He gets an idea, he figures that’s it.”
Regretfully, Kreiger shook his head. “That’s the first big lesson I learned in this business: don’t fit the facts to the theories. I remember a professor of mine saying you either possess an idea, or you’re possessed by an idea.”
I thought about it as I opened the door. “I guess it must take a lot of thinking,” I said, “to possess an idea. It’s a lot easier the other way.”
Kreiger smiled. “Thinking’s sometimes very painful. As who should know better than a cop. Let me know about that dead one in the Presidio. And don’t worry about your old college buddy,” he added shortly, already sitting down at the desk. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to talk himself into a lot of trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said, then closed the door.
THREE
AS WE PULLED IN behind the group of M.P. vehicles I was conscious of a small, nostalgic pang. In some ways, I’d never been happier than during the three and a half years I’d spent as an M.P. officer.
A slim, fortyish officer stepped briskly to my side. “Major Sigler,” he said. “In charge.”
“I’m Sergeant Hastings,” I replied, immediately conscious of my non-com status. “This is Inspector Markham.”
Sigler nodded and gestured smartly towards the men and vehicles. “The body’s down there. Do you have lab equipment coming?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I wanted to talk to you first. If the victim’s a member of the Armed Forces, and since we’re on government property, we might not have jurisdiction.”
We were passing among the jeeps, sedans, station wagons and the single olive-drab ambulance. A small group of uniformed M.P.’s stood in a knot just ahead. As we walked, I tried to orient myself. We’d driven into the Presidio on a broad four-lane boulevard, then immediately turned off towards the bay on a two-lane paved road. We’d driven along the narrower road for perhaps a quarter mile, then parked. Now we were walking down a gravelled drive, only one car wide. Close beside the narrow roadway trees grew thick on either side, arching overhead.
“Where does this drive go?” I asked.
“Originally,” Sigler answered, “it was made to serve a coastal gun emplacement, about a hundred yards down towards the beach. Now, of course, everything is missiles. But the Army keeps these small feeder roads up, for tourists going to the beach.”
“How far ahead is the beach?”
“About three hundred yards.”
A hundred years ago, the Presidio had been built on a tract of sand dunes, beginning a half mile inland and ending at the water’s edge. Over the years, the Army had planted pine and eucalyptus, and now the Presidio grounds were beautifully wooded, cool and secluded. A perfect place to commit murder, and dispose of a body.
With Markham following, I stepped forward. My throat felt dry; my palms moist. You never got used to the first sight of a dead body.
It lay at the bottom of a sloping six-foot road embankment, almost concealed in the underbrush. Like all dead bodies everywhere, it looked like a discarded bundle of clothing, with shoes, hands and head haphazardly attached at odd, grotesque angles. This one looked even more like a bundle of rags, because he lay with his back towards us, face turned away. One leg was drawn up, the other was thrown out at an awkward angle, the ankle caught in underbrush. He’d probably died before rolling down the embankment.
“We’ve had the site completely photographed from up here,” Sigler was saying. “In colour.”
“I looked down at the gravel at my feet. “Was this area examined?”
“Yes. Nothing. The gravel doesn’t take footprints.”
“No physical evidence?”
“No, nothing.” Sigler was standing beside me now, at the top of the bank. He pointed down to the body. “We haven’t even touched the body, or gone near it. But if you’ll notice, the victim has long hair. So there’s practically no chance that he’s a member of the Armed Forces.”
“How about a civilian employee?”
“Well—” He considered it doubtfully, shaking his head. “It’s possible, of course. But extremely improbable. I simply couldn’t imagine anyone being hired, with hair like that. And I couldn’t imagine him being kept on a civilian job here on the post, if he let his hair grow that long. And, besides, if he was a civilian employed on the post, you’d still have jurisdiction. I checked.”
I turned to Markham.
“You’d better call in for the lab crew,” I said, “and you’d better get four uniformed men and the medical examiner. And make sure they notify the coroner, if they haven’t already.”
Markham began walking at a leisurely pace back down the roadway. For a moment I stood watching him. I was thinking that Markham didn’t like taking orders. None of us does, really. But Markham let it show. Plainly.
I turned back to face the body. I examined the embankment immediately between myself and the body. Nothing but gravel. It had to be disturbed, and since the pictures were already taken, I might as well make the first tracks.
Sliding, I went down slowly, stopping a foot from the body lying wedged against a cluster of undergrowth. Although I couldn’t see the face or the front of the body, I felt sure that he must have rolled—or been rolled—down the embankment, striking the undergrowth with a fair force. One arm was doubled beneath the body; the other stretched straight out beyond the head. The fingers of the outstretched arm were crooked in the typical agony of death, but clutched nothing—another indication that he’d probably died elsewhere. In the centre of the back was a circular bloodstain, approximately four inches in diameter. The surrounding ground was entirely covered with leaves and small twigs.
I straightened up, took out my notebook, and began detailing the victim’s clothing:
Heavy turtleneck sweater, Norwegian type. Brown and white yarn, typical European pattern. Probably cost $30-$40.
Pants, corduroy, wide wale, dark green. Slim. Belt, wide brown leather. Hippie style.
Boots, brown rough-cut, about 10in high.
Glancing over the notes I added: Place, Presidio. Time 11.15 a.m. M.P. officer in charge, Major Sigler. Then, gripping a low branch to keep my balance, I stepped across the body, bracing myself against the springy underbrush as I examined the victim’s features.
The long, dark hair covered some of the face. With my pen, carefully, I flicked the hair aside. If I can possibly help it, I never touch the flesh of a corpse.
He was young, in his early twenties. I studied the face, then wrote: Hair, brown. Worn long, down to the base of neck. Covers about ½in of top ear. Eyes brown, features regular. No facial scars. No distinctive dental features visible.
His head lay on the left cheek, eyes glassily studying a small clump of dried grass. His mouth was slack, hanging perhaps an inch open. His face was long and narrow. He’d probably been a good-looking kid. His forehead was smooth: he looked healthy and clean. Although dressed in the hippie style, his clothing was neat and in good repair. When we found his parents, I decided, they’d probably own their own home, have a car less than three years old, and might be making payments on a colour T.V.
Height about 5ft 10in I wrote. Weight 150lbs.
I glanced at the large bloodstain covering the lower chest and upper abdomen. Near the centre of the stain a few threads of the sweater were torn.
Gunshot wound, I wrote. Frontal entry.
I pocketed the notebook, then stepped back across the body. I knelt down, lightly patting his two hip pockets. Both were empty. The left pocket, though, was slightly worn in the ou
tline of a wallet. I patted the right-hand side pocket, but could feel nothing bulky. The other pocket, on the left side, would have to wait for the medical examiner, before the body could be moved.
I got to my feet, and climbed back to the road. Sigler was standing with arms folded, silently looking at me. Two non-coms were lighting cigarettes.
“You’d better be careful of the butts,” I said, “until after the lab crew leaves.”
Sigler frowned first at me, then at his two subordinates. Both men snuffed out their newly lit cigarettes against the soles of their shoes, returning the cigarettes to the packages.
I asked Sigler, “Did your men photograph the surface of the road for tyre marks?”
Again frowning, Sigler shook his head.
“We’ll do it,” I said. “There’s probably nothing, anyhow. Do you know what time the body was discovered?”
“About ten fifteen.”
“Who discovered it?” I asked, taking out my notebook and entering the time.
“A squad of prisoners on clean-up detail.”
“Are they still here?”
“No. We sent them back to the guardhouse.”
“Were they cleaning the road?”
“No. That is, not primarily. They were actually going down to the beach. But, of course, they policed the area as they went.”
“They spotted the body from up here, then.”
Sigler nodded.
“That’s correct. Fortunately, the sergeant in charge had sense enough to get them out of the area immediately. He left his corporal here, and went back to the main road with the prisoners. He flagged down an M.P. patrol almost immediately.”
“Do you know whether the entrance on Twenty-fifth Avenue is locked at night, Major?”
His tone was frosty as he answered, “Of course I know. It’s locked at ten P.M.”
“What about the other entrances?”
“Besides the main entrance,” Sigler answered, “there’re four others: Marina Boulevard, Lombard Street, Presidio Avenue and Twenty-fifth Avenue. The main entrance, of course, stays open all night. The other four close at ten P.M.”
I nodded, looking thoughtfully down at the body as I said, “If he was dumped here after ten P.M., assuming he was carried in a car, then the car would’ve had to come in through the main gate.”
He didn’t reply, but instead began fiddling impatiently with the flap of his highly polished holster. Finally he shrugged, almost irritably. I thought I knew his problem. He didn’t like being questioned by someone he regarded as a subordinate.
“Do you have any means of checking cars in and out at the main gate, Major?” I asked abruptly, consciously hardening my tone.
“We don’t have any formal checkout system,” he answered. “No licence plate checks, nothing like that. However, during night hours, and especially after the secondary gates are closed, the guards at the main gates have instructions to keep their eyes open. If they should see a carload of teenagers joyriding, for instance, they’d take down the licence number and notify a radio car.”
“I see,” I answered thoughtfully, watching Markham as he approached us at his previous leisurely pace. “Then our first move it seems to me, is to talk with the men on duty at the main gate last night.”
“Assuming,” Sigler said primly, “that the victim was dumped from a car, and the car did enter the post after ten P.M.”
“That’s true, Major,” I answered slowly, directly meeting his eyes. “But we have to start with assumptions. And I’m assuming that, first, the victim wasn’t murdered on this spot. There’s no sign of a struggle, nothing whatever disturbed. Although his fingers are clenched, for instance, there don’t seem to be any leaves or twigs inside his hands. As nearly as I can see, then, he was carried to this spot and rolled down the embankment. Now—” I paused for breath, nodding to Markham as he joined us. “Now, if my second assumption is also logical—that the murderer was driving around last night with the body of his victim in his car, looking for a place to dump it, then I figure it was after ten P.M.”
“How do you figure that?” Sigler asked.
“Well—” I waved a hand. “I just figure that, if I’d murdered someone, I’d wait until it was late—as late as possible.”
The Major was looking abstracted now, thinking about it. “I’m not sure I agree with you on the time element, Sergeant.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that if I’d murdered someone, and was driving around with his body in my car, I think I’d be pretty nervous. I also think I’d stay as far away from surveillance as I could. So the last thing I’d do was drive into an area that’s controlled by a single gate, guarded constantly.”
He had a point.
“However,” Sigler was saying, “if the murder car came on to the post before ten—say nine thirty for instance—he’d find his problem pretty simple. He’d just drive through the Twenty-fifth Avenue gate, dump the body, and be back on Twenty-fifth Avenue in five minutes.”
Reluctantly I nodded. The Major was no fool, however pompous.
“Is this area pretty well deserted after, say, nine o’clock?” I asked.
“Yes,” Sigler promptly replied. “Very.”
“How about your patrols? How often do they make this area?”
“Once every half hour until ten. After that, every hour.”
“Was anything unusual reported last night?”
“I haven’t had time to check.”
“How would it be,” I asked in a more conciliatory tone, “if I send Inspector Markham with you, to your headquarters? Could you find out for us whether anything was reported by radio car last night—and then get statements from the guards on duty at the main gate?”
“Certainly.” Obviously, the Major was anxious to leave. It was close to lunch time; I wondered if there was a connection. “Shall I leave some of my men with you?” he asked.
I moved my head to the non-coms. “How about those two, and one of your radio cars? I’ll contact you if we discover anything that might involve you.”
“Good.” Nodding decisively, Sigler strode away. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder. “Let me know if I can help.”
I briefed Markham, ordering him to stay at M.P. headquarters until I came for him, so that I’d have the car. Then, slowly following after Sigler and Markham, I walked down to the paved road, to wait for the lab crew and the coroner.
FOUR
KREIGER WAS FROWNING DOWN at the eight-by-ten glossy, a full-face shot of the unknown murder victim. The photographer had done a good job. Most post-mortem pictures betray themselves by muddy-looking, unfocused eyes, and a slackness around the mouth. Photographers don’t like the touch of a corpse any more than the rest of us. And, usually, the coroner’s men were unwilling to move the head on its morgue slab until the eyes caught the light, or to push the dead flesh until the mouth looked more lifelike.
“The trouble with these hippies,” Kreiger was saying, “is that they don’t stay put for more than a week or two, at the most.” He reached for his handkerchief. “I’ve got a cold,” he announced. “It’s even money, by God, that I’ll come down with the flu.”
“You should take a hot bath tonight, and then go to bed and sweat,” Markham said. “Pile the blankets on, that’s what I do.”
Kreiger sneezed, then swore. He turned to face Markham.
“What’d you find out at the Presidio?” the captain asked, his tone more official.
Markham took out his notebook. “First of all,” he said briskly, “I got a list of everyone who didn’t answer roll call this morning. As it turned out, there’s only two guys missing in the whole post, and neither one of them fits the victim’s description. However, Major Sigler’s double checking. Some of these cadre outfits don’t bother with bedchecks and roll calls, so it’s possible someone could be gone and still not be missed.”
“What else’d you find out?”
“I checked the M.P. squeal sheets f
or last night,” Markham said, “but I didn’t get much there, either. There was only one thing that might tie in with the murder, and that was a couple of teenage neckers who got run out of the parking lot next to the beach.”
“How far is that from the victim’s body?”
“Less than a quarter of a mile.”
“Were these neckers cited, or anything?”
Markham shook his head. “They were just shined, and told to move on.”
“What time was that?”
Markham glanced at his notebook. “About ten thirty.”
“Any licence number?”
“No. But the car was a red Ford, ’64 or ’65. I talked to the guy who shined them. He said both the boy and the girl were sixteen or seventeen. The boy had long blond hair—for a boy—and the girl had short dark hair.”
Kreiger snorted. “For a girl.”
Dark hair—like Claudia’s.
When she was a little girl, she’d loved to play cowboys and Indians. And, with her dark hair, she’d always insisted on being an Indian girl, rescued by the cowboys.
I felt Kreiger staring at me. “Did the guard at the gate remember seeing them come into the Presidio?” I asked.
“No. But, of course, they could’ve come in by another entrance.”
“How do you figure?”
Markham shrugged. Addressing me, his manner was considerably less formal. “I figure,” he said shortly, “that they’d probably been necking for more than a half hour. They were pretty rumpled, according to the M.P.”
“As I remember my hot-blooded youth,” Kreiger put in, “it doesn’t take long to get rumpled.”
“Well, anyhow,” Markham said, a little defensively, “they didn’t come in by the main gate any time before eight P.M., according to the guard on duty. That’s when they changed shifts, eight P.M. And he claims he’d’ve remembered a red Ford with two kids in it.”
“What else’d you get?” Kreiger was again reaching for his handkerchief.
“Not much,” Markham admitted. “Sigler checked the two radio cars that patrol the area where the body was found, but they didn’t report anything unusual last night. Nothing at all.”
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 3