by A. J Tata
Mahegan nodded as he processed the information. “I need to see the crime scene to prep the Army Criminal Investigation Command.”
“Let me see your creds.”
He replayed the scene with the sergeant, and apparently, Savage had done a decent job, because the Raleigh police chief said, “Be my guest. Damn freak show in there.”
Mahegan stepped into the foyer of the home through a wide double oak door with a giant brass knocker on each panel, one a cursive B and the other a cursive T. Immediately, he was stopped by a dutiful lab tech handing him a pair of surgical booties to put over his shoes.
“Big feet,” she said, looking down and then locking eyes with him. She was of Asian descent and petite. She had almond eyes, high cheekbones, and razor-cut black hair that kissed the base of her neck with a slight inward curl.
“Born that way,” Mahegan said, slipping the booties on his shoes. “Murder scene?”
“Technically, it’s a crime scene. We don’t know for sure if it’s a murder.”
“I’m Hawthorne, by the way,” he said to her, logging in his mind that she might be useful in the follow-up investigation. Plus, he couldn’t help but imagine her in a black, strapless dress instead of the lab tech smock.
Savage enjoyed literature and had chosen a variety of aliases for Mahegan from his favorite literary works, and Hawthorne worked as both a last and first name. Now that he was in official mission mode, he used Hawthorne. Only his landlords, the Robertsons, knew him as Mahegan.
Standing in the foyer, Mahegan noticed a Gone with the Wind staircase to his left. Beyond the staircase’s tongue-and-groove oak millwork, he glimpsed a sunken family room with a fireplace, which centered the entire house. On the sofas he saw pillows and sheets randomly strewn about, an obvious sign of a sleepover or what he now suspected had been something more. He recalled the chief’s term, “freak show.”
“Grace,” the lab tech said. “Grace Kagami.”
“Beautiful mirror,” Mahegan said.
Grace Kagami took a deep breath and said, “Wow. Impressive.” Her smile belied the fact they were at a crime scene and momentarily took them beyond the new acquaintance stage.
“Lived in Okinawa for a year with Special Forces. Learned some Japanese and knew some Kagamis over there. They explained the meaning of their name, so not so impressive. Just lucky.”
She stared at him for a moment. He could feel her measuring him in a way that was beyond the scope of her duties. He was glad he had showered, but he was self-conscious of his weeklong beard.
“What exactly are we looking at?” Mahegan said to break the awkward moment.
Grace smiled, as if answering another question. What was she looking at? “We are looking at the remnants of a swingers’ party turned into a possible murder turned into a missing-person-slash-missing-body case.”
“Swingers’ party?”
“Yeah, you know. The women throw their keys into a bowl and the men pick, or vice versa. Then everyone has sex. All to celebrate the opening of a pipeline.”
Mahegan looked past her into the yawning family room with the pillows and sheets. “Like an orgy,” he said.
“That too.”
The leftover ambiance of the party infested his senses, as dusty incense lingered in the air like a fog. He spotted a bottle of lotion on one of the end tables and caught the faint whiff of a flowery scent comingling with the incense.
“That way,” she said, pointing up the carpeted stairs to a brightly lit hallway.
“Thanks, Grace.”
“You’re welcome, Hawthorne.” She used her fingers to make quotation marks when she said, “Hawthorne.”
Mahegan nodded at her and then climbed the stairs, wondering what, exactly, her deal might be. As he passed the various bedrooms flanking the large carpeted hallway, he took a minute to scan inside each one. Oddly, they all resembled one another both in appearance—unmade beds, lotions, and towels—and arrangement: one bed, two nightstands, a bureau, and a connecting bathroom. Two bathrooms connected to a pair of guest bedrooms, like Jack-and-Jill rooms. He spotted the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, its double doors open and revealing a team of forensic experts on their hands and knees, studying a precise spot on the floor.
He scanned the walls of the hallway as he approached the investigation area, work lights shining on the crew, making them look like giants in a miniature sports stadium. His and hers college degrees dotted the walls in full “I love myself” regalia. Bachelor’s, master’s, and PhDs in business and accounting for him. The same accomplishment levels in education for her.
Dr. Robert Brand Throckmorton and Dr. Sharon Hunter Throckmorton were the recipients, though Sharon’s bachelor’s degree listed her as Sharon René Hunter. Mahegan had the random curiosity as to why some women chose to use their family name as their middle name after marriage, while others used their given middle name. He quickly lost the thought and removed his smartphone from his pocket as it buzzed.
He looked at Savage’s text message, blanked the screen, and pocketed the phone. Complications were going to accumulate quickly, so he needed to move fast. Savage had just informed him that Throckmorton owned several businesses, including a private security company, and hundreds of acres of land in Wake and Chatham Counties, just southwest of here, and they were prime drill locations for natural gas exploration. In his prep to find Gunther, Mahegan had learned that North Carolina had its own rich basin of fossil fuels that just needed a well and the equivalent of a B12 shot in the ass to pump the gas out of the earth.
He stood in the doorway, observing the techs as they studied the approximately twelve-inch circular bloodstain as if it were some new fossil discovery on an Egyptian dig. One of them stood and looked at Mahegan.
“Who are you?” The questioner was a tall man with a few wisps of hair at the top of his head. He wore glasses and a Raleigh Police Windbreaker. His face was ruddy and sunken, as if he had had some type of surgery on his cheeks. Maybe a face-lift, maybe shrapnel from Vietnam. He would be about that era.
“My name’s Hawthorne. I work with the Defense Department, and I need to see the body.”
“Don’t we all.”
That line must have been on the standard press talking points memo for this particular crime scene, Mahegan thought.
“What was the time between the original nine-one-one call and the arrival of the police?” Mahegan asked.
The man stepped around the group to Mahegan’s left, which gave him an opportunity to move to the right, deeper into the bedroom. He moved all the way to the far wall, opposite the spot where Cassidy had allegedly been shot. He peeled back the curtain and saw a deck off the master bedroom and an outdoor stairway from the deck to the backyard. Multiple points of access and egress. But he already knew that.
“I don’t think you should be here,” the tall man said.
“Name?”
“Raleigh detective first class Rowland Griffyn. Griffyn with a y. Raleigh native all my life.”
His second comment was intended as some sort of challenge, Mahegan figured. He had been dealing with that type of condescension all his life, with his frequent moves as a child and his Native American lineage. Mahegan was taller than Griffyn, darker as well, and he detected a hint of bias in the detective’s voice. The man probably figured himself to be a direct descendant of Sir Walter Raleigh and had spent a lifetime proclaiming his indigenous status. Mahegan knew that as far as Griffyn was concerned a Croatan Indian such as himself had no right to be in this swank Raleigh palace.
“I’m just an interloper here, but an important one. Army criminal investigation is on its way,” Mahegan said, again. Griffyn gave him a blank stare. “You know, like NCIS.”
“I know who they are, but nobody told me they were coming.”
“I just did. I moved over here so that I could have a private conversation with you, instead of telling you that this all could soon be an Army crime scene.”
Making a cop give
up a crime scene, Mahegan figured, was tantamount to asking a child to release her teddy bear. Griffyn seemed territorial about all things, and threatening to remove his dominion over the Throckmortons’ home was probably a good play.
“So I’m giving you the courtesy,” Mahegan said. “Get me some info fast, and maybe I can keep it in your hands. I need blood trails, fingerprints, shoe prints, lists of all participants in the . . . the party, and an opportunity to interview them.”
“In exchange for all that, we get to keep the scene?” Griffyn, the Raleigh native, asked.
“I will recommend that to CID. Keep me in the loop, and maybe you can keep control.”
Mahegan knew this was the tack Savage would want him to take. The case was far too sensitive for CID. Instead of staying completely out of the investigation or commandeering the entire thing, which he couldn’t do, anyway, he wanted to be able to slip in and out, with the appearance of local control. Savage’s text message had also indicated that he had informed the Fort Bragg CID commander that this was a Joint Special Operations Command case and would remain classified as such until further notice.
“If I ever get the sense, Griffyn, that you are keeping me out of the loop, CID will be on top of this like a hawk on a rabbit. Understand?”
Griffyn eyed Mahegan warily. Not only was Mahegan taller than him, but he also had probably fifty pounds more muscle. He watched the detective process the information, as if his forehead were an iPad displaying his thoughts: Federal government, big guy, ethnic of some variety. Got to protect my turf. Raleigh native all my life.
“Okay. How do I get in touch with you?”
“You don’t. I will check in with you. Just need your info.”
Mahegan never provided anyone the number to his smartphone. The device itself had protections, such as the ability to track multiple satellites at once or over time while remaining anonymous. If someone with hacking skills were somehow to identify his phone number, they would be able to find him. But there was very little likelihood of that occurring.
Griffyn gave him his card with a handwritten cell phone number, which Mahegan would dial only from a pay phone, if he could find one.
“Thanks. Where do you think the body is?”
“We’re taking samples right now. This is where you could help us. We don’t have Cassidy’s info in our database, but I’m sure you guys do.”
“Roger. Give me a vial, and I’ll get it analyzed and get back with you.”
Griffyn disappeared for a minute and came back with a Baggie with a small test tube.
“Small sample, but should be good enough,” Griffyn said.
“We’ll see if it works.”
“Thanks. I look forward to the partnership.”
“Me too.” Mahegan nodded and pocketed the Baggie in his blazer.
They shook hands.
Mahegan said, “I’m heading out this way.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the balcony. “You guys may want to process that as a possible egress or ingress route.”
“Already planned on it,” Griffyn said.
Mahegan turned and slid the balcony door open with his bare hand.
“Hey, you need some latex gloves!”
He put his other hand on the sliding glass door, as if he had stumbled. “Sorry. You’re right.”
But the truth was, Mahegan knew his prints had been on that door for a couple of weeks. That was when he had found the picture of his father, who apparently had also been hunting James Gunther.
CHAPTER 6
MAHEGAN STOOD IN THE THROCKMORTONS’ BACKYARD, WATCHING the adjoining home’s lights peek through the wooded acreage like searching beacons. The air was calm and unusually cool. The September sun had set, and the cloudless night allowed the day’s heat to diminish upward.
A movement to his right caught his attention, and he saw the tousled hair of a young boy attempting to hide behind a tree trunk. He was sneaking quick looks at Mahegan, as if unaware that Mahegan could see him. Mahegan casually walked to the fence separating the backyard from the side yard as the boy discreetly slid behind the tree, rotating around its trunk to remain hidden. Mahegan drifted slightly toward the tree when he knew it was impossible for the boy to see him. Quickly, Mahegan had a hand on his shoulder, and the young boy yelped, unaware that Mahegan had closed the gap.
“You live here?” Mahegan asked. As he went to drag the boy from his hiding place, Mahegan noticed he was squatting there. The boy was actually nearly six feet tall, gangly, and had a constellation of acne on his face that was so severe, it deserved a nomenclature from Greek mythology.
“No . . . no, sir.” He had the scared look of a teenager who was used to being perceived as trustworthy and loyal but who had been caught doing something terribly bad. His eyes darted back and forth, as if he was calculating the fence’s scalability.
“Name?”
He did not reply. Mahegan tightened his grip on his shoulder. “Nathan.”
Mahegan waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “So, it’s like Cher or Bono? Just one word?”
“Nathan Daniels,” he said with an edge of defiance, as if the name should mean something to Mahegan. As Mahegan processed Nathan Daniels’s name with those of Griffyn and Throckmorton, he began to wonder if he was dealing with Pilgrims just off the Mayflower. Fancy names. “Big money names,” his mother used to call them.
“What brings you up this way, Nathan Daniels? Out for a stroll?”
“I don’t have to answer any of your questions,” he said.
Mahegan pulled out his badge for effect. “Actually you do. You’ve entered a crime scene . . . or perhaps you were here all along?”
“No tape in the backyard. I came across the fence.” He pointed with his chin at the slatted wooden fence, which stood eight feet high. Mahegan noticed three horizontal support beams that made for perfect steps. He scanned the backyard, a forested football field of land.
“Just trespassing, then?”
“Just . . . curious. Not trespassing.” Then he added, “My dad’s a lawyer. I know how this works.”
“Okay. I’ll let you call him when we get to the station, then. I’m sure he’ll be happy to get out of bed and come pick you up when we’re done with you around midnight.”
“You can’t just take me in!”
Mahegan flipped him against the tree and pulled his arm behind his back, as if he was going to cuff him. He pressed the boy’s face up against the bark of the pine, which was oozing a bit of sap. “You are violating a crime scene and could be a witness or a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“Murder?”
“Yes, Nathan, murder.” Mahegan let up on him a bit and said, “Now would you like to talk, or do we need to go to the station?”
Nathan was silent for a moment, then said, “I’ll talk, but damn, bro, you need to chill.”
Mahegan noticed when Daniels turned around that he was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt and blue denim pants. He also saw the light from a smartphone pulsing in his pocket. He had placed it on silent and now was receiving a call.
“Need to get that?” Mahegan asked.
“Just my mom probably. Let’s do this.”
“It’s easy. Tell me what you know.”
He fidgeted for a second, kicked at a few rocks, and looked up at Mahegan. “I don’t think I’ve committed any crime, but if I have, you gotta promise me immunity of some type.”
Mahegan stared at him for a second and then saw it. There was a fiber-optic cable running up the tree. He followed its course onto a branch that extended to the house. The cable terminated at a small blinking camera that was aimed directly at the open windows of the master bedroom.
Nathan stood there, sweating, probably wondering if Mahegan was going to tell his parents he had been secretly taping the swingers’ parties at the Throckmorton home. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”
Mahegan considered his leverage and perhaps the fact that Daniels had teraby
tes of Throckmorton quasi porn. “I’m not sure I have any other option, Nathan.”
“C’mon, man. You gotta be cool here. What can I do?”
“I don’t know. What do you have for me?”
Nathan, an obviously smart kid, processed what Mahegan had just asked him. A slow grin grew on his face. “I have every party they’ve had for the past two months. Fair trade?”
“Depends on the quality,” Mahegan said.
“This will blow you away. The tree is our panoramic vision. We’re also inside the house.”
Admiring the kid’s pluck, Mahegan restrained his interest. “Why’d you do this?”
“You kidding me? One day we’re . . . uh, I’m . . . looking in the backyard, and there’s, like, ten gorgeous babes lying out by the pool, topless. That’s why, uh, I did this.”
Mahegan looked at the camera and could see it easily panning to the pool on the far side of the yard. “Okay, here’s the deal. In exchange for my silence, I get the recordings, and no one else does. Clear?” Mahegan knew that he was most likely on those recordings, and while he would be impossible to identify, it was a loose end he didn’t need.
Nathan gauged Mahegan’s intentions for a moment with discerning eyes, then said, “Clear.” He then handed him a flash drive. “This is the past two days.”
It was almost 10:00 p.m., and Mahegan had been at the scene for over an hour. Before the real cops decided to inspect the backyard, Mahegan told Nathan to remove the camera and the fiber-optic cable and then meet him out front with the previous two months of video. As Nathan scaled the tree, Mahegan began walking toward the house and noticed Grace, the Asian lab tech, step out onto the deck off the master bedroom. Ascending the short stairway, he called out, “Hey.”
“What are you still doing here?”
His immediate goal was to avert her eyes from Nathan’s activities, so he decided to turn her attention to the inside of the house. “I was just thinking about the bloodstain,” he said, motioning beyond the sliding glass door, which she had opened carefully with a latex-covered hand. Mahegan noticed she had slender fingers to match her petite frame.