“I have an idea,” John said.
Ignoring his trivial remark, Martinez continued, “This homicide takes priority and everything—I mean everything collected from that crime scene needs to be tested. Care and skill need to be the objective.”
“Of course,” John said. Katie tried to read him but he kept a poker face to everyone in the room.
“Deputy McGaven, I realize that you’ve been given a special work schedule and I don’t want to change such things now. So continue to work your half-time patrol, and half-time cold case unit.”
“Yes, sir,” McGaven replied.
“Some things will be discussed and most likely changed in the future, but for now that schedule will remain the same.”
Katie tensed when he said changed in the future—red flag number one.
Did that mean the cold case unit would be disbanded?
It looked as if Martinez was done with his orders and he was going to dismiss everyone, but he dramatically paused and then focused on Katie. “Ms. Scott,” he addressed.
Katie immediately noticed that he didn’t address her as detective—red flag number two…
“I want to give you my sincere condolences for your aunt. I know that this must be an incredibly difficult time for you,” he said.
Katie thought the words were nice, but the intent behind them was different altogether.
“It is completely within your right to take some time off.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’d like to get back to the case I was working on.” She was proud of her resolve that her voice was strong and didn’t crack.
Martinez scrutinized her for a moment, as if he was deciding if she was just telling him what he wanted to hear—or not. “I want to impress that it will not be held against you if you need bereavement time.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, but I want to stay busy and productive,” she said.
He raised his chin and studied her again. “Of course, I’ve been fully updated on the case you’re working on.” He looked around the room. “Any questions?”
A long quiet pause fell over the room.
“Well then, you’re all dismissed.”
Everyone rose from their seats, and Katie tried to exit as fast as she could.
“Oh, Ms. Scott, not you.”
Here we go…
McGaven hesitated and whispered to Katie, “I’ll wait for you outside.”
She nodded.
Turning to Martinez, she waited as the room emptied.
“Take a seat,” he said.
“No thanks, I’ll stand if that’s okay.”
Martinez didn’t seem to care, but he had something to say and didn’t want the rest of the group privy to his comments.
Katie waited and maintained her relative calm.
“Ms. Scott,” he said.
There it was again…
“I wasn’t for the creation of an official cold case unit. I felt that it could be handled within the detective division on a rotation basis, but Sheriff Scott adamantly expressed that you would be the perfect person to head it,” he said and leaned on the corner of the desk. “Okay, I can live with that. And I can live with the fact that you’re using our resources to work an ex-military dog at our K9 training facilities. But what I can’t, and won’t, sit back and take is the blatant disregard for direct orders, protocol, and proper investigative procedures, such as with the Payton and Compton cases.”
“I see,” said Katie, trying not to allow her sarcasm to seep into her words.
“No, I don’t think you do see,” he said. “I’m in charge now, for how long depends upon the investigation.” He stood and took a step toward Katie. “I would suggest that you don’t step out of line—because I would hate to see you demoted all the way back to a patrol officer or front desk duty.”
She gulped back her response, careful not to step out of line.
“I know how impetuous you are and I know how much you want to be involved in your aunt’s homicide case—but I warn you—don’t do it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, never wavering her tone or averting her gaze.
He waited another dramatic pause before he said, “Great. As long as we understand each other. Just investigate your cold case and report back to us. You’re dismissed.”
Fifteen
Monday 0930 hours
Katie didn’t immediately return to her office, even though she knew McGaven was waiting for her. Instead, she decided to take a fifteen-minute walk around the police compound and over to the K9 training area to let off some steam and regain her objectivity and focus. She walked at a comfortable pace taking deep breaths until she felt better. The tightness in her chest lessened. The dryness of her tongue and the inside of her mouth receded. Her surefooted pace helped switch her back to cold case mode and put her uncle out of the scenario—at least for a few hours. There was nothing that she could do for him at the moment, except to be strong, so there was no reason to agonize and stress about it. By the end of the day, she should hear where her uncle was going to be sleeping—home or jail.
As Katie returned to the sheriff’s office building, her attitude had improved and her face felt flushed like she had gone on a five-mile run. By the time she buzzed herself into the forensic basement, she felt back to normal—or as close as possible.
The examination areas were deserted, and that was fine with her. She made her way to her office and found McGaven already digging into the information highway trying to get some more new leads for the Stiles case.
“Hi,” Katie said.
McGaven looked up and studied her for a moment. “You okay?”
“As good as I can be.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh you know, the usual: ‘Don’t step out of line, stay away from your aunt’s homicide investigation… or else’.”
“Or else?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
McGaven frowned, which was unlike him. “What are you going to do?”
Katie let out a sarcastic laugh. It felt good to relieve some of the pressure—and the deep grief that was going to take a long time to heal. “I’m going to work this cold case and stay out of it.”
“No you’re not,” he said calmly. “I know you’re not going to let things go and rely solely on Detective Hamilton’s expertise. He’s not a bad detective or anything, but I think he’s…” McGaven didn’t finish his sentence.
“It’s okay. I know what you mean.” Katie pulled out a file with notes including Patton’s notes for his potential novel. There was nothing more she could do about her uncle until the end of the day. She kept telling herself that.
“Katie,” he said, “maybe you should take off and go home to rest.”
“I can’t rest. It’s better that I concentrate on something productive—and important. We need to find out what happened to Sam Stiles. Have you found out anything more on Dennis Palmer, both junior and senior?”
“I did a real estate search. The business owns the wrecking yard over on highway 10.”
“I don’t know where that is,” she said.
“You know where that goofy sign is with the guy asking for your old, non-running car?”
“Of course. But that’s not called Palmer Wrecking Yard.”
“No, it’s called…” he reread his notes to get the correct name, “County Recycling and Automotive. That’s where the real money is made—not changing someone’s oil or doing tune ups.”
“Interesting. Does either dad or son own anything else? Businesses or land?”
“Senior owns two small houses on the eastern side of town—both paid for. I’m sure that his son lives in one of them.”
Katie studied the maps they had tacked up earlier. “We need to get a larger map, maybe a county one.” She thought for a moment. “It would only take someone about ten to fifteen minutes to drive to the wrecking yard from Stiles’s apartment.”
“Meaning?”
&
nbsp; “I’m not sure yet. What about the two employees, Derek Von Der Brennen and Sal Redino?”
“No big deal. Minor offenses. Trespass. Burglary, but no conviction. There doesn’t seem to be any violent charges.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t really mean anything, except they may have not been caught.”
“I bet you hate that you can’t really begin a criminal profile yet.”
“Yes, but we can do a victimology of Sam Stiles and create a backward profile of sorts by finding out where he would be the most vulnerable—and when and where he could fall victim to a crime.”
“I like it,” he said and smiled.
“There’s more in my bag of tricks—just stick around to see,” she said.
Katie wasn’t verbalizing the obvious. One possible theory was that Stiles owed money to the Palmers. They made up the story that Stiles went home sick, got rid of his car through the wrecking yard and buried his body somewhere on the large deserted property. She knew that was just a speculation, but it still niggled in the back of her mind. There were too many documented cases that unfortunately ended this way.
McGaven studied the recycling and automotive area from the aerial maps he was able to bring up on the computer. “This is interesting. Look at how much extra land they have adjacent to the business.”
Katie scrutinized the area. “Yeah, I wonder why they don’t use it. Or even lease it out. Land is quite expensive in California, even in rural places like that.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think it’s time we had a chat with the Palmers.”
* * *
Katie rode silently in the passenger seat. It was easier for her to sit, lost in her own world, while McGaven drove. She paid no attention to the road signs, pedestrians and cars moving about. Her thoughts were focused on who would want to frame her uncle—and the devastating loss of her aunt. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that there were potentially many people who would want to hurt her uncle, or see him jailed.
“I’ve been thinking too,” said McGaven. His voice turned serious, interrupting Katie’s thoughts.
She turned and looked at him. “About?”
“Well, it’s true that the higher you climb in a professional standing, the more people resent you, even people who had been friends the entire time.”
“What are you saying? Are you talking about my uncle?”
“Well yeah. I figured you were trying to figure out who would try and frame your uncle for murder,” he said.
Katie was surprised that McGaven could read her that well. In fact, it was a little unnerving.
“What?” he said. “I think I’ve gotten to know you some—how you think. And I know what I would be trying to do in the same situation.”
Katie smiled. They had been through quite a bit together in the short time she had known him. “What do you think?”
“You’re forgetting that I was here at the sheriff’s department during the entire time that you were in Afghanistan. And, I know a few things.”
“Like?”
“Sheriff Scott has been more than an outstanding sheriff. He’s one of the guys—meaning that the deputies know that he’s looking out for them no matter what. Not all sheriffs are like that anymore.” He took a right turn and then stopped at a traffic light. “What that means is there are people who have something against him—for political reasons, jealousy reasons, criminal reasons, you name it.”
“Every single person he put away would have a motive,” she said.
“Not to mention people who have been passed over for his positions, not just for sheriff; he was a pretty amazing detective.”
“I appreciate you thinking about this…”
“Of course, Sheriff Scott is the man.”
Katie smiled as best she could. She was torn—also wanting to be strong and hold back the tears.
McGaven slowed the vehicle and pulled into Palmer Auto Repair. There were two cars in the garage stalls and another parked to the far right side of the property.
“Here we go,” said Katie as she got out of the car before McGaven cut the engine.
She quickly assessed the area. There were two employees working on the two vehicles—she assumed to be Brennen and Redino. No sign of either Palmer.
McGaven shut the driver’s door and followed her.
“Excuse me?” she said.
No one answered. She walked into the automotive stall.
“Excuse me?” she said again.
“Yeah,” came a voice from under a hood. “You can check in at the office.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Katie eyed the tiny office at the right, door open, a small counter adorned with advertisements for motor oil, engine parts, and octane boosters. She saw the back of a balding head of someone shuffling paperwork—and assumed it was the senior Palmer. He was adjusting his glasses and organizing the receipts and invoices.
“Excuse me, Mr. Palmer?” said Katie.
McGaven opted to stay near the work area where he could watch the employees and be within earshot of Katie’s conversation.
“That’s me—at least, it was when I woke up this morning,” he said, still not looking up from his paperwork.
“Mr. Palmer, I’m Detective Scott from the sheriff’s department.”
He immediately looked at her, studying her badge and holstered weapon. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“We’re looking into the disappearance of Samuel Stiles,” she said watching his reaction closely.
“I haven’t heard that name in a while. It’s been, what, about five years now?”
“We’re following up leads and anyone who knew Mr. Stiles.”
“He was a great mechanic—meticulously work-ethic oriented. I think he was taking care of his parents. That’s not something that is taught at tech school, you know.”
“What do you remember about that day—the day he left early?”
Mr. Palmer paused a moment before answering. “It was a Monday, I remember, because Mondays are hectic. There’s always a pile of mail and invoices needing reconciling from the weekend. There were more appointments than actual time.”
“What do you remember about Mr. Stiles?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the mechanics that day. The morning was backlogged.”
“When he said he was going home—how did he appear to you?”
“I don’t know, kinda quiet, I guess. He never had been off sick before—so I couldn’t complain. Things happen, you know.”
“Did you see him leave? Did he get into his car? Or did someone pick him up?”
“I didn’t see him leave. Just assumed he drove his car because it was gone.”
“Would you mind if we took a quick look around?” she asked.
“Sure, go ahead. Whatcha looking for? Maybe I can help.”
Katie turned away, but not until after she had scanned the small office. There wasn’t anything that seemed sketchy or out of place. “No, we just wanted to get a feel for his last day here and possibly which direction he went.”
“Help yourself,” he said.
Katie watched his movement and pauses in speech, but he seemed genuine. There was no hostility towards her. He didn’t have much to say about Stiles, but it was five years ago. Mr. Palmer didn’t seem to exhibit certain pauses that might mean he wanted to keep his story straight, and he didn’t have averting eye contact to think about how he wanted to answer the question.
She approached McGaven who hadn’t moved from his position where he could see everything that was going on around the garage. There really wasn’t much to see.
“I want to go around back,” she said.
He nodded.
Katie noticed that the two employees were watching them—it wasn’t clear if it was just curiosity—or something else. She walked around the side of the building through some overgrown weeds. There was a cleared spot about two-foot
square where there was a turned over crate to sit on and a mound of smoked cigarette butts. It was obviously a place where employees took their breaks.
She kept walking. Turning, she didn’t see McGaven. He was most likely keeping an eye on the boys working under the hoods.
As she made her way around the back, she found piles of recycled tires and wooden crates, the type that were usually packed underneath larger car parts. She looked closer, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Not knowing what she was going to find, if anything, she made sure that she inspected each item carefully. Two large dumpsters were located at the other corner, one for regular recyclables and the other for garbage. The back door led out to an alleyway and the screen door was a heavy-duty metal. But what caught her attention was a large portable storage container—the kind that was normally used at the shipping yards. This one was approximately twenty feet long. She approached the large door, which was locked with a Strong Lock padlock and her mind reeled to the key they found in Stiles’s personal things. She touched the padlock and made sure that it was secured and slowly took the key from her pocket. She had taken the key just in case there happened to be an opportunity to see if it fit a particular lock. Carefully she inserted it, but it was clear that it wasn’t the right key. That would have been too easy.
“What are you doing here?” a voice demanded.
Sixteen
Monday 1235 hours
Katie slowly turned around as her fingertips brushed by her Glock. The voice behind her didn’t sound like anyone she had seen or heard at the auto garage. Her eyes landed on the younger version of Mr. Palmer—it was obviously his son. Where he had materialized from wasn’t clear.
“Mr. Palmer?” she said, trying to change the tone of the interaction to civil and not accusatory.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he snarled. “You a cop?”
“I’m Detective Scott from the sheriff’s department.”
“What do you want?”
McGaven rounded the building and came up behind Palmer junior, looking, as usual, like a huge roadblock because of his height.
Flowers on Her Grave Page 9