by B. V. Lawson
Cailan was more petite than in her photos, making the sutured lines across her body seem that much larger. He was so intent on studying her, it took him a moment to see Zachman’s concerned face and her hand reach out behind him.
“Are you all right? Need a filter face mask?”
Sarg was as pale as the body on the slab. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m good. Wish I’d skipped breakfast.”
Sarg had never been comfortable in the morgue. But as he said, it wasn’t the same as a battle when you had an adrenaline chaser to keep you focused. Drayco raised a few fingers on his hand at Sarg, their secret code indicating he’d do most of the talking.
Drayco pointed to the stabbing wound in one of the photographs taken of the body prior to dissection. “It’s not shaped like a ‘Y’ or ‘L.’ So the knife wasn’t twisted out?”
She shook her head. “Very clean, straight in, straight out. Double-edge knife. See the diamond shape in that photo?”
It was a well-defined diamond, at that. “I guess you can’t determine the length of the blade.”
“I can tell you the wound depth was six inches, straight through the heart. No abrasion from a hand guard. So the blade is longer.”
“And very little blood when the body was found in Kenilworth.”
“She should have had six liters for a woman her size. Although she bled internally, about two liters are unaccounted for. So she bled out somewhere else. And the blood left had separated into clot and serum. Several hours passed since the stabbing took place.”
“Defensive wounds?”
“No, but with the amount of Rohypnol in her system, and the fact it looks like the bleeding stream was projected, my guess—she was lying on her back.”
Drayco handed the folder over to Sarg. Maybe if he had something to read, it would help. “Sounds like a large blade.” Drayco studied the suturing on Cailan’s chest. “And possible a woman could have thrust it in.”
Zachman nodded. “If the blade tip was sharp. Judging from the entrance wound, I’d say it was.”
“Those odd singe marks. The police report noted you believe the knife was heated somehow?”
She walked over to the folder in Sarg’s hands and flipped to one particular photo. It was a close-up of the wound. “The knife was plunged in and out rapidly leaving tiny burn marks on the skin. Not long enough to cauterize blood vessels or organs.”
“No way to tell how it was heated?”
“Those details are more your thing than mine. Stove, charcoal grill, matches. Take your pick.”
Drayco had brief images of Gary and his clove cigarettes. Happy Ilsley and her Marlboro Lights. Elvis and his joints. All lit with matches.
Sarg had regained some of his normal coloring, but kept his eyes glued to the file as he spoke. “She was naked from the waist up. No sexual molestation?”
“Nope. After you called, I had one of our toxicologists do a retest. He found out something that may interest you. In addition to the Rohypnol, there were slight traces of methotrexate and misoprostol.”
Sarg looked at Drayco, who said, “An abortion.”
“Our tox screens don’t routinely look for that. These days something like Rohypnol is high on the list, the reason her blood was tested for that right away. The latest lab results indicate the M&Ms were in her system a few weeks. That can happen after a successful abortion.”
Drayco said, “Could you tell how far along she was?”
“Such drugs are prescribed at clinics if the patient is less than seven weeks in her pregnancy.” Zachman added, “No signs she’d been pregnant before, if that helps.”
“There aren’t many clinics in the area. Agent Sargosian can put the paperwork through.”
Drayco saw Sarg still looked a bit green, so he tried to wrap it up. “Dr. Zachman, what about those fibers you found?”
“Oh yes, the fibers. I didn’t have high hopes of finding any. But these were in her mouth. Two small, red cotton fibers.”
“A gag, possibly. Maybe the crime scene was in an area where the murderer was afraid sounds would carry.”
“That would mean our unsub,” Sarg accented the word, “drugged and then gagged her. Unless the fibers had traces of Rohypnol, too?” Sarg liked to give Drayco a hard time for his dislike of using FBI jargon.
Zachman smiled and shrugged. “Did I mention thirteen hundred autopsies a year, Agent? Hire us some more staff, and we’ll see what we can do. That’s another layer of technology we can’t afford to use right now.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Drayco rescued the file from Sarg, to flip through one last time. “If you do find anything else … ”
“Of course. Anything to keep you and your HBO happy,” she said as she ushered them toward the front, making Drayco grin. So Harriet Zachman knew some Bureau-ease, with her High Bureau Official jab. A very observant woman, of both the dead and the living.
Sarg took several lungfuls of air as they left the building. “October air smells different, don’t you think?”
Drayco took the hint and didn’t mention Sarg’s morgue-a-phobia. Bad enough he was kidded during FBI training and given the motto “Easy come, queasy go Sargosian.” Maybe it was because they knew he was an ex-Ranger, supposed to be one big bad dude.
But something else was at play now, a suspicion verified when Sarg leaned against the sign outside the entrance. “I may be a lapsed churchgoer. But I gotta pray I never have to see Tara laid out like that. I mean, what if this thing isn’t a tragic love story, like an Elvis Loomis opera.”
“We’re not talking serial killer. Yet.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” Sarg had dust on his pants from the sign, which he patted off, leaving clouds trailing behind him. “So you get the afternoon off, while I get the joy of appearing in court to wrap up that Atkins case the BAU consulted on.”
“I’ll need it to gather my strength for the party.”
Sarg grimaced. “Don’t know which part of that pisses me off more. That Gilbow thought it would be amusing to invite us or that Onweller practically ordered us to go.”
When Sarg passed along that news item earlier today—what Drayco called a “command performance” at Andrew Gilbow’s party tomorrow evening—he guessed the man was joking. Parties were unpleasant medicine you sometimes had to take to treat the ailment. Or in this instance, the case. Hors d’oevres sleuthing.
Sarg found a silver lining. “Ya think they’ll have good wine and grub? I wouldn’t mind some Rumaki or calamari tapas.” He’d obviously recovered, to be thinking of food.
Drayco grumbled, “Definitely no humble pie on the menu.”
Cailan’s music puzzle poked at him, nudging his subconscious. CAILAN AVENGE. Avenge who, what? And what if his reading of the music code wasn’t correct? He’d be the one choking down several slices of humble pie.
As if sensing Drayco’s mood, Sarg said, “Not gonna stand me up are you?”
“What about Elaine? Onweller said to bring her.”
“She’s got some church gig not even guilt could get her out of. As you may recall, she loves parties.”
“I guess it’s an X-chromosome thing, like pillows.”
“Don’t tell Elaine that. I’ll be sleeping on the couch for weeks.”
“Your court appearance isn’t until one, right?”
“Why?”
“Want to go bowling?”
Sarg eyeballed the building they’d left. “Bowling over body bags any time. But isn’t it early for bowling?”
“Not if you’re Shannon Krugh. I found out she works at a local bowling alley part time.”
Their earlier interview with Shannon was on safe territory and a little like the old “Name That Tune” game, trying to guess a song after a couple of notes. She hadn’t impressed him as someone who was passionate about music, more like something she fell into.
And though he tried not to let the colors and shapes of people’s voices prejudice him, for some reason, the
cayenne-colored thumbtacks in Shannon’s tones was unsettling. Maybe it was the bipolar coming through. Or perhaps it was something altogether different.
18
The Patriot Bowling Alley was a symbolic landmark of the old-new, ramshackle-glitz schizophrenia in the District. Like other buildings in this block, it dated back to the mid-twentieth century. Its Modernist blandness hadn’t been renovated since.
The rainbow spray-painted graffiti on one side looked more like bored-youth scribblings than territorial gang markers. A sign loomed over the door with an outsized bowling bowl tilted down toward entering guests, threatening more of a head-strike than a pin-strike.
Over in one corner of the parking lot, a pile of fresh lumber, gleaming steel, and paint cans hinted at the tired building’s visions of rehabilitation. Far more interesting was the sight of Shannon Krugh and Gary Zabowski in the middle of a heated argument. It was so heated, neither of them noticed Drayco and Sarg as they approached.
Gary’s outstretched arms gestured close to Shannon’s face. “You can’t keep it. I don’t care about the other junk. Burn, sell, give away everything else. But I need that laptop.”
“You told me it was a gift.” Shannon crossed her arms over her chest
“I said it was a loaner. And I think I’d had three bottles of Rolling Rock at the time.”
“You’re filthy, stinking rich so why do you care so much about one little laptop computer?”
“Because it’s not mine. I got it from Cailan.”
“You gave me something that belonged to her? You’re pathetic.”
“Technically it wasn’t hers. It belongs to Dr. Jaffray.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Gary. You’re not good enough to be pathetic, you’re not good enough to be pond scum. You’re the crap pond scum eats.”
Shannon whirled around and strode over to a backpack lying a few feet away, pulled out a laptop computer and brought it over to Gary, thrusting it under his face. “Take it. I can use the computers at the library instead.”
Drayco and Sarg were so close now, Drayco chimed in, “Tell you what. Why don’t Agent Sargosian and I make sure that laptop makes its way back to Dr. Jaffray.” Drayco held out his hand.
Shannon and Gary froze in place. Gary recovered faster and only hesitated a moment before letting Drayco take the laptop. “Fine, but it’s your responsibility now. I want that on record.”
Gary climbed into a blue sports car he squealed up to around fifty miles per hour before he even got out of the parking lot. Shannon ignored the car and the two men and bent over to yank at her backpack, only to miss on the first try. “Goddamn it,” she yelled, giving it a swift kick before finally rescuing it.
Drayco asked, “Mind if we ask you a few more questions?”
She walked toward the entrance. “My shift starts in five minutes. You want to talk, you’ll have to follow me in,” and she disappeared through the front door.
Sarg turned to Drayco. “The Bureau forensics geeks will want to look at that laptop.”
“Let me get first crack at it. You can hand it over tomorrow.”
Sarg tugged on his earlobe. “That’s not standard protocol.”
“Gary and Shannon both used it after Cailan’s death. So there may not be anything left connected to her. And you know the Bureau and MPD will fight over it. Then it will vanish forever into some evidence locker.”
“But Onweller—”
“Doesn’t have to know.” Drayco held out his hand toward the bowling alley. “Shall we go in?”
The interior of the bowling alley was as dispirited at the outside. Garish painted signs above the lanes tried their best to draw attention away from worn carpeting and burned-out lights. The walls hemmed in the smell of stale beer and greasy french fries.
It was a far cry from elite bowling alleys—more like exclusive high-tech Hollywood clubs—with projection screens and furniture designed by architectural school rejects. He made a mental note to ask Tara about that.
They spied Shannon in front of the rental desk, the sole staff member in sight. Sarg asked, “Are you one of those server girls or do you rent the shoes?”
Shannon knocked her booted foot on a tool case in front of her. “I’m a lane mechanic.”
Sarg looked at the tool case then back at Shannon. She picked up an ohm meter, smiling at Sarg’s obvious confusion. “I get called in whenever the main mechanic needs a hand or time off. My Dad was a lane mechanic. Taught me everything I know.”
Drayco recalled the waitress at Café Renée and her Bowling Industry Management major. “You know Irene Quillen?”
Shannon dropped the ohm meter into the case. “IQ? I’d say her IQ is as high as a five-year-old would bowl.”
“And yet she said she wanted to study astronomy. Until her father said it wasn’t lucrative.”
“He told her that?” She put her hands on her hips. “Why is it everyone is always trying to tell you how to run your own goddamn life.” She scowled over at the lanes, then straightened up and turned back to Drayco and Sarg. “I’ll bet you two never bowled before.”
Sarg said, “Sure.” Then he turned to Drayco. “You have, right?”
“Nope.”
“Brock didn’t take you bowling?”
“Too busy. He pitched a baseball to me once.”
Shannon picked up a bowling ball from a rack and handed it to Drayco. “We don’t have much of a crowd in here as you can see.”
Only one other man was bowling at that moment. Drayco watched the man take his stance, position the ball in his hands, then roll the bowl down the lane, knocking over all the pins.
Drayco handed the laptop to Sarg and said, “Seems easy enough.” He rolled the ball down the long wooden path. It curved over toward the gutter, arced into the middle of the lane, and proceeded to nail a strike.
Sarg groaned. “You’re a bowling shark, aren’t you?”
“I did what he did,” Drayco indicated the other bowler.
“You do know it’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
Shannon reached up into some cubbies behind the service desk and pulled out a ribbon that said “Bowling Star,” and handed it to Drayco. As she’d reached up, the sleeves on her shirt fell toward her elbows, exposing her wrists and forearms and the angry, snaking lines of self-cutting marks.
Drayco knew a thing or two about scars. He envisioned Shannon taking a knife to her skin during a depressive phase, alone at the time. Alone and bleeding. It was a wonder she was still alive.
Shannon showed neither depressive nor manic signs today, making Drayco suspect she was definitely back on her meds. “Was that the first time you’ve seen Gary since the two of you broke up?”
“I’ve been avoiding him. Well, trying to avoid him. As you can see it doesn’t always work.”
“Was he violent toward you while you were dating?”
“Gary’s all bark, no bite. And he’s a lousy drunk, weepy and useless.”
“So he never threatened you?”
“Threatened, no, taunted, yes. That’s what I get for dating above my station. And like always, the rich guy screws the poor girl in more ways than one.”
Sarg said, “Did you do any drugs together?”
“Do I look like a nun? Show me a college student who doesn’t do drugs or alcohol, and I’ll show you someone whose name is on an altar candle.”
“What drugs are we talking here, Miss Krugh? Marijuana or worse?”
Shannon pursed her lips together. Sensing she was about to clam up, Drayco asked, “Do you like Parkhurst, Shannon? Have you made a lot of friends there? Your parents must be proud of your success.”
She leaned with her back along the counter and then hoisted herself up onto the top. “Parkhurst is Parkhurst and I don’t do friends. I mean when you’re different, you grow up fighting off bullies. Not that Parkhurst has bullies, just snot-nosed stuck-ups. As for my parents—they expect a lot.”
“You have one friend. Happy
Ilsley.”
“We hang out together. Sing, dance, drink, smoke, fuck, ogle guys’ butts.” She smirked at Drayco. Happy must have talked to Shannon after leaving them with Elvis at the loft this morning.
“Did you sing together?”
“Duets?” She laughed. “Duh. For fun, natch. She’s way better than me. She’ll be rich and famous, and I’ll be her groupie.”
“She must read music fairly well.”
“She’s okay, a little shaky. So I guess I got her beat there.”
“Did you enjoy your trip to Cozumel?”
Shannon’s eyes widened. “How in hell did you know that?”
“The MPD learned Gary was seen in the company of a young blond for a few days while he was in Mexico over the summer. I’m guessing your pink dye came after. And with your hair pulled up, I can see that tattoo on your neck. The one with the warrior god and his tongue sticking out. A popular Mexican souvenir.”
“Gary flew me down to stay with him for a week. I didn’t tell my parents. He says come on down, he pays the airfare, so I said, hell yes. ”
Sarg frowned. “You have a passport?”
“The college helped me get one last year. They were planning on taking a music school production to Europe. Fell through, natch.”
A man entered the front door, saw the three of them and immediately started in on Shannon. “Krugh, I’m not paying you to socialize. You’re supposed to be working on that solenoid.”
Shannon glared in the man’s direction, then whispered, “Yes, massah,” and hopped off the counter. She added in a low voice to Drayco and Sarg, “Sex on the beach for real is a hell of a lot better than the drink.”
Drayco hid a smile and asked, “By the way, is there a password to access the laptop?”
“Primadonna. Real original, huh?”
Drayco and Sarg left Shannon to her solenoid. But as they exited the building, Drayco held out a hand to stop Sarg, then pointed to someone else in the lot. Someone with a familiar long beard, inspecting a weed trimmer lying in a small patch of grass.