by Hugh Macnab
Looking around the room. Nothing seems out of place. No signs of a struggle. It looks like he had simply gone to bed two nights ago.
Arnie speaks first. ‘Brilliant, this one.’
‘What do you mean, Arnie?’ asks Dan.
‘Small narrow blade. Slipped between the second and third rib. Severed the aortic arch, but with a minuscule entry wound.’
‘Meaning?’ I ask.
I think at that moment, Arnie truly notices me for the first time. He welcomes me back before answering my question.
‘A severed aorta usually means a lot of blood, which is also true in this case, but it’s mostly internal bleeding. Just as lethal, but not nearly as messy.’
‘Professional job?’ I ask.
‘Could be. Or a medically qualified person? Maybe I can tell more when I start the autopsy.’
‘Today, Arnie?’
‘Definitely, Dan. I’ll clear everything aside and get started by mid-afternoon. You attending?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
At that point, Arnie closes up his bag of tricks and heads out. Two of his assistants move in to remove the body and we follow Arnie outside.
‘What do you think, Sammy?’
‘What do you mean Dan? It’s a homicide for sure.’
‘No, Sammy. What I mean is, are you ready?’
‘Me?’
Dan just nods. What can I say? No, I’m sorry, Dan. I don’t feel up to it yet? I’m still suffering from self-recrimination and guilt? I might never be ready?
What I actually say is, sure. I’ll take it.
On the way back into the office, Dan reassures me he’ll be available 24/7 if I need help, and that if the case becomes complicated, he’ll allocate more people to work with me. He also promises that if I keep him up to speed, he will deal with internal communications. He’s speaking code for keeping the Sheriff and Under-Sheriff off my back. This is a subtle reminder to me that when we lose one of our own, everyone wants to know everything - all the time. Dan’s offer will let me focus on solving the case and not have to worry about office politics and the Press.
I’m glad Dan didn’t force more people on me at this early stage of an investigation. I much prefer doing the basic groundwork myself. I trust myself with details, I’m not so good with others.
As soon as we arrive at the office, I sit in my cubicle putting my thoughts in order. First thing is obvious, I need to open a case book. Although we’re all being encouraged to develop electronic case books, most of us still like the old paper version. I find a large folder and write Mark Jason’s name on it.
Next, I call Arnie and he promises to give me a shout when he’s about to start the autopsy. He confirms his best guess as mid-afternoon.
I will need to formally interview the two Narc detectives who found the body. Then speak to other colleagues to find out if he was working on anything that might have gotten him killed.
After deciding that, I head to HR. I need to review Jason’s Personnel file to get next of kin, family members, and other personal details. Then go break the news.
Bureaucrats really piss me off. HR, Finance, Admin, Unions - they’re all the same. Fucking hopeless. The man is dead. Still, I can’t gain access to his file without the Sheriff’s permission. Then, given that, I still can’t remove it from HR. Yet, they’re happy for me to take pictures of everything with my cell. Go figure!
Back in the office, I send all the details to my email account and print everything off for the case book. His next of kin is a sister living up in Punta Gorda. His parents are dead, and he has gone through two divorces. I reckon that would knock a hole in his finances, yet he still had a better apartment than me. I’m now convinced they pay Narcs more.
One divorce was a year ago, the other five years before. Both exes lived here in Collier County. Other than that, there is no-one else. After checking the time, I reckon I can get up to Punta Gorda and back before Arnie starts the autopsy. It’s about an hour north. First, I call to make sure she’s at home. It’s an awkward call. I don’t want to tell her on the phone, but I can’t avoid her being worried.
As soon as I hang up, I head for the duty sergeant. I need a pool car. There are none available, so I end up in a patrol car with a driver I’ve met before. He’s what I would describe as one of the good guys. Around fifty and heading for retirement, he’s usually a training officer for newbies. This particular day, his newbie is off sick.
Like everyone else, he knows about my shooting history and is happy to share a few of his own experiences with me. The more I’m hearing, the more I’m feeling I can manage my guilt. I don’t talk with him about terminating Bossy-boots. That’s one for me to deal with on my own.
We take I75 to save around ten minutes, and also because there’s an exit ramp at Jones Loop road, and the address we’re looking for is just off that. We turn into Tuscany Isles Drive and carry on until we stop outside forty-five. It’s what I call a two-in-one. Single-storey, divided down the middle. Two driveways, side-by-side, with double garages. She has a silver nondescript Toyota parked in her driveway.
Jason’s sister’s name is Susan Entwhistle. According to the file, she’s a nurse, which immediately puts her on my suspect list. But I have to assume she’ll be a grieving relative as far as this visit will go.
She’s already standing at her front door by the time I climb out of the Patrol SUV. As I walk towards her, I can see her nervously twisting her hands. Her face looks strained. She’s already expecting bad news, and I’m not going to disappoint..
I follow her inside before saying anything, and we sit opposite each other. When I tell her what has happened, the news clearly shocks her. I guess, in a situation like this you may expect the worst, but when you’re told someone has murdered your brother, that’s a whole different level of surprise. Shot in the line of duty, or killed in a vehicle collision, sure. She would get that. But stabbed to death in his own bed. That’s a hard pill to swallow.
The surprise on her face is obvious. This woman didn’t kill her brother. No-one can pretend like this. It’s just not possible. The color drains from her face completely as the tears flow freely. She’s trying to say something, but can’t get it out, so I offer to make her a coffee. She nods. I head for the kitchen, glad to get out of there.
Five minutes later I’m back with two steaming mugs. I place one in front of her. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She’s staring into space. She’s in shock. I move over to sit beside her, take one of her hands in mine and gently rub with what I hope is a reassuring touch. I’m not really that good at this sort of thing, but I give it my best shot.
She seems to respond. She turns, looks me in the eye and thanks me for the coffee.
I move back opposite and start asking my questions. She falters a little at first, but when I give her the old line about me needing to ask if we’re to catch whoever is responsible, she relents and starts answering.
Honestly, I learn nothing useful. She only saw her brother three or four times a year. He was apparently a bit of a loner. Their parents died in a car crash over ten years before, so there were only the two of them. They weren’t close. She knew nothing about his friends, or his work. She knew he was a detective, but didn’t even know he worked in Narcotics. This all left me wondering what they talked about when they were together.
When I say I learned nothing useful, that’s not true. When I asked about Jason’s previous marriages, and his exes, Susan was less than forthcoming, even evasive. This left me wondering. I added the two exes to my interview list.
After leaving Susan, I have time to think on the return journey. Who would want to kill Jason? Was it work related, or something to do with his personal life? At that moment in time, I’m fifty-fifty. I don’t know, but I will find out.
3
We stop and grab sandwiches on the way back down to the office, and I’m glad we have. There’s unlikely to be any time later. There’s a message already waiting for me. Arnie is read
y to start the autopsy on Mark Jason. The message was timed thirty minutes before.
I head downstairs immediately and arrive after Arnie has already made the Y-incision; sprung the rib cage open and is up to his elbows removing organs to measure, weigh and take samples from.
I can't think of the body on the autopsy table as Mark Jason. In fact, I can't think of what I’m seeing as human at all. The flesh on both sides of the body is folded open and all I can see is two mounds of yellowish fatty blubber. I know we all have fat, and we all need fat, but when you see it like this, it’s gross. Makes me want to go veggie.
‘Dan not coming?’
‘Fraid you’re stuck with me, Arnie. My case. My autopsy.’
‘Well, you’ve already missed the exciting part. The heart’s over there,’ Arnie tells me, indicating a stainless steel bowl - one of many.
‘What did you find, Arnie?’
‘Even more sophisticated than I thought at the crime scene. Whoever did this, maximized the damage to the aorta while minimizing external bleeding. The aorta was ninety percent cleanly severed leading to massive internal hemorrhage. I would say he died within thirty seconds at most. If the knife remained in the wound for as little as a minute after doing the damage, the heart would have no blood left to pump.’
‘Hence, minimum blood at the scene.’
‘The blade used was most likely a stiletto, with a narrow cross-section and acuminated tip which would reduce friction upon entry, allowing the blade to penetrate deeply with relatively little pressure being applied.’
‘Acuminated?’
‘Just means tapered to a needle point.’
‘But if it was such a fine blade, how did it manage to almost severe the major artery? Isn’t it a couple of centimeters across?’
‘Very good, Sammy. Yes, it looks to me as if the killer first inserted the blade, then moved it back and forward pendulum style, cutting in both directions.’
‘But without enlarging the wound in the outer wall of the chest?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But there were no signs of struggle, Arnie. So, why would someone lay there and allow this to happen?’
‘Did you notice the beer bottles in the lounge?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suspect they will contain traces of sedative or paralytic. The toxicology results will determine that.’
‘Anything else of note, Arnie?’
‘No. It seems detective Jason was an otherwise healthy individual. I would say he worked out regularly, so you could look for a local gym. I didn’t see much equipment in his apartment. Other than that, I don’t expect to find anything else that will help.’
‘Can you call me if you turn anything else up?’
‘Sure, and I’ll write up the preliminary before end of play today. You’ll have it first thing tomorrow.’
Back upstairs, I check in with Dan and update him on both my visit to Jason’s sister and what I’ve learned from the post-mortem. He’s busy with his own workload, so I leave him in peace, head to pick up a Folgers from the coffee area, before going back to my desk.
My next stop is to visit the head of Narcotics, Jerry Stillman, but first I want to do a little online research. I want to find out more about Mark Jason’s previous wives.
As a detective, online sources are incredibly useful. As a private citizen, I’m not so enthusiastic. One of these days I’m going to check myself out online, but I’m not in any hurry. I can imagine it would only take seconds to find out I had shot and killed a two-year-old. I avoided press articles when it happened and have no wish to see them now.
Jason’s most recent ex, from just over a year ago, is Emily. She’s thirty-five and a stewardess until the Covid pandemic. Since then, there’s no word of what job she may have now, if any. A fine-looking woman. I can’t tell her height from the picture, but for looks she was what most guys would call an eight out of ten. Doesn’t tell me if she has a brain, though. I copy her address, print off her details and set out to look for the second ex.
Minutes later, I find her. Lynda Goldway. I guess she reverted to her single name, or else she married again real quick. A little older at forty, but another looker. A few wrinkles spoil the overall effect, but twenty years ago she would have been a real catch. We’re talking nine out of ten. Mark obviously liked attractive women. There again, most guys do, so no surprise there. She’s working in Walgreens on Pine Ridge.
Given Arnie’s comments about drugs in the beer bottles, I mentally add her to my suspect list. Less than half a day in and already two suspects. I’m never sure if that’s a good thing or not. The greater the number of suspects, the more work I have to do. I get why some detectives tune into one suspect. Unfortunately, so does the District Attorney, and he is unforgiving if we try to railroad one particular suspect.
With that thought, my mind switches to thinking about Bossy-boots. Our District Attorney here in Naples would have been her father. Cliff Bodie.
Would have been, or should have been? Talk about railroading. I didn’t even let him have a say.
I add Lynda Goldway to my follow-up list. It’s time to go talk with Jerry who head’s up the Narcs division. I’ve worked a few cases with Jerry over my few years here and like him. He’s a straight shooter, with a sense of humor. He also genuinely cares about people, and I love him for that.
When I arrive at his office, he stands and hugs me. Not a casual it’s-the-right-thing-to-do type hug. Nor is it the politically correct light-hug with virtually no physical contact, like an air-kiss. This is an honest-to-goodness hug.
We spend a few minutes with him checking that I’m okay and sharing his own views of my shooting nine months before. Once that’s out of the way, I ask him what he can tell me about his detective, Mark Jason.
In summary, Jason’s a highly-rated detective. Has been in Narcotics for twelve of his twenty years’ service. He was on patrol before that. Had several commendations. A popular figure with all the guys in the department.
Given that last piece of information, I realize something I haven’t noticed before. Sounds silly. But there are no female detectives in his squad. None. There again, there are only two of us down in homicide, so we aren’t a lot better off. When I start thinking about that, I realize that the Women’s Liberation Front would have more to complain about than Black Lives Matter. At least a third of both departments are black or other ethnic minorities, myself included. But still only two women. I guess a female Native American would count as two wins for the department. I wonder for a moment if that has had anything to do with my rapid rise to detective second-grade, as probably quite a few of my male colleagues suspect.
Jerry pokes me in the arm, snapping me back into the conversation.
‘You still with me, Tiger?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, sure. So, are you aware of anyone in the squad who may have a grudge?’
‘Nope. None.’
‘How about the cases he was working? Anything jumping out there?’
‘First thing I did when I heard the news. Got the group together and brainstormed all his cases for the past couple of years. We have a list, but being honest, Sammy. I don’t think the killer’s on there. These guys are all into drugs, and half of them are users. Whoever did this to Mark was a professional or knew what they were doing. It won’t be one of these Candy-flippers or pill-pushers.’
‘Yeah, that makes sense to me.’
‘I’ll shake their trees to see what might fall out, but I’m not expecting much.’
‘How about his best friends, Jerry. Do you know who they are?’
‘Sure. He was close with a couple of my guys, but I think he was particularly tight with two guys at the gym he used to work out with. Addicted-to-fitness up on Airport-Pulling by the airport. You can speak to my guys right now if you like. They’re both here. They’ll tell you who his friends at the gym were.’
We talk a little more about Mark’s cases, before Jerry introduces me to the two detectives wh
o were closest to Mark Jason, and leaves me with them. They have nothing particular to add, other than to agree that they didn’t think any of the cases he had been working had anything to do with his death. They give me the two names at the gym and I add them to my growing list of people to talk with.
Back downstairs in my cubicle, I access Mister Google one more time and find out what I can about these two gym buddies of Mark’s.
Tyrone and Xavier. The first, a twenty-five-year-old African American from the Bronx. A middle-weight boxer with a fair percentage of wins. Must be decent. Single. Must have made some cash as he lives in another upmarket apartment downtown. Then Xavier. Puerto Rican. Two years older than Tyrone and apparently an accountant with a small local firm. Again, single and lists his interests as kick-boxing and karate. Wouldn’t want to meet either of them on a dark night. Both also list their membership of Addicted-to-fitness.
Although both guys are interested in physical pursuits, I couldn’t see either of them having the skill or patience to position a stiletto so accurately, then use it to sever the aorta. They would be much more likely to beat someone to death. This isn’t their scene, but I still need to talk with them.
I print everything I’ve found and add it to the case file.