Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  ‘You should talk with his two cronies. They hang out together all the time. Christ, they spent more time with him than I did.’

  ‘You mean Tyler and Xavier?’

  ‘Yes, that’s them.’

  ‘Why should I talk with them?’

  ‘They’re just the same as him.’

  ‘They’re abusive?’

  At that, tears appear in her eyes and she wipes them away, nodding.

  ‘Did he bring them home sometimes?’

  Tears were flowing faster than she can wipe. I don’t need to ask any more. I have the unique insight on Mark Jason I’ve been looking for. Not to mention his two cohorts.

  After that, I don’t press for further details. We talk a little about what being married to a detective was like for her in a more general sense, and I guess that was more for me than anything else. When Bossy-boots was still around, one of the options I had been forced to consider, was whether I would like being married. I hadn’t reached any conclusion then, and I guess I’m still curious.

  When I have all the answers I need, I thank her again for the coffee, but especially for sharing her information with me, and leave her watching me from the doorstep as I head back to the car. The next-door neighbor has another peek between her blinds, and I give her a friendly wave.

  Back in the car, I check the time. I need to head straight to meet with Jason’s other ex - Lynda Goldway. Where Emily lives to the South of Naples, Lynda is to the North. It will take twenty minutes, straight up Santa Barbara Boulevard, I should just about make it if the traffic is kind.

  Bang on midday, I enter the Island Walk gated community off Vanderbilt Beach, east of I75. I’ve visited a friend here previously, two years before. It’s like a small town with its own post office, cafe, bank and gas station. There’s also a clubhouse with an impressive fitness center and half a dozen tennis courts. They carefully constructed the complex around waterways. Lots and lots of waterways, such that virtually every home had a waterfront view. I’m interested to find Jason’s ex living here. Presumably her name change implies she has remarried and remarried well by the look of this place. You don’t live here on a detective’s salary.

  If I were being critical, I would say she had picked the wrong road to live on. It doesn’t directly connect to the center complex. You can see it over the water, but not get to it. I would find it frustrating to have to walk all the way round the outside of the estate.

  I follow that very perimeter road that runs round the outside of the entire complex until I reach Hawksbury Way, then turn in and look for her house. The houses are nice, don’t get me wrong. But they’re nothing special. Well, yes, I would swap in a flash. But for five hundred grand, I would expect a little more. I should ever face such a choice. Dream on.

  Like so many houses in Florida, the exterior walls are a pale primrose color, the roof shallow with pale red tiles. The house has the mandatory two-car garage, and an archway over the front door. There must be thousands of these across the State. Comfortable, but boring. I suppose if you’re retired, that might work for you. But Lynda works at Walmart Pharmacy, so what does that tell me?

  I ring the chimes on the front door and wait only a minute before hearing footsteps approaching. When the door opens, I feel like a rag-doll compared to the woman in front of me. She looks younger than the picture I had seen of her online. Either her wrinkles have disappeared after her divorce, or I need to know which face-cream she’s using. Her skin is clear and smooth, her eyes shine, and her auburn hair has highlights and hangs down to shoulder length in loose waves.

  She smiles and I swear my day improves right there and then. She waves me in and directs me to the outdoor area out the back where we can sit by the pool. There are kids’ inflatables, and toys around the place, but no sign of kids. She follows my gaze and tells me the toys belong to her husband’s kids who are at school.

  She has already prepared a jug of iced lemonade, and without asking she pours one for me, and we sit under the shade of an enormous umbrella, before she finally asks me how she can help?

  I tell her about her ex, but this time I’m better prepared for the response. The only difference here is that Lynda is much more forthcoming about her ex’s two friends being involved. Not only was she shared around, but sometimes they would bring a girl home with them and they would force her to watch and then join in.

  After these sessions, they always left her bruised, but they were careful where. Her face was out-of-bounds, but sometimes she had to wear high-necked roll-tops for a week or two to cover the bruises on her neck.

  When I ask her how she got out of the marriage, she hesitates at first, but then decides to tell me. I can almost sense the relief. Something she’s bottled up for over five years.

  ‘My brother came home from Afghanistan. He was a marine. A tough guy’s, tough guy. When I told him what was going on, he nearly blew his stack. I could barely stop him from finding Mark and killing him and his two friends. He was all for shooting them down like rag-heads. That’s how he described them.’

  ‘But you stopped him?’

  ‘Let’s say, I avoided him killing them. He waited until one night when Mark had his two friends over for a session. He used a key I had given him to let himself and a few ex-marine buddies into the house.’

  ‘So, they sorted Mark out?’

  ‘You bet. I wasn’t the one with the bruises the next day, and I wasn’t sorry about it. Not for a second.’

  ‘So, your divorce was straight forward?’

  ‘No problem. After that, he was decent enough, although not what I would call generous. But I didn’t care. I just wanted out.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘Not once. And never wanted to.’

  ‘Have you any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

  ‘Not my brother if that’s what you’re thinking. He got himself married a couple of years back and lives up in Kennebunkport in Maine. He knows I’ve remarried and am safe and happy. He hasn’t been back down here since.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘How about his most recent wife? I don’t remember her name.’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘Sure. That rings a bell. I doubt she would have fared any better than me.’

  ‘Did you try to warn her before she married him?’

  ‘Nope. I might feel bad about that, but I wasn’t going anywhere near the slime bag ever again.’

  ‘Well, she got out a lot quicker than you did. You needn’t worry about her anymore.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Anyone else you can think of?’

  ‘Probably a whole trail of one-night-stands that will struggle to stand after their one night with the three of them. I doubt he and his friends have given up their sessions. I dread to think how many others have gone through what I did.’

  ‘You feel guilty you didn’t report them back in the day?’

  ‘Sure I feel guilty. But I needed to get out. That was all I cared about.’

  We talk a little more about her current life, and she really has moved on. Her husband already had two kids when they met, so now they’re raising them together. She has no plans for any additions. She likes her job as a pharmacist, although she hates the daily struggle to explain to people why basic prescriptions are so expensive. Ultimately, she thinks that might be what will eventually cause her to give up her job. But it hasn’t so far. Maybe one day.

  When we finish, I thank her and leave. The iced lemonade had been great, but the new perspective she had given me on my victim was better still. Now, according to two independent people, Mark Jason is a serial abuser. He and his buddies together. And that opens up a whole new avenue of investigation. I‘m buzzed. At last, the case is beginning to go somewhere. How little do I know.

  6

  Back in the office, fate is smiling kindly on me. There’s a message for me from Mark Jason’s other friend - Xavier Rivera, leaving me a cell number. I call, and he answers immediat
ely. Given my recent new insight into how these three guys have been behaving, I decide on a more formal approach this time.

  ‘Hi, Xav here.’

  ‘Is that Xavier Rivera?’

  ‘Sure, who’s this?’

  ‘Detective Sammy Greyfox. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Sure. Is this about Mark, man?’

  I avoid his question.

  ‘I would like you to come into the Sheriff’s office and talk with us as soon as possible.’

  I know he will worry about why I was happy to speak to his friend at the gym, yet I want to see him in person.

  He doesn’t give up so easily though.

  ‘Can’t you just tell me what you want to talk about?’

  ‘I think that’s better discussed here, Mister Rivera.’

  ‘Can’t we like meet at the club or something?’

  ‘No, Mister Rivera. It needs to be here. How about first thing tomorrow morning, say nine?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Is that a yes, Mister Rivera?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. It’s a yes. See you at nine.’

  The line goes dead.

  My plan had been in three parts. Sound more threatening - done. Get him onto my turf to make him uncomfortable - done. Give him an entire night to worry about it - done. I’m pleased with myself. I can almost imagine him scurrying off to find Tyrone.

  I’m just beginning to plan my approach when one of the forensic technicians stops by to tell me they’ve finished the review of Mark Jason’s apartment. They only have two things they think might be of specific interest to me.

  The prints from four of the beer bottles. Three sets match the victim, but the fourth set are unknown. They’ve already run them through the AFIS system without finding a match.

  The second thing is a single long red hair, believed most likely to be from a woman. When I ask why a woman. He explains that although hair is the same between both genders, men usually wear their hair shorter, and if they use styling products, they have a matte finish. Whereas women often wear their hair longer and usually use softening products, that show off their shine. This was a long shiny red hair. This hair has come from a woman.

  I thank the technician and can already see the significance of that last discovery. I’ve already noted the complete absence of the female touch from Jason’s home. No female partner, and no signs of even casual stay-over company. No extra toothbrush, makeup accidentally left behind. Nothing. So this long shiny red hair is screaming at me. What I don’t know for sure is when it was left there. My gut is saying we’ve just found a hair from the killer. But I needed more.

  The beer bottle prints are also interesting. I decide to take the theory forming in my head downstairs and talk with Arnie Collins.

  I find him hunched over the autopsy table, happy as ever. I know as homicide detectives we get used to bodies and learn to cope, but opening them up and rifling around inside, takes it to a whole different level for me. I don’t know how he stays so cheerful.

  I asked him once, and he said because the dead couldn’t speak for themselves and it was his job to do that for them. That he was pleased and honored to do that. Hence, he would either have cheerful music playing in the background, or as today, he would be happily humming to himself. I guess whatever turns you on.

  I stand behind the observation screen and wait until I catch his eye. When I do, he stops work immediately and strips off his gloves and gown before coming round to talk.

  ‘Sammy. You got to me first. I was intending to call as soon as I finished with my client over there. Anyway, now you’re here. I have some interesting news for you on the death of detective Jason. Let me get my notes.’

  We cross the room to his admin area, where there is absolutely no evidence of the paper-less office. Not in Arnie’s world, anyway. Regardless, he seems to always know where everything is and goes straight to the file he wants. Opening it, he reads aloud.

  ‘Whoever supplied the beers laced them with over-the-counter medications. Zaleplon which causes drowsiness. Often used when treating sleep disorders. Eszopiclone which is also a sedative-hypnotic, and Zolpidem as a muscle relaxant.’

  ‘Interesting, Arnie. But why the chemistry lesson?’

  ‘I’m reading the results of your detective’s blood toxicology tests. With these three drugs, there was enough in his system to paralyze an elephant. Also, sufficient to kill him.’

  ‘So someone paralyzed him first, then stabbed him. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Looks that way. But honestly, the stabbing was superfluous. Left long enough, his heart and lungs would have stopped working. As soon as he had those three beers, he was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.’

  ‘What about the other bottles?’

  ‘They were the same. Whoever did this, laced all six bottles then avoided drinking any of them.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have noticed the taste?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, especially with such a high dosage. The only conclusion I came to was that someone must have distracted him.’

  ‘You examined the fingerprints on the bottles?’

  ‘I did. Three bottles had his prints on them, which would explain his condition. And there were a clear set of prints on one other bottle.’

  ‘Do you know if the additional prints are male or female?’

  ‘Funny you should ask that. I wondered about that myself. If you care to come with me, I’ll show you rather than tell you.’

  We cross to a work area between his desk and the autopsy room. He stops at a high-resolution microscope, bends over and starts twiddling knobs. When satisfied, he stands back and instructs me to look.

  I bend over and do as asked, wondering what he wants me to see.

  ‘The print on the left is your victim’s. The one on the right is from the fourth beer bottle. I have altered them to be the same overall size, but can you notice anything different between them?’

  I look from one to the other and have to admit my ignorance. The patterns are different, but that is as it should be. I’m looking at prints from two different people. I’m missing something. Arnie explains.

  ‘Look at the distance between the epidermal ridges on the left first. Then look at the same spacing on the print on the right.’

  I do as he suggests. I look at the one I know to be Jason’s first, then over to the one on the right. Then back and forth a few times to be sure.

  ‘There’s more detail in the one on the right?’

  ‘Correct, Sammy. Now it’s not one hundred percent proof, but in general women have higher epidermal density in their fingertips than men. Hence they have a greater sense of touch.’

  ‘So, the other beer drinker was a woman?’ I suggest, pleased that he’s inadvertently supporting my theory of a woman being present in Jason’s apartment. But this time, it would be on the night he was killed.

  ‘At this point, possibly,’ he replied, bursting my bubble as quickly as I’d allowed it to blow up. ‘But to be sure, I had to run a second test. I checked for amino acid levels.’

  ‘Amino acid? Why?’

  ‘Certain Amino acid levels are twice as high in the sweat of women than they are in men.’

  ‘So? Was the other beer drinker a woman?’

  ‘Yes, Sammy. I think your victim was paralyzed and then stabbed to death by a woman. What’s more, thanks to the long red hair we found, I’m fairly confident that she was a caucasian woman. Advances in genetics are allowing us to identify gender and ethnicity these days. Although the tests are still expensive. I’ve gone as far as I can without a further budget allocation, but hopefully I’ve given you enough?’

  ‘Thanks, Arnie. This fits with another question I came down to ask you about. How long do you think a woman’s perfume will linger in a bedroom?’

  ‘You mean Jason’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well spotted, Sammy. It was something I had noticed myself. It was very noticeable when I
first arrived, and that would be approximately thirty-six hours after the time of death.’

  ‘So, it could still be there a day later?’

  ‘Probably, as long as the apartment had not been further disturbed.’

  Given my earlier musings about how anyone can be happy opening up bodies, I virtually skip out of there and back upstairs. The case is taking shape already, and I’m still only a day and a half in. Now I need to consider how best to approach Xavier Rivera in the morning. Perhaps something done best at my retreat. I pack up and head home.

  My retreat is the Rusty Nail. A serious drinking-bar less than ten minutes from my place. More specifically, it’s the stool at the end of the bar in the Rusty Nail, with a Corona in front of me. This is where I truly relax. No-one bothers me here. I can think. And on this particular night, I’ve plenty to think about. What I don’t realize then is how helpful the eBay security team are about to be.

  7

  Alexa gets me up and running real fast this morning with another of my favorites. ‘Boulevard of broken dreams’ by Green Day. In the shower I’m hair-flipping and throwing my arms in the air as I sing ‘My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me. My shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating. Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me. Til’ then I walk alone.’

  At least Green Day get me. I feel understood. Great song.

  I’ve already dried off and dressed by the time Christine Aguilera tells me ‘What a girl wants’. She tells me ‘if I love something, let it go. If it comes back, it’s mine for keeps’. Well, that didn’t work out too well with Bossy-boots father. I let him go, and that’s as far as we got. So much for lyrical advice.

  The fridge is still empty, and I still need Corona. I really need to shop. I put the thought on my to-do list - where it will be doomed. Still, I have to try. I leave for the office wondering how long they will let me use the pool-car. They expect most detectives to have their own vehicle, but I’m not most detectives. If I ever pay off my education loans, I may just afford a second-hand cycle. Until then, I scrounge what I can get.