Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  In the office I update Dan, then head for my cubicle, Folgers in hand. No messages again. I feel like a complete newbie. I logon and read the previous night’s report. Nothing exciting there. Then I see it. A message from eBay security. There’s an attachment, which I quickly pull up. There have only been six stiletto knives bought in Naples since they started maintaining records, and they’ve sent me all the transaction details. I look the six orders through and initially discount four of them as men purchased them, and I’m becoming convinced that Jason’s killer is a woman.

  I justify this further to myself by remembering Arnie’s answer when I asked him if Jason wouldn’t have noticed the taste of the drugs in his beer and he said he must have been distracted. Who better to distract him than a beautiful woman with long red hair?

  I will keep the four men’s names on my B-list, just in case the woman angle doesn’t work out. I have to prioritize somehow, and this seems the right way for now.

  So that has narrowed my potential killer list down to two. I’m undecided which looks the more promising. One woman purchased the first ten years before, someone else the other around nine months ago. I study the detail of each transaction and look the knives up on the website to find the technical details. The two knives are similar in basic design. Both are the ‘flick’ variety and easy to conceal, with stylized handles, but with different blades. I lift the phone. I need to speak with Arnie.

  Two minutes later, I have my potential killer. The blade that killed Mark Jason had a diamond cross-section. There is only one of these on the eBay list and one of the women purchased it ten years before. The name on the order is Pamela Wilson, with an address down in Belle Meade, south of the city. I type her name into the DMV system and find her driving license confirms the address is still current.

  She’s thirty-eight and has red hair. In the picture it’s shorter than the hair found at the crime scene, but the picture is several years old. Women change their hair. This is the one. I can feel it. I want to rush out the door, but have Xavier Rivera due in ten minutes. I print her DMV picture and put it in a blank folder. This is coming with me.

  Rivera is fashionably late, and by the time he turns up I’m pissed and struggling to hide it. Whereas he’s cool, calm and collected. Obviously, the talk with his buddy and a night to think about everything had calmed him down rather than worried him. That is about to change. I start off gently enough.

  ‘Thanks for coming in this morning, Mister Rivera. I appreciate your cooperation.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. No problem.’

  ‘As I’m sure you know by now, we’re investigating the death of your friend Mark Jason two nights ago. I would like to ask you what you might know that could help the investigation?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of. Mark was a cool guy. We hung out. Drank some beers. Worked out at the club. Watched sport. Not much more to tell.’

  ‘Where did you drink your beers? A sports bar somewhere?’

  I’m fishing. But fishing with a purpose.

  ‘Here and there, you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t Mister Rivera. That’s why I’m asking. I’m sure there must be a regular bar you guys would hang out at. I only want to know which one?’

  He looks cornered. He doen’t know what I already know and doesn’t want to give anything away, yet he doesn’t want to appear to avoid the question either. I have him where I want him.

  ‘The bar, Mister Rivera?’

  ‘Well, if you must have a name, I would go for the All American Sports Bar on Ninth Avenue between Fifth and Sixth.’

  ‘Busy place is it?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty crowded usually.’

  ‘Decent food?’

  ‘Burgers, steaks that kind of thing.’

  ‘Nice waitresses?’

  ‘Sure, if you’re into them so young.’

  ‘You prefer them a little older?’

  ‘Straight shooter. No youngsters for me.’

  Time to fish again.

  ‘So, you were there with Mark the night someone killed him?’

  ‘What? Me?’

  ‘Yes, you, Mark and Tyrone. Just sinking a few friendlies.’

  My bait is innocence, and he buys it.

  ‘Well, only a couple.’

  ‘What time did you finish up?’

  ‘Tyrone and me, we left around ten.’

  ‘And your friend, Mark. When did he leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was still there when we left.’

  I open the folder and place the photograph of Pamela Wilson in front of him. ‘So you didn’t leave with this woman then?’

  He’s flustered. He recognizes her, but doesn’t know what to say. I prompt him.

  ‘I can go ask at the bar if I need to.’

  ‘Sure, I recognize her. But not from that night.’

  ‘Which night then, Mister Rivera. Which night did you three leave with this woman?’

  He doesn’t even see the trap. Just walks right in.

  ‘It was a few nights before.’

  ‘And you had a few drinks with her, then left together? That right?’

  ‘Sure. Tyrone and me were heading home, Mark was going to see her safely to her place.’

  He’s recovered a little. I push again.

  ‘But that’s not what happened, is it, Mister Rivera?’

  I can see the sweat forming in his armpits. He’s in trouble and should really ask for an attorney, but hey, I’m not charging him with anything. We’re just talking. I’ll take the heat for this afterwards if I have to.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  More fishing.

  ‘Well, you all went back to Mark’s place for a little party, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Mister Rivera. I’m a detective. Finding things out is what I do, and I’m good at my job.’

  I prompt him one more time, then give him the old silent treatment.

  It takes him a few minutes to phrase his denial so that at least he thinks it sounds plausible. I can almost see his brain working.

  ‘We might have, I don’t really remember.’

  ‘We’re talking four, five, maybe six nights ago, Mister Rivera. And you can’t remember?’

  I make my incredulity ring round the room. He gets it.

  ‘Look, I’m not a hundred percent sure. You get that, right?’

  ‘So, you’re what ninety percent sure? Does that sound about right?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘So, how did your little three-on-one soiree go, Mister Rivera? Did you enjoy yourself?’

  By now, the sweat patch has spread right down to his waistband. He’s noticeably paler, and his hands are twitching.

  ‘Look, Tyrone and me went home. There wasn’t no party. Not that I recall. She was fine when we left.’

  Now I have to decide what he’s telling me. By saying that she was fine when he left, was he claiming that nothing had happened while he was there, or acknowledging that maybe something happened after that? Could be either, but having listened to Mark’s two ex wives, I suspect I know which one it was. More fishing required.

  ‘I thought you were ninety percent sure you went back to Mark’s place with her? So, do you mean that when Tyrone and yourself left Mark’s place, she was fine?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I meant. Sure.’

  ‘So you were there the entire time with both Mark and Xavier and Miss Wilson?’

  ‘Yeah, but nothing happened. We were just having a few drinks and some fun.’

  ‘So, nothing violent happened?’

  ‘No, of course not. Nothing like that?’

  ‘So, let me see if I’ve got your facts straight, Mister Rivera. This attractive young single lady, accompanies three men who have been drinking to one of their homes. Shares a beer or two, then leaves. That about right?’

  The penny finally drops, but I know I’ve got as far as I can, anyway. And we have recorded everything. So when he asks for an attorney, I thank him
for coming in and show him out. I reckon I can go after him and his boxer-buddy later. For now, I have a killer to catch, and it isn’t one of these guys. I’m already sure of that.

  8

  Back upstairs in my cubicle, I update my notes and add them into the case book. I also add the forensic report from Jason’s apartment along with a summary of my position relative to my number one suspect.

  I then go looking for Dan to discuss next steps with him. He’s out of the office, so I call and leave a message for him, then speak to the duty sergeant and arrange two patrol cars and four officers to come with me. We’re heading out to Pamela Wilson’s place. This woman has already killed one detective, I’ve no intentions of letting her make it two.

  The address eBay has given me is about fifteen miles south down Rte 41. She lives in one of these vast housing complexes that Florida seems to grow like weeds. Nice enough, but another house in the middle of hundreds just like it. Hers is the only house in the row with a blue-tiled roof. Makes it stand out.

  Everywhere looks deserted. Early afternoon. People at work, kids at school. Grandparents napping in the backyard. No-one around. I send two officers round the back as I approach the front with the others. I knock, but there’s no sound from inside. I knock louder and shout that we’re from the Sheriff’s office. Still no answer. I tell the officers to check the windows and see what they can see inside. It only takes thirty seconds for one of them to call me over and ask me to take a look.

  Blood on the floor by the entry to the lounge. A significant amount of blood.

  I send an officer back to the patrol SUV to bring a ram. Two practice swings and we’re in.

  A woman I recognize immediately as Pamela Wilson is laying a few yards in from the front door. Clearly dead, but I check anyway. No pulse. No breathing. Definitely dead. I tell the officers to secure the perimeter while I call it in and ask for the medical examiner, forensics and another half-dozen officers for door-to-door.

  I’m tempted to glove up and have a look around inside, but even by breaking the door down and me checking for signs of life, we’ve already interfered with the crime scene. No point making things worse.

  I ask one of the officers to take control of access in and out of the crime scene and he heads of to collect a clip board.

  What seems like a long thirty minutes later, the forensics team arrive. I recognize one of them. The one who had given me the print and hair information from Mark Jason’s place. He nods his recognition in return.

  They take time at their vehicle to pull on their forensic one-piece suits, pull up the hoods and add gloves, before finally entering the house.

  I now have eight officers on the scene, so organize the door-to-door before following forensics into the house, booted and gloved.

  Standing just inside the door, I watch as they briefly examine the body before methodically photographing and measuring everything in sight, laying markers wherever they find something of interest.

  One of Arnie’s assistants arrives next. They have a duty roster for situations like this, and I guess they have pulled him from something he was doing with his family. He has a disgruntled air hanging over him, and a snappiness I haven’t seen before.

  I wait patiently as he examines the body. He knows I’ll have questions; I don’t need to say. He’ll get to me when he’s ready. See, I can be patient and considerate.

  When that moment finally arrives, he confirmes my assumption he didn’t want to be here when he starts his update without preamble.

  ‘Dead between ten and twelve hours. Single knife thrust into the femoral artery,’ he explains, while bagging what looks like a medium-sized kitchen knife. Soaked in blood.

  ‘Looks like the assailant deliberately left the knife in the wound, then the victim removed it sometime later. I’ll confirm the cause of death later, but for now, I would say she bled to death. We’ll be able to say more when we get her on the table.’

  ‘Why do you say the killer left the knife in?’

  ‘Blood spatter patterns. If you cut the femoral, there will be immediate spray, which would cover the assailant.’

  ‘So, if you leave the knife in…’

  ‘You get minimal spray, and can walk away.’

  ‘Why do you think the woman took the knife out on her own?’

  ‘Instinct. Something enters your body, you just want it out.’

  ‘She killed herself?’

  ‘Essentially. Mind you, if the knife weren’t there in the first place…’

  Leaving him to finish his work, I check with one of the forensic technicians if they’re finished with the lounge and kitchen before I start to look around the house. See what I can find out about Pamela Wilson.

  There isn’t much to the place. The entrance hall, two bedrooms, a lounge, kitchen and rear porch with a bare backyard. I find a bowl of cat food in the kitchen, but no sign of a cat. Contents of the fridge look normal. The freezer is stocked mainly with fruit and veg. No signs of meat anywhere. Probably a vegetarian. There’s a calendar on the fridge door. Apparently, she attends regular yoga and dance classes. Apart from that, no names jump off the page. No boyfriends or girlfriends, come to think of it. Just yoga and dance. I make a note of the clubs she attends and move on to the lounge.

  Comfortably furnished. Reminds me of Mark Jason’s place, but more of the feminine touch. Not a lot, though. Cushions, and a few paintings on the wall. No curtains. She’s also a magazine reader with piles everywhere. I glance at a few. Women’s fitness, Woman’s world, People, Women’s Health, Cosmopolitan. Nothing about men. Maybe she’s gay? Maybe she just likes women’s magazines?

  Another thing missing - family. Not a single framed photograph. Not even parents. So a loner with a troubled background? Unhappy childhood?

  Sure the lounge has nothing else to offer, I see the technician coming out of the master bedroom and confirm it’s okay for me to enter.

  He gives me a grin and tells me I’m in for a treat.

  I push the door open and look around, not sure what he was grinning about.

  Nice sized room. But then, it needs to be. There’s a super-king sized bed against the far wall, with bedside tables and lamps to either side. I run a finger along one table and leave a score in the dust that has formed there. It doesn’t seem like she’s been in there for quite some time.

  I open a drawer on one of the bedside units and find a strange contraption made from wood with hinges. I lift it out and am examining it more closely, trying to figure it out, when a technician asks if he can start in the other bedroom. When he sees what I’m holding, he explains it’s an adjustable cell-phone stand. It allows you to position and direct your cell any way you want. Apparently people use it for hands-free video calls. I put it back in the drawer and carry on looking.

  The headboard is a fancy wrought-iron piece. Not comfortable to lean against when you’re reading. Just not practical. On the wall facing the bed, there’s a shelf mounted at almost my shoulder height. Just about three foot long. It’s empty, apart from a matching layer of dust.

  Fitted wardrobes with floor-to-ceiling mirrored fronts run along the left-hand wall. I start at the first and look inside. Skirts, tops, a few dresses. Nothing fancy. She wasn’t a clothes person. The second is much the same, although there are a couple of longer evening dresses. The woman would probably have looked good in either of these.

  When I try the third, I begin to get the technician’s grin. The clothes inside are very different, although arguably, she would also likely have looked good in these.

  An outfit that reminds me of a school uniform - white shirt, plaid tartan short skirt and would you believe, a tie? Then, uniforms - police, air-hostess, nurse and something that resembles a hangman’s outfit from an old movie, complete with black hood.

  Then there’s my favorite - a black faux-leather figure-hugging one-piece jump-suit. I can only imagine myself trying to squeeze into this thing and look sexy. Just wouldn’t happen. I would look like a stu
ffed sausage.

  I move on.

  To one side there’s a set of drawers. I open the top one and lift a few pairs of flimsy knickers. Different colors. Lacy. Crotchless. I’m now thinking I may have underestimated Miss Wilson.

  The second drawer is more interesting still. The contents would be best described as paraphernalia. Dildos of various shapes and sizes, some of which make me cringe.

  A pink anal solid-glass bulb. Blue leather floggers. A pvc hood with no slots for the eyes. Various gags, one of which sported bright red lips open in a letter ‘O’ attached to a leather strap. Something I could only describe as a finger-rake with sharp nails. And, inevitably, handcuffs. Now I’m positive I had Miss Wilson all wrong.

  I check the final wardrobe only to find more sexy outfits. It looks like she could cover most men’s fantasies with this lot.

  I carefully leave everything as I find it for cataloguing and collecting later, and move onto the second bedroom.

  The technician’s finished and I’m free to look around. It’s not as large as the first, but still a decent size. Measured against my own, it’s enormous. The room is more effeminate than the rest of the house. A queen bed with a patterned duvet. Curtains which pick out a couple of the main duvet colors hang to either side of the single window. I check the bedside cabinet. There are a few over-the-counter regular medications, a couple of magazines, hairpins, an underarm deodorant and a Coco Mademoiselle Perfume spray, the cost of which would feed me for a week.