Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  I mention that his conclusion fits with me finding the white powder baggies in her bedside cabinet. He just nods.

  ‘What about the stabbing?’

  ‘Simple enough. Whoever did this targeted the femoral artery with precision. Severed it in one quick stab.’

  ‘Your assistant suggested that the assailant left the knife in the wound, and it was the victim herself who removed it. Can you confirm that?’

  ‘No. The blood spatter is the only way you can determine that.’

  ‘Anything else you think might be helpful, Arnie?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he answers. He likes to be mysterious sometimes. To make me drag it out of him. I just play along.

  ‘Maybe, what?’

  ‘Maybe I have something. Maybe even a couple of other useful things, in fact.’

  ‘Can I ask what?’

  ‘Bruising.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Many places, including vaginal and anal. But mostly on her arms and legs, and around the base of her neck. I would say this lady had some rough treatment recently.’

  ‘How recently do you think?’

  ‘Looking at the bruising dis-coloration, I would say most likely within the past few days, or certainly in the past week.’

  Given her profession, I’m not surprised. There again, Mark Jason’s two exes had painted the story of how they were treated by him and his two friends. I could see it either way. Arnie shakes me out of my thoughts.

  ‘Do you know the most common ways to kill a person outright with a single stab of a blade?’

  I have to admit it’s not something I’ve ever considered. This seems to please him. I settle down and prepare for a bit of a lecture.

  ‘Number one - straight through the eye, penetration of the frontal cortex.’

  ‘That would do it, for sure,’ I agree.

  ‘Number two - direct punching motion through the side of the skull. The Temple. Again, penetrating the brain.’

  ‘This is gruesome, Arnie. What’s next?’

  ‘Three - severing the carotid with a swipe across the neck. Not as fast, but just as effective.’

  I’m ready to ask if there are more when he continues.

  ‘Four, a direct puncture wound into the heart or preferably the Aortic arch as in the death of detective Jason. And finally, the fifth would be the one we have in front of us. Severing the femoral artery. This is like the carotid in that it’s not instantaneous, but equally effective if you have a little time to spare.’

  ‘Fascinating, Arnie. I suppose there’s a reason for enlightening me in this way?’

  My sarcasm always results in the same stare. But it never stops me. Take pleasure in life when you can - that’s my motto.

  After a strained moment, he explains.

  ‘Do you understand the crucial difference between the first four and the last?’

  I’m not expecting a test, have no idea what he’s talking about and tell him so.

  ‘The first four account for more than ninety-five percent of knife deaths and are above waist-height. The last accounts for five percent, and is not.’

  ‘I get that, Arnie. But why are you pointing it out to me?’

  ‘If there are four more equally efficient or better ways to kill your victim with a knife above waist height, why would you pick the lowest?’

  I think about that for a moment. Seems like he’s onto something, but I’m not sure what.

  ‘The accuracy of the single blow tells you that whoever did this, knew what they were doing. Had planned it in advance. So my question for you, detective, is why did they pick the least likely point of attack?’

  ‘I see what you mean. Most people would raise their hand to stab, so the impact site would usually be above waist-height.’

  ‘Exactly why the first four are the more common deaths from stabbing. So I ask you, detective. Why didn’t your killer go for one of them?’

  ‘Thanks, Arnie. That gives me something to think about.’

  ‘One other thing, detective. I examined the cervix just before you arrived and think it’s possible your victim may have had a baby. If she did, I would say it would be many years ago.’

  ‘Not like you to give me possibles, Arnie.’

  ‘What can I say, detective. The thing is, when a young woman delivers a baby, the cervix is more flexible and capable of more or less returning to its original state after delivery. So, given what I have found here. If Pamela Wilson had a child, she is most likely to have been in her early teens at the time.’

  11

  When I get back from Pamela Wilson’s autopsy, I sit down to think about everything Arnie has just told me. I still have missing information. The toxicology report to confirm the plastic baggie content as Cocaine, and forensics to confirm the blood-splatter theory that the killer left the knife in the wound. I’m also now wondering if there is a younger ‘Pamela’ out there somewhere to start my list of suspects. There’s certainly no indication of that around her home.

  Thinking about possible suspects, another thing I need to follow up is Pamela’s professional engagements. Was her death connected to Mark Jason and his buddies, or to something else entirely? Someone who had not taken kindly to the professional treatment she had meted out? I have no idea.

  What’s becoming clear is that Pamela Wilson is responsible for the death of Detective Jason. A final comparison with the fingerprints found on the beer bottle in Jason’s apartment will confirm her presence, and that combined with the Coco Mademoiselle perfume and the red hair comparison should at least raise her to the top of the suspect list. The only problem is that the door-to-door has uncovered nothing. No-one had seen or heard anything unusual on the night someone killed Jason. So, all I can be sure of is that Pamela Wilson had been in his apartment recently, and given the fingerprints on the beer bottle, probably the night he died. But still not necessarily that she had killed him. I need more. I can establish opportunity and motive, but Ideally I need to find the stiletto.

  At that point my phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s one of the technicians from forensics. I can tell he’s excited.

  ‘What have you got?’ I ask.

  ‘There was a safe at the victim’s home.’

  ‘Pamela Wilson’s?’

  ‘Yes. It was a floor safe in a pantry cupboard in the kitchen.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. There’s a safe expert out there now as we talk.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘I’ll call you later. Let you know what we find inside.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  Now that’s interesting. How many regular people do I know that have a safe in their home? Not many. Actually, I don’t know any at all. There again, that’s too small a sample size to draw any conclusions. I don’t know many regular people. Most of the people I know are cops. Show me a cop who has a safe in his home! I decide to take a poll.

  In the next ten minutes, I give the question to half a dozen guys in the department. Not one of them knows anyone with a home safe. So, what little secret is Pamela Wilson keeping in there? I’ll have to wait to find out.

  Meanwhile, when I get back to my desk, I realize autopsies make me hungry. But one thing I have to do first. File for a subpoena to gain access to Pamela Wilson’s bank details. I do that through our in-house system online and it only takes a few moments. After that, I try to concentrate on updating my two case books, but when I’m hungry, there’s only one thing I can do. Go find food.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m down at EJ’s with a massive fry-up in front of me. With food making its way into my body, my mind is prepared to co-operate.

  First, I have to decide if there’s a link between the two cases. The way I proceed will depend on that. I think back to the descriptions Mark Jason’s ex wives had given me of how Mark and his friends assaulted them. If for no other reason than getting justice for these two women, I would like to nail Xavier and Tyrone. I�
��m depending on Pamela Wilson turning up on the security videos from the All American Sports Bar. At least I have a plan for them.

  Now that Pamela Wilson is top of my suspect hit list for Jason’s homicide, I need to think through the other possibilities and make sure I’m not zeroing-in too quickly. My list for alternative suspects includes his two ex wives, but having spoken to them, I’m almost ready to cross them off the list. I just have to check their alibis as a last detail. That’s something I can have someone else take care of. I’m sure neither of these women are killers.

  Then there’s his two dumb-assed friends. I can see them falling out. Getting physical. Fighting. But I couldn’t see either of them climbing on top of him and pushing a stiletto through his aorta. I’m convinced I can take them off the list. Again, I’ll have someone check their alibis.

  That leaves me with either someone I haven’t yet thought of, or Pamela Wilson taking her revenge. I stop mid-sausage-bite and use my cell to call the forensics lab. The same guy who called me an hour ago answers. I ask about the hair and print comparisons and he promises to get back to me ASAP.

  Satisfied I’ve made progress, I get back to eating.

  So, if I assume Pamela Wilson killed Mark. Who do I have on the list for killing Pamela Wilson? Mark’s two buddies for sure. They would know her and know what had really happened at Mark’s apartment. They are top of the list. Revenge the motive. Then I grind to a halt. I realize they’re not just at the top of the list. They are the list.

  I need more suspects.

  That makes me wonder about her Dominatrix career and whether I’m looking for a dissatisfied customer. I’m also curious to find out the contents of her home safe. Maybe I’ll find another possible suspect there.

  Pamela Wilson’s home was comfortable, but it didn’t leave me feeling she was loaded. Everything was almost utilitarian, not expensive. It looks like her professional life gave her a certain life-style, and that was fine. I didn’t sense ambition, or drive to become super-rich. So, what could she possibly own that would require a safe? Maybe she inherited? I should look into her family for that. I also need to follow up on the door-to-door I left the patrol guys doing. Maybe someone saw the killer come and go. It’s happened before.

  By now, I’ve emptied my plate, and it’s time to head back into the office.

  As I approach the Sheriff’s building, my cell rings. It’s my newfound friend in forensics.

  ‘You got to come see this, detective.’

  A few minutes later, I’m doing just that. He has the contents of the safe laid out in a neat row in front of him. Ten cell phones, each in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘That’s what was inside. Ten cells, nothing else.’

  ‘Do they work?’

  ‘Some do, some don’t. They’re not new. Some of them are over ten years old, I would say.’

  I recognize a couple as older models of the Apple iPhone, and another couple as Samsungs. Other than that, I’m at a loss.

  ‘Can you charge them up and find out what’s on them?’

  ‘Should be able to with most of them. The newer ones might be a problem, though?’

  ‘The newer ones? Shouldn’t the older ones be the problems?’

  ‘No. Charging them up will be easy enough once we dig up the right cables for the older models. But getting in through the security will be much harder with the newer phones.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Apple, mainly. The FBI have been after them for years to build in a back-door through their security screening, so they can get into terrorist’s cells. But they’ve refused point blank. They’ve even defended their position against a U.S. Magistrate’s order to allow FBI access to an iPhone used by one of the perpetrators in the San Bernardino mass shooting. They plan to take it to a District court, and all the way to the Supreme court if necessary. They won’t budge anytime soon.’

  ‘But we can get into the older models?’

  ‘Sure can. We use a couple of external firms that do that kind of thing all the time. It usually takes a few days, but I would say we can get into at least six or seven of these.’

  ‘Ok. Let’s do it. And as quickly as you can. These cells will probably tell us who killed the victim.’

  The next hour I spend tracking down relatives of Pamela Wilson. She’d never married. Her mother is dead, but her father still lives here in Naples. She also has a sister up in Tampa. I call the father and we agree I would go directly there.

  It takes me around thirty minutes to turn into the Everglades golf complex to the East of I75. Looks like there are two or maybe three courses in this one complex, and I guess I figure Pamela’s father is a golfer. With his wife dead and living on his own, why not?

  I pass the swanky club house on my left. They’re also into tennis. I can see five outdoor courts and three mini-courts either used for juniors or by the seniors for pickle-ball. The clubhouse itself is a large single-storey affair with a glass front and an octagonal restaurant to the side, overlooking a decent sized swimming pool. If you can afford to live here, you would probably never leave the complex.

  Having seen the glory of the clubhouse, I have to say the basic construction of Mr. Wilson’s home surprises me. Utilitarian is the best way I can describe it. There again, he has a golf buggy in the garage, several sets of clubs and an old dodge in the driveway. What more does he need?

  I pull up and head for the garage. He’s cleaning some clubs at a workbench in the back. I show him my badge and confirm that I’m the one who had called. I ask if we can talk inside, and he leads me into the house through a door at the rear of the garage and offers me coffee. Much as I would have liked one, for once I refuse, wanting to get on with the discussion. I suggest maybe we can sit. I then tell him what has happened to his daughter.

  As he absorbs the news, I try to figure his response and come up with - stoic. No extreme melt-down. No tears. Just sad acceptance.

  I offer to get him something. A glass of water, a coffee, anything at all. He declines.

  So, I ask if he can tell me a little about his daughter. He doesn’t go where I’m expecting. In this situation, most people tell you about the deceased’s childhood. How they were when they were little. You know. Fond childhood memories. But not Mr. Wilson. He sticks with the present.

  ‘I told her this would happen.’

  ‘Told her what would happen, Mr. Wilson?’

  ‘That someone wouldn’t like what she was doing. That someone would harm her.’

  ‘What was your daughter doing that you thought would get her harmed?’

  He looks reluctant to say more. I nudge him along.

  ‘I’ve been through the contents of her home, Mr. Wilson. I think you can talk freely without giving away too many secrets.’

  ‘She was seeing people. Men.’

  ‘By seeing, you mean having sexual relations. Is that right?’

  He nods.

  ‘So you knew she was doing this?’

  ‘Yes. I tried to get her to stop. But she wouldn’t, until recently.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘Oh, I think it was around two or three years ago. Strange that she should get killed over it now though.’

  ‘You think someone killed her because of that?’

  ‘Why else? She was just a woman trying to get by. Never could hold down a regular job. Damned drugs. Couldn’t get off them.’

  ‘Do you know why she stopped seeing men?’

  ‘She never told me. Just said she’d had enough.’

  ‘Do you know how she managed for money? Did she ask you for help?’

  ‘No. Just the opposite. She would often bring me a week’s shopping, or stock up my freezer. She never asked for anything from me. She was good that way.’

  ‘Was there any man in particular in your daughter’s life?’

  ‘No. They wouldn’t have put up with her doing what she was doing, would they?’

  ‘How abou
t since she stopped, say in the past couple of years?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She never seemed interested in men. I know that sounds stupid. But maybe she saw the darker side and didn’t like it. I don’t know.’

  ‘You have another daughter?’

  ‘Sure. Shirley. She lives with her family up in Tampa. Don’t see her so often anymore. They’re always busy.’

  ‘Was she close to Pamela?’

  ‘No, never was. She’s five years younger. Different Mums. Never got along much. She would only ever see Pamela when she came down here to see me. I would make a point of having them both together.’

  ‘Was there animosity between them?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. They just weren’t interested in each other. Sad, really. But I stopped trying to make it better a long time ago.’

  ‘Will you tell Shirley what has happened to her sister?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll take care of that. Do you know when I can collect the body?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but someone from the Medical Examiner’s office will be in touch over the next few days.’

  We talk a little more after that, but he has little else to tell me. Although he knew that his daughter was seeing men, he never mentioned the specifics of the service she provided. So, I decide not to, just in case he doesn’t know that level of detail. No point.

  Back in the car, I look at the time and decide that as I’m driving up to talk with my parents, I should probably head off. I’m on top of everything I should be for the moment. I can afford a few hours with my folks.