Goran responds before I can say anything. “We have some more questions, and we need to take a look around. Again, Mr. Miller, my suggestion is that we do this the easy way.”
Miller looks as if he’s toying with the idea of slamming the door in my partner’s face. I try to see inside, but the dog provides an incentive not to move too quickly or too much.
Goran switches to his good-cop voice. “Mr. Miller, you’ve been helpful to our investigation so far. Why don’t you let us in so we can figure out what really happened with that kid? We just have a couple more questions. You want to keep helping us.”
Good cop works. Miller opens the door, restraining the dog by a purple collar. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in here,” he says. His eyes are swollen and red, and he looks as though he hasn’t shaved in a couple of weeks. His red mustache hangs over his upper lip, while the lower one is cracked and chapped. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on Thursday night when he found Kevin Whittle, and they don’t appear to have been washed in the interim. A smell that’s a combination of laundry that sat in the washer too long and straight-up body odor wafts over to my nose.
The dog looks like a shepherd mix, probably half pit bull based on the size of the head and jaws. I refuse to judge a dog by its breed or its owner, and I hope this one makes me continue to feel good about that.
Goran serves the warrant and explains what it covers. “You’re going to sit with Officer Crouse while we conduct our search.”
“Sure, yeah, okay. C’mon, Peaches.” He turns to lead the way inside, pulling the dog with him. Crouse radios his partner and tells him to come inside, following Miller.
The house is small with a simple layout, so it shouldn’t take long to search. A long hallway leads from the front door to the back of the house, so I walk the length to get the setup. On one side are doors to the living room, bathroom, and bedroom, and the dining room and kitchen are on the other. At the rear of the kitchen is the back door, which is blocked with a table holding a dirty microwave and a box of trash bags. I wave at Dietz and motion for him to go around and come inside.
I move back down the hallway and join Goran, Crouse, and Miller. The living room looks like a frat party gone bad. Beer cans and bottles litter the coffee table and floor. Even though it’s only March, fruit flies have taken over, enchanted by the smell of vinegar. Dietz walks through the front door, and the dog lets out a deep bark.
“Control the dog, please,” Crouse says in a stern voice.
Miller tells Peaches to “lie down,” and she goes directly into a wire crate in the corner. He latches the door, and she curls up on a couple of old towels.
Crouse shoves some garbage aside and plants his ass on the coffee table, which is probably safest. It’s hard for bugs to live in a wooden table, but there’s always the possibility that it’s sticky. “Hey, come over here,” he tells Miller. “Let’s chat for a minute.”
Miller goes over and sits down on the stained gray-blue couch across from Crouse. Dietz moves and stands in a classic cop stance in the doorway leading to the living room.
Goran and I head into the dining room, which is equally trashed. There’s no table, just an ancient sideboard and three cheap secondhand chairs that don’t match. One is overturned on top of an old TV. A nasty stench rises from a couple of trash bags in the corner, and flies buzz around them.
My boots stick to the floor as I walk, and I try not to think about maggots. “This is fucking disgusting,” I mutter.
“Hey, you wanted to be here.” He winks and tosses me a pair of latex gloves.
“So now I’m allowed to touch things?”
“No, but you should wear the gloves, anyway. Like you said, this is disgusting.” He shoves a trash bag out of the way and looks underneath it.
“Goran, is Christopher all right? Is someone taking him home?”
“Well, he’s not very happy, with you or with any of what’s going on, and he’s freaked out. Wouldn’t you be if your DNA was found on a murder victim?”
I pretend not to notice a pair of dirty boxers on top of another trash bag. “Yeah, I would. I need to call him.”
“Liz, let him chill out a little bit first, okay? Roberts is working on his alibis. He claims he was at work when the kid was abducted, and that’ll be easy to verify.” He opens the door to a sideboard that’s seen much better days. “There’s just garbage in here. Let’s keep looking. Living room next.”
I know they can’t let him go until they know what his movements looked like on the day Kevin was abducted, during the time he was held, and the entire night of the murder, but I’m aching to protect my little brother. “I don’t like it. You know he didn’t do it, and Fishner should let him go.”
Goran stops in the hallway and turns to me. “If the alibis check, he’s gonna be okay.” He taps my shoulder. “Okay?”
“Are they calling our mother? Is she one of these alibis?” I don’t want to deal with her. I don’t want her to drink and eat pills, either.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be okay.”
I nod, but I still don’t like it. I grit my teeth and follow him down the hallway.
Dietz steps to the side and lets us back into the living room, where Miller and Crouse are chatting. Goran goes over and rummages through a fake-wood entertainment center. The dog growls at us from her crate. I don’t want to interrupt, so I do-si-do past her and stand against the mantel, which is covered with beer cans and broken bottles.
Miller’s eyes—his whole head, really—follow me, but too slowly. His pupils are big, so it’s not heroin. He’s not acting sped, so it’s not coke, crack, or meth. It could be acid, maybe Molly, or ecstasy. “I had an epic party a couple weeks ago,” he says. He gnaws on his lower lip until it bleeds. “Over a hundred peeps.” My brother was one of those peeps. “Huge,” he says, gesturing around to convey how crowded it must have been. I struggle to imagine over a hundred people crammed into here. “I guess I haven’t cleaned up yet.” He guffaws.
Crouse nods. “Dude, that sounds awesome. Hey, why were you in the Falls?”
“I was pretty upset when I found that kid down in the Flats,” Miller replies, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, “so I decided to get the hell out of here. I went to see some family.”
Goran catches my eye and tilts his head at the hallway. We slide past the dog then Dietz and walk down the hallway. I wish I had one of those white biohazard suits. I’m sure there are mice or cockroaches, maybe both.
The bedroom seems cleaner than the rest of the house, so we start there. A mattress and box spring with no frame are jammed into one corner. Goran pulls them away from the wall and finds only a crushed beer can and an overturned ashtray. Next, he rakes through a closetful of dirty laundry. He finds a collection of porno mags in the particleboard dresser, but it’s just regular stuff, nothing illegal. In the corner opposite the makeshift bed, Goran finds a bong and a decent-sized bag of marijuana.
I summon Dietz in to bag it. “Dump the water first,” I tell him, and he smirks.
The bathroom is next. I’ve seen a lot of disgusting things in the twelve years I’ve been a cop, but there’s something about other people’s dirty, sticky bathrooms that still frays my viscera. I hold my breath and follow my partner through the door. A half inch of slime and white crust covers nearly every surface.
Goran yanks open the medicine cabinet and picks up a prescription bottle of Vicodin from the top shelf. “Is everyone eating pills?” The label, dated about a year ago, has the name Marnie Phillips printed on it. I wonder who Marnie is and what she needed it for. I write her name in my notebook.
We hit the kitchen next, which is less foul than I feared. Goran shoves some dirty dishes out of the way and looks in the sink. Nothing of note. Next, he checks the freezer: a half-empty box of ham-and-cheese Hot Pockets, an almost-empty plastic bottle of cheap vodka, a
nd three empty ice trays. The refrigerator holds a case of Coors Light, an old pizza box, and a crusty bottle of ketchup.
We move the microwave and its table out of the way to get to the door, which opens to the backyard. “This better not be poison ivy,” Goran mutters as we struggle through the vine.
A narrow sidewalk leads to the garage. Three metal trash cans stand in what used to be a flower bed to the right of the structure.
Goran tries the side door of the garage first. A glance through a sizeable crack in the wood tells me that there’s no vehicle in there. But I do see blood. Someone tried to clean it up but did a bad job. It’s smeared around the cracked concrete floor. Some dirt, which looks like potting soil, and dried leaves are scattered around, as if he’d thought to hide the stain.
“Goran, look at this. Blood.” I push on the door. I want to open the big garage door, but that could disturb other evidence.
He shines his pocket flashlight beam into the space. “Holy shit.” He gives the door a swift kick right at the lock, and it springs open. The smell of bleach wafts out, but bleach can’t get rid of blood evidence.
He stays in the doorway and pulls out his radio. “I’m calling for Crime Scene and more backup.”
“Don’t tell Fishner I’m here.”
He juts his chin out at me then starts talking to dispatch, asking for two more patrol units and the mobile crime scene lab. Then he pulls out his phone.
I hold out my hand. “Since I’m not allowed to touch anything, how about I take the pictures?”
He hesitates but passes me the phone. “Okay, but I took them.”
“Of course you did.” I take pictures of everything. Some old bikes lean in one corner, covered in cobwebs. A snow shovel is propped against the far wall. There are more garbage bags, and one has maggots crawling along the bottom. “Hell, can’t you put out your damn trash? I mean, they’ll even come and pick it up from the curb once a week.”
Goran chuckles. “Does this guy seem like the kind of guy who puts his trash on the curb? He’d rather keep it in his dining room.”
A few garden tools hang from nails on the right wall. I don’t see any branch cutters, but there’s a shovel like the one Watson thinks the perp used to crack Kevin’s skull. An aluminum ladder dangles from a peg, and a rusty red lawnmower that looks as though it’s leaking oil or gasoline or both sits in another corner, near some more old paint cans and a dried-out paintbrush. I spot what looks like blood spatter on that wall, so I snap a few more pictures.
I wave a hand around the garage. “Well, everything, other than the garbage, looks clean. It doesn’t jibe with the rest of the house or the condition of the yard. So it’s a good guess why that bleach smell is so strong.”
Goran nods. “Up there,” he says, pointing.
I follow his finger and see a small loft. A tent bag, some folding chairs, and a Coleman stove block my view of the rear of the platform. I take some more pictures then move the ladder to lean it against the edge of the loft. “You want me to go up?” I ask, knowing Goran hates ladders.
“Yeah, but don’t touch anything,” he replies.
“Make sure I don’t fall backward off this thing.”
He doesn’t laugh, but he does come over and hold the ladder. I climb up and start snapping more pictures. There are a couple of garbage bags and a lot more camping equipment. Up close, I can tell that the stuff hasn’t been used for a while. There are a couple of coolers, some fishing rods, and a tackle box. A layer of black dust covers almost everything. The tent is half hanging out of the bag, which clearly doesn’t belong with the tent.
I feel a little surge of adrenaline. “Holy shit. That’s a laundry bag like the one Anthony described, and it looks a lot like the one we took off Ricky Harris.” I take several pictures of the tent in the bag before I push the tent out of the way.
“Hey,” Goran says. “I told you not to touch anything.”
“I just moved the tent a little. I’ve got pics.” My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and I pause to pull it out and look at it. It’s Fishner. I hit the ignore button and take three more photos of the bag before I unzip it. “It’s jewelry. Some Rolex knockoffs, that kind of thing.”
“Anything else?”
I see a tool bag. “Yeah.” I unzip it. “Whoa. Two bricks of what looks like coke and at least two pounds of weed.” After getting a few more pictures, I hastily descend the ladder. “We need more evidence bags. A lot of them. And get someone looking through those trash cans for evidence of bleach, maybe a bucket. Also, we need to bag that shovel.” I point at the one hanging on the wall.
He grins. “What, are you in charge now?”
“Goran, don’t fuck around. This is it. This is where Kevin Whittle was murdered. Come on.” I push past him, back out into the yard.
The stuff we found will be enough to put Miller back in the box and grill him until he tells us what he did to Kevin Whittle. We have seventy-two hours from the time we take him in. Remembering the dog, I call dispatch and request that they send Animal Control.
Goran chomps his gum. “You just blew your cover. Now Fishner’s gonna know you were here instead of on some four-hour lunch. All I ask is that you tell her I told you not to touch anything or talk to Miller. Oh, and you were never out of my sight. Now give me back my phone.”
I pass him his phone, and he starts flipping through the pictures. A patrol car parks out front, and two more uniforms get out.
“Hey, back here!” I call.
When they reach us, Goran orders, “Tape off the backyard, and don’t let anyone near this garage until Crime Scene gets here.”
Goran and I go back to the living room, where Miller and Crouse are still talking. Crouse has his head cocked to one side. His notebook is out, and I can see from the doorway that he’s filled at least a page.
Goran walks over to stand beside the couch. “Mr. Miller, we need to discuss what we found in your garage.”
Miller’s mouth falls open, and for a second, I wonder if he even understood what my partner said. Not that I care. What I really want to do is throw him on the floor and cuff him. Dietz shifts from foot to foot. The dog moves around, and I notice she’s too big for her crate.
Miller jumps to his feet. “Hey, wait. I didn’t say you could look out there.”
“Actually, you didn’t have to,” Goran says. “Remember that search warrant?”
Miller suddenly turns and tries to leap over the back of the couch. I’m between him and the door, but it doesn’t matter. Goran tackles him from behind, and they end up on the floor in front of me. The dog lurches into the kennel door, growling, her hackles raised. As my partner yanks Miller’s hands behind his back to cuff him, Peaches lunges again. The crate door flies open. Peaches heads straight for Goran. Crouse, still sitting on the coffee table, thrusts out his leg and gives her a swift kick in the ribs. She staggers to the side with a small yelp, but she doesn’t appear hurt. Dietz quickly draws his weapon and points it at her. Crouse stands and mirrors his partner.
“No!” I yell. “Miller, control your dog, or this officer is going to shoot her!”
“Peaches!” Miller shrieks, his voice about an octave higher than it was before. “Peaches, go lie down!”
Amazingly, Peaches lowers her head and slinks back into the kennel. Dietz nudges the door shut with his boot then fiddles with the latch, keeping a wary eye on the dog. For good measure, he slides the coffee table over in front of the door, for all the good that will do.
I’d heard just last week about a patrol officer shooting a guy’s dog in the process of an arrest somewhere in Texas. The dog was only doing its job, trying to protect its owner. This dog is obedient as hell. She ignored her instinct to rip out our throats in order to please him. I feel this weird surge of gratitude toward Miller for not setting the dog on us. I would have hated to see her killed.
Goran finishes cuffing Miller then pulls him to his feet. “You wanna resist arrest? We can add that to the list.”
“What am I under arrest for?” Miller asks in a whiny voice.
“For felony possession of narcotics and stolen property.” It’s a strategy move. We’re hoping he’ll crack and confess to Kevin Whittle’s murder, but right now we just need to get him into custody. “Get him out of here,” Goran tells Crouse and Dietz. “Read him his rights and take him downtown.”
“I told you I didn’t do anything!” Miller screams. His face is red, and he looks as though he might cry. “I didn’t do anything!”
As the uniforms are pulling away to take Miller downtown, Crime Scene pulls into the driveway and parks behind the Charger.
Goran meets them at the door. “Out back in the garage. Bag everything. Type the blood as soon as you can.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and answer without thinking.
“Long lunch, Boyle?”
I know there’s no point in lying, so I just ask, “Did you cut my brother loose?”
“Not yet. Let’s see what happens with this new evidence.” She sighs. “Boyle, I told you to do paperwork. This is way out of line.” She’s got the teeth-clenched voice, the one that means I’m probably in some seriously deep water. “We’ll talk about this later. Animal Control is on its way. You and Goran get back here as soon as you’re done there, and come to my office first.”
Goran and I watch the crime techs go over the area, but they don’t find anything more than we did. We leave a couple of hours later, while they’re still dusting for prints. On the way back to the station, I wonder what will happen to Peaches.
Chapter Fifteen
“He’s obviously under the influence,” Becker is saying as Goran and I walk into Fishner’s office. “I can’t take him to arraignment like this, even for narcotics possession, not given what’s happening with Chris Boyle and the fact that Liz was at that scene. I have to play this very safe.” She glances over at me and blinks.
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