The Candidate Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “I guess that probably wasn’t the most important thing that happened yesterday.”

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “Emails,” Fenway said. “Printouts of email communications between Jeremy Kapp and Charlotte.”

  “Oh.”

  “Supposedly proving they were having an affair.”

  “Who would have access?”

  “To the real emails? I’m not sure. I suppose his family, maybe his co-workers, maybe someone who works at the service provider or for the networking company. But I think those emails were faked.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep. Kapp and his mistress had pet names for each other, and whoever faked the emails messed them up.”

  “Oh.” Callahan stopped. “So did that envelope get fingerprinted?”

  “We sent it to the lab,” Fenway said, “but with all the commotion at my apartment, people stepped all over the envelope, and maybe three or four people handled it before giving it to me. I don’t think we’ll find anything useful. Besides, I think CSI is pretty busy.”

  “Do you have any idea who’s sending them?”

  “Not specifically, but whoever sent it wants me to think that Charlotte murdered Jeremy Kapp.”

  “Do you think that person had anything to do with the murder?”

  Fenway shrugged. “I don’t know. Faking the emails so poorly is pretty amateurish, but the murders over the last few days—first Jeremy Kapp, then Rory, then Dr. Tassajera—it seems, well, perhaps not exactly professional, but certainly serious. The stakes seem much higher than someone faking emails.”

  Fenway stepped into her office, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” Callahan asked.

  “Melissa.”

  “Who’s Melissa?”

  “You know Melissa de la Garza. One of the CSI techs—you helped her comb the beach the other day.”

  “Oh, that Melissa. The one with the metal detector.”

  Fenway smirked. “Yeah, her. She’s over at Dr. Tassajera’s—or she should be, anyway; I can’t imagine her being finished yet. I’m hoping she can pick up this envelope on the way back to San Miguelito. Otherwise we’ll have to courier it over.”

  Melissa answered the phone on the third ring.

  “De la Garza.”

  “Hi Melissa, it’s Fenway.”

  “Oh, hi. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “I’m calling from my office.”

  “Gotcha. What do you need?”

  “Are you still at Dr. Tassajera’s?”

  “Yes,” Melissa said. “We’ll be here at least another hour. Lots of hair, particles, fingerprints.”

  “It was a busy office.”

  “I know. And I’m sure I’m going to be read the riot act on doctor-patient privilege after we process all of this.”

  Fenway tapped her foot; the last thing she needed was her patient privilege violated. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Listen, did you get the envelope that I received last night? The one with all the email printouts in it?”

  “Yes, but we haven’t processed it yet. We’re totally backed up with everything from the, uh, crime scene in the parking garage.”

  “Understood. But listen, I got another one.”

  Melissa gasped. “Another car bomb?”

  “Another envelope. This one was pushed under the door to my office.”

  “Oh. You’ve bagged it up?”

  “Yes. No one touched it. Unlike the other one. Maybe you can run this one first.”

  Melissa clicked her tongue. “We’ve got a ton from Dr. Tassajera’s to go through.”

  “Yeah—but I think whoever is sending me these envelopes is trying to frame Charlotte.”

  “Why would someone need to frame her? Isn’t she in jail already for killing Jeremy Kapp?”

  “I don’t think she’s been formally charged,” Fenway said. “The D.A. wants more compelling information—and I think whoever sent these envelopes is trying to present more compelling information.”

  “What did they send this time?”

  “I didn’t open it, Melissa.”

  “You have fingerprint stuff in your office, don’t you?”

  “I shouldn’t be the one to fingerprint it, should I? I’ve got a conflict of interest.”

  “How do you know you’ve got a conflict of interest?” Melissa asked. “There’s no return address or sender name on it, is there? How are you supposed to know what case it pertains to?”

  “That’s dicey, Melissa. I knew what it was the moment I saw it.”

  “It’s not dicey to a jury. I had to testify in court to something like this last year. Are there any identifying marks on it?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Print it, and then open the envelope with your gloves on. For all you know they might have signed their name.”

  Fenway sighed. Maybe she was off her game; this might have been obvious to her on a normal day. “Okay. Hold on.”

  “Call me back. I’m in the middle of something here.”

  Fenway hung up. Callahan looked at her questioningly.

  “I have a fingerprint kit,” Fenway said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about taking the prints myself.”

  She went into the supply cabinet and got out the fingerprint powder and a metallic brush. She pulled two blue nitrile gloves out of the drawer to the left of the cabinet and snapped them on.

  Callahan watched her. “Need any help?”

  “I think I got it,” Fenway replied. She carefully picked up the envelope from the floor and set it on the counter.

  “I’m just going to sit here like an idiot?”

  Fenway sighed. “Okay then, can you get some of that fingerprint tape out of the cabinet?”

  He started to move back around the counter.

  “And while you’re at it,” Fenway said, “put on some gloves. I might need an extra pair of hands.”

  Callahan nodded.

  It took about fifteen minutes, and Fenway had to deal with a lot of smudges, but she lifted about twelve usable prints off the envelope. “Looks like a lot of these prints are the same,” she said. “Let’s hope they’re in the system.”

  “You going to open it now?”

  “Yep,” Fenway said.

  “It’s sealed shut, right?”

  “Nope,” Fenway said. “Only closed with the metal clasp. That’s one way I know there’s no anthrax in this. No one licked the seal, so no DNA.”

  “Lucky we got the fingerprints, then.”

  “It’s only lucky if they’re in the system.”

  Callahan paused. “Do you think we should get Dez in on this?”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Something to implicate Charlotte in Jeremy Kapp’s murder.”

  “And you’ll give it to Dez?”

  “I have to.” She opened the envelope and shook two sheets of paper out: two photographs, printed on cheap computer paper, like the emails had been, although it was a slightly heavier weight. The photos were about four inches by six inches and were centered on each page.

  The photos were of Charlotte and Jeremy Kapp. They were naked in both. In the first, they stood next to a bed with an ivory comforter and brown and cream-colored pillow shams; Charlotte had her back to the camera and was kissing Jeremy Kapp’s face. In the second, the two figures were entwined on the bed.

  “Oh, man,” Callahan said. “I wasn’t expecting naked pictures.”

  Fenway shook her head. “These photos are doctored.”

  “Doctored?”

  She held the photo of one of the pages up to the light. “See? The shadow on Charlotte’s face is coming from a different light source than the one in the room. It’s clearly been superimposed on this woman’s body.”

  “Or was Charlotte’s whole body superimposed in the photo?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fenway said. “The light looks right on her shou
lder blades, and her, uh, buttocks too.” She squinted. “And I think Jeremy Kapp was about five-nine, right? That would make the woman in this photo about five-five, maybe five-six. Charlotte’s five-eight, easy.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “An evidence class in my forensics program. Oh, and look at the ink.”

  “What?” asked Callahan.

  “The other envelope I got contained emails. But they were on a different kind of paper, and those were printed on a laser printer. These were printed on an inkjet.”

  “Two different printers?”

  “Right. The laser printer is something you’d find in an office or a school. Some people have them at home, but mostly they have these cheap inkjet printers.”

  “So you’re thinking they printed out the emails at work, but had to go home to print the naked pictures.”

  “That certainly is one possibility. Seems to me to be the most likely.”

  Callahan pointed at the pictures. “You going to fingerprint those too?”

  “Yeah, I better.”

  Callahan pulled the envelope out of the way while Fenway placed the two inkjet-printed photographs on the counter. She repeated the fingerprinting process with the powder and the tape.

  When she was finished, she had Callahan clean up the powder—there was a magic eraser in the cabinet—and she went into her office and shut the door. She picked up the phone and called Dez.

  “Hey, Fenway,” Dez answered. “No rest for the weary, I see.”

  “Not today.” Fenway’s stomach rumbled. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was already four o’clock and she hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Rachel’s that morning. She heard the siren call of the taquería on Third Street but ignored it for now.

  “You want me to put you on speaker? Deputy Sheriff Donnelly is here.”

  Fenway caught the unspoken warning from Dez not to reveal that she had done research on her own. “Oh, good. I’d like to speak with both of you. There was something interesting in my office when I came to work this afternoon.”

  “Oh.” Dez couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Okay.” The audio changed as Dez put the phone on speaker.

  “Coroner,” said Donnelly.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I received an envelope today. It was under the office door when I got to work.”

  “Which door was it under?” asked Dez. “Was it the building door, or the door to the coroner’s suite, or was it the door to your personal office?”

  “The coroner’s suite.”

  “Okay,” Dez said. “That means it must have been put there after the building opened this morning.”

  “It might have been last night,” said Donnelly.

  “I don’t think so,” Dez said. “The cleaning staff would have picked it up and put in on the counter or something.”

  “Unless the cleaning staff let in whoever did it.”

  Dez paused for a moment. “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Coroner, do you get a lot of envelopes delivered under the door?” asked Donnelly.

  “No,” Fenway said. “It’s never happened before. Not since I’ve been here anyway. You are aware there was a similar envelope left under the doormat at my apartment yesterday.”

  “Yes,” Donnelly said. She paused. “Do you find it curious they left that evidence for you when you’re no longer on the case?”

  “I usually investigate any suspicious deaths in the county,” Fenway responded. “Unless whoever it was became aware I had been taken off the case, I think it’s fair to assume they thought they were giving evidence to the investigating party.”

  “It seems to me that most people would assume you wouldn’t investigate your own family,” said Donnelly.

  Fenway paused. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She thought for a moment. “Of course, not everyone is well-versed on police procedure.”

  “What did you do with the new envelope?” asked Dez, a little impatiently.

  “I called CSI,” Fenway said, “but as the envelope was in the coroner’s office, I got my fingerprint kit and took prints of both the envelope and the two papers inside. Quite a few usable prints. Nine separate ones, at least to my naked eye. Hopefully they’re on record.”

  “CSI let you fingerprint them yourself when they knew you’d been kicked off this case?” said Donnelly.

  “Yes,” Fenway said. “After all, there’s no way to have known what the envelope contained until I opened it. I followed protocol to the letter.”

  “Surely you thought there was a pretty good chance it would be about our prime suspect,” Donnelly said.

  “I don’t think you’ll have any chain of custody issues,” Fenway said, deflecting. “Officer Callahan was with me the whole time. He’ll be able to tell you I treated the evidence according to the rules and guidelines.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes we can get in trouble if we get too creative,” Donnelly said carefully.

  “We all want to see justice done,” Dez said.

  “Exactly,” said Fenway. “Melissa de la Garza from CSI over in San Miguelito is going to pick up the evidence on her way back from Dr. Tassajera’s, but I thought the two of you would want to see it first.”

  “You said there were papers inside,” said Donnelly. “Is it financial data? Bank account statements?”

  “No,” said Fenway. “They’re doctored pictures of Charlotte Ferris and Jeremy Kapp being intimate.”

  “Intimate?” said Donnelly.

  “Having sex,” Fenway said.

  “Yes, yes,” Donnelly said distractedly. “What makes you think they’ve been doctored?”

  “The light’s all wrong on Charlotte’s face,” said Fenway. “It’s been done by someone with decent Photoshop skills, but nowhere near good enough to pass a forensic analysis.”

  “Have you had training in this area?”

  “Yes,” Fenway said. “I’ve got a master’s in forensic nursing. I’ve taken classes on how to recognize doctored photographs.”

  “Oh, good,” said Donnelly. “That helps us out if we have to defend our probable cause.”

  “So, Gretchen,” Dez said, “shall we head over to the coroner’s office to pick up this new evidence?”

  “Yes, I think we’d better.”

  “Okay. Fenway, you going to be there another half hour or so?”

  Fenway’s stomach growled. “Yep. Half an hour should be fine. If Melissa gets here first, I’ll have her wait. Hopefully she can.”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up.

  Fenway went to the outer office where Callahan was putting the bottles back in the supply cabinet. “Come on,” Fenway said. “We have barely enough time before they get back.”

  “They?”

  “Dez and Donnelly,” Fenway said. She grabbed the evidence bags off the counter. “Let’s go. I’ve got to go see a family member who’s being held in jail.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  DURING THE WALK ACROSS the street to the county jail next to the sheriff’s office, Fenway was hoping for a friendly face at the guard station, someone who could get Charlotte quickly and get Fenway and Callahan in and out before Dez and Deputy Sheriff Gretchen Donnelly got there. It only took a few minutes to walk over, although Callahan almost ran to keep up with Fenway’s long strides. They walked through the gate of the county jail and, much to Fenway’s relief, she recognized the guard.

  “Fenway!” Quincy said, smiling. “Hey, Callahan.”

  “Hi, Quincy,” Fenway said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yep. Aunt Dez talks about you at dinner, though. You’re doing great on the campaign trail, I hear.”

  “Thanks,” Dez said. “I have a favor to ask. Visiting hours end at five on Sundays, right?”

  Quincy shrugged. “Yes, but not for investigators. You want to see someone, you just ask.”

  “No, no,” Fenway said. “I’m here as a family member during business hours. This is off
icially not police business.”

  Callahan looked sideways at Fenway. If Callahan planned to blow the whistle on her, he didn’t let on.

  “Gotcha,” Quincy said. “Come on through, you know the drill. No keys or cell phones through the metal detectors. Officer, what do you want to do with your firearm?”

  “Maybe you should stay out here,” Fenway said. What she didn’t say was, So you don’t have to report anything you see. She tried to telepathically send that message to Callahan, and the light in his eyes indicated he got it.

  “Yes, that’s probably for the best,” Callahan agreed. “Besides, there are a lot of officers in there. You’re surrounded by a lot of people who are going to protect you.”

  “In fact,” Fenway said, pulling her wallet out of her purse, “I am dying for a latte. Think you could get one for me? A large? And one of whatever you want.”

  “Java Jim’s?” He took the twenty-dollar bill from Fenway.

  “Yes. They’re the best.”

  “They sure are,” Callahan said. “I love their jumbo drinks with extra espresso shots. The more expensive the better.”

  Fenway smirked. “You knock yourself out, Brian. My treat.”

  Callahan left.

  “What was that about?” Quincy said.

  “Callahan’s been assigned to protect me. I guess he doesn’t like being a gofer.”

  “You could have said please.”

  “I’ll make sure to say thank you.”

  Quincy cleared his throat. “If you’re here to see family, that must mean Charlotte Ferris.”

  “You got it. And I need to hurry.” Fenway looked at her watch. She wanted to be back with at least five minutes to spare.

  “No problem.” Quincy got on the radio and walked through the rear door.

  Fenway looked around at the guard station. With a metal detector, eggshell walls, a long table, and metal chairs, it reminded Fenway of a mental hospital she had visited when she was a nurse in Seattle.

  Quincy stuck his head back in. “They’re bringing her out now. You can go on back. Go through to the women’s visitor section. Table number three.”

  Fenway went through the visitors’ door in the rear. The corridor turned to the left and emptied out into a large room with picnic-style tables made not of wood but of hard green resin in the middle of the room.