“Did she freak out on you when you asked for a divorce?” Shen asked.
“No. She cried. I cried. We were heartbroken.” Errol folded his hands and stared at them. “But it had to be that way.”
WE TURNED THE PHONE over to the computer forensics guys in the CSU outbuilding. Then, I found Burl Jefferson’s office at the end of a hallway full of labs. He looked up at our knock.
“Inconclusive,” he said.
Shen wandered in, looking at the collection of superhero dolls in a glass case. I took his visitor’s chair. “Can you be more specific?”
“From the spatter evidence, the vic hit the ground at less than terminal velocity. She didn’t fall from a plane, or very high at all. However, we were able to recover some DNA from the broken tree branches above the scene. We’re running it now.”
“Blood?”
“Epithelial cells, and fibers that microscopically match the vic’s clothing.”
I tried to follow. “So she flew through the trees before hitting the ground.”
“It looks that way. We have to wait for the DNA to come back. At the same time, I can’t think of anything that would propel a person through the air like that.”
“Giant slingshot?” Shen turned from studying the action figures.
Burl shrugged. “Sure. But if you figure the elasticity, the kilopascals require any given material’s relative tensile strength to store and release enough energy to propel forty-eight kilograms to near-terminal velocity, which we figure was about a hundred ninety kilometers per hour, would be enormous, requiring a mechanism with substantial horsepower to provide that stored elastic force prior to release. You see what I’m saying?”
“No,” I said.
Shen said, “I think he’s saying we’d notice a person-sized slingshot.”
“I was thinking human cannonball,” Burl said. “Unfortunately, no explosion was heard around the time of the incident. Also, some singing of the victim’s hair and clothing would be expected.”
“Human cannonball?” Shen made a face.
Burl made a face back. “How is that worse than a giant slingshot? What else do you have?”
“We came up with garbage truck,” I said, “And steam roller.”
Burl frowned thoughtfully and nodded. “We’re not gonna solve this one, are we?”
“WE STILL HAVE A LOT of ground to cover,” Shen said. “Maybe we should split up.”
I looked at my watch. “The post is scheduled for an hour from now.”
“Yeah. Maybe we should split up.”
Shen wasn’t big on gore. He was a solid investigator, but not seasoned enough to put up with the messier parts of the job yet. Autopsies were not high on his list. Truth is, despite what you see on TV, most cops don’t visit the morgue. Instead, they rely on reports and photographs provided by a coroner or ME. I wanted to get closer to the victim, to try and better understand their last moments.
“Fine. You hit up her professor. Give her former employer a call. If the canvas of Jane Smith’s building turns up anything, let me know. We can meet up at the sister’s place.”
“Roger that.”
Truthfully, I was glad Shen was the one going to the university. My dad still worked there as an associate professor of botany. My mother would find out I didn’t stop in and see him. She would call. Despite the fact that I was on the clock, working a homicide, she would declare that I could take five minutes from my busy schedule to visit my father and when and how did her youngest daughter turn into The Man?
The county morgue was in French Camp, not far from the sheriff’s department. Sheila Brandt was scrubbing up when I entered the autopsy suite. A diener rolled a cart toward the fridge. “Inspector Garcia. You missed all the fun. Hey, Connor? Roll that gurney back over here, would you please?”
“What did you find?” I asked.
“Multiple fractures of the spine. The C5 and T4 vertebra were crushed. Help me turn her, Connor.” Dr. Brandt uncovered Jane Smith and with the help of the diener, turned the body prone. I remembered the crescent bruise on her back. The darker skin was now outlined by an incision.
“As you can see, the spinal fractures as well as breaks in the ribs are in line with this bruise. Soft tissue damage, however, is negligible. Really, those vertebra are crushed, disarticulated, the ribs shattered, yet only this light contusion marks the epidermis, hardly even present in the dermis.”
I looked. It was just a mess to me. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” She and Connor turned the body again, covering her. “It means that whatever broke her bones didn’t break her skin, didn’t damage her tissues or organs. See, the bones were broken with a force perpendicular to the dorsal plane.” Sheila cut her hand straight through the air.
“The damage from impact is at an angle, from superior to inferior, also dorsal.” Brandt angled her flattened hand downward at a slant. Connor the diener rolled the cart away.
“So she was dead before she hit the ground,” I said.
Sheila nodded.
“COD was a broken spine.”
The assistant ME nodded. “Blunt force trauma.”
“What was the weapon?”
Dr. Brandt closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know. But it looks like this:”
She drew a half circle in the air, about a foot wide. It matched the shape of the bruise.
Chapter 10
Nysa Galatas, sister of the victim, lived in the penthouse apartment of a building in the Links neighborhood. It nestled between several big houses on the bank of Jones Canal. Delta Vista seemed to glow from the fourth-floor angle.
Nysa resembled her sister so much that it gave me the creepy feeling I was talking to the dead Jane. The flat stretched the entire floor of the building: open concept, modern furnishings, big windows, Classical Greek appointments.
She wore a sleeveless tunic dress, the deep blue accentuating the olive tone of her skin. Although it was a casual dress, her chunky gold jewelry made it look dressy. Black curls hung loose. There was a bandage around her upper right arm. Nysa caught me looking.
“The pharmacist botched my shingles vaccination,” she said. Dark eyes leveled on us. “I realize my sister is a terrible parent, but I don’t see why that would involve law enforcement.”
We hadn’t released the identity of the victim yet. Nysa didn’t know her sister was dead. “We’re not here about the custody issue,” I said. “I’m sorry to tell you, but your sister is dead.”
“Oh.” Nysa blinked. “Oh. I see. Perhaps you’d better come in.”
We were already in.
“When was the last time you saw Jane?”
“We had lunch after her family court hearing. When her ex abruptly left the courtroom, his lawyer arguing that there had been no time to prepare evidence, the judge granted a seventy-two hour extension.” Nysa turned to stare at her lovely view.
“Where did you go?” I was asking the questions. Shen was admiring the witness.
“El Rancho. Jacinth loves a rare steak.” Nysa turned toward me slightly. “Loved.”
I knew the place. It had been there for decades. “After lunch?”
“She needed to speak with her attorney. Strategize after the extension was granted, I supposed.”
“You were there in court to support your sister’s custody suit?” I asked. Shen was still looking the woman over. She was well-toned, with a willowy figure. I got it. But the man needed to be more professional, and less gawk-y.
“Oh, Lord, no. I was trying to talk her out of it at lunch. She’s not a fit mother.” Nysa’s features wrinkled, belying her interior struggle. “I love Jacinth, and I love Ophelia and Electra. I love watching the girls grow. I come to town more often than I should just to see them. But my sister was determined to possess those little girls, make them like her.”
Finally, Shen looked more interested in the conversation than Nysa’s legs. “Like her?”
“Jacinth... She chooses t
o be the wild creature that she is. She was. That’s why she’s never been diagnosed with a mental illness. She doesn’t have one. Her entire life, she’s lived for the thrill, working dozens of stories in the air, throwing herself into any crazy idea that occurs to her, racing off because she feels like it. That’s not a real life for anyone.”
“Do you know where she’s been for the past two years?” Shen finally asked a question.
Nysa shook her head, curls bouncing. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. She’s not fit to be a mother. I’ve seen Electra and Ophelia more times than she has in the past two years. This custody battle is just another urge, another compulsion she has—but in this case, her crazy whims would impact two young, beautiful lives.” Nysa sighed. “My sister is an idiot. Was an idiot.”
Her dark eyes got wet and bright, her full mouth quivered. I pressed on.
“So you dropped her off at her lawyer’s office after lunch. Did you see her after that?”
Nysa could only shake her head. Her fingers moved to her lips, as if trying to keep something in. I studied her. The emotion seemed real. And then I saw it—a crescent-shaped pendant hung from a necklace, silver, nearly hidden beneath the gold of her other jewelry. “That silver necklace, did Jane—Jacinth—have one like it?”
Her hand moved from her mouth to her neck, hiding the bauble. “Yes. She does. It’s a family heirloom. All my sisters have one.”
“Does it have some meaning?” I asked. For the first time, Nysa looked guarded. Calculating nervousness consumed the genuine sorrow I had seen. I moved closer, trying to pick up her thoughts.
“It’s just pretty,” Nysa lied. “Would you like to see it?”
She unhooked the necklace and placed it in my palm. It was just an ordinary silver chain with a strange pendant.
“All great deeds for love are done, from the rising to the setting sun, cities built and wars begun, lives are lost when hearts are one.”
I blinked and handed it back. “What?”
“The inscription inside.” Nysa clipped it back around her neck.
That was weird. I went on with the questions. “What is it you do for a living?” I inched closer.
“I’m an international antiquities dealer, both to public institutions and private collectors.” She waved her hands at the Greek decorations. “My showroom, if you will.”
“These are real Greek antiques?” Shen gazed around at the décor. There were vases (pronounced vah-zez, I’m sure) in black with gold motifs, tall red pottery vessels that were probably meant to hold wine, framed bas reliefs and weavings on the walls.
“Of course not. This area is too prone to earthquakes. But the replicas very well represent the real items.” Nysa became more at ease as she discussed her business. “My firm uses the Port of Delta Vista because it’s small, and fragile items are handled with more care here.”
“After you dropped your sister off, where did you go?” I dove back in.
Her eyes narrowed. “Here. Home.”
“Where is the lawyer’s office?”
“In the building across from the courthouses, the old hotel,” Nysa said.
Shen saw me circling. “Can anyone verify your whereabouts at two p.m. yesterday?”
“I live alone.” She raised her chin, looking down at both of us. I could sense that she was ready for this question. “But I took an Uber. I detest parking in City Center.”
I reached in my purse and took out a card. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard on you. Thank you for your time.”
When she took it, our fingertips touched. And then I knew for sure. Nysa Galatas had killed her sister. Somehow.
“Call me if you think of anything that might have led to her death,” I said.
Shen shot me puzzlement.
She nodded. “Of course. I will.”
I gave Shen the side-nod toward the door. But as we walked out, I noticed a feature on one of the tapestries. A dancing woman held a long stick. Even from the crude weft, I made out the pine cone on the tip, and the binding of ivy. “What’s this stick thing?” I asked Nysa.
“That’s a thyrsus,” Shen said. It earned a stare from both me and Nysa. “It’s a symbol of fertility, prosperity and, uh, fun, I guess. Except sometimes, there’s a spear point hidden in the leaves. Sorry, I accidentally picked up some education at the university. It’s a symbol of Bacchus, or Dionysus. The god of wine.”
Again, the guarded look shielded Nysa’s emotions. “Correct, Inspector.”
Shen hid his ah-ha! or WTF? reaction well. “We found something like this at the scene. Would your sister be carrying around a big stick topped with a pine cone?”
Nysa’s face could’ve been carved from marble. “My sister did a lot of strange things.”
Shen gave the tapestry a look and nodded.
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
“PROBABLY NOT COINCIDENTAL we found a broken thyrsus at the scene,” Shen said as we headed toward our cars.
“She did it,” I said.
Shen’s face lengthened in surprise. “Say what?”
Being a psychic detective came with issues. The burden of proof, for instance; figuring out the MO in some cases; compiling a chargeable case was another; convincing supervisors or a prosecutor could be a tough sell. Bottom line...psychic powers didn’t hold up in court.
“Forget it,” I said. “What did you learn?”
“Oh, here.” He opened the trunk on his unmarked car and handed me a ream of paper. “I talked to Prof. Madeline Richardson, Jane’s academic advisor. There was a lot of talk about feminism in the Hellenistic Era. This is Jane’s dissertation. Richardson said Jane Smith had a bright career in academia ahead of her. She wasn’t sure why Jane chose to work construction.”
I beeped open the trunk of my own vehicle and tossed the dissertation inside. “Anything else?”
“Talked to her last employer. Said he’d welcome her back. There aren’t a lot of people willing to work thirty stories up balancing on a narrow beam. But he confirmed what everyone else said: Jane was a total flake. Wouldn’t show up for stretches at a time. He couldn’t afford to lose her, so he mostly put up with the behavior.”
I smirked. “That might explain her choice in career.”
“Oh, hey, speaking of explaining, why do you like Nysa for the murder?” Chuck gave me a direct look.
Chuck Shen, as inexperienced as he was, was becoming a knock-on-doors, nose-to-the-grindstone investigator. We’d only been partners for a short time, but he was already understanding that the answers were probably not going to come with a phone call or a Google search. This also meant he wasn’t going to take my nearly infallible gut feelings as factual.
I came up with a lame answer. “The Uber thing. She was too ready to tell us about it. Nysa intentionally set up that part of her alibi.”
“That’s it?”
“That and a strong hunch.”
“Uh-huh.” He wasn’t buying it. “What did you learn from the ME?”
“Cause of death was a broken back, blunt force trauma. Sheila Brandt doesn’t know from what.”
“Great. The ME doesn’t know what the weapon is, and the CSU doesn’t know how she got tossed into that intersection.” Shen shook his head. “I don’t think we’re moving the files out of purple binders.”
We dropped off the unmarked cars and headed to the bullpen. I was hoping we’d come across a report that backed my psychic hit. We didn’t. I made Chuck write up the reports while I visited the CSU building.
“You figure out how out the vic flew through the air and crashed on East Webster and North Stanley yet?” I asked Burl Johnson. I told him about the ME’s findings.
His eyebrows played on his head. “Well, if Jane Smith was hit hard enough to break her spine, maybe she was hit hard enough to launch her through the air.”
“Hit hard enough, with what, like a bus?”
“Not unless the bus was traveling at,” he tapped a calculator on his desk, “m
ore than nine-hundred-twenty-six kilometers per hour.”
“I don’t speak metric.”
“Five-hundred-seventy-six miles per hour.” Burl didn’t even need the calculator for that.
“What could hit her that hard?”
Jefferson shrugged. “This is how crazy the whole thing is. A really hard swing from a pro baseball player is a hundred miles per hour. A well-hit ball will rebound at a hundred-twenty miles per hour, and travel more than four-hundred-fifty-feet. A baseball weights about five ounces, and is designed to be hit. In this case, we’re talking about a human body, weighing, I don’t have the ME’s report, but around a hundred fifteen pounds. The forces involved are insane. Maybe even impossible.”
I smirked. “Awesome.”
“I’ll tell you one thing: if you see the murder weapon, you’ll know it.”
I wasn’t sure about that one. “Thanks, Burl.”
“You’ll have the report by the end of day. I don’t think your loot will like it.”
He wouldn’t. For sure, he wouldn’t like it at all. I turned to churn out more paperwork. Burl stopped me.
“Oh, one more thing. I received a court order. Errol Smith’s lawyer filed it. He wants his cellphone back. We’ve downloaded everything, and have a warrant for the records.” Burl pulled it out of a drawer. It was still in a plastic, chain-of-custody bag.
“I’ll get it back to him.” Grabbing the phone, I formed a plan. I wanted to learn whatever I could about Nysa Galatas. Who better to ask than her ex-brother-in-law who occasionally used her as a baby sitter?
Chapter 11
I drove Babykiller out to Bear Brook, the gas gauge dropping visibly as I headed west. While I tried to enjoy the fact that I owned a car again after a couple months, the ancient, stinky Cordoba wasn’t doing it for me. The ride was pretty smooth, and if I had to get rid of the house, I could fit a love seat and coffee table in the back seat.
Bound for Magic (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 1) Page 6
