TIL DEATH

by Annette Dashofy

  “You’re wrong. We did. No one in the plaza saw a stranger.”

  Imperatore raised a finger to stop Pete. “Your own witness saw a man running from the scene after the shooting.”

  “A man whose description matches your client.”

  “No one saw a face. Only a tall male dressed in black.”

  “We questioned the employees at the 24/7 Market. The only people who came in that night were regulars.”

  “Did anyone see Mr. Landis?” Imperatore already knew the answer.

  “No,” Pete said. “This was all gone over in the trial. The witness’ testimony alone didn’t convict Landis. The murder weapon he tossed in his office’s trash—”

  Landis clenched his fists. “I never saw that gun before,” he said, his voice raising in pitch.

  “Enough.” Imperatore shot a stern look at his client and then at Pete. “We didn’t bring you here to reiterate what’s already been said in the past.”

  “So far, that’s all you’ve given me.” Pete checked his watch. He needed to get back to the station.

  “Let me cut to the chase.” Imperatore reached into his briefcase, withdrew a photocopy of a newspaper story, and slid it in front of Pete. “Read this.”

  He perched his reading glasses on his nose and picked up the sheet of paper. The headline read “Local Woman Shot in Parking Lot.” Then in smaller print, Assailant still at large. A quick check revealed the article was from a paper in western Ohio and dated eleven years ago.

  The body of a forty-two-year-old Yellow Springs woman was found shot to death Tuesday night inside her car at the Oak Glen Shopping Plaza. According to the police, the gunman and a motive remain unknown. The coroner reports the victim died of a single gunshot to the head. The police are asking anyone who may have seen or heard anything to contact them.

  “Sound familiar?” Imperatore asked.

  Pete took off his glasses. “This article is from over a decade ago. I’m sure the shooter’s been caught.”

  “You would be wrong, Chief. I’ve called the Yellow Springs Police Department. It’s still an unsolved case.” Imperatore placed another photocopied news clipping in front of Pete. “As is this one.” Another sheet. “And this one.” A fourth sheet. “And this one.”

  Pete put his glasses back on and scanned the pages. The locations varied across Ohio, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Maryland. The dates spanned a decade with the last one dated two years ago. But the similarities curdled Pete’s stomach. All were small towns. All the victims were women in their mid-thirties to mid-forties. All died from a single gunshot wound to the head. And all were found in their vehicles in deserted parking lots.

  None of the police departments involved could name a suspect or a motive for the slayings. An FBI investigation was mentioned in the last article.

  Pete looked over his glasses at Imperatore. “You’ve followed up on each of these?”

  “I have. All remain unsolved to this day. And I think you have to agree, Vance Township falls well within the killer’s territory.”

  “Assuming there’s only one killer,” Pete muttered.

  “What are the odds of different killers all choosing the same type of women, the same type of location, and the same method of dispatching their victims?”

  Not good. Except…Pete pushed the papers back to the attorney. “You’re still overlooking the fact that the gun used to kill Mrs. Landis was found in the trash right outside your client’s office. In a plastic bag bearing his fingerprints. Explain that.”

  “It wasn’t my gun,” Landis said firmly. “I never saw it before the police showed it to me. And I throw at least a half dozen plastic grocery bags out in my own trash every week. The real killer could easily have taken one and used it to make me look guilty.”

  “Your serial killer stuck around long enough to frame you?” Pete tapped the pile of news stories and looked at Imperatore. “In your research, did any of the other murder weapons show up on or near the victims’ spouses?”

  The attorney’s expression told Pete he’d found the fatal flaw in their theory. “No,” Imperatore admitted. But he sat taller. “Our district attorney has assigned you and Detective Baronick to investigate the homicide of my client’s wife. From scratch.” Imperatore slid the photocopies back toward Pete. “So investigate. I’m offering you material that could very well provide our reasonable doubt.”

  Which brought up a good point. “Why are you handing your defense strategy over to me? Why not have your own investigator dig into this for the retrial?”

  Imperatore looked at Landis and gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

  Landis faced Pete, his eyes glistening. “Because I don’t want to be cleared just for me. I didn’t shoot Elizabeth, which means the real killer is still out there. Chief, please—” His voice cracked. “I want you to find the man who murdered my wife.”

  Pete had heard this same plea before. From others. Even from Landis. Most of the time he didn’t buy it. Nine years ago, he had. Until he’d been proven wrong.

  Five

  Zoe crossed to the printer, retrieved the stack of reports and photos from the Elizabeth Landis homicide, and carried them back to Wayne. “Here you go. Hopefully, Franklin will be able to answer any questions you have.”

  Wayne thumbed through the pages. “This case predates Doc Abercrombie working here. The pathologist who did the Landis autopsy died a couple of years ago. Franklin’s the only one from the coroner’s office who can offer direct testimony. According to Pete, Franklin had his doubts as to Dustin Landis’ guilt.”

  For the second time, footsteps drifted in from the hall, growing louder as they approached. Paulette’s exasperated protests merged with an obnoxious and dismissive male voice. Not Loretta.

  Worse.

  Dr. Charles Davis appeared in the doorway with Franklin’s secretary on his heels.

  “I am so sorry,” Paulette said, her face crimson. “I clearly need to keep the front door locked.”

  Davis faced her. “Dear woman, that would be no way to conduct business.”

  “No, but it would keep out the riff raff.”

  Zoe snickered, which brought an angry stare from the man who’d run against Franklin in the election last fall. And lost. “Don’t worry about it,” she told Paulette. “I’ll take care of Mr. Davis.”

  The title drew the reaction Zoe knew it would. “Doctor Davis,” he snapped.

  Behind Davis’ back, Paulette winked at Zoe and retreated to the hall.

  Zoe shot a look at Wayne, hoping he understood her silent demand. Do. Not. Leave. Then she crossed her arms and faced Davis. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  He reached into his inside breast pocket and retrieved a folded document. “I have been retained by Anthony Imperatore, Esquire as an expert witness in the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Dustin Landis. As a qualified forensic pathologist, I’ll be testifying for the defense during Mr. Landis’ retrial.” Davis extended the paper to Zoe. “This is a court order. I need all of the coroner’s reports and photos on the case as well as access to x-rays and any blood and tissue samples from the victim.”

  Wayne subtly tucked his own copies of those exact records under one arm. Zoe caught the minute twitch of a grin he aimed at her.

  She returned to her seat at Franklin’s computer with the records already open on the monitor. “It’s been nine years. Most of the tissue and blood were disposed of long ago.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you don’t have microscopic slides? Preserved tissue samples?”

  “We have those, although I don’t know what you expect to find. COD was massive brain trauma from a single gunshot wound. There’s no question about how she died. Seems to me, the only thing up for debate is whether the husband pulled the trigger.”

  Davis’ face reddened. “I’ll be the judge of that. Are you
refusing to cooperate with a judge’s order?”

  “Not at all.” Zoe resisted looking at the fresh copies in Wayne’s possession. “I can print out the reports right now. Anything else that’s left is stored over at the hospital. You’ll need to do your examination in our morgue.”

  “Excellent.”

  She clicked the same buttons as a few moments ago. The printer across the room started whirring. “I have an appointment I need to get to.” She pulled up the calendar on her phone. “When do you want to meet over at the hospital? Tomorrow?”

  “I have no intention of making the trip back here when I’ve already given you the court order. Your appointment can wait.”

  Losing the election hadn’t made the man any less of a pompous ass. “I’m afraid it can’t.” The appointment could, but not her mother.

  “Fine.” He slipped out of his winter coat, which he hung over the back of the second visitor’s chair and took a seat. “You go to your appointment. I’ll wait.”

  She looked at Wayne, hoping he’d make some move to escort Davis out. He didn’t. She weighed her choices. Arrive at the dress shop late and face Kimberly’s video chat wrath? Or allow the pathologist to cool his heels unsupervised in Franklin’s office…alone with the computer and all the coroner’s records?

  “That won’t be necessary,” Zoe said. Her mother would be a royal pain regardless. Zoe crossed the room to gather the second set of photos and reports. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Wayne stood. “I’ll walk over with you and see if Franklin’s up to answering some questions.”

  Davis climbed to his feet, eyeing the detective. “What do you mean? If he’s up to answering questions? What’s wrong with Mr. Marshall?”

  Zoe glared at Wayne. Franklin didn’t like to publicize his kidney disease. He didn’t want the people he served to doubt his fitness for the job. And he certainly hadn’t wanted to give Davis more ammunition in his failed attempt to stop Franklin’s bid for reelection.

  Wayne started to reply, “He had a—”

  Before he could say “heart attack,” Zoe stepped between the men and shoved the printouts into Davis’ hands. “I know you’ve heard by now that he has diabetes. His glucose levels got out of whack this morning.” She shot Wayne a shut-up look over her shoulder before facing Davis with a smile. “They’ve hospitalized him to reevaluate his meds.”

  The pathologist turned his dark eyes on Wayne, aware there was more to the story and expecting to learn it from the detective. Wayne, however, caught Zoe’s silent cue. He plastered a poker-worthy innocent expression on his face.

  Davis shifted his attention to her. “Hmm. Perhaps I’ll stop in and give my best to our county coroner while I’m in town. After I collect and examine my evidence.”

  She didn’t dare attempt another nonverbal exchange with Wayne. Giving Davis her biggest fake smile, she said, “You do that.”

  He picked up his coat and led the way out of the office.

  When Davis vanished into the hall, Zoe glowered at Wayne.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure Franklin’s out ‘having tests’ by the time Davis gets there.”

  Zoe had never spent much time in the morgue’s storage room in the hospital basement. While Franklin could’ve placed his hands on the correct box within seconds, she had to figure out the coroner’s filing system. Davis trailed behind, punctuating her failed attempts with exasperated sighs. She kept recalling all the times during the campaign when he’d belittled the efficiency of the office and her qualifications to work there. No doubt he was still thinking those same thoughts.

  “Got it,” she called out when she found the small box containing all that was left of Elizabeth Landis.

  “Finally.” Davis made a point of looking at his watch. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Zoe led the way down the hall to the morgue, wishing Doc hadn’t left already.

  Davis crossed the room to the counter holding a microscope. Zoe opened the box, set it next to him, and watched as he picked through the contents.

  After several long minutes, she retrieved the stool Franklin had sat on earlier. She couldn’t decide if Davis was meticulous in his work or was simply taking his good ol’ time to annoy her. He studied each slide, scrawled notes, and compared his findings with Franklin’s reports. Clicking on a lightbox mounted to the wall, he scrutinized each x-ray.

  Once he’d finished, he turned to Zoe. “I suppose I can have the body exhumed if necessary.”

  She almost asked why? But she remembered a notation she’d seen. “No, you can’t.”

  Davis thrust out his chest. “And why not?”

  Zoe left the stool and moved next to him, poking a finger at a line in the report. “Because the body was cremated.”

  He scowled. “Oh.” He peered into the box and plucked out a sealed evidence bag. “At least I see Mr. Marshall kept a hair sample. I’ll take a strand or two with me.”

  “We can do that.” Zoe crossed to the cabinet holding a supply of the bags. “But I don’t understand what you hope to find.”

  Davis lifted his chin, glaring down his nose at her. “Whatever your office missed.”

  Pete rolled into the parking lot of the Vance Township police station with five minutes to spare. Nate Williamson—all six-foot-five, 250 pounds of him—leaned on the front counter, waiting for Pete when he strode in.

  “Did you think I wasn’t going to make it back in time?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.” Nate glanced at Pete’s secretary. “Nancy can update you. My reports are on your desk.”

  Nate usually only worked Saturdays and Sundays at Vance Township, while holding down part-time gigs with two other departments on weekdays. Agreeing to cover for Pete on a Tuesday morning put the officer at risk of being late for another job.

  Pete jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Get outta here. And thanks.”

  “Nice guy,” Nancy said after Nate left. “I rarely cross paths with him. Scary-looking as all get out, but nice.”

  “To you, yeah. Bad guys? Not so much. The scary-looking thing generally keeps them at bay without Nate having to lift a finger.”

  “That might explain the quiet morning we had around here.” She handed Pete a short stack of pink callback notes. “Word got out that Officer Williamson was filling in.”

  “Are you insinuating that our local residents aren’t intimidated by me?”

  She eyed him. “By the uniform? A little. By that look you give some of them? Maybe. But you stand side-by-side with that guy?” She shot a glance at the door through which Nate had exited. “In comparison, you’re a teddy bear.”

  Pete huffed, feigning insult. “Maybe I need to hit the gym more often.”

  “If by ‘more often’ you mean at all, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Ouch.” Pete remembered a couple of years ago when Nancy took over from his previous smart-mouthed secretary, Sylvia Bassi. He didn’t think the “new girl” had the gumption to deal with the job. Clearly, he’d been wrong. “Just update me on Nate’s morning already.”

  “Robert Cullen was causing trouble at the high school.”

  “Bullying?” Pete had been called to deal with the kid at least once every six months since he turned fourteen. Pete would lecture him. Robert would behave for a while. Then he’d start picking on the younger, smaller kids all over again.

  “Yep. Nate did his scary-looking routine and Robert promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

  “We’ll see.” If Nate’s come-to-Jesus talk worked on the Cullen kid better than Pete’s, he might have to give his weekend officer a raise. “What else?”

  “Nothing major. Not from Nate anyway. I’m sure his written report will cover everything.”

  Pete picked up the qualification in Nancy’s statement. “What do you mean, ‘Not from Nate?’ Som
ething else going on?”

  She rocked back in her chair and folded her arms. “Abby asked for a shift change.”

  “I’m sure Seth can run the midnight shift alone for one or two nights if she needs time off. Or I can switch her to weekend duty, so she doesn’t lose any hours.”

  Nancy’s lips pressed into an unhappy thin line. “Yeah. No. I don’t think she means one or two nights. She wants a different shift permanently. Or a different partner. Or both.”

  The news struck Pete silent. Officers Abby Baronick—Wayne Baronick’s sister—and Officer Seth Metzger had been partners on both the midnight shift and in their personal lives since Abby had joined the department last spring. They worked so well together, Pete had seen no reason to penalize the couple for seeing each other off-duty. In fact, with Vance Township’s small force and even smaller budget, he’d bent rules to put them together when everyone else patrolled alone. Midnight shifts, he’d told the board of supervisors, could be hazardous. Two to a car was a reasonable safety measure. The supervisors either bought it or were romantics at heart and didn’t want to stand in the way of young love.

  “Did they have a fight?” Pete asked.

  Nancy considered the question. “Not in my presence.”

  “Maybe they need to stick together and work out whatever issues they’re having.”

  “Maybe.” She sounded doubtful.

  Did he want a pair of distracted, bickering cops working graveyard? “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good.”

  He headed down the hallway to his office where a fresh pot of coffee waited. After depositing his phone, the callback notes, and Imperatore’s photocopies on his desk, he poured a cup and settled into his chair.

  Caffeine did nothing to soften the impact of the news articles. A serial killer? In his corner of the world? Why the hell had he never heard of this string of homicides before?

  Yellow Springs, Ohio—near Cincinnati. Brookville, Pennsylvania—about four hours northeast of Vance Township. Keyser, West Virginia—a couple hours southeast. And Manchester, Maryland—the easternmost location of the four. All smaller cities. None as small as Dillard, Phillipsburg, or any other municipality within Pete’s township.