Dr. Burton stepped around the podium to stand before the class. “Locard started the first police laboratory in 1910 in two attic rooms in a police facility in Lyon, France. He had to beg the police to give him the space. In his lifetime, he met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who penned the fictitious Holmes cases, but your cases are not fictitious. Your bodies are not characters in a novel. They lived and they died. And it’s up to you to find their killers and bring justice to the dead. Since Locard’s time, we’ve come to understand more about the criminal mind, the triggers and patterns and histories that forge human beings into killers…”
Max remained mesmerized for the entire three-hour class, which had one twenty-minute break halfway through, when he stepped out and stretched his legs. It had been a long day, but a cup of coffee and chocolate power bar fueled him.
For having been out of school only a couple of years, Dr. Burton moved back and forth across the stage with ease. She spoke with passion and authority, captivating Max with casefile studies, her interviews with serial killers or other criminals, and descriptions of her own work in aiding the police with cracking a case or making an arrest.
Max had done his homework on Dr. Burton. She was Max’s age, but she was something of a genius. She finished high school at fifteen in San Diego, completed a double-bachelors in sociology and psychology with a minor in math, and earned a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology from Yale. She then attended the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. She worked for the FBI for a few months, before quitting the bureau and returning to San Diego to teach and consult with various police forces.
The moment the lecture ended with a reminder to download the syllabus and stay on-track with the reading assignments, the crowd—about three-fourths men and one-fourth women—dispersed. Chief David King would have liked better numbers, but they had improved over time. A key reason why Max’s father had volunteered to lecture in the after school criminal science program at the high school was to encourage girls, like Jayda, to join the force.
A few eager students rushed up to Dr. Burton with questions, but she kept shooting glances at Max while she answered them.
The only encounter between Max and Dr. Burton prior to tonight occurred after his father’s funeral, when he saw her standing on a grassy hill. They spoke briefly. He recognized her only after she’d departed—or he thought he had. The memory of a dark-haired childhood companion erupted from the black lake in his mind.
When the last student left, Max approached her.
“Hi, Max. I’m glad you made it.”
“Me too.” He had an important question to ask her, but asking someone—“Were you my childhood friend, and did you kill your kitten? Because all I remember is you holding a dead kitten”—was awkward, to say the least. As much as Max wanted to rush in, his training told him to be smart—that sounded simple, but reining in his curiosity demanded extreme discipline. Although his hairstyle—buzzed on the sides and longish on top—attested to the fact he sometimes handed the reins to the impulsive, this-is-the-very-best-idea-you’ve-ever-had Max.
“I read about Anne Martin. How’s the case going?” Dr. Burton broke the silence.
“Good. It’s moving along.”
“I hear Chief Goldsby is on the list. That must be interesting for you.”
Max wondered where she’d gotten her information. “I can neither confirm nor deny your statement about any suspects. They are all innocent until I can prove one or more of them guilty.” He liked his pat answer. He’d become used to not divulging information.
Still, Max’s brain worked overtime. The W.V.P.D. public relations liaison had managed to leave Goldsby’s name out of the paper, so far, and provided only a rudimentary description of Anne Martin as a local nurse, who may have had a tragic accident.
Joy whispered, “Here’s a bit of top-secret information.” She peered round as if to make sure the coast was clear. “My father was not a fan of Frank Goldsby.”
Max whispered back, “Nor mine. You’ve been here a couple of weeks, and you have insider information. Maybe you did it.”
Joy laughed. It was a childish laugh, the first break he’d seen in her otherwise serious demeanor. “Maybe. Cast your net wide, my father would say.”
“Funny. My father said that too.”
Joy’s eyes narrowed and she cocked her head to the side as if scrutinzing him. “Did he?”
“Must be common.”
“Right. Let me know if you need more time to catch up on last week’s reading.”
“Hey, I know you’re like some kind of genius, but I can read. I’ll catch up fast.”
Joy turned on her heels to leave. “Don’t you dare read fast! Reading for meaning means you read slowly, methodically, no different than a crime scene.”
“Well, actually, there’s a big difference. A lot less blood.”
With a wink and a smile, Dr. Burton sailed through the door and off stage.
Max should have been tired when he got home, but the lecture had fired him up—or perhaps the coffee and chocolate bar had kicked in. He cracked open the textbook and began to read.
Max woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. He found himself stretched out on the plaid sofa with a book sprawled across his chest and one leg dangling. Morning sunlight showered him as effectively awake as cold water. “Dang, this is not a good pattern to wake up to. Sorry, Dad, but we need some new décor.”
As Max struggled to sit up, he envisioned the fuel that it would take to blast him awake: a very large, strong coffee and two glazed donuts—he needed more sugar than crumble donuts could provide. He had no real knowledge of which donut had the higher sugar content; he went by feel. Crumble donuts, as good as they were, seemed too refined for some mornings—after all, they crumbled—but biting into a giant, airy, fried pastry, with so much sugar it dripped around the sides—a donut that, if he wanted to, and sometimes he did, he could shove whole into his mouth—gave him a mental can-do blast of energy.
He sincerely hoped the ringing phone would stop once someone realized they’d dialed the wrong number, but he knew better and grabbed it. “King.”
The chief’s deep voice pounded at his ear drums.
“Sure, chief. I’ll be right there.” Max checked his watch. The chief was in early. Real early.
Max needed a shower, but the chief sounded impatient. He threw on a clean white polo shirt and yesterday’s pants and raced out the door. The approved detective dress code varied widely from county to county—some insisted on standard uniforms and ties, others plain clothes—but Wine Valley’s dress code allowed him to wear a polo shirt with police insignia—white, navy, or black shirts with gold logos—and a suit jacket, on occasion. His department found that casual attire worked better than uniforms for detectives needing to extract information from witnesses, due to the lower intimidation factor, but Max had to toss on a bullet-proof vest with “POLICE” lettering for situations that had, as the lingo among the officers stated, a “pucker” factor, meaning weapons or significant danger.
In this instance, the only danger to Max was the chief, and knowing he’d done nothing to deserve his caustic tone or indignation offered little respite.
10
On the way to the precinct, Max called Kinsey Pharmaceuticals and spoke to a human resources representative who confirmed Grant’s story. He’d been a model employee. Max then called Captain Banks and asked her to assign someone to dig into the doctor’s finances. Maybe the man did well making commission from a pharmaceutical giant, but he certainly lived large. Or maybe he’d scored big at gambling and knew to leave well enough alone. Either way, Max needed to make sure it added up. Dr. Grant had the most knowledge about drugs. Or was he blackmailing Anne into stealing from the hospital?
Max rushed into the donut shop on Stagecoach Street—a place he and his father frequented, which was perhaps the reason he loved donuts: they came with irreplaceable memories. Max grabbed his sugar fix, parked Baby Blue, his convertible, in the parking lot, and
sprinted to the chief’s office. He needed to ask the chief some tough questions. In order to prove the man innocent—he had to know in what ways he was guilty.
Max finished chewing and swallowing the first donut as he knocked on the chief’s door. He heard the chief’s voice. “Come in.” The second donut would have to wait.
The chief’s office had that newly painted and carpeted smell, but he hadn’t yet settled in like Captain Banks. Boxes sat in stacks against the wall. But that was not what caught Max’s eye. The chief had company.
Joy turned to greet him. “Hello, Max. You look like crap.”
Max felt completely disheveled.
Even in dark blue jeans, Dr. Burton had a polished presentation. Her blue-gray, silky, button-front blouse with three-quarter cuffed sleeves and black pearl buttons would have paired better with formal slacks rather than jeans. Not that they didn’t mesh, but none of it seemed casual, which was the very point of wearing jeans in the first place.
To top it off, she wore a black pearl necklace and earrings that screamed, “Oh, these—just casual black pearls from the seas of China.” If she had tried to dress down, she’d failed. “I feel like crap, Joy. I was up late doing homework. Chief…what’s going on here?”
“I’m a suspect in a goddamn murder investigation, that’s what’s going on here,” grumbled Goldsby. The veins on his neck stuck out and his cheeks flushed red, which made his white hair all the whiter. “I just hired Dr. Burton as a consultant on the case. She’s your new partner. She’s got a nose like her father. She’s helped a few PDs crack crimes.”
Max took a seat.
The chief’s bloodshot eyes widened. He had lost sleep. “My cigar cutter was found at the scene of a murder—that’s not a good thing. I didn’t do it, Max. Where’s the case?”
“Moving along.” Until Max was restricted from talking to the chief or the chief was taken into custody, Max had no reason not to share information. “I’ve interviewed Eugene and his daughter, Shane, and Grant. Anne doubled back and slept with Eugene before walking home.”
“Anne and Eugene?” The chief scowled. “What the—oh, never mind. Go ahead.” The chief folded his arms over his bulging belly, as if to constrain himself from interrupting again.
“Dr. Grant has anger issues. He says he loves Anne, but she confided in Shane that he was too controlling. Anne supposedly broke it off with Grant. She flirted with Eugene at the poker party.”
Goldsby nodded. “That’s true, but Anne flirting with the boys is not uncommon.”
Max continued. “So I’ve heard. Grant says he was trying to help Anne with her gambling addiction. Anne owed money to the casino.” The chief didn’t seem shocked. Was he waiting for a full briefing or he had he known about it? “I have some new information that supposedly came from Shane Drake, so I need to interview him again to verify it.” Max leaned in. “Chief, um, I’m just doing my job, so don’t take this the wrong way. I gotta ask. Did you have relations with Anne?”
“That’s none of your business!” barked the chief.
“Chief,” said Joy, leaning forward and using a soft monotone to grab his attention. “Answer the question. It’s off-the-record, right, Max?”
“Oh, yeah. Off-the-record at this point, chief.” Max didn’t know if he quite agreed with that, but he let it slide.
Joy used a soothing voice that would have made Max spill the beans, if he had any beans to spill. “Better tell us now than tell a dozen jurors later.”
“Oh, God. I can’t believe this is happening. Yes, just once. Happy now?” He rubbed his hands over his face, as if to wipe away the incriminating memory.
Max asked, “Do you know a loan-shark named A-gamer?”
The chief jumped up from his chair and trudged back and forth. “How do you know about that? No one knew about that! I didn’t really do anything. Nothing illegal.”
Joy intervened again. Max noticed that her calm tone brought the chief down out of the rafters. “Chief, no one is judging you. Just tell us what happened. It could lead us to Anne’s real killer. And exonerate you.”
“You’re right. Maybe it was A-gamer. I forgot all about him.” The chief sank into his chair. “I’m undone. If this gets out, I’m ruined.” He put his hands over his eyes, shook his head, and let out a deep sigh before dropping his shoulders, a supplicant ready to confess. “Anne was foolish. When the casino cut her off, she borrowed five grand from A-gamer, thinking she could turn around her losing streak. He’s a punk-ass loan-shark and drug dealer. It was a mistake. She knew that, poor kid. She’d been paying him off regular, but A-gamer kept raising the interest. She’d never get out. She was scared. Really scared. She won some money at a game in Lake Elsinore. She had enough to pay off the balance. I went with her to see A-gamer. She made me wait outside. We didn’t want to be seen together. When she came out, I was supposed to go in and talk to him. But she wasn’t coming out, so I got worried. I walked in. When she saw me, she hightailed it out of there. I went over to A-gamer and told him that her account was closed, permanently, and that if he loaned her another penny or asked her for another penny, I’d find him and make his life miserable. I didn’t mean I’d hurt him, you know. I’d arrest him. Get him locked up.”
“Chief, did you know that drugs have gone missing from the hospital where Anne worked?”
This stopped the chief in his tracks and knocked the color out of him. He sank into his chair. “Hell no, I didn’t know! Damn it! Maybe Anne was trying to pay off A-gamer with stuff as valuable as cash. But you gotta believe me, Max. I had nothing to do with it. And I didn’t kill her. After the pay off, we came back to my place. Anne literally twirled in circles in my living room. She was giddy. She said, ‘I’m free. I’m free. You saved my life, you brave knight.’ I stepped in and circled with her, kind of dancing, you know, and one thing led to another.”
Joy interjected, “We’ll find who did this, chief. Right, Max?”
“Right.” As they left the chief’s office. Max offered Joy his second glazed donut.
“Max, those things will kill you.”
Max pulled the donut from the bag and bit into it. He moaned in audible enjoyment. “Right now, this donut is saving my life.”
Max pulled up in front of Shane Drake’s house, and he and Joy stepped from Max’s undercover car. Max knocked on the door. No one answered. He flipped through his booklet and called the number where Shane worked. “This is Detective King. Is Shane Drake there?”
“He never showed up for work,” said a clerk. “I’ve been trying to call him all night.”
Max and Joy walked the perimeter of the house. Max found a window ajar, probably to let in the cool night air. At least Max didn’t have to break in, which he was fully prepared to do. He put on a pair of gloves and crawled in. “Shane!” No answer.
Max unbolted the front door and let Joy in. He handed her a pair of gloves and took the lead. They cleared each room before entering the master bedroom. Shane lay on his stomach, a blanket over him, and under that, a heating pad, still plugged in.
Joy knelt down and stared into his ashen face, blue lips, and fixed eyes. “What happened to you, Shane? Tell me.”
Max thought it odd that she spoke to the corpse, but then he realized he had been speaking to Anne Martin too. He felt for a pulse. “Dead.”
Max called for a team. They arrived within the hour. After technicians snapped pictures and collected evidence, Angelo removed the covers to get a better look at the body.
Max introduced Joy as a consultant. “Dr. Burton, this is Angelo, the big cheese of MEs”
“Bellisimo!” said Angelo, noting Joy’s beauty. “Pardon me. I’m Italian. I mean no disrespect, doctor.”
“Prego,” said Joy. “None taken.”
Max observed the room. “No fight. And there doesn’t appear to be forced entry either, so he either died here alone or he knew his attacker. The back door off of the kitchen was unlocked.”
Shane wore his Padres pants but
no shirt. He lay face down and had three patches, clear but with printed letters on them, stuck to his lower back.
“Any ideas?” asked Max.
“That’s a lot of Fentanyl patches.” Joy eyed the box on the nightstand. She peered inside the box. “Looks like there’s one left, and the box contains five.”
“I agree,” said Angelo. “No contusions. Possible overdose, but we need toxicology.”
“Accidental?”
“Three patches, probably not,” said Angelo. “He’s a big guy, but Fentanyl is a strong narcotic. One of these patches is usually worn for a couple of days.”
Joy added, “And he had a heating pad over them.”
Angelo gave an impressed nod. “Exactly.”
“What does that do?” asked Max.
Angelo gestured using his gloved hands. “Warming the skin opens the pores, and that lets the narcotic in faster. I’ll have to test the patches, but if they’re all new, and if he had any other drugs or alcohol in his system, this may be death by overdose.”
“Or murder by overdose,” corrected Joy.
Max smelled a familiar scent. He couldn’t place it, but it was smoky.
He walked around the bed. On the floor, next to the nightstand, he saw a brown, stubbed, oblong shape on the carpet. He grabbed an evidence bag and carefully scooped it up. A cigar butt. He recognized the scent—the chief’s cigars. He’d smelled it when he crossed through the living room to let Joy inside. He wanted to be wrong. The chief might be a jerk, but was he a murderer?
Burgundy and Bodies Page 6
