It only takes us a few minutes to get to Hurley’s house and when we arrive we find several police cars parked in the drive and on the street out front. To my horror, I see Helen Baxter and Antoinette on the sidewalk a couple of doors away, watching everything with keen interest.
Izzy and I get out of the hearse, and I retrieve my evidence kit from the back. Since Izzy is already headed inside, I look down the street at Helen and after making sure no one is watching me, I put my finger to my lips to indicate to her that she needs to stay away and quiet.
As I enter Hurley’s house, memories of our aborted dinner from a few nights ago come back to me. I swear I can smell the lingering scents of oregano and garlic still hanging in the air.
Most of the activity seems to be in the kitchen and workshop area and I cringe, knowing that the connection to the metal fragments we found in Callie’s hair will soon be made, if it hasn’t been already. I follow Izzy to the workshop, where we find Richmond and a cadre of other police officers, including Junior Feller and Ron Colbert, searching through all the minutiae there.
Richmond sees us enter and gives us a nod. “Well, as you can see, Hurley is into metalwork and I’m betting that if we compare the metal bits found in Callie Dunkirk’s hair to the ones here, we’ll get a match.” He walks over and picks up a plastic bag containing a photo. “And then there’s this,” he says, handing it to us.
I look at the photo which is of Hurley and another man standing behind a picnic table, both decked out in fishing gear. Hurley is holding up a large walleye and grinning from ear to ear. The other man is holding one up, too, though his is a bit smaller. Lying on the table in front of them is a knife: the same one with the carved ivory handle we found buried in Callie Dunkirk’s chest.
Izzy gives me a look that’s half apology, half I-told-you-so. I look at Richmond and say, “So you think Hurley killed Callie?”
Richmond bites his lip and looks skeptical but he says, “The evidence seems to say so.”
“But why would he do that?”
“He dated her for nearly a year when he lived in Chicago. And Callie Dunkirk has a son who was born around eight months after she and Hurley split up.” Richmond shrugs. “Do the math. If Hurley fathered a child by Miss Dunkirk it suggests all sorts of motives. And the fact that we found his prints on the gas can at your house certainly makes it look like he’s the one who set the fire, presumably with the intent to kill your husband. Did Izzy tell you about the altercation David had with Hurley the other day?”
I nod.
“That would seem to suggest that Hurley has issues where the women in his life are concerned.”
“I’m not a woman in Hurley’s life,” I say quickly. “At least not in that way.”
Nobody in the room contradicts me, but the momentary pause in the action and the deafening silence that follows suggest that everyone who heard me is waiting for someone to do so.
“Okay, yes, there was an attraction in the beginning,” I explain, feeling the pressure. “But we’ve moved beyond that. Hurley and I work together, nothing more.”
Still no one moves, and it’s as if everyone in the room is waiting for a cue.
Richmond, thank goodness, finally gives them one. “There’s also evidence linking Hurley to Minniver’s death,” he continues, and with his words, the others in the room resume whatever they were doing. “We found this here in his garage.” He holds up another evidence bag and I see a container of potassium cyanide inside. “We also found a loose key in a drawer over there.”
He points to the same drawer that Hurley opened the other night when he pulled out the pair of earrings he gave me, earrings I realize I’m still wearing. It’s all I can do to resist the sudden urge I have to reach up and remove them.
Had that key been inside that drawer the other night? I try to recall what I saw when I looked in there. I don’t remember seeing a key but I can’t be certain. It might have been hidden beneath the many envelopes of jewelry.
Richmond continues skewering Hurley. “Colbert told me about the missing spare key Minniver kept inside his front porch light, so I had one of the officers take the key we found here over to Minniver’s house and try it. Want to guess what we found?”
“It was Minniver’s key,” I say with a sickening feeling.
“Bingo,” Richmond says. He shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve always found Hurley to be a pretty straight-up guy and he’s a good cop as far as his abilities go, but I have to admit, all this evidence is pretty damning.”
Doubt rears its ugly head and I feel my hopes sinking faster than Toyota stock after the stuck accelerator debacle.
One of the evidence techs on scene, who has just finished taping black paper over the windows in the room, says to Richmond, “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Richmond nods his acknowledgment and then waves us back toward the kitchen. “Given the evidence we’ve found, we suspect that this might be the scene of Miss Dunkirk’s murder,” he explains. “So we’re going to Luminol the room.”
Izzy and I back into the kitchen doorway and Richmond flips the light switch for the garage, plunging the room into darkness. There is enough ambient light from the kitchen for us to see what’s going on, however, and we watch as the evidence tech starts spraying his Luminol solution on the floor of the garage. If there is blood here, the Luminol will turn fluorescent blue for about thirty seconds and one of the cops is standing by with a camera to snap pictures in case that happens.
For the first couple of minutes, nothing happens as the tech backs his way across the garage, skirting the center worktable and sweeping the floor with the Luminol spray. As we watch, Izzy leans over to me and whispers, “Do you remember that hair you found in Callie’s wound?”
I nod, but say nothing. My throat feels like someone has a stranglehold on it.
“It was short and black, like Hurley’s,” Izzy goes on.
I nod again, fighting back an unexpected sting of tears. Then everything goes to hell when the evidence tech sprays an area a few feet in front of us. The floor turns fluorescent blue in a few spots. The cop with the camera fires away and I’m momentarily blinded by the flash. My mind scrambles for an explanation, thinking that Hurley could have cut himself here in the shop and the blood could be his. I also seem to remember reading somewhere that copper can cause a false positive reading with Luminol and there’s plenty of copper in the room. Bleach can also cause a positive test and maybe Hurley used some to clean up the floor as part of his routine maintenance.
But before I can voice these thoughts, the evidence tech sprays again and over the next minute or so, a narrow smear of blood is highlighted, trailing from the area of the first few drops over to the bay door. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine a body creating that trail as it was being dragged across the floor.
My heart sinks, and as the bright flashes from the camera mark the findings, my last glimmer of hope fades faster than the blue fluorescence of the Luminol.
Chapter 32
I assist Izzy with his part of processing Hurley’s house—the collection of possible blood evidence from cracks in the floor near the bay door—in a state of numb fog. Every part of me wants to believe in Hurley but Richmond is right; the evidence is both damning and overwhelming. And now, because David knows about my alliance with Hurley and the evidence I’ve shared with him, I fear my career is lost, for it’s only a matter of time before Izzy finds out.
I know in my heart that Hurley didn’t do this but I’m afraid to trust my heart. My mind is a different matter however, and when I analyze things as objectively as I can, my mind comes to the same conclusion my heart did.
I’m standing next to Hurley’s workbench, labeling a sample, when I make my decision. I turn around and call out Richmond’s name.
He stops what he’s doing—writing out a narrative report—and looks at me.
“Listen,” I say, “I know that when it comes to Hurley all of y
ou think I’m about as objective as the Ku Klux Klan is toward Obama. But I have to tell you, none of this makes any sense. I mean, think about it. Hurley is a good cop . . . you said so yourself, Richmond. He has good instincts and as far as we know, a good reputation. What’s more, he’s also pretty savvy when it comes to crime scene evidence. So why, if he committed all these crimes, would he be so sloppy about leaving evidence behind?”
Richmond shrugs and says, “Maybe he’s had some sort of psychotic break and his mind is no longer thinking clearly. Maybe this medical problem he took leave for is a psychiatric issue of some sort.”
“But if that were true, how is it he had the sense to hide Callie’s car, and to move her body? Why wouldn’t he just leave it all here?”
“Maybe he didn’t fully snap until after Callie’s murder. Maybe it was Minniver’s that pushed him to the edge,” Richmond says.
I turn and look at Izzy. “You saw Hurley yesterday morning at the hospital. Did he seem like a psycho to you?”
Izzy thinks about it for a minute and then says, “No, if anything he seemed nervous.”
“Yes!” I say. “And if he’d had such a severe psychotic break at that point, do you think he’d look nervous?”
Several of the people in the room frown and look at one another, as if they hope to find the answers.
“I’m not buying it,” I tell the room. “At least not yet. The Hurley I know isn’t capable of something like this. And yes, I realize that I don’t know him all that well, but I think he deserves the benefit of the doubt. He’s a cop. He’s one of you. If the situation was reversed and one of you was under suspicion, wouldn’t you want your cohorts to do everything possible to make damned sure you were really guilty before throwing the book at you? Wouldn’t you want them to give you some benefit of doubt?” I don’t wait for any of them to answer. “I would.” I look Richmond straight in the eye. “I would do it for you, Richmond. You know I would.” I shift my gaze to Larry Johnson, one of the other cops in the room and someone who has harbored a small crush on me for years. “I would do it for you, too, Larry.” Next I look at the uniforms, one at a time. “And I’d do it for you, and you, and you.” They all look away from me wearing slightly embarrassed expressions.
“All I’m saying is that Hurley deserves nothing less than our best. He deserves the benefit of our doubt and a promise that we will look at all the evidence and consider it in every possible light. My gut tells me that Hurley is a very smart guy, too smart to leave behind evidence as obvious as his hair embedded in Callie’s wound, or his father’s one-of-a-kind, highly distinctive knife buried in her chest, or Minniver’s key sitting in plain sight in his drawer here. I mean, do you really think he’s stupid enough to leave behind a gas can with his handwriting and fingerprints on it if he set that fire at my house? Or stupid enough to use his personal gas can at all for that matter? Even a dumb kid would have enough sense to buy a cheap generic gas can and use that instead of one that has identifying information on it. And if he did commit these murders, why would he step back from the investigations? He left the scene where we found Callie’s body almost as soon as he got there, and yet if he’d stayed and handled the investigation, he could have hidden and manipulated the evidence to hide his guilt. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe you guys are ready to hang him based on all of that, but I’m willing to give him the presumption of innocence until I’m one hundred percent sure he’s guilty.”
I’ve been talking so fast and with so much enthusiasm that I’m nearly out of breath. I pause to catch it and study the faces of the others in the room. To my delight I see some wavering and doubt there, so I push on.
“Richmond, how much do you know about Hurley’s past when he was on the force in Chicago?”
Richmond blinks several times very fast and then says, “Not much.”
“Have you talked to any of his prior coworkers? Have you looked into what kind of cop he was down there? Were there any hints of mental instability, or corruption, or anything like that when he was there?”
Richmond arches his brows and sighs. “I don’t know.”
“Then don’t you think we should look into that and try to find out what kind of person his coworkers thought he was before we convict him?”
“She’s right,” Larry says, and even though I don’t know if he’s agreeing with me because he actually believes what I’m saying or because he’s merely trying to earn Brownie points from me, I’m grateful for his support. “I’ve worked with Hurley for a little over six months now and I have to confess, I don’t see him doing something like this.”
One of the uniforms pipes up. “I agree. The guy has always been kind, civil, and polite whenever I’ve worked with him. And I know some crazy and evil people are good at putting forth a very convincing façade, but Hurley seems real. Real enough that I think Mattie’s right . . . he deserves the benefit of our doubt until we know otherwise.”
Several of the guys nod and I know I’ve gotten my point across. Richmond says, “You raise some good points, Mattie. But it would certainly help the situation if Hurley was here to address some of these issues.”
“Give him time,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking, that you give him time and a fair analysis of all the evidence.”
Richmond nods thoughtfully and says, “Okay then. Back to work, people.” He takes out his cell phone, starts punching in a number, and heads into the house while the others in the room go back to what they were doing. I turn and look at Izzy, who’s been standing quietly behind me the entire time. I’m not sure what I expect to see on his face, but the dark, thunderous expression he’s wearing definitely isn’t it.
“What?” I say to him. “You don’t agree with me?”
“Oh, I agree with everything in your little pep speech,” he says, his lips tight as he speaks. “But I think you and I need to have a little chat of our own. The sooner the better.”
He turns away from me and focuses on the remaining evidence, but when I try to assist him, he pushes my hands away and won’t let me touch anything. I can tell he’s angry, but I’m not sure why. Is it because I broke the promise I made to him to be objective?
A little while later, after we’ve finished collecting the blood evidence, he says, “We’re done here. Pack up your kit.”
I do so while he does the same. He then turns to Larry Johnson and says, “You guys can finish up here. We’re going to head back to the office and get started on this blood analysis.”
I follow Izzy out to the car, puzzled by his cold shoulder reaction and trying to guess what has set him off. As soon as we have all our stuff loaded into the hearse and climb into the front seat, I ask him.
“What’s wrong, Izzy? Are you mad because I spoke up about Hurley?”
“Drive us to the office,” he says, staring out the front window. “We’ll talk there.”
I start the car and pull out while Izzy takes out his cell phone and calls Arnie. “Meet us in the garage,” he says. “I need you to take charge of this evidence we’ve just collected and process it ASAP.”
We make the journey wrapped in an awkward silence and when we pull into the garage, Arnie is waiting for us. Izzy instructs him on what the evidence is and what he wants done with it while I lean against the wall, feeling like I’m waiting for the head soldier to finish instructing the firing squad.
As soon as Izzy is done with Arnie, he looks at me all tight-lipped and says, “Let’s go to the library.”
I follow him inside, dread growing with every step. As soon as we enter, Izzy shuts the door behind us with a bit more force than is necessary. “Sit,” he says, yanking out a chair.
I do so while Izzy walks around to the other side of the table. He leans forward, his hands on the tabletop, and says, “Do you want to tell me how it is you know that Hurley’s knife is his father’s, or how you know it’s one of a kind? Or how you know there was writing on the gas can when you never saw it?”
Oh, crap. I realize too lat
e to do myself any good that I got a bit carried away during my little speech in Hurley’s garage. My mind scrambles to find some way to explain myself, but the look on Izzy’s face freezes my brain. I’ve never seen him this angry before.
“You’ve been talking to Hurley, haven’t you?” he says.
“We’ve chatted a couple of times. He—”
“You two have been in cahoots right from the start on all of this, haven’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it cahoots,” I argue, wondering what the hell a cahoot even is. “But I believe him when he says someone is framing him. It doesn’t make any se—”
“Damn it, Mattie!” Izzy seethes, pounding a fist on the table and making me jump. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“He didn’t kill anyone, Izzy,” I fire back.
“You can’t know that for sure,” he yells.
I open my mouth to argue the point, even though my only supporting evidence is my gut feeling, but Izzy doesn’t let me get a single word out.
“And whether or not you think Hurley did it isn’t what matters. What matters is the fact that you did what you did behind my back. That is inexcusable, Mattie. Not only have you possibly compromised evidence and our investigation, you have undermined this office and betrayed my trust in you. I gave you this job because I thought you were someone with integrity, someone I could trust to be fair-minded and completely scientific in your judgments.” He pauses, looks at me, and then shakes his head woefully. “I need to reconsider whether or not you are appropriate for this position.”
All my blood sinks to my feet, leaving me feeling dazed, stunned, and frightened. “Izzy, I’m sorry. Please, don’t take my job away from me. I did what I thought was right at the time.”
Frozen Stiff Page 23
