Missing: The Body of Evidence
By Declan Conner
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents, either, are products of the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any reference to actual locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.
Missing: The Body of Evidence
Copyright © 2012 Declan Conner
UK English edition.
For information on subsidiary rights, email in the first instance.
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Chapter 1
Robbery Homicide Detective Nancy Roberts looked at the strange scene before her. In her fifteen years on the force at LAPD, it was like nothing she had ever encountered. An acrid smell of toxic fumes lingered in the apartment living room; irritated the back of her throat and her stomach churned. She retched, short of vomiting, bent over and coughed from the depths of her soul. The fire investigator tapped her on the shoulder, and offered her a paper facemask to breathe through, but she declined his offer with a wave of the hand. She turned and headed for the exit. Thoughts that she had inhaled the very essence of someone’s death hung heavily in her mind.
The echoing sound of her heels clip-clopped on the ceramic steps as she hurried down the stairway to the outside of the apartment block, leaving a bemused fire investigator and the Crime Scene Investigation team to carry on with their work.
Under the entrance canopy, sheltered from the drizzling rain, Nancy sucked in lungs full of sweet-tasting moist air. A pain stabbed the left side of her chest; she grimaced and unfastened the single button of her black trouser-suit jacket. Her 9 mil Glock pistol dug into her breast; she adjusted the shoulder holster and refastened her jacket. Bet the guys don’t have this problem. A smaller, more lightweight calibre would have been preferable to the standard issue firearm, but then, she thought, it would seem like a sign of weakness to colleagues and felons alike if she was packing anything less. A shudder ran through her body at the notion that she had succumbed to the fumes and shown frailty in her strength of character in front of the investigation team.
A rueful sigh escaped her lips. Nancy removed her protective paper cap and booties and stuffed them in her pocket. A flick of her shoulder-length black hair, followed by a few teases at her fringe with her fingers, soon had her feeling comfortable. A glance at her reflection on the glass doorway confirmed that she appeared to have some semblance of normality. An approaching vehicle caught her attention and she turned around. Coroner’s body-snatcher van.
The rain stopped and she looked up at the sky. The sun rising on the horizon seemed to be winning the battle for supremacy of the new day. Its rays penetrated chinks in the dark-clouds, which threw a few final salvos of lightning and grumbled in the distance as they started to disperse in retreat. Hope lingered in the recess of her mind that the change in the weather was an omen as to how her day would progress.
With her six-month probationary period over, she wasn’t sure why Logan, her boss, had given her the case on her first day as a full member of the team, when she knew there were plenty of unsolved murders on the board. ‘Just go and see how CSI handles an investigation,’ he had said. ‘And don’t go snooping...watch, listen and learn. Tracy Gibbons is the investigator in charge.’ At this stage, no one could tell if it was actually a homicide, accident, suicide, or... well... sort of something else.
Gibbons had given Nancy the task of overseeing the uniformed officers as they took statements and secured a boundary. With the danger over, and after the all clear given by the fire department crew, the residents had returned to their apartments. Nancy could not believe how some of them had argued about vacating their homes.
The coroner’s office’s blue striped white van pulled up outside the apartments. Two people exited and pulled a gurney from the back of the van.
‘John Carter, Coroner’s office. Where’s the body?’
Although pleased to get a handle on his name, where they were from was self-evident with ‘Coroner’s Dept.’ emblazoned on their van and baseball caps.
‘Body?’
‘Yeah, as in dead corpse... duh.’
Nancy wondered if Carter, the coroner’s body-bag guy, who stood at six foot, felt empowered with those extra six-inches of height he had over her.
‘You won’t need the gurney for this one. CSI has probably bagged it in a sandwich bag.’
The two coroner guys looked at each other and back at Nancy.
‘What’s left?’ one of them asked.
‘See for yourself, follow me.’
The fire investigator met them at the doorway to the apartment, where a uniformed police officer stood to one side, guarding the entrance.
‘Damndest thing I ever did see,’ said the fire investigator.
‘Any ideas?’ Nancy asked.
‘No accelerant, no faulty wiring, not even an ashtray to show he smoked and no sign of a forced entry... beats me. I ain’t seen nothing like it in thirty years on my watch, where a fire is confined to a body in such a closed space.’ He hustled past them, mumbling.
They all donned booties, gossamer-gloves and made their way through a small hallway into the living room.
‘There’s your body... duh,’ said Nancy.
Her lips pursed and she stabbed a look at Carter.
‘You’ve got to be kidding. Is that it?’
‘Afraid so, one boot, containing one foot.’
A smirk developed on her face, directed at Carter, and she felt good that she had jabbed one back at him.
‘Found anything, Tracy?’ she asked the CSI team leader, who was busy snapping photographs.
‘Not sure, but you guys can go, I’ll need to extract the foot from the Doc Marten back at the lab,’ she said, glancing at the guys from the Coroner’s office. ‘I’ll get the foot to your people, and report my findings.’ She carried on photographing the boot from different angles. ‘Everything of interest that we can find is bagged up. We’ve taken prints and checked out all the rooms with luminol under ultra violet for signs of blood splatters, but none were found. The door was locked when the fire department turned up. The janitor had to use his master key to let them in and there is no sign of forced entry through the windows. We found the keys for the apartment in the ashes, so he must have had them on his person. His wallet was on the coffee table with a stack of different denomination bills and a business card, but no credit cards or driver’s license. We’re going to bag the wallet if you want to take a look first.’
‘His?’
Nancy walked over to the table, took out a notebook and pen from her purse, flicked open the wallet with the ballpoint and teased out a business card. She noted all the details and slipped the card back into the sleeve.
Gibbons stopped photographing, threw Nancy a stare and scoffed. ‘His’... excuse me... Doc Marten boots, or should I say boot... size, twelve and a half. The shoes in his closet are all the same size as the boot. However, you’re right, we can’t say for sure. Everything points to it being Professor Tom Reynolds, who owns the apartment.’
‘Yeah, I saw the name on the business card.’
Nancy thought she detected a terse attitude in the way Gibbons addressed her, but she ignored her and carried on scanning the scene.
Something didn’t feel right about the look of the room. It was furnished in a functional manner, devoid of memorabilia. There wer
e no photographs or ornaments, not even a book, or a newspaper.
‘Don’t know why they sent you along; we can’t really say if it comes under the jurisdiction of robbery and homicide,’ Gibbons said.
Me, neither. Nancy shuffled away from the table and replaced her notebook and ballpoint in her shoulder purse.
‘So are you saying it’s more likely to be suicide, or an accident and he set himself on fire?’
‘I’m not saying anything unless you can find a python under the bed and it showed signs that it devoured him. Got to say though, spontaneous combustion comes to mind.’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘It’s a difficult subject, I only read about a few cases in books when I was studying at college. There have been rare cases recorded where bodies have just ignited spontaneously, but no one can say for sure what causes it, or the science behind it. I’d need to read up on it to answer properly. But really, we can’t rule anything in or out until all the tests are finished. Someone could have murdered him elsewhere, brought the foot here and set fire to his chair. The debris could be just ashes from the chair and a pile of his clothing.’
‘So, it would have to be someone who gained access to his key to make a copy, or someone he knew and he gave a key to?’
‘Like I said, it could be anything. No point worrying your pretty little head unless we come up with something.’
Nancy wanted to kick her ample behind for that last remark, but she took a deep sour-tasting breath instead, and put her touchy remark down to the early hour and broken sleep. Gibbons used some oversized tweezers to manoeuvre the boot with the foot into a paper bag. She looked on as Gibbons stowed her camera in her aluminium box of tricks, picked up the rest of her sample bags, and headed for the exit with the rest of her team.
‘That’s it, it’s all yours,’ said Gibbons, as she reached the door. ‘I’ll let you know when the case meeting is to be held. Don’t forget to have someone make the entrance secure. I’ve left some crime scene tape on the table. My boss will be in touch if needed.’ She paused and struck a pose for effect. ‘Incidentally, if you re-enter one of my crime scenes again, at least tie your hair back and wear a paper hat.’
Nancy’s cheeks flamed, with the heat making her think she was having her own mini-spontaneous combustion. Gibbons shook her head as she walked out and Nancy heard her banter with her assistant in the hallway. ‘Size twelve and a half Doc Marten...bah... ‘His.’ Some detective she’ll make.’
Nancy wondered what it was with everyone, thinking Gibbons verbal-jab unprofessional and bordering on childish. It wasn’t as if she was a Rookie now that she had finished her probationary period. She took one last look around the scene.
The victim had been sitting in an armchair, which in turn sat on a ceramic tiled floor. All that remained was the blackened chrome frame of the chair and the rest was just a pile of ash, intermingled with the spray from a fire extinguisher. The ceiling immediately above the position of the armchair had a stain with the appearance of thick-black-yellowish grease. Thank God the fire didn’t spread to the other apartments. Smoke residue from the fire thinned out over the rest of the ceiling and ran down the walls. A thin film from smoke damage covered what little there was in the way of furnishings. Nothing else had caught fire; apart from the smoke alarm on the ceiling that had melted. The cover was missing and there was no battery. She dropped her gaze.
Head bowed, Nancy retreated inwardly, considering all that she had seen and heard. A cold blast surged in a wave through her body and she shivered. Nancy shrugged her shoulders at the feeling, as if a ghost had passed through her, and she stepped out of the room. She scoffed at the thought. Spontaneous combustion? No Way.
Chapter 2
Nancy exchanged smiles with the officer guarding the apartment door. Her cell phone sounded. She fished the phone out of her purse and took the call.
‘Nancy, when are you due back at the station?’
She recognized Kyle’s voice, her newfound partner in more than just crime investigation.
‘I should be back in thirty minutes or so, unless I hit traffic. I just need to get someone to make the apartment door secure.’
‘Fire services knock it through?’
‘Nah, janitor let them in with a key.’
‘Should be no problem then. Hurry back, the boss wants a word.’
‘What have I done now? I haven’t been fishing around like he asked, just observing.’
‘Didn’t say, but he looks pissed.’
‘Oh thanks, it would have been nice not to know until I arrived.’
‘No problem, that’s what friends are for. See you soon.’
He ended the call. Information from what she had seen inside the apartment was hitting her from different directions. Her sense of curiosity drew her to have one last look around the apartment. With the apartment empty, she thought it too good an opportunity to miss, despite her boss’s instructions.
She wandered around the rooms in the apartment. In the bedroom, she looked through some of the clothing drawers, but found nothing of any interest. She opened a top bedside-drawer, moved a porno mag to one side, and found a pile of salary slips. Astral Chemicals Inc. On the wall, she noticed a row of framed degree certificates. Looks like the guy was a professional student. His salary sure makes up for all the studying he’s done. There was a clear oblong shape in the dust on the surface of a side cabinet next to the phone. Maybe it was a phone book, or a note pad and CSI had taken it. The bed was made; she stooped and picked up a pillow. Holding it to her nose, it smelled of freshly laundered linen. Nancy stepped into the en suite.
The bathroom was equally devoid of personal items. A clean dry towel hung over the shower divide. There were no toiletries, save for a can of expensive deodorant spray, not even a shaver, or a hairbrush. Nancy sprayed the back of her hand with the deodorant and drew her hand to her nose. The fragrance provided a welcome relief from the stench of the smoke, which still lingered.
Nancy stepped back into the bedroom, opened the closet and sifted through the shoes. Sure enough, they were all size twelve and a half, except for a pair of sneakers at the bottom of the pile, which were size eleven and a half. Taking hold of some beige pants from a hanger, she placed the waistband against her waist. The trailing legs of the pants draped on the ceramics and were at least six-inches longer than her legs. Allowing for her heels, she reckoned the professor had been just over six foot. Nancy re-hung the pants and ran her fingers along the rest of the pants. There were no jeans and all the pants had front creases. One at a time, she worked her way through the labels. They were all identical, showing the same inside leg size and a thirty-two inch waist. Four pressed white shirts all had the same fourteen and a half inch neck size. Nancy closed the door and mused that there wasn’t anything in the way of casual wear.
She headed for the kitchen, swiping the back of her hand above her top lip and sighed at the fragrance. Nothing she found gave the impression that the apartment was used for anything other than transitory living. The area was too pricey for mere mortals, but the minimalistic furnishing and a lack of private papers, other than the salary slips and certificates, seemed at odds with what you would expect from a permanent home. She at least expected a professor to have more in the way of books around the home, but there was not even a computer.
A mental picture of the professor formed as someone tall and slim, probably an older person judging by his clothing and someone who cared about his personal hygiene, considering the deodorant and the clean bedding. The lack of other toiletries puzzled her, unless she thought he had not intended sleeping there that night.
In the kitchen, her foot tapped the trash can pedal. There was an empty beans can, a gum wrapper, and she found a Wal-Mart receipt dated and timed at nine thirty-two, the night before. She picked up the receipt by the corner, opened the fridge and moved the contents about. She looked at the items on the receipt and double-checked the contents of the fridge. Odd, no lasagne
. Nancy checked the freezer compartment, the microwave and the oven... but still no lasagne. The dishwasher was empty and there was nothing in the sink. A moment’s pause to think and she started to snicker. He must have had his lasagne, washed the dishes, put them away, and emptied the trash can in the garbage outside. Or, maybe he didn’t eat it here. She lifted the trash can lid, dropped the receipt inside and returned to the living room.
Nancy wrote her notes. She took one last glance around the room. With nothing else that piqued her interest, she picked up the crime scene tape as she passed the dining table and headed outside to the police officer.
‘I need the key to lock up, where’s the janitor’s apartment?’
‘Number one, on the bottom floor.’
‘Be an angel and go and get the key for me.’
He scurried off and she tore a length of tape, trapping both ends in the door as it closed. The officer returned with the janitor. In his mid-fifties, his hair was balding on top and greying at the sides. He peered over his spectacles, which were precariously perched on the end of his large-hooked-strawberry nose.
‘I’ll lock it,’ he said.
His tone of voice and demeanour was irreverent. The stench of alcohol on his breath caused her to avert her gaze.
‘Fine, but I’ll need the key. No one can have access until CSI determines it’s no longer a crime scene.’
She detected a look of displeasure at him having to hand over the key and sent a detective stare in his direction.
‘Did you see Professor Reynolds at any time before the fire?’
‘I’ve already given a statement.’
‘Yeah, well CSI have them all and I’m asking again. Just answer the question.’
The janitor huffed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘The answer is no, I didn’t see him, but his apartment is over mine. I heard him moving about around midnight.’
‘Did he have a girlfriend, or any other visitors?’
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