“I wish that I could let you, but unfortunately, you were one of the last people to see him alive, so it would be perceived as a conflict of interest,” the detective watched Tim’s reaction carefully.
“You can’t possibly think that I’m somehow involved in this,” he blinked rapidly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose nervously.
“We have to explore every possibility, particularly now that the M. E. is calling this a homicide.”
“But…it doesn’t look like it was a homicide. The results are contradictory.”
“Let’s just keep that information between us for now,” Chas looked at him pointedly. “Whoever did this may have frightened the captain significantly enough that he went into cardiac arrest, then they pumped him full of poison to make sure that he stayed dead,” the detective theorized.
“What a waste of resources,” Tim mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“Cyanide isn’t cheap, or easy to come by. Why would someone waste it on a dead or dying body?” he shrugged, staring at the ground.
Chas looked at the mortician for a long moment.
“How close to the body did you get?” Tim asked quietly, not looking up.
“Within a couple of feet,” the detective replied.
“Did you smell anything?”
“No, nothing unusual, why?”
“With that much cyanide in his system, the captain should’ve smelled strongly like almonds,” the mortician finally met his gaze.
“He didn’t,” Chas grimaced.
“Makes me wonder why…” Tim shrugged.
“Good question,” the detective replied, heading for the door.
Fiona sat moving her mouse, staring at her computer screen, clicking, clicking, clicking, and when Chas opened the door to Tim’s office, she closed out all of the tabs that were open on her computer, and pretended to diligently looking for a file in the file cabinet. Her eyes followed the detective as he made his way to the foyer and out the front door, and, as soon as his car disappeared around the corner, she opened up her web browser, mousing and clicking again.
Chapter 13
Tim reached into the back of his drawer, drawing out a special set of clothing that he only brought out on special occasions, where certain types of work needed to be done. He slipped into the black, close fitting garments, tossed a pair of thin, black calfskin gloves into his backpack, and put on shoes that left no impression other than an outline in the shape of a rectangle.
The mortician took a roundabout route to his destination, one that was so twisted and random, that anyone who even attempted to follow him would be left behind. He parked his car in an abandoned parking lot at least half a mile from his destination, near the perimeter where the small vehicle would be screened by overgrown trees and vegetation.
Setting out on foot, Tim was glad that he had scoped out his destination for the past several days. He knew the entrances and exits inside and out, knew where there were security lights and where there were not. The meticulous mortician had memorized the floor plan and security personnel’s schedules for the entire week. It was now simply a matter of slipping in unseen, getting what he needed, and slipping out again.
Tim spotted the lackadaisical night security guard strolling by, pretending to be vigilant, but entirely unaware of the dark figure that watched his every move. When he knew that the poor sap had entered the building for his sweep of the first, second, third and fourth floors, he calculated that he had precisely twenty-six minutes only to get in, get what he needed, and get out.
Using tools that he’d picked up at a swap meet, and skills that he’d gleaned in college, Tim let himself into the county morgue, heading directly to the basement storage area. He was a tad jealous that the work room here was so large and well-equipped, but now was not the time to indulge in bouts of envy, he had work to do. He guesstimated which cooling drawer that Marco Lansing would be in, based upon the number of days that had passed, and average flow of bodies through the morgue. He was well versed in morgue procedure, for obvious reasons.
Pulling open drawer #247C, he shone his phone’s screen light onto the toe tag, having located the dead captain on the first try. Smiling to himself a little, he took a quick photo of the tag, then went to work. He took a couple more photos after he was finished with his task, and it was time to slip out again. The happy mortician glanced at his watch, he had three minutes to get out of the basement, lock the door behind him and make it to the tree line without being observed. Piece of cake.
Tim’s task had been accomplished smoothly and without incident, and he felt a bit giddy as he unlocked the door of his car and tossed his backpack into the passenger seat. Once he settled in and turned the key in the ignition, a thickly-muscled arm came from behind the startled mortician and pinned him to his seat, partially cutting off his air.
Feeling the iron-strength in that arm, Tim decided not to fight, and simply relaxed until his captor loosened his grip enough to enable him to speak.
“What do you want?” he asked calmly.
“Drive.”
“Where to?”
The presence in the back seat gave him an address that drew a surprised reaction from the mortician, who nodded.
“Okay. There’s no need to keep your arm around my throat. You’ve said where you want to go, and I’ll take you there. I’m well aware that you’re in control of this distasteful situation, so rest assured, I’ll not deviate from the intended goal.”
“Drive,” the voice commanded again, but the presence relaxed his hold significantly.
The mortician took the most efficient route to the destination that the captor had indicated, and they were there in a matter of minutes.
“Now what?” he asked blandly, not bothering to look in the rearview mirror. He had no desire to see his captor. If he didn’t see the brute, there was no need for him to die.
“Pull around to the back, by the storage shed.”
“You seem to know this place pretty well,” Tim observed, still not looking.
“Drive.”
When he had driven to the spot that the presence had indicated, he put the car in park and waited for further instructions, hoping that nothing too gruesome would be forthcoming.
“Take the keys out of the ignition and drop them into the back seat.”
Tim did. And waited.
“I’m going to get out of the car first, then you. When you get out, stay facing the front of the car, and drop to your knees, with your hands behind your head.”
“Military or police?” the mortician wondered aloud, following the instructions to the letter.
Once he was on his knees beside his car, with his fingers interlocked behind his head, the captor handcuffed him and dragged him not-too-roughly to his feet. He was led into a storage shed/workshop that he hoped didn’t contain too many instruments of torture. The man he saw sitting on a folding chair inside the shop was a surprise, and he reacted by raising his eyebrows and waiting for the man to speak.
Chapter 14
“Take off the cuffs,” Chas directed once Spencer had seated Timothy Eckels across from him.
The mortician said nothing, after being freed from his restraints, gazing impassively at the intimidating duo of men in front of him.
“What were you doing at the morgue, Mr. Eckels?” the detective asked, arms crossed.
Tim blinked at him. Spencer glanced at Chas, wondering if the detective might want him to take over, but his boss continued to hold the mortician’s gaze.
“Here’s the thing. I’ve always been of the opinion that you and I are alike in a fundamental way. We both want to get to the truth. Am I wrong in thinking that?” he challenged the pale, but unfazed, man in front of him.
Tim blinked again, but then slowly shook his head.
“Good. So now that we’re all on the same page here, I’m guessing that the reason that you were at the morgue was because you couldn’t contain your desire to discover the trut
h about what happened to Marco Lansing. Is that an accurate statement,” Chas’s eyes bored into Tim’s.
He nodded. Spencer and Chas exchanged a glance.
“If I find out that your activities this evening help me to discover the truth, the fact that you were there at all might suddenly be forgotten. Do we understand one another?” the detective asked.
Tim nodded again.
“Good. Now tell me, from the beginning, what you did from the moment you entered the morgue, and why you did it,” Chas ordered quietly.
Tim took off his coke bottle glasses and began speaking while he polished them.
“I went to the cooling drawer that contained Lansing’s body,” he began.
“How did you know which drawer to look in?” the detective interrupted, leaving no stone unturned.
“I guessed, based upon the amount of time that he’d been there and the volume of bodies taken in by the morgue on any given week.”
“Continue.”
“I opened the drawer and verified his identity by the toe tag. I took a photo of the toe tag and left it on his foot, then I took a sample from a spot on the body that wouldn’t be easily noticed. I photographed the spot where I cut the tissue sample from, and photographed the sample next to the toe tag, then secured it in a sterile container. I also took samples of hair, and scrapings from underneath his fingernails, securing them in sterile containers. He did not smell at all like almonds,” the mortician recounted, matter-of-factly.
“What are you hoping to find in the samples?”
“The truth.”
“How long will that take?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
Timothy Eckels thought for a moment, seemed to come to a decision, then sighed and stared Chas directly in the eye.
“If you happen to have access to an outside laboratory testing team, we can submit these samples outside of the usual channels and have them back in a manner of hours. It’ll cost you, but it could also solve the case for you.”
“You have a theory,” the detective stated flatly.
Tim nodded. “I do, but I’m not going to reveal it until the tests are back and confirm what I’m thinking.”
“What if they don’t?” Chas challenged.
“I’m rarely wrong about death, Detective,” the mortician blinked at him.
Spencer suppressed a shudder, and continued to gaze at the pale, doughy man in front of him with morbid fascination, the way one might look at a two-headed snake eating a skittering spider.
“Something was found that had to have been under the body when the initial examination was done,” the detective said casually, watching Tim for a reaction.
“Where was the body found?”
“On the boat that he’d taken you and Fiona out in earlier that day.”
Tim frowned. “That’s odd. He came off of the boat shortly after we did. If someone killed him, why would they choose to dump the body in a location where he’d be easily found? And how did they manage it with the ever-present beach boy there?”
“Andrew?” Chas asked, thinking that he would be the most logical choice for the “beach boy.”
The mortician made a face. “Yes.”
“His alibi checked out. He wasn’t at the marina for very long after your excursion ended. He went out to dinner and to a bar after. There’s plenty of video footage backing him up. So someone could certainly have dumped the body without Andrew seeing it,” Chas shrugged.
“What was under the body?” Tim blinked, pushing his glasses up.
“Ashes.”
“Do you have a photo?” the mortician asked.
Chas thought for a moment, then, deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to show Tim the picture that he’d taken, he reached for his phone. When the detective leaned forward to show him the photo, Spencer stepped forward, ready to spring into action if the pale man made any sudden moves.
“Don’t trouble yourself, young man. I don’t use violence to attain my goals,” the mortician said with distaste, peering up at the giant Marine looming over him.
He looked at the photo, then moved his fingers across the screen to enlarge the pile of ashes.
“Two things,” he said, looking closely. “First, those appear to be cremains. I’ve seen enough of them to recognize them, and, secondly, there’s no way that they could have been beneath the body,” he sat back and stared at the detective.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the cremains are in a perfect little pile, no feathering out, no indentations or pressure points from having been disturbed, look,” he pointed to the enlarged picture and Chas nodded.
“They are, in fact, cremains. I had them tested.”
“It looks as though there should have been enough DNA to determine an identity,” the mortician continued to examine the photo.
“There was,” the detective’s stare burned into the man sitting across from him.
“Who was it?”
“Paulette McCamish, Fiona’s sister. I’m assuming you probably know where those cremains came from.”
“Fiona has the urn and wears a pendant containing her sister’s ashes, but why on earth would they be on the boat after the body had been removed?”
“I’ll be on my way shortly to ask her precisely that,” Chas raised an eyebrow. “Here’s how things are going to happen right now,” he began.
“You’re going to turn over all of the samples and photos that you took at the morgue. I’ll send them out for analysis, and based upon what I find, you’ll either be arrested or deserving of my thanks. If Miss McCamish can’t come up with a satisfactory explanation of how her sister’s ashes appeared at a crime scene, she may be arrested as well. When you leave here tonight, under the supervision of my friend here,” he gestured to Spencer, who stared icily at the mortician. “You will not attempt to contact Miss McCamish or anyone else. If you try to leave your home, you will be detained, officially or unofficially. In the morning, you will go about your business as though this evening never happened, am I making myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“How soon will you have the lab results back?”
“I’m anticipating tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I have some…contacts that will be willing to expedite the process.”
Tim nodded, saying nothing.
Spencer handed Chas the black backpack, then motioned for the mortician to stand and follow him, leading him out to his car, and climbing into the passenger side.
“What are you doing?” Tim asked, startled.
“I’m riding with you, buddy,” the Marine smiled pleasantly.
“How will you get home?”
“What makes you think I’m going home?” the smile was a bit sinister this time.
“Oh.” Tim started the car.
Chapter 15
Detective Chas Beckett rapped on the door of Fiona McCamish’s tiny apartment, not caring that all of the lights were out inside and the cranky renter would most likely have gone to bed. When he didn’t receive any sort of response, he rapped again, a bit more firmly this time.
“Geez, I’m coming! Keep your pants on,” he heard the young woman muttering sleepily on her way to the door.
“What?” she exclaimed, jerking the door open. “Oh great, the police. What now?” she sighed, leaning against the door frame.
“I’d like to ask you some questions, Miss McCamish,” Chas greeted her, flashing his badge out of habit.
“At this hour?” she complained, running a hand absently through her tangled mass of hair.
“We can do this here or we can go to the station. Your choice,” the detective remaining unsmiling.
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Fiona opened the door wider and stalked off into her messy living room. “Fine. Come in, but can we make this quick? I have to work in the morning.”
Ignoring her question and comment, Chas followed her into the tiny apartment
, looking for anything amiss.
“What’s this about?” the young woman demanded, plopping down on a brown faux fur bean bag and crossing her arms.
“Are you in possession of your late sister’s remains?” Chas got straight to the point.
“Yeah. So?”
“Where are they kept?”
“The jar is in my room, on my dresser, and I have a necklace with some of the ashes in it. Why?”
“I need to take a look at those items, but I don’t want you to touch them, just show me where they are,” the detective instructed.
“Okay, I’m just gonna say, this is beyond weird. Why do you need to see my sister’s ashes?” Fiona led him toward her bedroom.
Chas remained silent.
“Great, thanks. Nice to know,” she ground out sarcastically. Flipping on the overhead light, she pointed to the dresser, where the urn containing Paulette McCamish’s cremains rested.
“Hmm…that’s weird,” she said, frowning as she moved closer to the dresser.
“What?” Chas followed her line of sight.
“I know I’m not the world’s best housekeeper, but I just dusted the dresser a few days ago and it has a dusting of something around the jar,” Fiona observed, mystified.
Chas had his phone out and was taking pictures of the top of the dresser and the jar, when he spotted something peeking out between the side of the dresser and the wall. Snapping on a nitrile glove he gingerly pulled it out. It was a size large glove that was nearly identical to the one that he was wearing.
“This yours?” he asked, holding up the glove.
Fiona raised her hand, giving him a look. “Do I look like I have Sasquatch hands? No, it’s not mine. I don’t use rubber gloves when I clean.”
“It’s not rubber, it’s…” Chas didn’t finish his sentence, lost in thought.
“Where were you on the night that Marco Lansing was murdered?” he asked.
“Tim and I went back to work for a bit, then I grabbed a snack at the grocery store, came home long enough to change into yoga wear, and went to a class at the Y. Why?”
The detective nodded. He stuffed the glove into an evidence bag and put the bag in his pocket. With his gloved hand, he carefully lifted the lid off of the urn. He snapped a photo of the contents, and hit a speed dial number on his phone.
Red Hot Velvet Murder: A Frosted Love Cozy Mystery - Book 32 (Frosted Love Cozy Mysteries) Page 5
