Evans took a pair of calipers and measured the length and depth of each of the cuts on the neck, calling out her results to Bridges who made careful note of each. “You can see almost precise pattern left by that whatever cutting device was used,” Evans continued. “The cuts don’t match the other wounds on the body or the neck, and don’t match those made by the knife. Also, there’s no sign of bleeding, which tells us these cuts were made after death.”
She moved further down the body and took a series of additional measurements which Bridges also recorded. Evans moved back toward the neck area and felt the throat area carefully. She removed a scalpel from the cart and made a series of incisions, and rolled the skin away from the underlying structure of the throat. She nodded and rolled the magnifier slightly and positioned the lens. After a minute, she looked up. “The trachea hasn’t been crushed, although there’s evidence of pressure. Whatever object was used to detain this man wasn’t used with enough force to crush the throat. Whoever wielded it had some sort of leverage and may have braced them self somehow or perhaps held on to something while they pulled and twisted.”
Evans then removed the cloth from Guzman’s lap. “I’ve compared this penis to the photos provided to me by Tom Anderson. I believe it’s the same as was depicted in the photographs.”
Reightman forced herself to examine it closely and then shook her head. “No, it can’t be the same.” She swallowed and then added, “Mr. Guzman was uncircumcised, as was the…specimen in the photo.”
“That is correct, Detective. Guzman was circumcised,” Evans confirmed. “His foreskin was removed after he was in the morgue’s custody. Lieberman’s work again, I believe.” Jackson took an involuntary step back. “There are other signs of mutilation in the genital area, although none as egregious as that.”
“Where…where is the missing foreskin,” Jackson asked, clearly uncomfortable with the discovery.
“We haven’t been able to locate it. Perhaps it’s been incinerated, or maybe Lieberman kept it as some sort of souvenir.”
Reightman felt her gorge rising, and suppressed her reaction with some difficulty.
“That sick bastard!” Jackson turned away for a moment, trying to calm himself down.
“I’ll have to tell Toby about this,” she said almost to herself.
“Yes, Detective,” Evans having heard, agreed. She motioned for Dr. Bridges to replace the cloth. “Ethical practice demands it and I will of course, be including this in my official report. Mr. Bailey will have the perfect right to sue this department and this city for damages and if he has a halfway competent attorney, he’ll likely win if he decides to take such action.” Reightman thought about Zhou Li’s well-earned reputation and hoped the city had very full coffers. “There is one more thing, Detectives. I have examined each of the knife wounds carefully. There is no trace of fabric fiber of any sort, except that we identified in the neck abrasions. I believe that was an outstanding question from the crime team. The slashes on the clothing found at the scene do not match the placement of the wounds on the victim’s body. They were made after the clothing had been removed.”
The two detectives mulled the finding over in their minds. After a moment, Evans caught their attention. “I still have some work to do, but I don’t think you need to be present for the next set of activities, Detectives.”
“Why?” asked Jackson.
“I feel it would be unnecessarily unpleasant for you, Detective Jackson. I’ll be removing the internal organs and the brain for weighing and examination.” She paused and then smiled invitingly. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”
Jackson quickly raised both hands “You’re right. There’s no need for us to stay, Doctor.”
“In that case, Dr. Bridges will show you out. I think I’ll be finished in the next couple of hours, so I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Will you be able to release his body soon? Mr. Bailey is anxious to know when he can proceed with burial.”
“Release will have to wait until we get back the toxicology report, Detective Reightman. When is that expected, Thelma-Louise?”
“We should have it tomorrow by end-of-day, Doctor Evans.” At Evans’s surprised look, Doctor Bridges made a face. “I briefly dated the lab director at one time. Believe me, I was owed a favor.”
Bridges motioned for the Detectives to follow her out of the room and showed them where to place their smocks and masks, and in which bins to dispose of the gloves and booties. Once they were done, she escorted them to the front.
“Thank you, Doctor Bridges.” Reightman said.
“Sure thing, Detectives. This is a weird one for sure. I’ve never seen a victim treated this way before. Sometimes morgue work is a little sloppy, but this is just disgusting.”
“I agree with your assessment one hundred percent, Doctor,” Jackson replied shaking her hand.
“You’ll call when the toxicology reports are back?”
“Yes, I will. I’d better get on back. We still have a lot to finish up on this one, and we have a freezer more awaiting our tender attentions.” Dr. Thelma-Louise Bridges laughed at her little joke as she left the room.
Reightman and Jackson went out the door and headed for the elevators. “How are you going to break this to Mr. Bailey?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Any suggestions?”
“Just tell him straight up.” Sam pushed the call button. “There isn’t any other way to share this kind of news.”
“You think he’ll sue?”
“He might.” The elevator arrived and the door opened. “He’d have every right. I know I would. What do you think he’ll do, Melba?”
She leaned against the back wall of the car as it carried them upward. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to see. I know I’m not looking forward to the discussion.”
They were silent as they walked to their desks. “I think I’m going to get out of here for the night, Sam. You?"
“No, not yet. I’m going to try to get an update from Jones and Mitchell before I leave, and see if they’ve come up with anything new. I’ll give Mitchell some pointers for tomorrow since your favorite Detective is going to be out for the day – dentist appointment for a root canal I think. Jones has to keep his pretty smile in top form.” He turned off his computer. “Have a good night, and call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Hey, Sam?” she asked looking at the plant behind him.
“Yeah?”
“Is it just me, or does that plant look sick?”
Sam paled and turned to look at the plant in question. “I...uh…it looks fine to me.”
“Hmmm. I don’t think it looks to good, but it’s probably just the light.” She pulled out her purse and slung it up on her shoulder. “See ya’ tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” He was still checking out the plant.
Reightman walked away. When she turned the corner and was out of sight, she looked around to make sure she was alone. Then she broke into a gleeful little jig. “Revenge is sweet!”
CHAPTER TEN
JOHN BROWN SPENT his day productively hanging out at a few of the coffee houses and cafés located near Police Headquarters and listened to the chatter. He heard about how various kids and grandchildren were doing, about assorted plans for the upcoming holiday weekend, the chances the college football team had of making into the play-offs, and quite a lot about the volume and frequency –or lack thereof in some cases – of extracurricular activities certain people were enjoying. Frequently, he heard speculation and gossip about the man he was hoping to find. After a reasonable mid-morning breakfast, two small lunches and about twelve gallons of coffee, he finally hit pay dirt.
“I wonder where old Lieberman has run off too?” the middle aged man at the next table asked his two companions.
“Who the hell knows, and who the hell cares?” replied the slightly younger man across from him. “I sure don’t.”
“Frank, watch your language please,” admonished the older w
oman seated next to him. “You know I don’t like it!”
“Sorry, Gloria. I’m just really sick of hearing about Lieberman. Seems that’s all anyone has been talking about the last day or so.”
“That may be the case,” Gloria replied, “but you have to admit this is quite the scandal. You know I don’t like gossip, but the things people are saying are very salacious.” She rolled the word around in her mouth. John Brown thought she sounded delighted with both her choice of word, and the topic of discussion.
“Really?” asked the first man eagerly.
“Yes. But I won’t repeat them no matter how many times you ask, so save your breath,” Gloria replied primly. “His poor old mother is probably turning over in her grave.”
“Good thing the old woman’s dead then,” Frank offered. “She must have been ancient. How old was Mrs. Lieberman, Gloria?”
“Well, let me think. She was about seventy-five when she remarried. Rosenfeld was his name, I think. He was a car salesman over at the Buick dealership.” Gloria patted her lips with her napkin and checked her reflection in a spoon. “I always figured he was marrying her for the money. That’s what the ladies at Temple said anyway. He moved right in to the house she’d shared with her deceased husband and she changed the title to both of their names. It’s a nice little ranch over on Chutney Street. I never knew why Lieberman didn’t put it up for sale when she died. I could have used the listing.” John Brown decided that they were realtors.
“Yeah, but how old was she?” Frank asked again, wanting to get back on topic.
John Brown picked up his check and started to the register. He didn’t even pay attention to Gloria’s answer.
After he settled his bill, John Brown drove himself to the county tax office. After waiting in line for a few minutes, he found himself face to face with a Ms. Janet Norton. He smiled ingratiatingly at her round, plump face. “Ma’am, I know it’s a long shot, but you look like you might be able to help me.”
Janet brightened at his big smile and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Well, I can do my best. What kind of help do you need?”
“Well, you see, I just started work with a new real estate company and I’m supposed to meet a client at a possible listing. I’m afraid I must have mixed up the address. I’ve tried calling, but there hasn’t been any answer and his voicemail system doesn’t seem to be working. I really don’t want to mess this up, it being my first week and all.” He gave her his very best shy and helpless southern boy look.
“I’ll need a name and the street on which you think the house is located,” she said, taking pity on him, “That should get us started.”
“I know the house is located on Chutney Street,” he supplied. He glanced at the nameplate on the counter to be sure, and then added, “Mrs. Norton, I really do appreciate how nice you’re being.” He widened his eyes and gazed deeply into hers.
Janet Norton blushed. “It Miss, actually. I’m not married.”
“How can a nice, good looking girl like you still be unattached?” he asked in surprise.
She bit her lower lip, emphasizing her already apparent overbite. “Just unlucky in love, I guess.” She was obviously embarrassed and distressed by her lack of success in the matrimony game.
“This is like shooting fish in a barrel,” he thought as he looked down at the counter and then moved his long-lashed eyes slowly back up to her face. “I’m sure your luck will change, Miss.” He smiled shyly and added, “Maybe it already has.”
Miss Norton’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief minute. She opened them to drink in his handsome, rugged face and stared into his eyes.
“The name is Rosenfeld.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rosenfeld.”
He looked down at his feet, shuffled them a bit, and then back into her eyes. “No, the property title is in the name Rosenfeld.”
“Oh,” her eyes clouded with disappointment
“My name is Smith, Joe Smith,” he added with an engaging smile. “Maybe we could go out, sometime.”
She smiled in delight and hope. “I’d like that. When?”
“Sometime soon. If you’d give me your number, I’ll call you. But right now I’m afraid I really am going to be late.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She scribbled down her phone number and pushed it across the counter to him, then turned to her keyboard and typed a few things. “I think I found it for you, Mr. Smith.”
“Call me Joe. May I call you Janet?”
“Yes, of course you may, Joe,” she gushed. “I don’t want you to be late though. I’ll jot down the address.”
Once she handed it over, he asked, “Do I owe you anything?”
“No, Joe. Since you already had the name and street, we didn’t have to do a full records search.” She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a little pout. “Just don’t forget to call – you have my number.”
John Brown, aka Joe Smith, picked up the slip of paper with her number, and gave it a kiss before putting it in his front shirt pocket. “I’ll keep it right here next to my heart so I won’t forget,” he assured her with tender smile. “Thanks for your help, Janet. I’ll be talking to you soon.”
A minute later, he was punching the address into his navigation system. He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. He rolled down his window and tossed the paper out, watching it flutter across the asphalt parking lot. “I’m sorry, Janet Norton. I have a feeling we just aren’t meant to be.” He didn’t feel badly about playing on her emotions and insecurities to get what he needed. After all, he was a working man with a job to do, and a man did what he had to in order to get the job done. Emotions just got in the way.
That evening he drove down Chutney Street checking house numbers. He spotted the house he was looking for and drove past slowly. “Garage door closed,” he noted, “and there’s a tiny bit of light coming through the gap in the closed drapes. Looks like someone’s home.”
John Brown drove around the block and parked the next street over. He opened the glove box and took out a baseball hat, pair of glasses, and a gun. He reached in again and removed a silencer and attached it to the gun. He checked the safety, slid the revolver into the back waistband of his jeans, and picked up a red and black backpack from the passenger seat. From out of the backpack came a clipboard complete with a few blank forms. The name printed on the top of the forms matched the logo on his hat. He got out of the SUV and slide one arm through the backpack and closed and locked his door. He put on the hat and the glasses, sitting them slightly off-kilter on his face, and started down the street.
Every couple of houses, he marched up to the front door and knocked or rang the bell. “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Bill Jones, and I’m with Citizen’s Action for Better Local Government. Could I ask you a few questions? Your answers will help make our city and state government more effective.”
Most of the people he talked to told him they were busy and shut the door in his face. A few answered the questions he asked, and a couple invited him into their homes. An hour and a half later, he walked up the sidewalk to the house he’d targeted. He lifted the door knocker and gave it a couple of bangs against the door. While he waited, he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and took off the glasses, placing them in his shirt pocket. He knocked again, louder this time.
A short while later, the door opened slightly and a fleshy face peered through the gap.
“Good evening, sir,” said John Brown, aka Bill Jones. “I’m with Citizen’s Action for Better Local Government. Could I ask you a few questions? Your answers will help make our city and state government more effective.” He smiled his very best smile.
The man hesitated. “I don’t have time this evening.”
He started to close the door, but Bill Jones spoke up quickly. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to waste your time on this crap. I wouldn’t be doing this, but I’m trying to do anything I can to make ends meet.” He slid his hand around his
neck and underneath his shirt, rubbing his palm over his pecs and causing the shirt to gap open considerably. “It’s really hot and humid out tonight. Can I maybe come in and get…cool for a minute?” He unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way. “Please? I promise I’ll only stay a minute or two,” he flexed his chest muscles, noting the man’s interest, “unless you wouldn’t mind if I stayed longer.”
The man at the door moistened his thick lips. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I just realized I must’ve interrupted you and your wife at dinner.”
“I’m…I’m not married.”
“Oh…” Bill Jones put a lot of effort into making the tiny word sound as suggestive as possible.
The man opened the door a little further and looked him up and down. Bill noted that although fat and flabby, the man looked pretty strong. He was going to have to play this right to avoid a struggle. Plus, his client wanted this to be special. Picking exactly the right moment to interrupt the man’s perusal of his body, Bill Jones adjusted himself in his pants. “I’m sticking to myself,” he apologized. “I didn’t wear underwear today.”
The man opened the door a little further. “Uh, I guess it’d be okay for you to come in for a minute or two. Just to get cool. You can even take your shirt off if you want…to let it dry out.”
“That’d be real nice,” Bill sighed at the thought. As he entered the house he winked. “I’ll just have to try real hard to thank you properly for your kindness.”
The man turned and quickly shut the door, locking it and fumbling to attach the door chain. When he turned back around, Bill Jones was leaning over, digging through his backpack. He straightened slowly and then looked over his shoulder with a sexy smile. “You don’t happen to have an extra t-shirt I can borrow do you? I thought I had one in my backpack, but I don’t. This shirt is really getting damp.”
“I might, but it won’t fit you. It’ll be way too big. I’m kind of…a big man.”
“I like big men,” Bill Jones said with a wink.
Done Rubbed Out Page 27
