“Oxy?” John prompted.
“That’s the chemical analysis. Interesting thing is, the pills were older—pre-2010. They were manufactured before the FDA required antitamper chemicals and binders to reduce abuse of the drug. The pills found in your victim didn’t contain the additive.”
“He happened to have them sitting around?” John asked.
“Not likely. These are worth their weight in gold. Addicts can crush them and snort the powder, chew them, or shoot up.” Dr. Kelly said.
“Are you saying that’s what Burger was trying to do?” Paula asked.
“From the abrasions around his jaw and mouth, your killer forced the pills down his throat,” Dr. Kelly said.
“But he was already dead before the pills kicked in,” John said.
“Quite,” Dr. Kelly said.
“The pills were an afterthought. How about the weapon used to inflict this damage?” Paula asked. She stepped closer to the body and pointed at the lacerations around the impact points. There were six separate depression fractures on Burger’s face and the back of his head.
“Blunt with roundish edges. I made an impression of the wound.” Dr. Kelly took a chunk of resin off the counter and handed it to Paula. The hunk of resin was circular, about the size of a quarter with a jagged striation that ran across the surface. There were five other similar-looking chunks of resin on a counter behind Dr. Kelly.
Paula turned the resin in her hand. She didn’t need to compare it with the hammer John found at the Wing killing. The irregular ridge came from chipping out the old tile in her kitchen. The murder weapon—her hammer—had claimed two lives.
“All of the impressions the same?” Paula asked.
“Yes, a single weapon,” Dr. Kelly said.
“Can we take this with us?” John asked.
“I can’t do anything more with it here,” the doctor said.
“Don’t bother, it’s the same hammer used on Bobby Wing. Someone took it from my garage. Totally different wound patterns, though,” Paula said.
“Not completely,” Dr. Kelly corrected. “Both victims suffered massive head trauma, multiple depression fractures. The victims had no defensive wounds whatsoever, and neither died immediately. A few more blows with your hammer—the hammer—and your killer could’ve put them down.”
Paula flinched from the attribution. “Why didn’t he?” she said aloud.
“There’s no question he wanted to kill them. I mean, this extent of injury is a death sentence,” John said.
“Inflicting pain?” Paula asked.
“After a point, there’s only so much pain the mind can register,” Dr. Kelly said.
“There’s a punishment vibe here, for sure,” Paula said.
“Vibes and feeling and motives aren’t something I can measure in the lab,” Dr. Kelly replied.
“Torture? Would you say the wounds are consistent with torture?” John asked.
“It’s within the realm of possibility.”
“When the killer got what he needed from Burger, he stuffed the bag down his throat,” John said.
“The timeline works. I can’t say if this man was interrogated or not. But your theory holds up against the physical evidence.”
“Sherman didn’t want anything from these two other than to stop them from testifying,” Paula said.
John paced the small exam space. “Are we looking at this all backward? I mean, sure, Sherman wanted a new trial, and the only way he was going to win that case was if these witnesses didn’t or couldn’t testify.”
“Yeah—and?” Paula said.
“All he needed was for Burger to recant or not testify. Why Bobby Wing and George McDaniel? There’s something more here. I mean, I know Sherman is up to his ass in this. But what if it wasn’t him?”
Paula’s arms went stiff, hands clenched at her sides. “It had to be Sherman. We have his DNA at the murder scenes, the fraudulent court dates that line up with the dates of the killings, the badge numbers in his personal property.”
“And yet here we are, trying to tie him to a murder with nothing but circumstantial bits and pieces,” John said.
“Well excuse me, Mr. Defense Attorney. In case you’ve forgotten, this is my ass on the line out here.”
“We’ll nail down the Sherman angle. He’s definitely mixed up in this somehow, but it might not be with the murders of Burger and Wing.”
Paula shook her head, her frustration with her partner evident. “Then explain to me what Sherman was up to on his field trips from prison if he wasn’t killing the very people who could put him back there.”
“Think about what McDaniel said. He claimed Sherman has a stash of confiscated drugs, enough to flood the city. The old Oxy that Burger had backs up the claim of confiscated drugs out there. What if this is all about a drug stockpile and not testifying in the next Sherman trial?”
“And who gets control over that stockpile.”
Karen Baylor appeared from the hallway. “Detectives.” Then she registered the tension on their faces. “Um—sorry. Did I interrupt something? I have something I need to show you.”
John registered the worry in Karen’s tight expression. “What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Kelly. I’ll wait outside.” Karen backed out of the room.
“No worries, Karen. We’re done here,” Dr. Kelly replied. She tucked the sheets back over Larry Burger’s remains and jotted a note on her tablet.
John and Paula followed Karen into the hallway.
“You didn’t have to come out here. You could have called us,” John said.
Karen shook her head. “I—I couldn’t let anyone else hear.”
“What is it?” Paula asked.
“I found a second set of DNA markers on Burger’s body.”
“We know there was someone else there with him,” John said.
“The same DNA was on Bobby Wing’s body as well.”
“Great work, Karen,” John said. “That will nail whoever is helping Sherman.”
Karen paused.
“What?” Paula asked.
“The DNA is yours, Paula.”
THIRTY-FIVE
In the parking lot behind the building where human remains were kept in cold storage, Paula’s face looked as gray as one of the dearly departed locked away inside.
“How? How is that even possible?” Paula said.
John, Paula, and Karen gathered in a tight knot near a white coroner’s van, still warm from soul collecting.
“Where did the sample come from? Blood, saliva?” John asked.
“Hair. Strands of Paula’s hair were on both bodies,” Karen said.
“Cross-contamination. That has to be it. Paula was at the Burger crime scene,” John said.
“I wasn’t at the Wing crime scene at Southside Park.” Paula leaned against the van and let out a sigh. “So much for the lieutenant and chief backing my play. Every time I turn around, it’s quicksand, and I get pulled in deeper.”
“Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel. There is plenty of reasonable doubt.”
“Great! I have to rely on the refuge of the guilty—reasonable doubt.”
“We’ll get you an attorney—”
Paula cut him off. “Wait. Karen, how do you know the hair was mine?”
“It was a DNA match. I said—”
“What did you compare it with? I don’t have DNA on file in the system,” Paula said.
“They didn’t need a warrant when they took the coffee cups off of your desk and clothes you kept behind your chair. They will be getting a warrant asking for a swab, though.”
“Kamakawa?” John asked.
Karen nodded.
“Who else knows the results?” Paula said.
“No one yet. Not even Kamakawa. That’s why I wanted to find you first. Guys, what am I supposed to do?”
“We’ll have an attorney arrange for—” John started.
“I’m not getting an attorney. I didn’t do anythi
ng.”
“Paula, think this through,” John said.
“I have. Karen, file your report. Exactly the way you always do. The last thing I want to see is you get your ass in a sling because of me.”
“But Paula—”
“No buts, Karen. Follow procedure on this. Got it?”
“Yeah, I understand. I’m sorry, Paula. We’ll get this sorted out. I promise.”
Karen left them and ambled through the parking aisle, her head down, scolded.
“You could have asked her to sit on it for a bit. Give us some time to find out Sherman’s angle in this,” John said.
“That crazy bastard’s angle is clear enough. He wants me to burn. My house was only the beginning of what he has planned for me.”
“And he walks as the righteous man.”
“To continue his little drug empire, if you can believe McDaniel. That was one of the first places Sherman went after he got out.”
John looked away. His eyes tracked a dark-blue Crown Vic as it turned off of the main road and pealed toward the front entrance. The detective wouldn’t have given much thought to an undercover car coming to the morgue, but two things set him on edge: no one hurried to this place—the persons of interest here weren’t going anywhere—and it was Kamakawa in the driver’s seat with the internal affairs captain. They didn’t normally burrow around in the morgue.
“You see that?” John said.
“Sammy and his boss, yeah I did. The captain doesn’t venture out unless it’s something splashy.”
“Come on, I have an idea,” John said.
The pair got in their car and pulled from the rear parking lot. John parallel parked on the street a half block away. They had a view of the front entrances of the coroner’s offices.
“What are we doing here, John?”
“Waiting for someone to drop the next piece of this puzzle.” He pointed at another car coming in. “And here it is.”
The incoming car pulled to a stop, and the backseat passenger had the door open before the car stopped. District Attorney Linda Clarke stepped from the rear seat and strode inside the coroner’s office.
“This can’t be good. The DA and Kamakawa together,” John said.
A few minutes passed before Paula said, “Look,” and pointed to the door.
The mirrored-glass entrance slid open, and the DA led the charge outside, followed by an anxious, pleading captain of internal affairs. He was getting an emasculating lecture from the prosecuting attorney, based on his slumped posture and her finger jabbing him in the chest.
“Sammy can’t get far enough away. Check it out,” John said.
The junior IA man pressed back against the mirrored door panel and kept it from closing. The door bumped his leg and retracted only to close on him again. He kept his distance from the DA and let the captain take the full force of the verbal barrage.
“You don’t like being on the other side of it, do you, Sammy?” Paula said.
“Whatdaya think she’s telling them?”
“They don’t know about my DNA yet, so it’s not that. I think they were here for me. It wasn’t a secret that we were heading out here.”
John pulled his cell and tapped a number. He waited while the connection went through.
“Who you calling?” Paula said.
John put a finger up. Paula put up a finger in response, a gesture that meant something else entirely.
“Hi, Doc. It’s John Penley. Did you have a visit from two guys from the department?”
He listened and nodded. “What were they after? You mind telling me?”
Another pause. “I see. I’m sorry you got put in the middle, Doc. Did you happen to see the DA, Miss Clarke?”
A pause.
“I couldn’t agree more. Thanks, Doc. We owe you one. I know—put it on my tab.” He disconnected the call.
“Well?” Paula said.
“Dr. Kelly said Kamakawa is focused on the hammer kills and wanted to know if you’d contacted her to cover for your part in the crimes.”
“Oh, I bet that went well. My money’s on the good doctor there.”
“You’ve seen her rip up defense attorneys on cross-examination. She’s brutal. She told Sammy and the captain that her examination didn’t provide any evidence linking you to the killings. She told them in her examination, she found nothing. And that’s true. She didn’t. Karen did.”
“That’s some fine hairsplitting.”
“What about DA Clarke?” Paula asked.
John pulled the car from the curb. He glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Clarke was returning to her car. The IA captain was anchored to the spot where the DA had left him.
“Clarke was after you, Paula. She wasn’t happy that Dr. Kelly wouldn’t conclusively tie you to the murders.”
“Once that DNA evidence comes out, I’m toast.” She slouched in the passenger seat. “When that happens, I’m going down for the two killings, and it’ll look like I framed Sherman all along.” Paula nibbled on a thumbnail.
“My gut tells me there’s more to it than that. Clarke keeps getting lucky with all this evidence.”
“Yeah, evidence that buries me a little deeper hour by hour.”
“It’s clear Sherman’s obsessed and put you in the leading role in his little revenge play,” John said. “That drawing of you on his cell wall reinforces that point.”
“He blames me for everything.”
“At least that’s what he wants you to think.”
“What do you mean? He’s doing pretty damn good job of it.”
John gripped the steering wheel and waited at a stop sign. “The bogus court dates align with the Burger and Wing killings, the allegations of a stolen drug stash—he’s working at something else, something bigger.”
“He seems to have found the time to fuck my life up, frame me for the ex-cop killings, and burn my home.”
“He wants everyone distracted—looking at you.”
“That’s because he blames me—we’ve come back to this again.” Paula smacked a fist on the dash.
“If Sherman wants you so bad, why weren’t you his first stop when he got out?”
Paula considered it for a moment. The increased pressure of paranoia didn’t dull her reactions; they were sharpened. Slowed down, like she was at the gun range. The range master at the academy would drill by the mantra, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” By consciously slowing the mind down, you could avoid reckless mistakes. She was doing the same now. Avoiding mistakes and reactions that would trap her in Sherman’s noose.
“If Burger was going to recant his testimony and free Sherman, then killing Burger first would make it look like I killed him to hide the payoff for false testimony. Damn, Sherman thought this through.”
“But the Wing and McDaniel hits too? There’s nothing that says that they were going to roll on him.”
“What would a jury think? That’s a whole lot of smoke for me to try and prove there was no fire,” Paula said.
“You nailed him before. What was the one thing that broke that case?”
She paused for a moment. “He got too bold, you know? Sherman believed that he was untouchable and started making mistakes.”
“He’ll do the same thing again. That whole leopard-can’t-change-his-spots deal.”
Paula nodded. “The biker house. Why did Sherman go there first? Of all the places in the city to go, he went there, the spot where McDaniel was gunned down.”
John stayed silent while Paula thought it through.
“Let me make a call,” she said.
Within minutes, Paula had the connection between Sherman and the bikers. Specifically, the big man they’d seen in the driveway, an Aryan Brotherhood wanna-be named Hal “Junior” Burton. Junior and Sherman shared a cell at Folsom.
“I want to hear what Junior has to say about their time together,” Paula said. “How long has Sherman been planning my undoing? I have less than a day and a half to find out, or Sherma
n wins.”
THIRTY-SIX
John pulled the car to the curb at the meth house. Junior was in the garage, parked on a lawn chair that bowed under the man’s weight. The half-drained bottle of whiskey on the floor next to him didn’t bode well for civil conversation.
“Why isn’t this house boarded up? Didn’t they take down a lab in the bathroom?” Paula asked.
“There wasn’t enough of a lab operation to get anyone’s attention. We should check out the property records and see who pays the taxes on this place.”
Paula pointed at the front door. Another biker leaned in the open doorway, one arm hidden behind the threshold. “We got one over there. No telling what kind of weapon he’s got behind door number one.”
The door guard watched with red-rimmed eyes as John and Paula got out of the car.
“Hi there, Junior,” John said.
They walked to the corner of the garage, where they could talk to the fat man without yelling and keep an eye on the watcher at the front door.
“Do I know you?” Junior took a pull from the whiskey bottle and wiped his beard with the back of his hand.
“You should. You and your fellow motorcycle enthusiasts almost ran me down after you had your place shot up the other night.”
“Yeah, the neighborhood ain’t like it used to be, what with all the immigrants and shit.”
“That must be it,” John said.
“You’re cops. Unless you got a warrant or some such, get outta here.”
“See this, this right here is the reason the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. People aren’t friendly anymore. You used to be able to go up to someone and just have a friendly conversation with them.”
“Fuck friendly conversation, and fuck you,” Junior spat. He was starting to slur his words.
“We aren’t here to bother you. We’re just interested in a friend of yours, Charles Sherman.”
The big man drained the last inch of the whiskey and tossed the bottle out onto the driveway. It shattered near Paula’s feet. The guard at the front door coughed up a rough laugh.
“We did some checking, and you and Sherman were cellies at Folsom. I bet you were catching and he was pitching,” Paula said.
Bury the Past Page 15
