“Like this?” asked Jodie, looking at the body. “Never.”
The CSU team was hard at work. The photographer was snapping away at the blood alongside reference cards. The evidence collection duo had split duties: one swabbed areas for DNA, and the other collected blood samples.
“Heya, Blake,” said one of the techs from behind a mask.
“Bobby,” I said, recognizing his short, weedy frame.
I took a walk around the room. The white cabinet was unlocked, one door hanging open. Inside were cables, a soldering iron, and rows of organized boxes filled with screws, plastic clips, cable ties and other odds and ends. There was an empty space on the top shelf, roughly the size of a shoe box. Nothing beneath the cabinet—at least that’s what I thought at first. I almost didn’t see it.
“Hey,” I called out to Bobby. “You got a baggy and some tweezers?” I pointed under the cabinet and he came out with a small white flower with a pale green stem.
“Weird,” he said, and he dropped it inside the evidence bag and ran a thumb and finger along the top to seal it.
I inspected the desk. Two faint borders of dust were evident in narrow rectangles. A computer and keyboard had been there. With the cupboard door open and now no computer, this was looking like a robbery-homicide.
After sweeping the room, I had Bobby help me roll over Nicholas Hartmann’s body, careful to avoid standing in the blood. It was impossible, but that’s what booties are for.
Two gunshot wounds to the chest. His clothes were sticky with blood. Tan slacks, striped blue button-down shirt beneath a long lab coat, pens in the top pocket, one red, one blue. Brown leather shoes. Calloway had trimmed his nails. His finger pads were black with ink from where prints had been taken. His belt had been loosened by Calloway, so she could stick a thermometer up his ass.
There was a square Cartier wristwatch with a brown leather band strapped to his left wrist. The thing didn’t look cheap. If this was a robbery, it wasn’t for anything small. The thief was probably after something in particular.
I took one more look around the room but didn’t find anything else of significance, so I headed out.
Outside, the cool, cloudy day was a refreshing change from the stuffy blood-soaked room, and the fresh air staved off the waves of nausea.
I got out of the forensic clothes and stuffed them into a blue bag beside the door. Then I finished by flicking the gloves in after the bloodied booties.
“Here,” said Romero, walking toward me. He handed me a bottle of water. It annoyed me. I took it, then gulped back a few mouthfuls.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” he said. “Whaddya figure?”
“Give me your keys. I want to use the MDT.”
I sat myself in the seat of Romero’s Crown Vic, one foot still out of the car, and adjusted the screen of the mobile data terminal. Romero rested back against the car’s front fender, sucking on an electronic cigarette, blowing out billowing clouds of vapor.
I typed the names and addresses of the three persons of interest into the system. I started with the DB, Nicholas Hartmann, and the NCIC check came up with zero warrants or warnings. I checked Stuart Arnold’s information next, and he was flagged for a suspended license. I called up dispatch and they sent his criminal record history through. DUI. Twice. License suspended for twenty-four months. He was halfway through.
Next I typed in Elise Daniels’s name and address. No warrants. No warnings. While I had dispatch on the radio, I asked them to send through her criminal history as well. She had a juvenile record. Date showed eleven years ago. Arresting agency was the SFPD. The charge was voluntary manslaughter. Reduced sentence. Two years in juvie.
I pulled myself up out of the Crown Vic and threw Romero his keys.
“Whaddya figure?” he asked again.
“Looks like the computer was taken, maybe something from the cabinet. Robbery gone wrong . . . don’t know.” I scratched my head through my hair.
“Yeah, that’s my take,” he said.
“Problem is, Hartmann still has an expensive watch strapped to his wrist. Whatever was stolen was targeted. I wanna know what the three were doing in there.”
“Daniels was hazy on the details,” he said. “I’ll press her on it.”
“Okay,” I said. “When you’re finished up at the hospital, go over to Hartmann’s address. No wedding ring, but he might have family, a girlfriend. They’ll need to be notified.”
He nodded, blowing out a cloud of smoke which smelled like an Indian spice shop.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asked.
“I’ll have a quick chat with the homeowner while I’m here, then I’ll head over to Stuart Arnold’s place. Hopefully the uniforms are there with him now.”
“Okay,” he said.
I headed for the house. “And Romero,” I called across the yard as he was getting into his Vic.
“Yeah?”
“Call me when you hear from tech.” He nodded. “And get rid of that damn vaporizer. Smells like you’re sucking on an Indian’s asshole.”
He scowled, then slipped into the Vic, mumbling beneath his breath.
I smirked and made for the house.
THREE
I knocked three times and didn’t have to wait long for Mrs. Stevens to answer. Turned out what Romero had said about the old duck spying out the window was on the money. I heard a chain sliding, a deadbolt clicking, then the door creaked open.
Blanche Stevens was in her late sixties, early seventies, with short pitch-black hair and the kind of teeth you see on a nursing home brochure. The kind that come out of the mouth for sleepy time.
“Mrs. Stevens. I’m Detective Gamble.”
“Oh, hello,” she said, feigning surprise.
“Can I come in?”
She opened the door and I followed her into the living room. I sat down on the hard leather sofa softened by ten thousand cushions, and I had the sudden crawling sensation that someone was watching me. Then I realized why. A horde of family photos surrounded me, on the walls, the furniture, even on the coffee table. A clock ticked from somewhere in the jumble of granny shit, and all I could smell was old woman perfume and cookies.
Blanche offered me a hot drink and fresh cookies. Classic granny. Sees a crime scene in her front yard and thinks I better bake those nice policemen some cookies. I asked her for a strong coffee with creamer. She gave me boiled water with milk.
“Yes, my husband passed away six years ago,” she replied to my question.
“My colleague said you didn’t hear anything this morning?”
“No, nothing.”
“Ever hear any arguments?” I asked.
“Sometimes I heard some raised voices, but . . .” Her expression said but it was nothing.
“Any recently?” I asked.
“I did hear them arguing last night.”
“Last night?”
“Mmm, yes.” She took a sip of tea.
“You didn’t think to tell the other detective this?” I asked, holding back my irritation.
“I’m sorry, he didn’t ask and I didn’t think of it until now.”
“What were they saying?”
“Oh, I could never hear them. Just bickering, I think.”
“Who was involved in last night’s argument, Mrs. Stevens?”
“All three of them.”
“And you couldn’t understand anything they were saying?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head.
“What do you know about them?”
“I don’t know much, I’m afraid. The woman, Elise, she saw my advertisement on Craigslist and we spoke on the phone a few times. She was a quiet girl but friendly enough. She introduced me to the other two. They were quiet as well. I didn’t like the bigger one too much, though.”
“Which one was that?”
“The rounder one.”
“A name, Mrs. Stevens?”
“Oh, sorry, Stuart was
his name. Stuart Arnold, I think.”
“What didn’t you like about him?”
“Just a feeling, really. I only met him the one time at the beginning. They asked to make some changes to the garage, so I said that was all right. I offered them a drink a few times, but they never accepted. They kept to themselves, really.”
“Why did you rent out the garage?” I asked, more for my own curiosity. Strange thing for an old woman to do.
“It was my daughter’s idea. Because I wasn’t using it, you see. After my husband died I didn’t need the car. My daughter said that people liked the idea of using a garage for their business because of Crist Drive.”
“Steve Jobs’s old place?”
“It’s only a couple of streets over,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “I find it so amazing. I have an Apple computer myself. Not that I know how to use it very well.” She laughed. “And to think it was created in a garage not far from here.”
“It’s impressive,” I agreed, deciding I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. I put my hot water and milk down beside a smiling old guy. “If you remember anything about the arguments, Mrs. Stevens, please call.”
Then I handed her a card and left.
I spent another half hour or so talking with Bobby outside. The conversation started on the headless guy and by the end we were talking about him giving up the coffin nails, only it was too hard ’cause his wife was a heavy smoker. Then when Bobby’s sidekick was ready, they began on the Mazda. I left them to it and headed for Stuart’s place.
It should’ve been a fifteen-minute drive, but I got stuck in construction waiting to turn onto the Stevens Creek Freeway. As I sat waiting, I ran over the crime scene in my head: the way Nicholas had been killed, the cabinet, the flower, the missing computer. But I kept coming back to Nicholas Hartmann’s head, or lack thereof. What had happened to the man’s skull? Where the hell was it? After twenty years in law enforcement, I’d seen some disturbing things, but the missing skull was up there.
I thought about the violence of it all. In my experience, the uglier the crime scene, the more emotional the act was. Right now I had two people who definitely knew Nicholas Hartmann: Elise Daniels and Stuart Arnold. And they’d happened to be arguing with the dead guy the night before he was killed. But with the girl being treated for shock, and the way Romero described her, it left Stuart Arnold as the most probable suspect.
But that led to a problem. Why would Arnold steal from his own project? What was his motive?
On one hand I had an emotional act of homicide, and on the other, a robbery. It didn’t add up, which meant I was missing something. If something didn’t add up, it just meant I didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle yet. I needed more information.
A disturbing thought came to mind. What if whoever killed Nicholas Hartmann did it for another reason other than robbery, or out of anger? What if it wasn’t an emotional attack at all? What if someone had simply killed him out of pleasure? The skull was gone. I’ve only ever known one type of killer to take trophies from the crime scene, and one trophy was never enough.
“Ted Bundy took heads,” I heard myself saying.
The thought sent a chill up my spine.
One thing was for sure, I wasn’t getting back to pizza, beer, and shitty daytime TV anytime soon.
FOUR
Arnold’s Glin Terrace place bookended a group of five townhouses. They were all various shades of russet-toned stucco, except for his place, which was bare red brick.
I pulled up behind the marked squad car I had sent to the address. Officer Eyebrows was in the driver’s seat. He rolled down his window, pulling a coffee away from his mouth. I could smell bacon.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“No one’s home. I’ve put the BOLO out.”
“He could’ve been home,” I said to him.
He looked at me confused, one eyebrow cocked. “Huh?”
“Stop and get yourself a coffee? Something to eat?”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at the paper cup. “Yeah, I mean, just the drive-through.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Go for a drive around the area, look for a suspicious guy in the neighborhood.”
“The neighborhood?”
“Yeah. You know, a suburban area consisting of houses and people.”
He eyed me with his half-cocked brow. “Okay, whatever.” He looked over at his partner. I could just imagine his big fat eyebrows climbing his forehead. Then he reached forward and started the engine.
I looked up at the building, then made my way to the door.
“Mr. Arnold, San Jose Police,” I announced, rapping my knuckles on the door. No answer.
The front door was solid and locked with a deadbolt. Next to the entry was a front patio where two stainless steel chairs faced the road. They were still wet from last night’s rain. Behind them were double-glass patio doors. I tried the lever handle, but like the front door, it was also locked. Then I pulled my Smith & Wesson from my shoulder holster and shoved the patio doors in with my shoulder. The wood cracked apart at the lock. Double doors were an easy target for thieves to break through. Too much leverage. I pushed once more and the doors opened in against the heavy curtains.
Technically speaking, what I’d just done was illegal, which is why I’d sent Officer Eyebrows and Billy the Kid on a bullshit errand. It came under the category of unlawful entry, and any evidence I found inside wouldn’t be admissible in court. Of course, if anyone asked, I could just say I’d heard a woman crying out for help inside. I made a mental note to turn the TV on when I left. I figured I could smudge the lines of the law a little, or I could spend the day buried in paperwork. When a killer’s on the loose, I’d rather get results than get caught up in a bunch of red tape bullshit.
I pressed into the dark room.
The place was gloomy behind the light-blocking curtains. There was a strong odor of stale Chinese food mixed in with dirty laundry. The first thing I noticed was the aquarium. It was a big rectangular thing, half-filled with sand, and above it was a heat lamp. I noticed it first ’cause the lamp was giving off a dull purple glow in the room. If something was in the sand, it was playing expert level in hide-and-seek.
The front living room consisted of an easy chair, a coffee table and a supersized LCD, at least sixty inches’ worth. The easy chair was too close to the TV. It annoyed me. I felt the need to start moving furniture around. The coffee table was covered in trash—at least a dozen empty cans of Golden State Cider, old Chinese takeout packaging, and half-empty bags of prawn crackers.
The front living area was split-level, and a short flight of stairs led up to the dining room and kitchen. The dining room was being used as a library, with two bookcases stacked with books, horizontal and vertical and any other way they’d fit. Books can tell you a lot about a person.
I looked them over. One bookcase was filled with books on physics and mathematics. Books like The Fabric of the Cosmos, Understanding Physics, Mathematics for Physicists, and da Vinci’s Codex Atlanticus. Light reading.
One shelf was dedicated entirely to Leonardo da Vinci and another to Einstein. The other bookcase was filled with fiction, mostly Star Trek novels, except for the top two shelves, which were stuffed with books on biology, mostly of the animal variety.
The kitchen was a mess. More empty Chinese takeout packaging and noodle boxes. More empty prawn cracker bags. More empty Golden State Cider cans. Dirty dishes. A stack of papers, bills and torn-open envelopes. Still, I had to admit it was probably better than my place.
I flicked through the bills. Utilities, phone bills, a stockholding summary. Stuart had shares in Apple Computers, Bach Optics, Alphabet Inc, and Intel. The guy liked the tech companies. That, Chinese food, apple cider, Star Trek novels and light reading. I was getting a picture of the guy. Slobby, intelligent. Single. Definitely single.
The second short staircase led to the rest of the townhouse. The first bedroom was being used
as the computer room and had another bookcase, this one filled with action toys and superhero figurines.
The desk had six LCD monitors, three along the bottom, three along the top, joined together like one of the Voltron toys in the bookcase. I moved the mouse and the black screens blinked to life, bringing up one enormous image of San Francisco Bay.
The OS was already logged on, and the blue Skype box in the toolbar had a tiny yellow number one in the corner of the icon. I clicked on the box and Skype opened up. Along the left-hand side of the Skype window was a list of names. Among them were Nicholas Hartmann and Elise Daniels.
There was a message from Elise.
I clicked on her name, then on the play button, and the speakers came to life. “Stuart. Stuart, are you there? Come on, pick up!” The woman’s voice was panicky. “Stuart. It’s Nicholas . . . he’s . . . he’s dead.” She started sobbing. “I found him. In the lab. I’ve called the police. Do you think it has anything to do with what we found? Oh God. Where are you?” The message ended abruptly.
What we found? That was interesting.
I opened up Google Chrome and glanced over Arnold’s Internet history. I scrolled down the list. It was mostly porn, among searches on Star Trek, biology, particle physics, a new Voltron series, and an MD website recommending solutions to toenail infections.
The other bedroom was the source of the dirty laundry smell. People in glass houses and all, but Stuart was a next-level kind of slob. The drawers of the bedside tables were half hanging out, same with the tallboy. Clothes were everywhere; a trail sprawled from the closet to the bed. Some of them were still on hangers. No, this wasn’t a messy room. Arnold had made a quick getaway, packed whatever he could as fast as he could and gotten the hell out of Dodge.
I looked at the tallboy and bedside table again. At the open drawers. I felt like an idiot. It was obvious now. Someone had searched the room . . . Someone other than Stuart Arnold.
There was something on the bedside table, among half-empty bottles of cheap cologne. It was a flower. The same kind I’d found beneath the cabinet in the garage. White with a few yellow whatever they’re called in the middle. Stenems . . . stainems?
Beyond the Spectrum Page 2
