Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

  Before he left, a thought occurred to him.

  “Doctor French, would you be able to give me some advice on a case we’re currently handling?”

  Dr. French had stood up and hitched his pants up over his belly. “I don’t know. I’d like to. What’s it all about?”

  “Well, I’d like to know what type of person buys a snuff movie. You know, the pornographic ones where a person is actually murdered on camera.”

  “That’s an excellent question and, in my professional opinion, they’d have to be a real weirdo.” He chuckled. Burgess, unaccustomed to humor from the psychiatrist, found himself looking at him in a different light. “No, seriously, although I’m not an expert on paraphilia, that is, deviant sexual behavior, I am sure I can source some information on it. Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.”

  “I’d appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

  Burgess straightened his tie and shook hands. He left the doctor’s office feeling that if the doctor could give him some insight into this case, perhaps he had accomplished something after all.

  In the meantime, thoughts as to how to ensure his relationship with Jacintha did not derail occupied his head as he made his way on foot back to the station. He greeted several acquaintances along the way with the familiar Bermuda ‘how ya doon’ and tried to avoid protracted conversations on the street that could take up so much time. He needed to get back and receive an update from his team on how things were progressing.

  As he made his way on to the floor that housed their offices, he ran into Pamela.

  “Sir, we’ll be ready for our meeting in the murder room in about ten minutes. We’re just waiting for the contents from Mr. Flood’s safe to come over to us.”

  “Great, Pamela. Let me know when you’re all in there and we can get started. Any news from Moscow yet?”

  “A Komissar Khitarov is handling the case over there. His English is quite good and I now have his e-mail address if you want to communicate with him. Vladimir Alexeev has apparently vanished into thin air. Once I have the identity of the girl and the other body, I’ll be able to send over details of their passports to him. Oh and sir…”

  “Yes.”

  “You might want to avoid reading the front page of the Bermuda Gazette if your blood pressure is a little high.”

  “Oh no, what’s going on?”

  “Better see for yourself.”

  Burgess, with a sense of foreboding, approached his desk where the newspaper lay on top of his mail. He could see the thick black headlines, even though they were upside down: Two More Bodies Found in House of Horrors.

  “Oh shit,” he muttered to himself as he reluctantly began to read.

  “Oh shit,” said the Minister of Tourism to the Premier as he sat on the dark-blue leather couch in front of the Premier’s desk in the cabinet office. Each had a copy of the Bermuda Gazette. “Here we go again. Not nine months have gone by and we’ve bred another scandal involving a serious crime. How can I do my job when this stuff continues to hit our headlines? We’re only an island of twenty-one square miles. Visitors are going to think they stand a good chance of being murdered in their beds if they come here. Damage control. We have to solve this case and fast.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” The Premier looked depressed.

  “A press conference. We always hold a press conference when we need to get the word out.”

  “No. That’s not a smart move. We don’t have anything concrete to announce.” Only the Premier would dare to speak to the tourism minister in this vein.

  “Well, why don’t we call the commissioner and get that hotshot detective in? We need to light a fire under him to get this case out of the headlines as fast as we can.”

  “The governor has jurisdiction over the police, so we will have to liaise with him too.” The Premier was a good consensus builder and kept the relations with the governor on an even keel, whilst the Minister of Tourism was quite open about his desire for the island to go independent and dispense with the likes of the British governor. “Leave it to me; I’ll organize a meeting and we can see how we can move forward on this. In the meantime, keep up the good work as far as air arrivals are concerned and let people know this is an isolated incident.”

  “At this point, that’s all we can do. I’ll talk to our PR people and get their thoughts too.” The minister stood up abruptly, buttoned his jacket, shook the Premier’s hand and, turning on his heel, left the room.

  CHAPTER 30

  By any top seamstress’s standards, the meticulously sutured Y-incision in the young girl’s body was a work of art. Jacintha, clad in her rubber gloves and apron, stood back to give it a final look. It always saddened her to deal with teenage victims of violent crime. She knew it came with the job but, somehow, the sense of waste, of all the potential of a young life suddenly wiped out, managed to put her in a somber mood. She wheeled the gurney over to an empty refrigerated compartment, calling to her assistant to give her a hand in lifting the body into it. People never realized how much heavy lifting was involved in pathology and Jacintha, petite by any standards, possessed a strength born from handling a lot of dead weight.

  “You sure can sew, doc.” Austin, her assistant, was an admirer of her technique.

  “Hours practising on pickled pigs’ trotters, Austin. My father would buy jars and jars of them and I would cut them and then sew them back up. It’s the closest thing to human tissue, so I would recommend you try it. By the way, you can get them at the Supermart on Front Street.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Who ended up eating them all, anyway?”

  “My father, of course. Although I think it put him off pigs’ trotters for life! C’mon, let’s get started on the other one.” She moved over to the gurney on which lay the covered body of the male victim. She inserted a new tape into her recorder, put on clean rubber gloves and apron, deftly throwing the dirty ones in a sanitary bin and started the autopsy process all over again. In the background, she heard the ding of an incoming message on her computer.

  “Austin, could you just check that to see if it’s the photograph of the tattoo we’ve been waiting for?”

  “Sure.” He walked over to her desk. “Yep. It’s come over from that nice lady at the police department.”

  Jacintha hid a smile. Pamela had that effect on most men. “Okay, can you print it out and bring it closer? We need to see if this guy has anything similar on his hip or thigh area. So far, I can’t seem to find anything. Why don’t you have a look through the magnifying glass? Perhaps you can see something I can’t.”

  Her young assistant eagerly took the lens and began to search the body. “Even though he’s pretty decomposed, I can’t see anything that looks like a tattoo. Still some maggots in him. I’ll take care of them.”

  “Thanks. I can’t find anything either. I wonder who this guy is.” Jacintha was suddenly alert. If this was not the man who had murdered the girl on film, then just who was he? “Okay, let’s get started.” She began to talk, for the benefit of the tape recorder. “The body is that of a well-nourished male about thirty to thirty-five years of age, brown eyes, 187 lbs, six feet tall. There is evidence of petechial haemorrhaging and what appears to be bruising and some abrasions around the neck, possibly produced by a ligature about a quarter of an inch wide.” Suddenly, she stood up straight. “Austin, can you make a note to Forensics to check the nylon rope tied around the corpses for any epithelials? I’m wondering if some of that cord could have been used to strangle this man, in which case his murderer might have left some of his own skin cells on it.”

  “Will do.” Austin moved over to the counter where the nylon rope had been bagged and put a yellow sticky on it to remind him.

  Jacintha continued, “Defense bruises on the arms and wrists indicate a struggle. Austin, can you collect trace evidence from under the fingernails?”

  Her assistant began to examine the hands. “Doctor, there is evidence of bruising and swelling on th
e knuckles and a couple of his fingernails are broken.”

  “Must have put up a decent fight. His attacker must have been pretty strong because he’s a fair size. Good. Let’s get closeups of his arms and hands. Also, zero in on the neck bruising and his eyes.”

  Austin moved over to the counter where the camera lay and began to take close-ups of the body. He then scooped out the debris from underneath each fingernail and bagged the evidence to send over to the forensics department. He also bagged the maggots. A good bug expert could use their gestation period to pinpoint how long the body had been in the ground. Jacintha spent some time looking at the man’s face and head.

  “Austin, have a look at this guy’s face. What do you see?”

  “Well, he’s got prominent cheekbones. His eyes look a little oriental. Maybe he’s Native American?”

  “Good observation. Think about the circumstances of the case. He was found in the yard of a Russian film director…”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, Russia is a very big country. The people on the Chinese and Mongolian borders have high cheekbones and foreheads. They have almond-shaped eyes. I am thinking that this guy could be a Russian from the south eastern region.”

  “Wow, that makes sense. I think you’re on to something, doc.”

  Jacintha smiled back at him. “Let’s take measurements of his head and do some research.”

  “You got it!” Austin was excited now.

  “And when you’re finished, you can call that ‘nice lady at the police department’, telling her this is not the man on film.” Jacintha was beginning to enjoy herself.

  CHAPTER 31

  Archie had been briefing the team on his conversations with the Easy Riders and their suggestions regarding body shops. Pamela had agreed to put together a list for De Souza and Archie to go visit. Top of the list was the one on Elliot Street. Nana’s nugget of information had also been added to the whiteboard and Burgess and Pamela were to interview the nephew of Nana’s church friend and find out more about the boy with the ‘cool wheels’. All in all, they felt some progress had been made on possibly identifying one of the bikes spotted near the scene of the crime.

  They looked up as Mrs. Ming came in, announcing coyly that they had a visitor. Before anyone could reply, she ushered in a young woman with short spiky hair, dressed in khaki pants and a tank top.

  “Jan,” they chorused in delight.

  “Surprise! Heard you guys had got yourselves into some more hot water and needed a little help from your friends!”

  “You’ve got that right,” said Burgess, smiling from ear to ear. “How did you get here so soon?”

  “Rumor has it your commissioner himself begged my boss to let me come here earlier. I think invitations to some rounds of golf might have sweetened the pill.”

  “Well, we sure are pleased to see you. Take a seat and Pamela can bring you up to date after we’ve finished. You know what great records she keeps. We’ll need you to go back over what Forensics picked up from the crime scenes. We’ve got three now: the Russian’s house and garden and Mr. Flood’s office.”

  Mrs. Ming interrupted again. This time she came in with a box containing the contents of Robert Flood’s safe, placing it carefully on the polished cedar conference table. The five of them approached in anticipation. Burgess jumped as Pamela, waving a plastic evidence bag in the air, suddenly exclaimed, “Wait! Aren’t these the pearls she was wearing the day we interviewed her? I recognize the clasp.” Always the emotional one of the team, Pamela was now incensed. “She lied to us! She does have access to the safe. She could only have put the necklace in there after Flood was dead because we saw her wearing them.”

  Burgess tried to mask his elation. “I knew it! Now we’ll have to bring her in for more questioning. She’s our prime suspect in the murder of her husband.”

  “I’ll go get her.” Archie was all business.

  “Take De Souza with you. Don’t arrest her, though, just bring her in for questioning. We don’t want to do anything precipitous to the grieving widow until we’re one hundred percent sure. If we get this wrong, the fallout will be hell.”

  Both men picked up their jackets and swung out of the room with a renewed sense of purpose. Burgess took out his handkerchief and wiped his head and neck. The air conditioning was not working well in the murder room and he was feeling the heat, both literally and metaphorically.

  “Right, ladies, let’s see what else we have here.”

  They each began to sift through the envelopes, chequebooks, plastic bags of foreign currencies and the will.

  “Here’s something, sir.” Pamela could not hide the excitement in her voice.

  “What have you got?” Burgess looked up from his review of the will.

  “Blackmail letter and photographs. They look like stills made from the DVDs.” She passed it over to Jan Du Bois. “There’s no monetary demand, just a warning that they have the goods on him. I guess Alexeev wanted to be able to use Flood’s legal services, if ever necessary. What a nasty piece of work that man is!”

  “What’s the betting the Minister for Information also got one?” Burgess knew that an uncomfortable conversation with the minister was now definitely on the books. He did not look forward to breaking that to the superintendent.

  “Hello, this is interesting.” He looked up from his scanning of the will. “Would you believe he has left his life insurance – a considerable amount I might add - to a Clarissa Lightbourne? Who do you suppose she is?”

  “Oh, now that is interesting. I wonder if Mrs. Flood can enlighten us.”

  “Now, slow down, Pamela. I know she lied but you can’t take it personally. It’s something I can guarantee is going to happen over and over again during the course of your career. Hey, she pulled the wool over my eyes… and I’ve had years of training interviewing people.”

  Burgess felt the need to calm his colleague who was clearly offended that a suspect had dared to lie to her. He understood this was a result of her lack of experience and, as she became increasingly involved in investigations, she would become inured to the behavior of suspects and witnesses, as well as criminals. He just hoped he could get to the bottom of it all and soon. He did not want this politically sensitive case to blow up in his face. The constant specter of the superintendent – and his warnings - loomed in the back of his mind and they unsettled him. For some reason, he could not shake the feeling something was not quite right and it made him uneasy.

  CHAPTER 32

  Khitarov was back at his desk, puffing on a Marlboro and typing his report with two fingers. He loved his computer, and all that it could do for him, but had never mastered the art of typing. Nonetheless, he bashed away at a good clip, stopping frequently to correct his errors and then forging ahead again.

  Delighted to have finally established contact with the Bermuda police, he had received passport details of a young girl posing as a Ukrainian. He was sure the name, and possibly the nationality, were fake but proceeded to download the photograph into the missing persons’ database. Hopefully, something would come up. The autopsy photographs were a lot less flattering and he placed them into a new file labelled ‘Alexeev, Vladimir’. Loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar, he lit another cigarette, lazily exhaled a stream of smoke, leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. Now it was time to let the computer do the work.

  The telephone, however, startled him from his reverie.

  “Komissar Khitarov?” Khitarov was all attention. He recognized this voice.

  “It’s Director Alexeev’s personal assistant.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”

  “I’m worried. I still have not heard from the director but I do know that his wife has used his private plane to go to his dacha in the Black Sea. He keeps a house and boat there. I thought you should know. It’s so unlike him not to get in touch and I have bills to pay that need his signature. Even more worrying is the fact that his bodyguard call
ed the office to ask if we knew where he was. He’s either been kidnapped or given his bodyguard the slip. Whichever scenario is true, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Khitarov, a born cynic, wagered she was more upset that he had not paid her salary. He wondered if she would have called otherwise. Obviously, it was in her interest to find her boss, the sooner, the better.

  “Give me the exact address and the name of the boat and I will look into it.” Fumbling in his desk for a pen, he began scribbling the information on a yellow, lined notepad, skilfully avoiding the doodles and coffee stains proliferating on the page. Khitarov hoped this might get him somewhere. It was hard to write reports when there was, frankly, little to report. He rather relished a trip to the Black Sea. His line of work generally took him to the more insalubrious parts of Moscow. Yes, a trip to the cool breezes of the Black Sea would be just what the doctor ordered.