by Susan Slater
“You think at least two people were involved—but maybe three? One to orchestrate the perfect murder and then another person marked the body—yet maybe a third stuck a knife in his back.”
“I do.”
That would explain the moving of the body. Hadn’t Fucher claimed that he’d first stumbled over the body in the doorway, removed the knife, left it beside the body and went to corral the dogs only to return to an empty space sans body and knife? Was the murderer the one who started a fire? Or did the fire cover up something else? Was he being wrong linking the two? Obviously if Fucher was going to be implicated, the body couldn’t burn. It had to be removed and then brought back. Someone carving “thief” on Jackson’s forehead caused a lot of extra work for his murderer.
“It’s my opinion because of the angle of the knife as it entered the body that someone standing over him when he was on the floor did the stabbing.”
“You’re saying that someone found him lying facedown in the hallway, assumed he was drunk, and took the opportunity to do what he or she thought would kill him.” Dan wasn’t prepared for any of this. What happened to cut and dried, plain ol’ straightforward gunshot or stabbing?
“Precisely, but the deed had already been done. I do have pictures. You can see from these that the word is meant to be ‘thief.’” Dr. Hunt picked up a manila envelope from a desk in the corner, pulled out a couple eight and a half by eleven, black-and-white glossies and handed them to Dan.
The lopsided “Theif,” mostly in caps, stood out sharply against the pale skin of the corpse. Truly a kindergarten level of penmanship, but writing something on human flesh couldn’t be easy. “May I?” Dr. Hunt nodded and Dan slipped the rest of the photos from the envelope, pulled one from the pile, and studied it. “So this is the knife.” Fucher was correct; it was a kitchen knife, actually more like a carving knife—wide blade, pointed end, solid handle—too big and unwieldy to carry around. Not the tool of a professional killer. But didn’t that only further implicate Fucher?
“But this may be just as important. See these bruises? Here and here? Our Mr. Sanchez suffered quite a beating before he died. Badly bruised ribs and another discoloration in the groin. Not something that would kill him but would probably render him helpless. It’s even possible his assailant attacked him while he was dying.”
“Any idea how these were administered? Blunt instrument? Bare knuckles?”
“I believe they were received while he was on the floor. Boots, possibly steel-toed, would be my educated guess.”
“Time of death?”
“Somewhere around one a.m.”
More surprises. Wouldn’t be the first time that what looked like one thing turned out to be another. But could Fucher have slept through a beating like this? Wouldn’t Sanchez have yelled bloody murder? A person just didn’t acquiesce to being carved up and stomped on. But maybe more importantly, did he think Fucher could have done something like this? Know enough about administering alcohol to poison a person, let alone carve up his forehead, ferociously beat him, and then stab him? This whole scenario was slipping into the realm of complete make-believe.
“Do you think he was killed on the premises or killed somewhere else and brought to the track?”
“Difficult to know. The fire erased any evidence that could help us there.”
“Anything else I should know?” Might as well get all the surprises out on the table at the same time.
“This, possibly.” Dr. Hunt unzipped the bag and with latex gloves firmly in place, brought the left leg out from its covering. “See the markings on the ankle? He had been rather tightly bound and tethered to something. And the toes on both feet…” She pulled the left foot out and held it next to the right, “Crushed.”
Dan leaned in to look at the mangled toes, blue-black now, nails broken and split and the surrounding flesh more like pulp. “Any idea…?”
“Consistent with being run over by a car, but just the toes doesn’t make sense. Of course, I’ve seen the bodies of drunks come through here with amazing injuries.”
“This could mean that he’d been held somewhere for some indefinite period of time—probably not at the track.” No wonder Fucher didn’t hear anything. “Was the carving on the forehead done with the same knife as the one that had been stuck in his back?”
“No, the knife wound to the back was done by something large, a kitchen instrument, meat carver’s tool—wide blade, ornate guard at the end of the handle. Obviously expensive.” Dr. Hunt pointed to the photo that Dan had separated from the pile. “This is the knife found beside the body. It matches the entry wound and was rammed into the body with such force that the guard”—she indicated two brass knobs at the base of the blade—“left bruises.”
“And your best guess as to what kind of instrument was used on his forehead?”
“Something as simple as a pocketknife or the sharpened point of a nail.”
“Any ideas as to why the corpse was marked in this way?”
“Almost always it’s meant to be seen—a message sent. The Mafia and gangs are known for this sort of thing—it’s a warning to others. In this case it would seem to indicate Mr. Sanchez took something that wasn’t his. I saw more of this up north when I interned in New Jersey.”
“I can imagine. I may be naïve, but I don’t see Palm Coast or even Daytona as a hotbed for organized crime.”
“It’s not Vegas. Still, any sort of gambling seems to invite that element.”
Hmmm. Dan stood corrected. This was food for thought and certainly broadened the spectrum of reasons for wanting Jackson dead—more or less ruled out a crime of passion just because he’d threatened to fire someone. The “thief” said it all and it made no sense that Fucher would have needed to broadcast that accusation…unless Jackson had borrowed money from Fucher and hadn’t paid it back. Damn. Someone could make a case out of that. It didn’t exonerate Fucher—it tightened the noose if Jackson was on the list of recipients. He needed to check with Roger Carter. Still, if Fucher only thought he was killing Jackson…how did that change his case?
“One last question. Both Fucher, the man who was arrested for his murder, and the cop who arrested him talked about there being blood. I think it was referred to as a ‘pool’ with some mention of blood on Fucher’s clothes. This picture of the knife appears to only show traces on the blade. I don’t see anything that would have caused a pool or any spatter unless it was the stab wound. Yet, if your time of death is correct, the blood would have already settled away from the knife entry.”
“Exactly. There would not have been any large amounts of blood, a spray or even scattered droplets.”
“When will your report be completed?”
“As I said, I’m just waiting on the toxicology report.”
Dan walked back to his car and decided to give Roger Carter a heads-up. Could a good lawyer get the charges against Fucher thrown out based on the evidence Dan had just seen? He sure hoped so. But just when he was feeling good about Fucher’s chances of beating a false rap, evidence that might exonerate him appeared to indict him. Roger Carter burst his bubble. Sure enough, Jackson Sanchez had borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars. The debt was eighteen months old and even though the contract had been drawn up for payments of one hundred dollars to begin immediately on a monthly basis, no payments had been made. Ever. Not one cent paid back. Lawyers for the opposing team would have a field day with that. And on the surface it looked like a good reason for murder—complete with a carved out warning for others. And the misspelling of “thief.” Dan could only imagine that Fucher’s spelling skills might not be the best.
Maybe this was a major defeat but he couldn’t get sidetracked. He needed to continue to look for evidence that would clear Fucher. Because Fucher, the murder, and the fire had everything to do with five greyhounds—five alive or five dead greyhounds. And he had to trust his gut. He
’d go by the crematorium, but first a trip to the track kennel area was in order. The “pool of blood” bothered him. Both Fucher and the cop mentioned substantial blood—first on the floor and then on clothing—and there wasn’t any reason to lie about it. Yet, there was no indication that it had come from Jackson Sanchez’ body. Dan hoped that the hallway hadn’t been torn out or scrubbed clean.
He parked along the side of the building next to a flatbed truck loaded with a few hundred cement blocks. Dan knew it was the building material of choice in an area that boasts of termites. Rumor had it the winged insects could eat the wooden studs right out of a house, leaving it a shell. St. Augustine was famous for ornate wood Victorians that were now only held together by plaster board on a rock foundation. You could poke a pencil into a wall and see nothing but sawdust. No, cement block made a lot of sense.
The kennel and track office had a blue plastic tarp draped over the roofline and it looked like they were expanding—adding an extra room or two along the back. The place was eerily quiet without dogs. A young workman let him into the roped-off general area but wasn’t certain that the area of flooring that Dan was interested in was still intact. They were getting ready to pour a solid concrete pad that would tie the old office together with the two new ones, and much of the hallway had been torn up.
“Shoot, looks like it’s gone.” His guide had rounded the corner first. “You know the cops were here. They took pictures and samples of everything. Looks like they took most of the floor.”
“I may be wasting our time.” Dan looked around. Not only were the walls to the office now nonexistent, the floor was a pile of cement and tile chips—nothing much larger than three by four inches—and the entire floor was in three, three-foot piles.
“Tell me exactly what you’re looking for and I’ll help.”
Dan explained that there had supposedly been a puddle of blood right outside the door and he needed to find stained tiles to support the story. He thought the kid looked a little queasy and was probably second-guessing his offer of help, but any reluctance was short-lived.
“Let’s try that pile closest to where the old office door was.” Immediately his helper was down on his knees digging through the pile with two hands, discards tossed to the side.
“What do you think? Could this be a piece of what you’re looking for?” He held up a remnant of tile still attached to a piece of concrete.
Dan took the chunk the size of his fist, bigger than the rest, with a blackened coating thick enough to flake off. “I think you’ve found it. Any more?”
“Two more pieces but they aren’t as big. Most of the flooring is gone, though.”
“These’ll do. I appreciate your help.” Dan bagged them separately in the zip-lock bags he’d remembered to tuck in his pocket. He’d get the chunks tested. He hoped Dr. Hunt might suggest a lab, or because the samples are related to her work with Jackson, she’d do it at the County facility herself. Fingers crossed. It’d save him a lot of running around and he just wasn’t sure he trusted the police lab. Something about Officer Bartlett still bothered him.
He’d drop them by the coroner’s office in the morning. But for now he needed to get to the pet crematorium on the other side of town.
***
The building was at the edge of a residential area. An older house-turned-office with bright red geraniums flanking the walk to the front steps. He presented his card and explained briefly the need to verify the cremation of five greyhounds killed in last week’s fire at the track. The receptionist had no record of cremating any dogs on the morning in question, but she hastened to explain that that wasn’t unusual.
“Dr. Elliot often uses the facilities without anyone being here. He has a key to the crematorium out back.”
“I’d like to see the area, if I could.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Nonsense, Rachel, I’ll be glad to show our guest around…uh, Mahoney, was it?” A tall elderly man emerged from an office to his right. According to the nameplate on the door, this was Paul Fenwick, owner.
“Yes, Dan Mahoney, United Life and Casualty.” Dan took out another card. “I appreciate your help.”
“Not a problem.”
Dan waited while Mr. Fenwick took a set of keys off a peg on the wall behind the receptionist and then followed him down a hallway to the back door. Dan tried not to stare at the case of pet cremation jewelry. Small vials to hold ashes, some in the shape of hearts, stainless steel, silver or gold, with or without rhinestones, but all with an area for inscription—a pet’s name or just a declaration of love. Something was terribly sad about all this, and Dan was suddenly very happy he was seeing Simon soon.
Then, in the last case before the door, he saw shelf after shelf of urns—all different sizes and all different breeds. The greyhound ones? Exactly like the five on Dixie Halifax’s desk. A sign directed anyone interested in purchasing to check with the receptionist. Apparently she could also take care of any engraving.
“We sell a lot of those. We have the exclusive rights. Almost every breed is represented except for a few of the new ones. We even carry some of what they’re calling ‘designer breeds.’ In my day that meant you’d left the back gate open when your dog was in season.” A chortle. “For ceramics I think the likenesses are pretty damned good.” Mr. Fenwick paused by the door, “We played hell getting the right colored ribbons for Ms. Halifax’s set. Such a shame. I understand those dogs were top-notch.”
“Yes, they were. Just out of curiosity, how do you know what size urn a particular dog will need?”
“Good question. Everything’s figured mathematically. A sixty-pound dog—by the way, that’s average for the greyhound breed—would produce sixty cubic inches of cremains. Or one pound of dog is equal to one cubic inch of ash. Dogs weighing between fifty and seventy pounds would produce three to five cups of ash.”
After some fiddling with both a deadbolt and a padlock, he led Dan into a metal building the size of a single-car garage. Inside, brick flooring had been laid wall-to-wall and yellow fire-brick lined the wall behind three stainless steel ovens. State-of-the-art. Dan knew he was looking at a sophisticated setup. He listened to an explanation of how everything worked—temperatures, times it took to cremate varying sized animals, how many grateful families he’d served this past year; yes, families could stay with their beloved pet and then there was a room where they could compose themselves back in the main house, meet with the veterinarian—Mr. Fenwick handled this part of the event. Hand-holding. Not pleasant but of so much comfort to the owners. He’d helped Dr. Elliot with that terrible burden last week, sat with Ms. Halifax and all. He just oozed caring and sincerity. Dan thanked him for the tour and walked back to his car.
Had Mel been wrong? The dog she thought was Mellow Yellow really wasn’t? But Pete Ellis? He admitted to altering the dog’s registration number. There was no reason that he would have shared information that would incriminate himself. But why would Paul Fenwick lie? The truth was somewhere in all this—but it sure seemed to involve a lot of people stretching it.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’m hoping your day was better than mine.” Dan finished opening a classic Chianti and poured two glasses. Elaine had picked up peppers-and-sausage dinners freshly prepared by Massimo’s Italian deli on Palm Coast Parkway and dinner was on the table.
“Don’t bet on it.” Elaine passed Dan a green salad followed by warm ciabatta bread, then went back to the kitchen for butter.
“I don’t think real Italians put butter on their ciabatta.”
“I’m not real, then.” She laughed, it was a long-standing joke between them. She could probably prove three-quarters Italian blood but that was pretty far removed from the old country. And as for the Irish, well, she didn’t think the Mahoneys were any closer to their origins.
“You first.” Dan looked up from loading his pla
te with penne pasta and a generous topping of sausage and peppers.
“What?”
“Your day. Are you trying to duck sharing the excitement of an afternoon in Palm Coast?”
Actually, if the truth were known, she probably was. She was reluctant to discuss the contents of the envelope of false information that implied his mother lived with a criminal and by the time she told how she’d gotten it, she could only imagine Dan’s reaction. But there was no way out of it. Scott Ramsey had been right.
When she’d finished—complete with the agent hiding under the car—Dan didn’t say anything.
Finally, he said, “I’m glad Mom’s out of town for a week or so.” Elaine breathed a sigh of relief—nothing about her being tethered by the ankle by an unknown assailant who was supposedly an FBI agent. She was afraid she might have to defend her choice of career.
“She can’t know. I mean I think it would be dangerous to tell her the truth.”
“I’m sure it would be.”
“She’s already suspicious. You’ve met him. Did you get the idea that Stanley might be a criminal?”
“No. In retrospect, if I’d thought about it, I would have suspected he wasn’t from Iowa. Iowans don’t put an ‘r’ in saw. That was the worst. He was just boring, not threatening.”
“So, we give her the packet of information and what? Hope for the best?”
Dan shrugged. There was no winning this one. “At the moment we don’t have a choice—we just have a little time before we have to do it.”
Over coffee and Elaine’s favorite decadent Italian tarts with orange peel and cream centers, he shared his day. When he got to Jackson Sanchez’ possible multiple killers, Elaine interrupted.
“You’ve got to be kidding. A gang killing? Or maybe the Mafia? But who did the initial killing—with the alcohol overdose?”
