Code 61

by Donald Harstad

  I should know by now never to question Dr. Peters, even obliquely. Not that he has ever shown the slightest resentment. On the contrary, he's more often amused than anything else, and always very comfortable with explaining things.

  “Ah,” I said, sagely, “I wonder, I mean, ah, there's no indication of any arterial spurts in there. Anywhere in there.” I even pointed toward the bathroom. Well, like they say, every village needs an idiot.

  He grinned. “I noticed that, too. Like I say, let me post her, but at this point I really doubt she died in the bathroom,” said Dr. Peters. “I'd like to get a good blood-spatter expert lined up.” He addressed Hester. “Who are you people using these days? Still Barnes?”

  “Last time I checked,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “We have a classic hair-swipe pattern on the left tub wall … really shouldn't be there, since her head should never have been down there … unless she was thrashing around a lot, and then we should have more than one…. ”

  It had officially become a homicide investigation.

  I drew the autopsy assignment, because I was “just so damned good with a camera,” according to Hester, who was at least as good with a camera, but who didn't want to go. She got the interviews with Kevin and Huck, and the reinterviews with Hanna and Melissa and Toby. I'm not sure I got such a bad deal.

  NINE

  Saturday, October 7, 2000

  19:35

  Supper right after an autopsy can be an interesting experience. Not for Dr. Peters, because it was what he did every day, but I was avoiding beef and pork at the buffet. And pasta.

  The lab team had arrived, and was processing the scene. Lamar was sending up two reserve officers, relief for Borman and me, although I'd be going back after we ate. Borman was staying at the residence until the other deputies arrived. I hoped he didn't start a war.

  Hester, Dr. Peters, and I had decided to dine at Warren's, a halfway decent place that wasn't too expensive. It was also fairly quiet, and we could talk a bit without being overheard by anybody but the waitress.

  Hester told us that the interviews hadn't produced much of anything. The suggestion that the death might not have been suicide produced strong denials but nothing more. She also observed that Kevin and Huck were the strong personalities, with Melissa a close second.

  “The difference,” said Hester, “is that Melissa has no followers, while Kevin and Huck do.”

  She also thought that Toby was a real easy pick. “That kid,” she said, “will do almost anything to get your attention. Talks much more than anybody else up there.”

  I could only agree.

  Hester also said that she'd also been told that Edie had apparently been the “housemother” of the establishment, and seemed to pretty well have been the most stable and solid. “She was the one who talked most with this Jessica Hunley, the owner. Seems to have known her the longest, anyway.” She shrugged. “I think she was also sort of counselor-in-residence, so to speak. That's the impression I got. Mostly from Toby, Melissa, and Hanna, though. Not the other two.”

  The autopsy had been very interesting. First of all, Dr. Peters had established conclusively that the wound in Edie's neck had, indeed, damaged the external carotid artery. Not to mention the jugular vein, numerous muscles, and sliced into the posterior wall of the trachea, and left a cut in the fourth cervical vertebra to boot. The fascinating part was that there were multiple cuts inside the neck wound. I'd asked. It meant that the knife had “probably been thrust into the neck, Carl, and then worked back and forth as well as part way in and out, until it was pulled out, carrying some muscle with it.”

  We'd just shared that with Hester.

  “Ah. Then …?”

  “Then,” said Dr. Peters, “I would expect that a self-inflicted wound of that type would have the sawing motion we all know, but there wasn't conspicuous evidence of the sawing motion; more like short, strong thrusts without actually pulling the blade all the way out. Inside, like that, would require too much strength, because the angle is wrong for a self-inflicted wound. I'd bet strongly on a second party wielding the knife.”

  “But could it possibly be a suicide?”

  “Probably wouldn't have pulled it out after all that,” said Dr. Peters. “The self-inflicted neck wounds I've seen, if there is deep penetration, tend to expire without pulling the knife out.” He took a bite of his roast beef.

  “The pain would be excruciating, I should think. Even in a highly agitated mental state.”

  “Not conclusive,” I said, “but narrows the parameters?”

  “Exactly. The conclusive part, Carl, is the absolute lack of arterial spurts in the bathroom area. The carotid cut itself would have produced splashes on a wall several feet from the wound. Several pulses, and with obvious trajectories.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, I'm bothered by the nick in the trachea. There should have been aspirated blood. There wasn't. I would say,” said Dr. Peters, “at least some of the physical evidence suggests her throat had been cut elsewhere, and she was transported from that location to where she was discovered in her tub.”

  Well, well.

  I took a drink of coffee while he continued to explain the autopsy to Hester.

  “When we washed the blood off the exterior,” he said, “there was some considerable early bruising around her hips and shoulders, as well as her upper arms and thighs and calves.”

  “Blows?” asked Hester.

  “No, I think not. When we cut into them, some were deep, some were more surface bruises, but there was no obvious tissue damage. I'd expect to find she was, indeed, on a course of Coumadin, and we have the commensurate easy bruising involved. But, of course, with a large blood loss, they may not have presented as well as you'd expect.” He thought for a second. “The ones we're interested in, as far as being inflicted near the time of death, though, were broad, with considerable pressure, but no well-defined edges. I'd say some sort of restraint … handgrip marks. But, it occurs to me that, perhaps, something nontraditional was used, too. Something that wouldn't leave striations like cloth or rope. Look for something in that line. Or, maybe not, and it's just that she was in contact with a very uneven and unyielding surface. If so, it was while she was bleeding to death, so there should be significant blood wherever it was.” He took a sip of water. “But there was no bruising on the right breast, or on the rib cage adjacent. That pressure was post mortem.”

  “We're looking for lots of blood evidence, then?” Hester was jotting down notes.

  “Somewhere,” said Dr. Peters. “All things being equal, and the lab work not being back yet, the evidence suggests she was killed somewhere else, and then placed in her tub, and that her throat was cut in an attempt to make it look self-inflicted.” He nodded. “And you're absolutely right. Lots of blood. There was a large blood loss, somewhere. But don't let me mislead you. There are things I have to do yet.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Cool. Now all we had to do was find the location. Well, find a location, place somebody else there, and figure out why. But a location would be a good start.

  “That much blood,” he said, “even with determined cleanup, there will be trace evidence.” “I'd better call Lamar, and then the county attorney,” I said. “They'll both need to know.”

  I used the phone in the manager's little closet of an office. As I dialed, it occurred to me that, at least this far, we'd managed the media in a pretty cagey way. Anybody listening on a scanner would have heard only the page for the ambulance, Borman simply being told to go there, and him arriving. I never said where I was. Hester had been notified at home, and had called in to State Radio via her cell phone. Dr. Peters had been notified by phone, as had the lab team. Code sixty-one procedure seemed to be working.

  Good security, plus the media hardly ever paid attention to suicides, anyway, unless they were either prominent people, or could embarrass prominent people. Edie was pretty much
a nobody, bless her. She and her Uncle Lamar didn't even have the same last name.

  Homicide had never been mentioned. Well, not till now.

  I called Lamar first, both because he was my boss, and because I thought he just should know before anybody else.

  He answered the phone. “Ridgeway.”

  I liked that. “Hey, Lamar, it's Houseman.”

  “It's not a suicide, is it?”

  “Jesus, Lamar, are you psychic?”

  There was what I can only describe as a moment of satisfied silence at the other end. “Just hoped, I guess,” he said. “I didn't want to think I might have let her down…. ”

  Yeah. With suicides, there's always that aspect. “No, not according to Dr. Peters. He wants to wait for the final lab tests, but he says he's sure enough that it wasn't self-inflicted and that we should start treating it as a murder investigation.”

  “Okay,” said Lamar. “You do what you need to.”

  “Right.”

  “Want me to keep it quiet with my sister?”

  “Maybe for a while, Lamar. Let the lab stuff come back. Or, at least hedge.”

  “Do what I can.” There was a slight pause. “Any suspects?”

  “Not really, Lamar. None so far.”

  “I'll see what I can do, too, but I can't be directly involved. You understand?”

  I sure did. A defense attorney would love to have the head of the investigation be the grieving uncle. Absolutely guaranteed a change of venue, too.

  “Yep. I'm about to call the county attorney now.”

  “Good. Keep in touch, Carl, and thanks. OH!”

  “What?”

  “I almost forgot. There was a guy wanted to talk to me. I told the office to give him to you. Sorry. Not sure what he wants. From Wisconsin.”

  “Right. Sally already told me. Okay.” I could see him tomorrow. “You going to be tied up with family stuff very long?”

  “Another day or two.”

  “How's it going?”

  He cleared his throat. “You know my sister…. ” He hesitated. “You think it'll be all right if I do the interview on her? Just to get the background stuff?”

  I sure didn't know anybody else who would. “That's fine,” I said.

  The county attorney was a decent lawyer named Mike Dittman. As with most county attorneys in Iowa, it was a part-time job, with the vast majority of his income coming from private practice. As I dialed his number, it occurred to me that this was October, and that he would be preparing for income tax time. Lots of his clients retained him to do their taxes and their estates. This was approaching his busiest time of year in his private practice.

  “Dittmans',” said a pleasant, woman's voice. His wife, Karen.

  “Hi, Karen, it's Houseman.” I called there often enough that she knew just who it was as soon as I spoke.

  “Oh, hello, Carl. Just a sec.” I could hear a muffled “Mike! Mike, it's for you,” as she covered the phone.

  After a second or two, Mike answered. “Hello?” I could hear the click as she hung up the other phone.

  “Mike, it's Houseman.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said, only half kidding. “What's up?”

  “We had a suicide call this morning. Lamar's niece, Edie Younger, remember her?”

  “Oh, sure. Oh, that's too bad. She was getting her act together pretty well, wasn't she?”

  “I think so. There's a complication, and we're probably going to need some legal advice.”

  Silence.

  “Dr. Peters is here. His preliminary finding is that it looks like murder.”

  “Oh, crap. Oh, boy. Uh, Carl, it's my sister-in-law's birthday today, and we're just heading to Dubuque…. ”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just wanted you to know, and let you know we're going to need to search the whole house. I think we have enough to justify a warranted search.”

  “Which 'whole house' are you talking about, Carl?”

  I told him about the location, and the other residents. I also told him that the owner wasn't there.

  “Look, why don't you just go with a consent search, for now, if you can. I mean, I trust your work, but I'd be happier if you could go that route for now.”

  I was positive I could get a search warrant application done well enough to stand any challenge, but I also knew that he was going to have to defend it if anything went wrong.

  “Okay, Mike. But I just hate to do the consent searches, you know. I mean, if they deny permission, then we have to sit on everything and do a rush application. And in this one, any of the five can say 'no' to a request.”

  “No,” he said, “go for a consent search. Any of them can consent to the common areas of the home. Individuals can only deny access to their own rooms.”

  I knew him well enough to stop arguing. But I was disgusted. There are a multitude of ways to get the results of a consent search tossed out of court, and the resulting evidence right along with them. In a really serious case, there is absolutely no substitute for a warranted search issued from the district court. Besides, consent was the lazy way. The way you'd proceed if you wanted to go to your sister-in-law's party in Dubuque.

  Hester could sense something amiss as I sat down.

  “What?”

  “Mike wants us to go with a halfassed consent search,” I said.

  “That's no good, unless we're really lucky.”

  “Tell me.” I shrugged. “I'm thinking in terms of a search warrant application, anyway.”

  “Will the county attorney be up?”

  “No, he's going to a party in Dubuque.” We both smiled at the same time. This was going to be a really fast case of “Do you mind if we search this property that is under your control?” I figured we could have an application in two or three hours, max, and be back in the house within four. If …

  “Dr. Peters?”

  “Yes?” He knew what was coming.

  “We might need some preliminary notes, before you leave … ”

  Just then, this strange dude walked up to our table. He was dressed plainly, in olive slacks and a flannel shirt. I didn't know him from Adam, and it didn't appear that either Hester or Dr. Peters did, either.

  “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Would any of you be Deputy Houseman?”

  “I would. And you are …?”

  “William Chester. I spoke with your sheriff earlier today, very briefly. May I have a minute of your time?” He handed me a business card, which proclaimed him to be William Francis Chester, MA, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Along with his post office box, phone number, and e-mail address was the title Anthropologist & Bioarchaeologist.

  Well, at least he wasn't either press or an attorney. I fished out one of my cards, and handed it back. “Yeah. The office said you'd be up this way.” And I had totally forgotten he was coming.

  As I spoke, he pulled up a chair and sat. “I'll just take a moment of your time, for now,” he said. “I understand you've had a possible vampire sighting here.”

  I looked at Hester, and she avoided my gaze, obviously enjoying my plight. There's something about being public servants that makes us relish coworkers having to deal with loonies.

  “No, we haven't,” I said firmly.

  “According to the local paper … ”

  I cut him off. “It's a window peeker. That's all there is to it. Nothing more.”

  “I see.” He looked at Hester and Dr. Peters for any sign of support. Two more deadpan expressions were never seen. “Your sheriff said that … ”

  Right. Lamar. “That's okay, he might have been a little unclear. He, oh, lost a relative today.” I didn't want to be rude; I just wanted to be rid of him. “Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

  “I hunt them, you know,” he said, looking at me. “I've been hunting one in particular for a very long time. I think this could be that one.”

  “Hold it right there,” I said. “I'll say this one time. Just one. Do not hunt anything in this county that does not require
a hunting license. Am I clear? If you interfere in any way with any investigation you'll be wearing orange and eating shitty food for several months.” I stared at him. “I promise.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” he said with a slight smile. “Completely. But being so sensitive sort of gives the game away, doesn't it? Now I'm even more inclined to believe that you do have a vampire incident here.”

  People can be pretty exasperating sometimes. It did occur to me, rather belatedly, that he might have something that Harry could use regarding the death of Randy Baumhagen. Might. It was connected to our case, after all, and that was what had brought our vampire hunter to us in the first place. All the way from Milwaukee, for God's sake.

  “Well, just a second,” I said. “I know vampires don't exist, but we might have somebody who dresses up like one. Thing is, he might be involved in a case back on the Wisconsin side. Do you have a name to go with whoever you're hunting?”

  “No. No, I don't. Just methods, habits. No name. Not yet.”

  “What methods?”

  “Well, he appears at a door or window. Asks to come in. If he's invited, he enters, and begins the seduction of his victim.”

  “And, then, if he's not invited in? What, does he just stay out?”

  “Oh, yes. Vampires can't come in unless they're invited.” He was serious.

  Hester just couldn't resist. “What does he do to them?”

  “He eventually consumes some of their blood.”

  “Well, of course.” I kept a straight face. It was a vampire, after all. What did I expect?

  “He experiences what they experience, when he does that. He shares with them. They tell me it's very intimate.” William Chester looked at us each in turn. “It's the pheromones. He ingests their pheromones and experiences what they feel.”

  Dr. Peters snorted. “No. No, I'm afraid that doesn't work.”

  “You laymen must understand … ” began William Chester.

  “I'm a forensic pathologist,” said Dr. Peters.

  Silence. Then the vampire hunter fished in his breast pocket and handed Dr. Peters his card. “Then you may well need this,” he said, with remarkable aplomb.