When the Dead Speak (1st Sam Casey Mystery)

by S. D. Tooley

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure ... yet.” She caught the puzzled look in Jake’s eyes, a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Taking one last walk around the body, she said, “I would check military records first. I don’t believe the deceased had a criminal record.”

  Jake and Frank shifted their gaze. If she had to place their reactions on a skeptic meter of one through ten, theirs just hit a twenty. But it didn’t faze her. It was a typical reaction to which she had become accustomed.

  “Do me a favor, Benny,” Sam continued. “Don’t mention to the press about the pin. I think it might be important.”

  “Fine with me, Sam.”

  Frank gazed back at King Tut, searching the body and clothing again as though trying to see where Sam was getting her information.

  Reaching behind Benny, Jake picked up a piece of the torn fabric. It was a faded blue plaid. “Any possibility of getting the label off the shirt?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Benny replied. “I’m hesitant to try to chisel any more of the concrete away. I could try. I just don’t want to decapitate our friend here. Besides, I think running the prints through military records might be our best bet.” He looked around for Sam.

  “Where did she go?” Frank asked.

  Peering into his office through the plate glass, Benny said, “Probably for some air. She’ll be back.” He looked at the two detectives and smiled. “You two have never seen Sam in action, have you?”

  “In action?” Jake repeated.

  Frank’s body shuddered. “It gave me the heebie jeebies. How did she know all that stuff?”

  Benny leaned closer to them as if he didn’t want King Tut to hear. He whispered, “The dead talk to her.”

  Chapter 10

  “The dead talk to her?” Frank huffed as he carried the video recorder into Jake’s apartment.

  Jake moved the morning papers to one side and placed the bags of hamburgers and fries on the coffee table. “You’ve repeated that about twenty times, Frank.”

  “But she knew how long the body was there.”

  “She knew how long ago the overpass was built.”

  Jake slid open his balcony door. Three floors below a young mother was pushing an infant in a stroller. Jake paid six hundred and fifty dollars a month for what seemed like a day care center. Kids outnumbered the adults four to one.

  “What about the military? She knew he was in the military.”

  “It was a lucky guess. Everyone in the military has prints on file. Maybe she recognized the fabric as something one would buy at a commissary. As a process of elimination, it’s not a bad place to start. Just don’t read more into this.”

  Frank set the recorder down on the floor in front of the television set. “Okay, how did she know how he died? Buried alive? Benny hasn’t even done an autopsy yet.”

  Taking a seat on the couch, Jake shifted his eyes in Frank’s direction and let out a sigh. “Another guess with nothing factual or logical to back it up.” Jake opened an envelope and passed several sheets of paper to Frank. “Sergeant Samantha Casey, twenty-six, happens to be the goddaughter of Chief Don Connelley.”

  “No shit. This what you stopped off at the office to get?”Jake flashed him a grin. “Remember that sixty-year-old records clerk who had a crush on me?” Frank nodded. “She’s now Connelley’s secretary.”

  Frank studied the personnel records. “You sure you have the right girl?”

  “See for yourself.” Jake backed up the tape and pressed the PLAY button. “Watch.”

  “She’s bugging the state rep’s phone?” Frank asked.

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  The screen showed Sam opening the safe, taking out the contents, slipping something into her purse. When she held Preston’s pin in her clenched fist, Jake pressed the STOP button.

  “My god,” Frank gasped. “That’s the same way she held the pin in the lab.”

  “Red wig and plenty of makeup transform any plain Jane into Cinderella. The eyes are definitely the same.”

  “Not to mention the legs,” Frank added with a chuckle.

  Jake pressed the PLAY button again. They watched Preston walk in, take a phone call, pound the keys on his computer. Once he left, Sam accessed the computer, printed out a page, and stuffed it in her purse.

  “I would be curious to know what she printed off of Preston’s computer,” Jake said.

  “I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw who Murphy is paranoid about ... a woman. But now I think Murphy might have something to be paranoid about.” Frank hooked up his recorder, inserted a blank tape, rewound the tape in Jake’s machine, then proceeded to copy the tape.

  Jake pulled out newspaper clippings of murder cases. “Check these out. Press makes her sound like some psychic who just sits behind her desk with a crystal ball.”

  Frank unwrapped a burger and sat down next to Jake. “You saw what she did with King Tut. I’m telling you, Jake, there’s something strange going on.”

  Jake pulled the articles from Frank and tossed them back into the envelope. “You would be a believer. Your relatives come from a long line of New Orleans voodoo priests.” He studied his notes and added, “I did find out something interesting. Seems Connelley received a disturbing photo from the mayor. My source tells me Casey has disguised herself on numerous occasions and shown up at secret political meetings, sometimes as a waitress, bartender. Connelley has looked the other way in the past, even welcomed some of the information she would pass on to him.”

  Frank’s smile broadened. “I think I’m going to like this lady.”

  “Well, Connelley is up for a big promotion. If his little snitch were to be exposed, Connelley would probably end up writing parking tickets somewhere.” After taking a swig of soda, Jake added, “This lady is flying by the seat of her pants. According to Mary, Chief Connelley had a fix on Sam’s test scores, threw her into a desk job after only six months. I would bet she couldn’t shoot a target if she were standing in front of it.”

  “I guess patronage still reigns. That shouldn’t surprise you.” He glanced at the videotape. “So, what’s your next step? Are you going to take the video to Connelley?”

  Jake ejected both tapes, studied them, then shook his head slowly. “No, I have other plans for this tape.”

  Chapter 11

  Sam looked down the three rows of back-to-back desks filling the center of the fourth floor at Precinct Six. There weren’t any attractive modular units, potted plants in brass urns, or employees dressed in the latest power suits. Just men in sweat-soaked shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and clerical staff casually dressed in skirts or slacks.

  Offices lined the outer walls and a file room occupied the farthest corner. No pictures on the walls. No piped-in music. She scrutinized the tiled floor, which was yellowed from age and losing its design pattern to harsh cleansers. She looked at her white, ankle-wrap espadrilles and wondered if they would still be white by the end of the week.

  A stale, moldy odor permeated the air combined with a hint of burnt coffee and the lingering body odors from witnesses and suspects who had been shuttled through the doors over the years.

  Ed Scofield, the resident desk sergeant, eyed Sam suspiciously over his bifocals as he handed her a new I.D. badge. Reluctantly, she accepted it and clamped it on her collar.

  This was not Precinct One, which she was used to. The First was a state-of-the-art building that boasted a full-time cleaning crew who walked around picking up abandoned coffee cups and periodically cleaning the coffee machine.

  Dust was not allowed to settle at the First, which was visited constantly by press, public officials, and dignitaries. Even security was tight. You had to be buzzed in by the desk sergeant to gain access. But here at the Sixth, the desk sergeant wasn’t always at the front desk. Any drunk could wander in and use the bathroom if someone didn’t stop him in time. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the tile wasn’t yellowed from age or cleansers. She shivered and pushe
d that thought out of her head.

  The Sixth’s jurisdiction included the most diverse neighborhoods, from two-million-dollar homes on its northern boundaries to low income housing apartments to the south. In between comprised a vast melting pot.

  As Sam made her way down the center aisle, at least a half dozen sets of eyes were focused on her. Maybe it was the medicine bundle or her third earring of beads and feathers that hung from within one inch of her left shoulder. Or maybe it was just their way of scrutinizing the new kid on the block.

  She found Murphy’s office at the far end of the room. No one was there. It was a little too tidy, suggesting a man who either delegated well or had next to nothing to do. Walls were covered with pictures and plaques. Several manila folders sat near the edge of the desk. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the back credenza next to a family picture of a woman with a Buster Brown haircut and two teenage girls who had inherited their mother’s plain, just-scrubbed look.

  Strolling past the front of the desk, Sam’s finger flipped open a file folder. It was hers.

  “Sergeant Casey?” Murphy closed the door behind him and looked at the folder.

  “Just making sure my name was spelled right.” Sam’s first impression of Murphy when she had seen him at Preston’s hadn’t changed. He looked like a used-car salesman from his all-tooth, fake smile to his picture-perfect hair.

  Murphy extended his hand to her. “Welcome aboard, Sergeant. Although I expected you sooner.” He glanced at her choice in jewelry.

  Sam’s smile was just as fake as she grasped his hand firmly. “I was preempted by a homicide.” She released her grip quickly. So far, there were no quizzical stares, no have we met before questions. “Chief Connelley did tell you I work alone.”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on my turf now, Sergeant. You work with whomever I say.” Murphy raised his hand toward a figure in the outer office.

  Lieutenant Anderson was in charge of the homicide unit at Six. He was a human Cabbage Patch doll with batteries. His pudgy cheeks were a permanent flush pink and his stomach looked a few weeks shy of eight months pregnant. Papers flew off of desks as he rushed to Murphy’s office. Mick didn’t have a low gear. Murphy made the introductions.

  “Ready for your tour, Sergeant?” Mick asked.

  After a half-hour of shaking hands and constantly checking over her shoulder for Jake and Frank, Sam was led to her twelve- by-eighteen-foot office. At least it had windows.

  She surveyed her office walls with their numerous nail holes and immediately missed her wallpapered office and hanging plants. Her finger made a trail through the dust on the surface of the wooden desk. After making a mental note to bring in some plants from home, she cranked open one of the windows. Two mourning doves looked up at her curiously. She made another mental note to bring sunflower seeds for her two friends.

  Murphy breezed past Sam’s door. He didn’t look Sam’s way, didn’t pause with a sudden hint of recollection. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she had nothing to worry about.

  Chapter 12

  Preston took a long swallow of his Bloody Mary. He leaned back in the throne-high chair in the living room, the evening paper spread out in front of him. He read the latest article on the body found in the overpass. The update wasn’t detailed enough for him. He dialed Murphy’s home phone.

  “Any news yet? ... Is your medical examiner done with the autopsy yet? ... Keep me updated.”

  Preston hung up the phone. He scanned the pictures and plaques on the walls. Having served as state representative for twenty years, he was retiring and entertaining the idea of something more powerful, more prestigious. His name had been touted around as a possible running mate for Governor Avery Meacham, seeing as how Lieutenant Governor Arthur Ashburn was returning to private law practice, a decision prompted by his wife’s ill health.

  Juanita knocked on the door. “You have a guest.”

  Trailing behind her was a bulk of a man who looked put together by spare parts. His features seemed to have been rearranged on more than one occasion. His head and neck were the same width ... a tree trunk with ears. And he walked with a rolling gait, as if his legs hadn’t come off the same assembly line.

  Cain Valenzio, a former boxer, had street smarts and connections — two attributes in his favor. More than twenty years before, an unknown informant had passed him an envelope containing ten thousand dollars. All he had to do was follow Loren Stuble around for a week and take pictures. Loren Stuble had been Preston’s opponent in the race for state representative. Stuble was the incumbent, very popular with the voters and far ahead in the polls. The pictures were of Stuble with a prostitute in a motel in Lansing, Illinois.

  Somehow the newspapers received copies of the pictures. It cost Stuble the election. Preston had been more than satisfied with Cain’s work over the years.

  “Thank you for flying in so quickly.” Preston ushered Cain to the sofa and offered him a drink.

  “I read the newspaper in the airport.” Cain’s voice was thick and cottony.

  “An unfortunate incident, but things do happen.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  Preston handed Cain a scotch on the rocks. “I’m fine.” Preston returned to his throne seat. “I have people on top of it who will let me know the developments. That’s why I want you close by.” Preston studied Cain’s calm demeanor. “You are probably the only person I truly trust.”

  Cain’s fingers started to twitch, just like before a big boxing match. He smiled slightly, revealing too many teeth even for his size mouth. And they were going in different directions.

  “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

  Chapter 13

  The dishwasher hummed silently. Sam sat at the kitchen table deep in thought. The kitchen was large and airy with terra cotta tiled floors and light oak cabinets.

  Sam’s mother, Abby Two Eagles, stood at the island counter in a long skirt and colorful blouse, her dark hair hanging in a long braid down her back. Abby poured hot water into two cups, placed a cup of tea in front of Sam, then gently stroked her daughter’s hair.

  “Something is bothering you.”

  Sam blew at the steam wafting up from the cup. “It’s nothing. I’m just stinging from my transfer to the hell hole on the lake.”

  “Hmmm. Nothing more?”

  Abby kissed the top of Sam’s head and with her Indian Country Today newspaper from South Dakota tucked under one arm, went upstairs to bed.

  Sam placed the pictures on the table in front of her. Tim Miesner, the town geek, had dropped them off earlier. With an I.Q. of one-eighty-five, Tim’s interests were mainly in computers and the latest technology rather than in sports and girls. Developing Sam’s film and inventing listening devices immune to scramblers were more exciting than a homecoming dance.

  The letters Preston had in his safe were interesting but vague — some from other state reps offering support for various bills in exchange for his endorsement of road projects, social reform — all cleverly worded so as not to sound suspicious.

  She had given Tim the printout of Preston’s menu screen but ordered him to study for his finals first. What intrigued her most, what she regretted not taking a picture of, was the pin Preston had in his safe, the one that was a possible match to the one found on a body that had spent its last twenty-one years holding up an overpass on the Bishop Ford Freeway.

  The pictures were all starting to blend together. She pressed her fingertips to her head and massaged her temples. Maybe in the morning things might make sense.

  She shoved the photos to one side, grabbed her cup of tea, and walked out onto the patio. The landscaping lights flooded the darkened yard with a warm white glow.

  She pulled on a sweatshirt over her thin shirt to ward off the damp chill brought earlier by a moving storm front. Uneasiness crept into the back of her throat. Jake had not asked questions, nothing to indicate he knew beyond a doubt that she was at Preston’s Saturday night. M
aybe he didn’t recognize her or maybe he just wasn’t sure.

  But a nagging voice told her he was a panther, lurking in the bushes, waiting for the right time. She again cursed herself for not being more patient. It was too late now. There wasn’t anything she could do to change what had happened.

  She finished her tea and turned toward the patio door. That’s when the chill washed over her body. Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs by the house.

  “Not a bad bungalow on a cop’s salary,” the voice said. The figure climbed the two stairs, out of the dark. It was Jake.

  Her eyes followed him, watched him as he studied the two-story house, the balcony that ran the length of the house, the expansive flagstone patio. He had a menacing look about him, the same look he had at Preston’s ... no smile, thick eyebrows, a ruddy complexion that looked as if he were on the wrong side of the bars.

  And there was something else. He seemed somewhat regimental, almost too disciplined in the way his eyes deciphered the size of the house, the grounds, even Sam’s every move.

  When he was done surveying what little he could see in the landscaping lights, Sam asked, “Take a wrong turn, Detective?”

  Jake gave a half-hearted smile. “Thought I did. For a moment I thought I was back at Preston’s mansion. The damn driveway is just as long as his.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Jake’s smile faded. “I think you do, Sergeant. And I need answers to some questions.”

  “Is this an interrogation?”

  Jake walked closer, saying, “We can do it here, or we can do it downtown.”