by Mike Omer
Finally, another click, and when he twisted the door handle, the door opened. A few stairs led down. He began descending.
“Who are you?” a voice asked. A girl’s voice.
His eyes acclimated to the dim light, and he could see the figure of Abigail Lisman sitting on a cot in the middle of the basement. He’d found her! His heart rate quickened.” My name is Glen,” he said. “I’m here to rescue you!”
Such simple words, uttered so many times in various movies or books. He had never believed he would say them himself.
The girl didn’t move. “Are you a cop?” she asked.
“I… what? No, I’m not a cop. Come on!” When she still didn’t move, he asked, “Did he tie you to the cot?”
“No.” She shook her head and stood up. She trembled. “What if they come back?”
“We’ll hear the garage door,” he said, impatient. “Come on, let’s get out of here before that happens!”
She took a few halting steps. Glen smiled at her, then turned back to the stairs. He went up three stairs, frowned, and turned back to Abigail again. “What do you mean, they? Only one man lives here.”
“There’s a woman,” Abigail said. “She comes here, too.”
“A woman? I only saw—” The words died in his throat as her eyes widened, as her mouth opened in horror. She stared over his shoulder.
He turned around, and a terrible pain blossomed in his chest. He tried to shout but no sound emerged. He was choking. He tried to breathe in—the pain was terrible—and then something sharp plunged into him over and over again, his stomach feeling as if it was being torn apart, his eyes barely registering the woman standing just above him. A pair of cold, empty brown eyes. His feet couldn’t hold him anymore, he was falling down the stairs, hearing the girl screaming, the door slamming above him plunging the room into darkness.
He moaned, trying to tell the girl to help him up, that something was wrong with him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, and everything was fading. He couldn’t see anymore, he could only hear the girl muttering over and over:
“She killed him, oh God, she killed him, oh God, I saw her face, I saw her face, I saw her face…”
Chapter Fourteen
Mitchell parked his car at the edge of Cypress Street, near the medical examiner’s gray Nissan Altima. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep. The phone call from Dispatch had woken him up at two-fifteen a.m., and it took the dispatcher a few tries before she managed to convince him he really did have to wake up. He regretted not buying a cup of coffee on the way.
He opened the car door, and the freezing air outside immediately chilled him half to death. He fumbled for his coat, which he had tossed in the back seat, and put it on. Then he got out of the car, swearing he’d find a different job soon, and walked toward the crime scene.
Tanessa stood on the sidewalk, looking at him with pity in her eyes as he shambled toward her. Beyond her stood a red Honda with its trunk open, a few people huddled around it.
“Hey,” he said hoarsely.
“Mitchy, you look like hell,” she said.
“That’s Detective Mitchy to you, sis. You’d look the same if someone woke you up in the middle of the night and dragged you across half the city.”
“I’m always awake in the middle of the night,” she said.
“Yeah, well, no one told you to be a cop. What do we have here?”
Her eyes became serious. “At one-fifty a guy called Dispatch, saying there was a dead body in the trunk of a car on Cypress Street. I arrived at the scene ten minutes later, found the car with the trunk open, a dead body inside. The guy who called in was nearby, completely stoned. It’s difficult to make any sense of what he's saying. As far as I can tell, he claims he walked past the car, noticed the trunk open, and called us.”
“Uh-huh.”
She shrugged. “That’s what he said, Mitchell. I was busy securing the scene, didn’t have time to interrogate him. Officer Bertini is talking to him.”
“Yeah, okay. When did Annie and the rest get here?”
“A few minutes before you did.”
“Did Jacob get here yet?”
“Nope.” She handed him the crime scene log. “Sign here, please.”
He scribbled his signature on the page, then walked over to the Honda. There were three people standing around the trunk. Annie Turner, the medical examiner, was wearing a thick orange coat which almost exactly matched her hair color. She peered over her glasses into the trunk, holding a small flashlight. The crime investigation duo, Matt Lowery and Violet Todd, stood by her side. Violet was taking pictures of the open trunk. Matt was bending inside it, busy with something.
Mitchell approached the car and looked into the trunk. “Aw, shit,” he muttered. The dead body belonged to a young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. He was dressed in a sky-blue sweater with a large brown stain all over the front. His eyes were closed, his skin pale, and there was a large bruise on his right cheek. Matt was scraping something on the bottom of the trunk into a small paper bag.
“Gloves, Detective,” Violet said, tilting her head toward a box of latex gloves on the floor. Mitchell slid two of them on and stepped forward, looking inside the trunk again.
“Hello, Detective,” Annie said, her eyes focused on the body.
“What do we have here, Annie?”
“Young male, stabbed several times,” she said, pointing her flashlight at the young man’s stomach. “He was alive when stabbed, and died soon after. At least one of his lungs was punctured.” She pointed the flashlight at his mouth, where a brown smudge trickled from the side of the victim’s lips. Dried blood. “The body is in full rigor mortis. Signs of lividity on his right cheek, but he was lying on his back when he was found. Detective, can you help me roll him to his side?”
“Sure,” Mitchell said. “Matt, can you step back for a second?”
Matt moved aside. Mitchell grabbed the body by the arm. It was solidly stiff, and the feeling was unnerving. Overcoming his queasy stomach, Mitchell helped Annie roll the body onto its side. Annie lifted the sweater, exposing the victim’s skin. There was a large dark bruise all over the dead kid’s back.
“Lividity marks on his back as well,” Annie said. She lowered the sweater. “You can put him back.”
Mitchell carefully positioned the body back in its original position. “Okay,” he said. “So, lividity on the side, and on the back as well. That means the body was moved a few hours after the murder, right?”
Annie took a step back from the car. “Right,” she said. “See how the body is bent, but the legs are almost straight?”
“Yeah.”
“Rigor mortis had already started to set in before they moved the body. They had trouble bending the legs to fit the body in the trunk. That’s why it’s mostly bent at the waist. I assume they moved it about…” She chewed on her lip for a moment. “Three to five hours after death.”
“Can you estimate time of death?”
“Only very loosely. Rigor mortis and the lividity indicate at least twelve hours and no more than twenty-four. It’s freezing out here, and it was cold during the day as well, so the body cooled much faster once the car was on the road. Its current temperature is 70.6, so somewhere between…” Her lips moved silently as she made some calculations in her head. “Twelve and eighteen hours ago,” she finally said.
Mitchell glanced at his watch. “So between eight a.m. and two p.m.,” he said.
“Right,” Annie nodded. “I’ll be able to give you a better assessment once I do the autopsy.”
“Okay,” Mitchell said. “Did any of you find a wallet on the body, or any kind of identification?”
“No wallet, no phone” Matt said from within the trunk. He straightened, though considering his height this didn’t mean much. Mitchell was used to see Matt from above; he was one of the shortest people Mitchell knew. Matt had once told him that from his vantage point, he always saw who trimmed his n
ose hair and who didn’t. Ever since that day, Mitchell always hesitated when summoned to a murder scene, wondering if he should stop for just a second to do some trimming.
“I’ll try to check the fingerprints, see if we get a match,” Matt added.
“I’m sure you will,” Annie blurted.
Mitchell glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She stared at Matt, her lips slightly parted. Matt looked back at her, his eyes piercing and suggestive. He took a small step toward her.
“We will, if he’s in CODIS,” he said, his voice soft.
“Right,” Annie whispered huskily.
Mitchell glanced at Violet, nonplussed, and she rolled her eyes, her mouth quirking in amusement.
“Yeah,” Mitchell said loudly, breaking the moment. “Let me know what you find out. Is there anything else I should know?”
Matt cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “But I haven’t gone over the car yet. I’ll update you later.”
“Good,” Mitchell muttered and stepped away. He looked over at Officer Sergio Bertini, who was talking to a thin man in dirty jeans and a worn hoodie. The man shook his head repeatedly.
Mitchell hesitated for a moment. Jacob was certainly taking his time. Usually he got to a crime scene much faster. Mitchell wondered if he should wait before talking to the guy who’d made the call.
Better not, he decided. There was no point in wasting time. He approached the two men.
“Officer.” He nodded at Bertini.
“Detective.” Bertini nodded back. “This man is the one who called Dispatch to let them know about the body. His name is Joe.”
“Hello, Joe,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah, hi,” the man said, shaking his head slightly. “I called the police because, y’know, it’s a murder. I mean, that’s terrible, and such a young boy, but now I really have to go, it’s getting very late, and I have to work tomorrow. The officer here said I had to wait for the detective, so I waited, because, y’know, I want you to catch the asshole who did this, but now I really have to go. I’m sorry, I really have to go.” He wrung his hands. His eyes shifted constantly. The man was incredibly thin, his skin pale and oily. One of his front teeth was missing, the others various shades of yellow and brown, and there were several dark blisters on his lips.
“Joe, what’s your last name?” Mitchell asked.
“Uh… Williams,” Joe said. “Joe Williams.”
“Uh-huh,” Mitchell said skeptically. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, this guy here already asked me that like three times, y’know? I was passing through, on my way home when I noticed the car parked here, and the trunk was open. So I looked inside, and saw the dead guy. I immediately called the police, because, y’know, I was horrified. It’s terrible. A terrible thing.”
“Can you tell me what you were doing here at two in the morning?” Mitchell asked. “You were going back home? Going back from where?”
“The bar. I was going back from the bar. I drank a beer in the bar.”
“Which bar?”
Joe blinked. “I don’ remember the name. It’s a bar nearby.”
“Can you explain how we can get there?” Mitchell asked.
“I’m really tired, y’know. I want to go home. I have work tomorrow, and I really need to sleep a few hours before that. Look, that’s what happened. There’s nothing more.”
“Did you see anyone around the car?” Mitchell asked. “Anyone on the street? Did you see how the car got here?”
“No! Just what I said, y’know?”
“Right,” Mitchell sighed. “The thing is, Joe, this is a murder investigation and—”
He overheard Jacob’s voice behind him, talking to Matt and Annie.
“Hang on,” he said. He turned around. Jacob stood by the trunk, his iconic fedora on his head. He stared into the trunk, his hands in his pockets.
Mitchell headed over to talk to him. The victim’s hands were already bagged, and Matt was in the front seat of the car, dusting the steering wheel for prints. An ambulance had parked by the rest of the cars, and two men were unloading a stretcher from it.
“Hey,” Mitchell said, his voice low.
“Hey, Mitchell,” Jacob said. “Sorry I took so long. Amy’s a bit sick.” Amy was Jacob’s teenage daughter.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mitchell said. “Is it serious?”
“I don’t think so.” Jacob shrugged, though his eyes were distant and troubled. “Probably just the flu. But she has a very high fever so…”
“Do you want to go home, take care of her?”
“Marissa is with her, and I’m needed here,” Jacob said. “What did Fin have to say?”
“Who’s Fin?” Mitchell asked.
“The crackhead you were talking to. His name is Fin.”
“Well, for one, he told me his name was Joe,” Mitchell said. “He said he just walked by, saw the car parked at the curb with the trunk open, and called us.”
“Uh-huh. What a charming story,”
“I was just about to pry the truth out of him,” Mitchell said.
“Sounds good,” Jacob answered. “Let's do that.”
Both of them approached Fin, halting only when they were really close, towering above him.
“Hello, Fin,” Jacob said softly.
“Hello, Detective,” Fin muttered, staring at their shoes.
“Detective Lonnie said you’ve been telling him a very nice story,” Jacob said
“Not very nice. I mean, a man was killed, y’know? Terrible business. That’s why I called the cops, y’know? Because—”
“I think it is nice, because in this story you’re a model citizen who did the right thing, and expected no reward. I think that’s very encouraging. It makes me believe a man can change.” Jacob smiled a small smile, his cold blue eyes drilling into the man, who shrank under his gaze. “Who would believe that Fin, a guy I’ve busted at least six times for burglary and possession of narcotics, would be so upstanding?”
“Yeah, y’know? I’m really straightening up. I’m in this group, and I have this sponsor and everything. I didn’t like what I’ve become, y’know? That’s why—”
“Fin, look at me,” Jacob said.
Fin raised his eyes.
Jacob looked at him intently. “That’s a bad burn you have on your lower lip,” he said. “Looks painful.”
Fin’s eyes began glancing around nervously.
“In fact, your lips are covered with burns, but this one looks really fresh,” Jacob said. Mitchell took a look at the blistered lips. One of the sores was pink, glistening.
Crack users often burned their lips when smoking the stuff. They used metal cans as pipes, and the metal got very hot.
“Empty your pockets, Fin,” Jacob said.
“No, I don’t need to. You have to have probable cause to search me and—”
“This is a murder, Fin. Do you think I care about your drug stash? If you don’t empty your pockets, I’ll arrest you for murder and you’ll spend the next twenty years in jail. Empty your damn pockets, now!”
Fin sniffed. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a few bills and a couple of what looked like silvery pebbles. Crack rocks were usually wrapped in aluminum foil.
“Two rocks,” Jacob said. “And you’ve just smoked a third. That’s sixty dollars’ worth of crack, and you even have forty dollars in your other hand. Why, Fin, you’ve hit the jackpot! Congratulations!”
“Yeah, well, y’know, I have a job now and—”
“Shut up,” Jacob said tiredly. “I don’t have time for this. Let me tell you a different story. You can correct me if I’m wrong, okay?”
“’kay,” Fin mumbled, looking back at the ground.
“You were walking here to meet your dealer with a fresh, crinkly twenty-dollar bill in your hand,” Jacob said, his voice sharp. “Who knows, maybe you even got it at your new job! And then you noticed this nice car. A very pricey car, for a street like this. And lo and behold, th
e car was unlocked. You, being the industrious fellow you are, opened the car—”
“I didn’t open the car—”
“Fin, before you say any more, remember that we’re dusting the car for prints, and we have yours in the system. Now, what were you about to say?”
“Nothin’.”
“Okay. You opened the car, looking for anything easy to pilfer, and then popped the trunk open. Here’s where things got bad—you found a body in the trunk, right?”
“Yeah, and then I called the cops, y’know? Because it was terrible. I mean, yeah, I guess I opened the car because I wanted to see if I could find out who the owners were, let them know they left their car unlocked. But then when I opened the trunk, I realized it had a dead body inside, and I called the cops.”
“Well… that’s not how you tell a story, Fin,” Jacob said softly. “You don’t rush to the end like that. There has to be a twist, to make the story interesting. The twist here is, before you called us you searched the body, and you found the guy’s wallet. It had eighty dollars inside. You took the money, went to your dealer, bought three rocks, and smoked one. You probably wanted to smoke the other two as well, but your conscience bugged you, so then you called us. Isn’t that how the story goes?”
Fin shrugged. “The wallet was in the trunk next to the body,” he finally said. “I didn’ search the body for money. I’m not that far gone.”
“Okay,” Jacob said. “Where’s the wallet?”
Fin led them to a trash can a few hundred feet away. Inside, they found the wallet. Mitchell picked it up and opened it, found the victim’s driver’s license inside.
“Glen Haney,” he said. “The kid’s name is Glen Haney. He’s seventeen years old.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Honda in which Glen Haney's body was found was registered to Betty Haney, whose home address was in Portland, Maine. Mitchell considered calling the local police, asking them to inform the woman, then hesitated. It seemed wrong, somehow. Sure, she wasn’t even in the same state, and he could easily dump this unpleasant task on the local cops, but it seemed right that he should be the one to bear the news. It also occurred to him that Glen Haney might have been killed in Portland, and his body dumped two states away just to muddy the killer’s tracks.
