by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Six
DIXIE AND GAVIN’S house was a trek from my parents’ house in the Central West End and one of the reasons Dad and Gavin didn’t stay partners for long. Both of them wanted home offices, and they couldn’t decide which would be the primary location. So Dad stayed in the city and Gavin out in the burbs.
Florissant was filled with strip malls and planned communities. The houses were nearly identical one-story fifties bungalows on curving, confusing streets. I think the planners did that so the owners would concentrate on where their house was, rather than how it looked like every other one on the block. People told me my parents’ neighborhood was creepy. The huge trees, mansions dripping with wrought iron, and flickering street lamps unnerved them. A lot of the houses may have had a certain Scooby Doo quality, including my parents, but at least they didn’t look like something out of The Stepford Wives.
I parked in Gavin’s carport behind a police cruiser thirty-five minutes later. Damn, I was too late. It shouldn’t have taken so long to get there, but I made three wrong turns. The house was on Orchard Avenue. I turned on to Orchard Street, Orchard Boulevard, and Orchard Lane before striking gold. The planners thought up about ten names for their roads, and used them well. I got out of my truck, and listened to the quiet of suburban life. It was too quiet, unnatural. At least my parents had the distant hum of Kingshighway traffic and the foot traffic of stylish people on their way to little shops selling everything from vintage clothes to French chocolates. Florissant had nothing going and I mean nothing. I swear even the leaves were limp with boredom.
I peeked in the cruiser. Empty. I snapped shots of the house’s exterior, driveway and trees. No one saw me. If someone had, I wondered if they would’ve cared. No one appeared to be involved in anything save their own square plot of earth. A couple of cars drove by, but the drivers didn’t even turn their heads. Of course it might have been that texting was more interesting than me snapping pictures.
It wasn’t often that I didn’t merit a second look and no cop came out to yell at me. I felt luckier every minute. The property wasn’t cordoned off, and the doors were free of crime scene tape. It was practically an invitation, so I unlocked the side door, and went into the cheerful yellow kitchen with its alphabetized cookbooks and shiny stainless appliances.
“Hey,” I yelled. “Is anybody here?”
There was no answer and I felt free to snoop.
My cell vibrated. “Hello,” I said.
“Is this Mercy Watts?” a male voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Hey, guys, it’s really her. So what are you wearing?”
“What the hell?” I hung up.
My cell rang again and I had a similar conversation with a guy who identified himself as Russell the Love Muscle. I hung up on Russell and ignored my ringing phone. I didn’t waste time with less than witty prank callers.
Dixie’s kitchen was neat and clean with a few dishes in the sink, but that was the only sign that something unusual happened. She never left dishes unwashed normally. I shot the kitchen with special attention to the door and windows. The living room was the same, no signs of a struggle or a break-in. The windows and front door were locked. On Dixie’s new leather sofa, a book lay open with its binding cracked and pages face down on a worn afghan. I’d read Alive by Piers Paul Read forever ago and never again. That copy was dog-eared. I guessed it was Gavin’s. Dixie read romances of the Danielle Steel variety. I took a picture of the book on its afghan. I tipped up the book with my fingernail. Gavin was halfway through. I took note of the page. For some reason, it was comforting to know what he’d last read. Carefully, I lay the book back as I found it.
All three bedrooms and the two bathrooms were unremarkable and undisturbed. The shower and sink drains were clean. I didn’t expect to see splashes of blood or the killer’s hair in the drain, since it wasn’t that kind of murder, but you never knew. Plus, I knew Dad would’ve looked. I wasted more time on those rooms and moved on to Gavin’s office, taking pictures of the door, both sides, and the view into the office. It was messy as I expected. For a small room, Gavin packed a lot in. Three of the four walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing. The bay window seat was stacked with how-to manuals on home improvement. Gavin collected how-to books like my father collected crime manuals. Some of the books were scattered on the floor. Gavin wasn’t a neat freak, but I doubted he’d let his books fall and not pick them up. I shot the window seat from several angles, and continued to look around. The chair was across the room about four feet from the desk, and there were several papers and a couple of file folders on the floor.
I got Dad’s iPad out of my backpack and noted the names on the folders. The files appeared to be intact, so they probably didn’t mean anything. They were just in the way. I went through the papers and books on the desk using my fingernails to lift and shift. I wrote down every name and phone number I found.
My phone kept ringing nonstop. I gritted my teeth and answered. All I heard was raucous laughter and rude noises. I hung up, switched to vibrate, and threw the phone in the bottom of my backpack. I feared turning it off altogether, in case Mom or Dr. Grace called.
I shook off the freaky phone calls and pressed the play button on Gavin’s old school answering machine with my pen. The machine said, “No Messages.” That was odd. Dad usually had a ton of messages. I flipped up the lid and found the cassette holder empty. The landline was only used for business, so I guessed I was looking for a client or someone who knew a client. If the killer had thought to take the tape, he’d want to take his file, too. I hadn’t thought much about Gavin’s files. The drawers were closed, and there were no signs of the struggle around it. I checked it out anyway, and opened the top drawer.
Gavin was an organizing freak when it came to his files. I’d done some office work for him a few years ago during college. Each drawer was divided with hanging green files. Inside the hanging files were manila folders tagged and dated with the client’s information. Gavin kept several folders per hanging file. He liked to divide the case into aspects with files for billing, handwritten notes, transcribed notes, dictated notes, interviews, research and so forth. Filing for Gavin was a pain because each file was unique. He used one cabinet in the office, but there were several more down in the basement. He kept the active and recent files upstairs. There were four drawers. I started at the top and worked my way down. I used my nails to let my fingers do the walking. From what I could tell all the files in the first two drawers were intact. I got lucky on the third drawer. S had two empty hanging files. Since the hanging files weren’t tagged, I couldn’t tell what belonged there. Gavin didn’t allow empty files, so someone took them. The fourth drawer didn’t yield anything new.
While I was on my knees, I glanced at the wall to the right of the cabinet. A black smudge started at five inches above the floor and ended at the carpet. It looked like a mark from the sole of a shoe. I crouched with my face a foot from the wall and studied it, looking for anything. I slowly got to my feet, and when I was standing straight, I spotted some tiny fibers snagged on the textured paint. They were short and dark blue. About five inches above the fibers were three hairs caught on the rough paint. The hairs were between two and three inches long. One was gray and the other two were dark brown. They matched Gavin’s shaggy head. The police crime scene team would probably find skin cells. A swell of fear began in my stomach. That was where it happened. Gavin didn’t die in that exact spot, but it was where the crime occurred.
I stood up and took a deep breath. I figured it out. The thought should’ve made me feel better, but instead it made me feel worse. The crime happened in Gavin’s own home, his safe place. What if Dixie had been there? I couldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t. Not now. Later. Much later.
My backpack vibrated nonstop against my hip and I started thinking that maybe it was Mom or Dr. Grace wanting to tell me the murder had been solved, go home, and take a nap. So I answered and got a wom
an asking about my rates and travel stipend requirements. I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about and hung up. My phone immediately began to vibrate again. For crying out loud.
I’d been in Gavin’s house for a half hour, and it was time to get out before someone finally noticed me. I shot the wall as closeup as I could. I wanted to take some hair and fiber evidence, but let’s face it, I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had. Plus, taking it had the distinct disadvantage of being a criminal offense, tampering with evidence or something. I left the fibers alone and took a last look. On top of the filing cabinet was Gavin’s cell phone. I pulled up the last twelve numbers Gavin dialed with my pen. Three were Dad’s office, and the rest I didn’t recognize. I put the numbers into the iPad and went to the bedroom to pack Dixie’s favorite outfits and toiletries. On the way out, I checked the answering machine for the personal line. No tape. My guy took no chances.
The vibrating was getting ridiculous. I couldn’t take it anymore and answered, praying it was Mom or Morty. Heck. I’d even take Chuck. Instead, all I got was weird sucking noises and moaning for my trouble.
“That’s it,” I said and turned the phone off. Mom would just have to leave a message.
I locked the side door, put Dixie’s bags in my passenger seat and my backpack on the floor. A couple of cars pulled up in front of the house behind me. Male voices came to my ears and I said a quiet, “Shit.” I shoved the backpack under the seat as far as it would go.
“Where the hell are the uniforms?”
Shoes crunched on leaves as I crawled in the passenger door and tried to slither across the seat. I don’t know why I bothered. It’s not like my rear is easy to miss.
“Imagine finding you here. I knew I should’ve skipped lunch,” said my cousin Chuck.
I peeked over my seat back and saw Chuck standing at the end of my truck with his notebook and pen ready. No iPad for him. Chuck liked to think he was a throwback to the golden age of detectives, some sort of Sam Spade in bootcut jeans. Whatever. Detective Nazir and some crime science team members came up the walk behind him. Nazir waved at me and smiled. I responded in kind. One of the crime science guys flipped open his phone and the other one looked and began chortling. The rest of the team stopped and watched me from a distance. They smiled and whispered to each other. It was weird even for me. Chuck glanced back at them and he wasn’t smiling.
He came around the truck and watched as I slithered out and tried to look innocent.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Aren’t we cranky today? I’m picking up some clothes and stuff for Dixie, if you must know,” I said.
“You’ll have to give me that bag.” Chuck didn’t smile at me and he usually did. The kind of smile that makes you feel oily.
“Why? What for? What are you doing here?” I was glad I’d stowed the camera in the backpack. I couldn’t afford to lose those pictures. Dad would never forgive me.
“Evidence,” he said.
“Evidence? Hand lotion and panties? What’s going on?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Mercy. You know exactly what’s going on, and God help you if you’ve disturbed the scene.”
I put my hands on my hips. “A scene you didn’t bother to tape off, but don’t panic. I only disturbed Dixie’s closet and the medicine cabinet.”
“Yeah, and what else?”
“Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll let you know.”
“Give me that bag.” Chuck advanced on me until we were toe to toe or maybe a better description would’ve been boobs to stomach.
“Seriously, Dixie needs this stuff.”
“Fine. Let me take a look.” Chuck went around me and pulled the bag out, totally neglecting to look under the seat. What an amateur. He rifled through Dixie’s underwear and said, “I guess it’s OK. You better hope you didn’t mess anything up. But if you did, I’ll let you make it up to me.” Then he smiled.
“Don’t hold your breath, Upchuck,” I said.
“Upchuck? I’ll remember that the next time you need a favor,” said Chuck.
“Whatever. Can I go now?”
“Yeah, but we need to talk later. Same with Dixie. Has she said anything to you?”
“Nope, but I haven’t told her yet.” I put the bag back in my truck and walked around to my driver’s side door.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Isn’t it your job to deliver the bad news?” I looked at him over the bed of my truck, a nice, safe distance.
“You can’t ever make anything easy, can you?”
“Not if I can help it. See ya.” I got in and backed out the driveway before Chuck thought of a reason to keep me. As I drove off down the block, I saw a uniform running full out towards Gavin’s house with his tie undone and pants unzipped. Somebody was in trouble, and I couldn’t stop smiling. It was like Dad always said, luck has everything to do with it.
On the way back to my parents’ house, I called Dr. Grace.
“I have a couple of quick questions. Do you have a minute?” I asked.
“Shoot.”
“First, is the toxicology back yet?”
“Not yet. Next?” Dr. Grace asked.
“Can you tell me what Gavin was wearing when he was brought in? We haven’t picked up his effects yet.”
“Hold on. Let me take a look.”
I waited for five minutes until Dr. Grace came back on the line.
“He was wearing a blue polar fleece pullover, a white T-shirt, and jeans.”
“What about shoes?” I asked.
“Hiking boots.”
“What color are the soles?” I heard some rustling in the background like Dr. Grace was looking through a bag.
“Black. Why?”
“Just curious. Is it possible to tell if hair was ripped out in a struggle?”
“Yes, if the root is intact, and by the placement of the hair? I have a bad feeling you’re doing something you shouldn’t.”
“If you’re worried that I messed up some evidence, don’t.”
“But you saw some.”
“Could be,” I said, still smiling.
“So I can expect a call from the detectives any minute.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Good luck and be careful,” he said.
“Thanks, Doc. You know I will,” I said.
