by A W Hartoin
“Or have known someone who did,” said Dr. Grace.
I walked to Denny’s body and stood at his hip. “What else?”
Dr. Grace joined me on the other side. “He’s arrogant.”
“I guess anybody who could kill like that would be arrogant.”
He paused and tapped his chin. “I would say that’s more like a sociopath, but this guy has feelings. He’s definitely not dead inside.” He reached for the sheet. “May I?”
“If you think it’s necessary.”
Dr. Grace didn’t answer. He pulled down the sheet to Denny’s waist and I sucked in a breath. The detectives said he’d been shot after death, but that didn’t begin to cover it. He had more gunshot wounds and…
“Are those stab wounds?” I asked.
“Yes. Twelve in total and there’s damage consistent with kicking. We’re looking at a size ten work boot. Men’s. New with no wear marks.”
“Why in the world would he do that so long after Denny died?” I asked.
“Looks like frustration to me. It was out on the wires that Carolina had been found and was expected to survive. It obviously didn’t rain and he changed his plan.”
“How long after death?” I asked.
“At least twelve hours and the body was moved.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
He pointed at the dirt on the body. “He was originally buried and then placed in the parking lot.”
“Parking lot?”
Denny was found in a school bus parking lot. It was the weirdest place to put a body, but it guaranteed he’d be found early. The first drivers arrived at five and found him straight away as he was in no way hidden. The dirt was average Missouri dirt, but it had sheep manure in it and some composted material, possibly from a garden.
“I don’t see how this makes him arrogant,” I said.
Dr. Grace appeared slightly disappointed in me but quickly brightened up. “I forgot for a moment that however your mind might work like Tommy’s, you haven’t his experience.”
The doctor read the killer as arrogant because he’d been quite careful at the scene. He left nothing for us to find, not a fingerprint, not a hair, and certainly none of his DNA. Then he unburied the body and left the dirt on it.
“That sounds like he got bored to me,” I said. “It was too much work to wash the body or find a way to cover the kick marks like burning or something.”
He nodded approvingly. “I agree, but he also stopped being careful because he is arrogant and thinks he can change a plan on the fly with no consequences. I don’t know why he decided to move the body. It’s not a smart move.”
“Dad says that killers do that. They get nervous and second-guess themselves,” I said.
“They do,” said Dr. Grace. “And Denny’s being at the house was a wrinkle in his original plan. There’s one more thing.” He waved me over to a microscope. “Take a look at that.”
I peered through the prisms and said, “Um…some kind of powder?”
“Give that girl a gold star. It’s cornstarch.”
“From the gloves he was wearing?”
Dr. Grace had matched the cornstarch from a certain type of nitrile gloves and he took me back to Denny’s body. He’d found the cornstarch on two sections of the body, the head and shoulders area and the lower back and buttocks.
“I get it,” I said, feeling pleased with myself for the first time. “He ungloved over the body twice, when he buried it and later when he left it in the parking lot.”
The doctor rubbed his hands together. “There was plenty of powder to be found, particularly on the hair and in folds of the clothes.”
“He double-gloved,” I said. “It’s like he’s well-trained but not that good at it.”
He did a fist pump. “Arrogant!”
“That’s good for a profile.” It was, but I had no clue how arrogant helped me. Lots of people were like that. Hell, Dad was described as arrogant by people that he out-maneuvered and there were a lot of them. “Let’s get back to the gloves. Any way to match them to a batch?”
He smiled at me. “I like your mind, Miss Watts. I certainly do. I can’t give you a batch, but I can tell you that they stopped making those gloves in 2005. They had too much cornstarch in them. Your father got the department to stop ordering them in 2003. He thought they could possibly contaminate crime scenes and he was right, of course.” He dipped his chin and watched me over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “Any questions?”
“Are you testing me?” I asked.
“I am indeed. You are a Watts. To whom much is given, much is expected.”
I groaned. “I’ve been given a bunch of stuff I don’t want. Dad should be here doing this, not me.”
“You have to take the burdens along with the gifts. Give it some thought. Denny isn’t going anywhere for the time being.”
“Can we cover him?”
“Of course.”
Dr. Grace covered Denny and I paced the length of the room with my nose pressed into Wallace’s fur for more reasons than one. I went over everything he had told me. It was a ton and I had to do a mental sift twice before I remembered something, the one question that hadn’t been answered. “How did he control the blood leaving the scene?”
The doctor perked up and got sly. “I told you that he rolled him over. There was no flailing and the blood was in a rather small section of ground, considering the extent of Denny’s injuries.”
“He still had to get him out of the yard without dripping. It would’ve been messy, but he didn’t make a mess.”
“Excellent. There is only one thing that I know of that can keep all fluids and fibers contained and is easy to use. A—”
“Body bag,” I said with a prolonged shiver. “He brought a bodybag.”
“Try not to think what you’re thinking.”
“Impossible. That bag was intended for my mom. I doubt he expected to find Denny hanging out at our house on a Saturday afternoon. Why would he? When I left for Sturgis, Mom had no protection at all.”
“That’s what he intended. Again, arrogant. He didn’t think things had changed in the days you were in Sturgis and acted with over-confidence.”
“Can you buy body bags?” I asked.
“Sure and they’re cheap. This was a good one. It left no traces on the body. Thirty bucks or less.”
“You said he wore a size ten work boot. He’s not a huge guy.”
“No, he’s not. I say five nine to possibly five eleven.”
“How’d he carry Denny out alone? He’s not small,” I said.
“One hundred and ninety pounds. It could be done if our guy is exceptionally strong, but my money is on a helper.”
I looked at the ceiling. A helper. Of course.
“Mercy?”
“We know he has a helper,” I said.
He frowned. “Chuck said nothing about that.”
I told him about Blankenship’s visitor and the man at the hospital.
“Are you sure you want to trust that man?” asked Dr. Grace. “He could be leading you to places you don’t want to go.”
I spread my free arm wide. “I’m already there.”
He nodded and said, “I understand.”
I left him to do the full autopsy and found Fats pacing outside the door. “I hope that was worth it, because I’ve got the heebie-jeebies something fierce.”
“It was.” I hesitated. “I think. Our guy is arrogant, good at his job to a point, and cheap.”
“Weird. How did you get cheap?” she asked.
“He used gloves that they stopped making in 2005.”
“I’ve got an uncle like that. He never throws anything away if it can still be used.”
“A hoarder?”
“Borderline.”
I found Aaron squatting by the exit, scribbling away in his recipe notebook. “I don’t know what you’ve been writing in there, but if the morgue inspired it, I’m not interested in eating it.”
“Not yet. Give it a minute.”
He trotted off to the elevator, but Fats beat him there. I had too much on my mind to jog. This guy felt…I don’t know…familiar and it unsettled me. Could I have met him? Could he be one of the stalkers that followed me and then got over it, except he didn’t get over it. The body bag popped into my mind and I hated that I was grateful that Mom didn’t end up in it. It felt like being happy that Denny died instead. That was sick and not true. Not exactly anyway. Why did anybody have to go into that bag? Who could hate us that much?
Chapter Fifteen
BRIAN SHILL WAS at home. He was always at home since he was on bail for the minor sex act thing and the judge had slapped an ankle monitor on him.
Uncle Morty had given me his address, but I hadn’t paid much attention to it. Shill was a one-time janitor and a felon. I assumed it was trailer park city. It wasn’t. Shill had hit the lottery or something. His place of residence, as Uncle Morty called it, was in Clayton, a spiffy part of St. Louis, not quite as spiffy as Hawthorne Avenue or as old but pretty damn sweet for a felon.
“You need to double check the address,” said Fats. “The dirtbag in your dad’s file can’t live here. Fate wouldn’t do that.”
Fate did do that. Uncle Morty told me that Brian Shill was the son of the famed—and now deceased—divorce attorney, Conrad Shill. As the only child, Brian inherited the entire estate, although the rest of the family had been fighting it for going on eight years, using a variety of arguments, but mainly that the parents wouldn’t have left him a nickel, if they knew what a perv he was.
“Can you believe this, Aaron?” asked Fats. “Look at that house.”
“Huh?” he said, still writing in his notebook.
“Don’t bother with him,” I said. “He’s working. We’ll be lucky to get lunch out of him.”
Aaron’s head jerked up. “You hungry?”
I smiled at my foodie partner. “After I interview this murdering dirtbag, I could eat.”
He nodded and went back to scribbling.
We rolled to a stop in front of a tudor-style house, not a mansion but good sized. It had gorgeous brickwork and lovely black beams with a massive chimney and an ornate front door that outshone my parents’ front door and that was saying something.
“This is my dream house,” said Fats. “I’m gonna punch that guy in the throat.”
I looked back and forth between her and the house. That didn’t seem right. “This is your dream house?”
“I love this house.” She paused. “What’d you think I’d like?”
“I don’t know. Something more modern and cool.”
“That house is cool. It has class and I’m a classy girl,” said Fats, getting out and cracking her back.
I followed her steel-cut bulk up the beautifully manicured front walk with Wallace straining on her leash. “It’s definitely classy.”
“But you don’t think I’m classy,” she said, but not angry, which was a relief. To say Fats could grind me into dust was an understatement.
“You’re classy of a sort, but you’re more edgy.” Actually, I was thinking she was more what Grandad called a broad, but I didn’t say it. I valued my life.
“Edgy. I like that.”
Thank goodness. I will continue to live.
“I hope he’ll talk to us,” I said.
Fats scoffed, “Please. He’ll talk to us one way or another.”
“Please don’t, you know, rough him up.”
She laughed in a way that made me nervous. If Shill didn’t get smacked around, it would be a straight up miracle. Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered me much, but Dad and Big Steve weren’t around to talk me out of a night in jail and I didn’t want to go back to stinking.
“It’s still illegal to hit felons,” I said.
“Illegal.” Fats patted my cheek. “You are so cute.”
“Er…Fats, I think we need to talk about how this is going to go.”
She pushed the doorbell and numerous chimes went off inside. “We want information. He’s going to give it to us. Got it.”
“Well, there’s a little more nuance to it.”
“You are truly adorable. I’m all about the nuance.” She popped her knuckles one by one.
“I don’t want him to call the police,” I said.
She pushed the doorbell again. “Mercy, if I had to hazard a guess, I’ve gotten a hell of a lot more information out of people than you have.”
“Er…probably.”
“Good. We understand each other then.”
I didn’t understand anything other than I had a problem and no clue how to fix it. Come to think of it, this was kind of my usual deal, so I shrugged and went with it. Fats worked for Calpurnia. If she couldn’t fix what was about to happen, nobody could.
I rang the doorbell a third time with no result. “He has to be here.”
Fats pounded on the door so hard I think I heard the wood cracking. “Open up, shitbag. We’re coming in one way or another.”
“Who is it?” said an irritated man’s voice from the other side of the door.
I kind of expected Fats to say, ‘Your worst nightmare,” but instead, she said, “Fats Licata. You want to open the door or I will break it down. Look out the peephole. You’ll see that I can.”
“What do you want?” he said.
Fats responded by pounding on the door and there was some serious cracking that time.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!”
Some locks were thrown and a brown eye peeked out a small crack when the door opened. “Okay. Now what do you want?” He said it with insolence and that wasn’t a good idea. Fats shoved the door and Shill flew backward across the highly polished hardwood and hit the wrought iron bannister, falling to the floor.
Aaron trotted past Shill and disappeared into the depths of the house.
“Where’s he going?” asked Fats.
“Probably the kitchen,” I said.
Shill rubbed his head and sat up. He was decidedly older than in the picture in Dad’s file. His black hair had turned salt and pepper and he had a sizable gut under the faded Old Navy tee and cutoff khaki pants that showed spindly and incredibly hairy legs. “Get that asshole out of here. I’m calling the police.”
Fats stomped up to him and he cowered against the stairs, raising a pasty arm over his face.
“Yeah, you’re quite the hero, Shill,” she said.
He slowly came to his feet, his face filled with an odd combo of defiance and cowardice. “Get out.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. This is Mercy Watts. She has some questions for you and you will answer her. Understand?”
Watts was apparently the magic word. The minute Fats uttered it, Shill’s face formed the Joker smile and he became overly casual, leaning on the bannister. “Another Watts. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Tell me about Cassidy Huff,” I said.
“I’ll tell you about how I bested Tommy Watts at his own game,” he said with glee.
I walked past him into the amazingly clean and tidy dining room. Dad’s file on Shill seemed to indicate that he thought Shill got lucky. Things went perfectly the night he took Cassidy Huff. No witnesses. Anybody could’ve seen him in the parking lot with her and no one did. But that dining room said a lot about his mind. A single guy with an unbelievably clean house. How often did that happen? Chuck’s apartment usually looked like there had been a recent break-in.
I pulled out a chair and sat with Wallace on my lap, propping my feet on the gleaming table to see what he’d do. Shill’s face twitched with irritation, but a glance at Fats’ hard face told him not to object and he didn’t. He sat opposite me and steepled his fingers in a position of power. Yeah, right.
“It wasn’t his game,” I said.
Shill frowned. “What?”
“It wasn’t my dad’s game. He’s a detective, not a murderer, and he got
you on attempted rape.”
He put his chin on his fingers and said, “Tommy Watts is your father. Beautiful.”
He doesn’t know who I am. Not the unsub.
Fats came over and smoothly popped him on the back of the head. “Sit up and pay attention.”
Shill reluctantly sat up and eyed me coolly. “So what are you doing here? Trying to fix one of your father’s great failures?”
“You’re not one of my father’s great failures,” I said.
“He has greater failures than me? How nice to hear.”
“Grilled chicken.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “He can’t grill chicken. He either burns it or it’s raw.”
“Why do I care?” asked Shill.
“That’s one of my father’s great failures. He also can’t do plumbing or sing.” I ground my heel in the finish of the table and watched with pleasure as Shill cringed. “You, on the other hand, I’ve never heard of before yesterday.”
“He told you about me yesterday?”
“No. Kent Blankenship did,” I said bluntly and was rewarded with a look of shock on Shill’s narrow, weasely face.
“Who’s that?” he asked, but it was totally fake.
“You know, mass murderer, mental patient, friend of yours.”
Shill started chewing on his lower lip and Fats gave him another pop.
“What was that for?” he complained.
“You piss me off,” said Fats. “Tell Mercy about Blankenship. I can hit a lot harder than that.”
“I’ll press charges,” he said, looking up at her, haughty and defiant.
She squatted next to his chair and said in a low tone that made the hair come to attention on the back of my neck, “You’ve been to prison. Have you ever heard the name Calpurnia Fibonacci?”
The defiant look, as well as all the color in Shill’s face, drained away. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“I work for her and she doesn’t like child rapists. Have you heard that?”
“I might’ve heard something to that effect.”
“Then we understand each other. Tell Mercy what she wants to know.”
He turned to me and he had a slight hand tremor. Dad had noticed that during interrogations, but he could never break him. Of course, Dad was being videoed and he didn’t have Fats in the room.
