The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

“Why would he want that?”

  “Guilt,” Holt said slowly. “He knew what he had done, and he wanted us to catch him.”

  “Then why not just plead guilty and pay for his crimes?” Callaway asked.

  “He might have changed his mind when he saw how long he would end up spending time behind bars. Or his lawyer might have talked him out of it.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Callaway said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I know people like Evan Roth. They only care about winning. If he knew he didn’t have a case, he would have convinced his client to take the deal.”

  “Give us time, Callaway,” Holt said. “We’re still building a case against him. Sooner or later, we’ll find that one thing that’ll convince you and everyone else that Gardener is guilty of murdering his daughter.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Stan Waterson took a sip from his thermos and then placed it back in the garbage truck cab’s cupholder. Stan was fifty-two, married, and the father of two teenage daughters. His wife and kids were his life. He would do anything to provide a good life for them, including picking up garbage in the middle of the night and hauling it to a waste facility.

  Stan never got a formal education, something he regretted in his life. He dropped out in tenth grade to work for a logging company. He learned to cut trees and then moved on to managing a shift in the company’s manufacturing plant. With China’s economy exploding, there was a huge demand for lumber. Construction projects were sprouting up all over the country, and Stan’s company could not keep up fast enough. They hired more and more labor, and they expanded at a rapid pace. Then the Chinese economy began to falter, and demand quickly fell off. Projects were being abandoned left, right, and center. The impact was felt as far as Stan’s company. They had taken on too much debt, and with companies defaulting, they were left with unpaid invoices. They went into receivership and were bought out by a German company. They decided to lay off half the work force in order to restructure the company and make it profitable again. Stan became a casualty of this. He even lost his pension when the company refused to pay it out. His union took them to court but lost, as the company was not obligated to continue the plan as part of the takeover. After kissing his dreams of retiring from the lumber company goodbye, Stan, now in his mid-thirties, began looking for work again. He drove a taxi, a grocery truck, an excavator for a construction firm, anything to put food on the table. His wife even went back to work during the months Stan could not find employment. He then landed a job with his current employer.

  PWM, Professional Waste Management Inc., specialized in collecting bulk waste and non-hazardous materials, which included recyclable and organic material. Their customers included retail stores, shopping centers, schools, and hospitals. After ten years with PWM, Stan hoped the company would be his last stop before he retired. He did not want to start knocking on doors again at his age.

  Stan’s route included strip malls and plazas. He had driven the route so many times, he knew it like the back of his hand.

  He took another sip from the thermos. The coffee was still hot and strong, helping to jolt his senses. He needed it this early in the morning. He could not risk falling asleep at the wheel.

  Next to the thermos was a plastic bag which held his bagel. He grabbed the bagel and took a bite. He should not be eating in his truck, but who would find out?

  Three bites later, the bagel was gone.

  He entered the back of a strip mall that contained two restaurants, one pharmacy, an optician, and a convenience store. From past experience, he knew the dumpster would not be overloaded with garbage bags. Except for the restaurants, the other three businesses hardly produced much garbage.

  Stan carefully got the dumpster onto the forks and lifted it up to dump its contents into the truck.

  As the waste emptied, he heard a sound that caught his attention. It did not sound like anything he had heard before. I’m not sure what that was, he thought. Gosh, I hope somebody did not toss out something you shouldn’t put in a dumpster.

  He had found rubber tires, paint cans, and even propane gas tanks in the dumpsters. If crushed, these items would contaminate the other garbage and take a ton of work to remove at the processing plant. And in the case of the gas tanks, there was the risk of an explosion.

  He lowered the dumpster. He got out of the truck’s cab and moved to the back of the truck. He grabbed the top ledge of the hopper and pulled himself up.

  He took a peek inside.

  Bile rose in the back of his throat.

  He threw up the bagel.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Holt was at the scene the moment he received the call. He spotted Fisher talking to the garbage truck driver. The man looked visibly ill.

  The body was identified as belonging to Pedro Catano. He lay among the garbage in the back of the truck, resting at an awkward angle. His legs were spread apart, and his arms were twisted to the sides. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. Blood had caked the right side of his face. Holt believed the bullet must have gone through the left and come out the right.

  As he leaned into the hopper, he noticed something on Pedro’s body.

  “It’s the driver’s breakfast,” Fisher said, coming up next to him. “The moment he saw the body, he threw up.”

  “Is that bagel?” Holt asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Why don’t people chew properly like they taught us back in school?” he griped.

  “Don’t tell me you chew like thirty times?”

  “Maybe not that much, but I most certainly don’t swallow my food whole.”

  They stared at Pedro’s body in silence. His father would be devastated when they broke the news to him.

  Holt said, “How did you know it was Pedro? I don’t see any ID on him, unless you went inside the hopper.”

  “There’s no way I went in there,” she said. “There’s no telling what people throw out in their garbage.”

  “Then how?”

  “Simple. I did an online search, and several photos came up belonging to a Pedro Catano. I matched one to the body.”

  That was simple, so why didn’t I think of it? Holt wondered. “What did the driver tell you?” he asked.

  “He said he picks up the garbage three times a week.”

  “When was the last pickup?” Holt asked.

  “Two days ago.”

  A light went on in his head. “That’s the day Kyla Gardener was found murdered.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But if the body has been here two days, why didn’t anyone notice it?”

  “I was thinking the same thing, and I have a theory that might answer it. The garbage truck driver must have emptied the dumpster right before the killer arrived and left Pedro’s body. The container is almost six feet in height, which makes it very deep. No one would know his body was in the container unless they climbed up the side and took a peek inside. Over the next two days, people just threw garbage into the dumpster, covering Pedro’s body in the process.”

  “What about the smell? The odor is unmistakable.”

  Fisher grimaced. “It’s a dumpster. What else is it supposed to smell like, roses?”

  She’s got a point, Holt thought.

  Fisher said, “I think the timing can’t be a coincidence either.”

  “Timing?” Holt asked.

  “The garbage truck driver emptied the container around one A.M., which is what he said was his usual pick up time. We think Kyla was murdered between eleven-thirty P.M. and two-thirty A.M., give or take a couple of minutes. The drive over here is less than twenty minutes, which means…”

  Holt’s eyes widened. He now understood what she was getting at. “It means whoever murdered Kyla could have also murdered Pedro.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  The press arrived as soon as news broke of another dead body. Cameramen tried to capture the scene as it unfolded before them. They wanted enough footage for the early mo
rning broadcasts. One man approached Holt and aimed the camera directly in his face. Holt glared at him, and he quickly moved away. Holt had no personal issues with the media in general, but at the moment, he just was not in the mood for a close-up. He had not had any sleep, the adrenaline was wearing off, and lethargy was taking over. He worried he might say something on camera he would later regret.

  The sun had risen over the horizon, and soon there would be light. That’s good, he thought. Daylight will help clear my head.

  His walk around the strip mall answered one question that had been nagging him since the moment he arrived. Why did the killer choose to dump Pedro’s body here and not someplace else?

  There were no CCTV cameras anywhere on the property. The tenants in the mall may have their own security, but it likely only covered their business.

  What transpired behind the mall, including the area where the dumpster was situated, would never be known.

  He spotted Fisher coming his way. She was holding two cups in her hand.

  “It’s hot and just the way you like it,” she said.

  He took a sip of the coffee. It was cream, no sugar. His senses suddenly came alive. He took another sip.

  “They’re waiting for a statement,” Fisher said, nodding in the direction of the press gathered behind the yellow police tape.

  “We should tell them something.”

  “We should,” she agreed.

  They sipped coffee in silence. Neither had the energy to speak to the press.

  “I have a theory,” Holt said. “And I know you won’t like it.”

  “I have a feeling I know where you’re going with this.”

  “Paul Gardener killed Pedro Catano,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”

  “Just think about it. Kyla told her father she wanted to get married, and he was fervently opposed to it. Pedro’s ex-girlfriend believed Pedro was in love with Kyla. What if Kyla wanted to marry Pedro, and Gardener couldn’t accept that his daughter would marry an employee of the family?”

  “Employee?”

  “Pedro’s father has been the family’s gardener for decades. Pedro and Kyla grew up together.”

  “I don’t know if they grew up together,” Fisher said.

  “Okay, but they played together as kids. Luiz said while he worked, Pedro would spend time with Kyla.”

  “Let’s say I somewhat agree with you, but I don’t think Gardener would kill his daughter for wanting to marry the son of a gardener. He himself came from a humble beginning.”

  “Yes, but you forget one crucial thing,” Holt said with a smile.

  “And what is that?”

  “Kyla was in line to receive a substantial inheritance when she turned twenty-one, which was only a few months away. And she had promised her father that she would help him out because he was under a lot of financial pressure. Gardener may have feared that she would renege on her promise if she married Pedro. Or, Pedro was only marrying her for her money, and Gardener wanted to stop that from happening.”

  “There’s a big flaw in your theory,” Fisher said.

  “How?”

  “Kyla was stabbed and Pedro was shot. If Gardener did it, why stab one and shoot the other?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want the crimes to be linked. Maybe he killed Kyla by accident. Remember, she was strangled first and then stabbed later. And to tie up loose ends, he shot Pedro because, unlike Kyla, he couldn’t overpower Pedro, who was taller and younger than him. Shooting him was the easiest way to get rid of him.”

  Fisher opened her mouth but then shut it. She hated to admit it, but Holt was beginning to make sense.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Holt and Fisher looked inside the hopper as Andrea Wakefield examined the body. The medical examiner had run through a series of tests that gave her an indication of the cause of death, time of death, and place of death.

  “The victim definitely died from a gunshot wound to the head,” she said. “It was most likely at close range, perhaps the assailant was a foot or two away. The bullet went through the left side of the head and is still lodged in the skull.”

  “Are you saying the bullet did not exit?” Holt asked. He was certain that it had.

  “I can’t say with complete accuracy until I open the skull and take a look,” Wakefield replied. “But I didn’t see an exit wound during my initial observation.”

  “What about the blood on the right side of his head?” Holt asked.

  “The force of the bullet was so strong that the impact caused the side of the skull to tear open, causing blood to drain out. If the bullet had exited, you would also see brain tissue.”

  “What about the time of death?” Fisher asked. She wanted to move on from the gory details.

  “Rigor mortis can last up to seventy-two hours,” Andrea replied. “But decomposition has started to take effect. It could be due to the environment the body was under.” She turned to Holt. “You said you believe the victim was covered in garbage bags?”

  “I did,” Fisher replied. “The driver explained that he only heard the body after some of the garbage and debris was in the hopper. We believe whoever left him here did so after the driver had previously picked up garbage. So the body was at the bottom, and the tenants of the strip mall, unbeknownst to them, kept throwing garbage on it. When the container was flipped over to be emptied, the body ended up on top. I strongly believe if the body was at the top of the garbage, the driver may not have heard the ‘odd noise,’ as he kept calling it, and would have crushed the body with the compactor.”

  “Thank you, Detective, that explains a lot,” Wakefield said. “So to answer your question, I believe the time of death to be between forty-eight hours and seventy-two hours.”

  Holt looked over at Fisher. He knew she was thinking the same thing: Pedro was indeed murdered the same night Kyla was.

  “And place of death?” Fisher asked.

  “I took a quick look at the dumpster,” Wakefield replied. “I did not see any blood, which leads me to believe the victim could not have been shot where his body was eventually discovered.”

  “So, he was shot someplace else and dumped here?” Holt said.

  “That would seem like it.”

  “So, I guess when we search the hopper, we won’t find the murder weapon?” he said, more as a statement than a question.

  “Unless the killer became impatient and left both the body and gun behind for you to find,” Wakefield suggested.

  Not likely, Holt thought.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Roth slowed down. He looked around and saw no reporters on the front lawn. Dawn was still breaking, but soon they would be back to resume their positions.

  Roth was annoyed at being awoken in the middle of a dream. He could not remember what the dream was, but he still did not like having it broken.

  Roth had contacts at various newspaper outlets. If there was news he needed leaked to the public, he would use them. The reporters got an exclusive breaking story, and he was able to disseminate information without it tracing back to him. This was extremely useful when a judge imposed a gag order that restricted lawyers, prosecutors, law enforcement officials, witnesses, and the jury from talking to the press. Anyone who disobeyed this could be found in contempt. Roth did not like getting on the wrong side of a judge. He saw no real advantage in that, but it still did not prevent him from being found in contempt of court over the years.

  What the caller told him made Roth jump up in bed. He quickly called Paul, but when there was no answer, he decided to get dressed and drive over. This personal visit would be billed to Paul at a premium rate.

  Roth rang the doorbell and waited. A few minutes later, a weary-eyed Paul answered the door. He was wearing a robe and no shoes.

  He squinted and said, “Evan, what are you doing here so early?”

  “Why don’t you pick up your phone?” Roth asked, pushing past him as he stormed inside.

&nb
sp; In the living room, Roth placed his briefcase on the coffee table and took a seat.

  “What’s going on?” Paul asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Do you know a person by the name of Pedro Catano?”

  “Yes, he’s our gardener’s son.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Paul’s face turned pale.

  “His body was found in a dumpster behind a strip mall,” Roth said matter-of-factly.

  Paul dropped to the sofa, holding his head.

  “If there is something you want to tell me,” Roth said, “this would be the right time.”

  Paul looked up. “Like what?”

  “My contact at one of the newspapers said there is a chance the police will pin Pedro’s murder on you.”

  Paul’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What?”

  “She overheard two detectives discussing this. I bet it must be Holt and Fisher.”

  “They’re out to bury me,” Paul said. “I saw Detective Holt outside my house.”

  Roth’s eyes narrowed. “He’s following you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Make a note of how many times you see him. I can file a harassment case against him and the department.”

  “I can’t believe Pedro is dead,” Paul said, shaking his head. “He was friends with Kyla.”

  “They were?” Roth asked.

  “Yes. Luiz Catano, Pedro’s dad, has been the Lester’s family gardener for a long time, way before I came into the family. When they were kids, I used to see Pedro and Kyla running in our backyard.”

  A thought occurred to Roth. He snapped open his briefcase and rummaged inside. “Didn’t your daughter call Pedro on the day she was murdered?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “What if he met your daughter that night, they had a disagreement, he killed your daughter, and then he committed suicide?”

  “Didn’t you say his body was found behind a strip mall?”

  “So?”

  “You mean, he shot himself in the dumpster? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Let the prosecution tear our theory apart. Our job is to place doubt in the jury’s mind regarding your guilt.”