He perked up.
“And not kinky contact or feels-good pain either,” she added. “So don’t even go there with your perverted fantasies.”
“But you want me.”
“I hate you.”
“You’re just fighting the urge.”
“The urge to wring your neck until your head pops off, like a rooster’s who’s been invited to Sunday dinner. That’s the only urge I’m fighting. And if that camera”—she pointed to the security lens mounted in the corner—“wasn’t there, I wouldn’t fight it at all.”
He flexed his hurt finger. It looked a bit crooked to Savannah, but she chalked it up to wishful thinking.
“See ya later,” he called after her as she walked down the hall toward the autopsy suites. “I’ll be waiting.”
Savannah decided to bring one of Dr. Liu’s scalpels back with her and remove some body part from Officer Bates, security camera or no.
From the first time Savannah had met Dr. Jennifer Liu, she couldn’t get over the fact that Dr. Liu looked like anything other than what she was, a medical examiner. Slender and graceful with long, shimmering black hair and golden skin, she was the picture of Asian femininity ... with the morbid mind-set of Vincent Price and a wicked laugh to match.
In the law-enforcement world, mostly populated with males, Savannah and Jennifer Liu had bonded, primarily over chocolate bars and barbecued potato chips during coinciding periods of PMS. Even after Savannah was ousted from the force, Jennifer helped her by sharing what she learned during her examinations whenever she could.
It was against the rules for Savannah to be present during an autopsy if homicide was suspected, but, like her Southern soul sister, Dr. Liu wasn’t above bending those rules a tad.
So, when Savannah swung one of the stainless-steel doors open and stuck her head inside the autopsy suite, Dr. Liu’s pretty face lit up.
“Hey, it’s my chocolate connection,” she said. “Did you bring me a cherry nut fudge fix?”
“Sorry, didn’t know it was that time of the month,” Savannah said as she walked inside and winced to see Polly’s naked body on the table, chest opened with a huge Y incision, from her shoulders to the center of her chest and on down to the pubic bone.
“What are you talking about?” Jennifer said, holding up bloody gloved hands. “When it comes to cherry nut fudge, it’s always that time of month.”
Savannah walked closer to the table and saw that the doctor had already removed, weighed, and dissected most of Polly’s vital organs. The torso was nearly empty. A row of small glass jars sat nearby, holding slices of each organ, preserved for posterity.
“I’ll bring you twice as much next time,” Savannah told her. “I’ve got a lot on my mind with Dirk being locked up and all.”
“I was really sorry to hear about that. Do you think he killed her?”
“No.” Savannah stared at Jennifer across Polly’s mutilated body. “But you’re the expert. What do you think?”
Jennifer pointed to a tiny lead slug that was lying on a small, steel tray at the body’s feet. “That was the bullet that killed her. Ripped into the left ventricle of the heart. Whoever fired the shot was good. Or she was very unlucky.”
“Maybe both.”
Savannah walked down to the tray and peered at the bullet. “It looks like a .38.”
Jennifer nodded, “To me, too. What does Dirk carry?”
“A Smith & Wesson snub-nosed ....38.”
The knowing look on the doctor’s face made Savannah’s skin go to gooseflesh. If the people who knew him suspected him, what hope would he have with a jury?
“He told us she was probably shot with his weapon,” Savannah said in a far more defensive tone than she had intended to use. “He took it away from the killer, then dropped it.”
“Sounds like that gun got passed around like a hot potato,” Jennifer said as she lifted the slippery coils of small intestines from the abdominal cavity and examined them carefully.
“What do you mean?” Savannah said, instantly alert.
“Her right wrist was broken. Looks like it was twisted, hard. I’d say someone was wrenching something out of her hand.”
“Like the gun?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Any way to know how long between that and the time she died?”
“Only a moment or two. It didn’t have time to swell before she was killed.”
Savannah mulled that one over for a while, then asked, “Any other defensive wounds?”
“Two of the artificial nails on her right hand are broken.”
“Then the attacker should have had some scratch marks. At least one,” she added hopefully. “And Dirk didn’t have any.”
“That you saw.”
“He didn’t have any. I saw him naked.”
Jennifer shot her a quizzical look.
“He was nude when I got to his trailer,” she explained, “fresh out of the shower. If he’d had scratches, I would have seen them.”
Jennifer’s face softened in a sympathetic smile. “I know how much Dirk means to you, Savannah ... you two being partners for so long and close friends.”
Savannah could hear the “but” coming.
She didn’t have long to wait. “But,” Jennifer continued, “we don’t know that she broke them scratching someone. I checked under her nails and found no skin, hair, or blood. I even looked at the broken ones that we found on the floor near the body. Nothing.”
Savannah felt her heart sink a couple of notches. “Oh,” she said, disheartened.
Jennifer gave her a sympathetic smile. “Savannah, I don’t want to tell you anything you don’t want to hear, but ...”
“But what? Spit it out.”
“But I don’t know how objective you’re being about this shooting.”
“I know how it looks,” Savannah said
“It looks like he did it.”
“But this is Dirk we’re talking about ... and the cold-blooded murder of an unarmed person.”
“Even good people make bad choices sometimes in very emotional situations.”
“No. That isn’t what happened.” Savannah shook her head and set her jaw tightly. “What else do you have?”
Jennifer gave her an “okay, whatever you say” look and continued with the examination. She pushed a foot pedal on the floor with the toe of her sneaker, activating the tape recorder on the wall nearby. Savannah knew to be quiet; she wasn’t supposed to be present ... let alone on the record.
“Evidence of a recent breast augmentation,” the doctor said, “judging from the stages of healing, approximately eight to ten weeks ago. Also, newly applied bondings to the four upper front teeth.”
So, Savannah thought, Polly had gone in for a little bodywork and a wheel rotation. Must have been worried about her mounting mileage.
“Intestines seem to be fine,” Dr. Liu continued. “No disease of any kind indicated in the abdomen ... except the liver cirrhosis, as previously noted, which was probably due to excessive alcohol consumption.”
She pushed the pedal again, turning the recorder off.
“Polly was an alcoholic?” Savannah asked.
“It appears so. I’ll know more when I open the skull and check the brain. Sometimes it’s visibly smaller than it should be because of alcohol abuse.”
“Then we really do lose brain cells when we drink? I thought that was a joke.”
Jennifer shook her head as she piled the intestines back into the abdominal cavity. “What excessive alcohol does to the human body is no laughing matter, I assure you. Our friend here may be a woman in her early forties, but she has the liver of a sixtysomething man who spent a lot of time holding down a barstool.”
“Any drugs?”
“Nothing overt. But I’ll know more once the blood and tissue samples are back from the lab.”
Ah, yes, the lab, Savannah reminded herself. Yet another place where she might find more evidence pointing directly to her frien
d. Why get all the bad news from one source?
“I’ll see you later,” Savannah said as she walked slowly toward the door. She was weak and tired, and she knew it was due to more than just a lack of food and sleep deprivation. She was losing hope.
“Perk up, babycakes,” Jennifer called after her. “That’s what you always tell me. You also say, ‘It’s always the darkest just before dawn.’”
“Yeah, well, remind me not to say that anymore. When you’re groping around, without even any moonbeams to light your way, it sounds pretty lame.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Savannah drove across town to the industrial-park section and the county forensic laboratories. Sandwiched between a computer-repair center and a catering-service supply house, the laboratory was low-profile, with only the Great Seal of California and the county emblem above the door.
Fortunately, she had old friends there, too. Her enemies were few and confined to the upper echelons of the police department. She had always been liked and respected among her peers and subordinates. As long as the “suits” weren’t around, she was treated as though she were still part of the force.
She parked the Camaro in the spacious parking lot ... toward the rear to be less conspicuous ... and walked to the door. As soon as she punched the doorbell button, the intercom crackled to life, and a voice asked who she was and what she wanted. She looked up at the camera mounted above the door and gave it her best raspberry. “It’s Reid. Open up, Bradley, or I’ll huff and puff and drive my car through your front door.”
“And you’re just a bad enough driver to do it,” the intercom replied. “Hang on. I’m coming.”
The door opened and a sixtyish woman with long, curly gray hair stuck her head out. “What do you want?” she asked with pseudoirritation.
“Oh, I think you’ve got some vague notion of what I’m after,” Savannah said, giving her a dimpled smile.
“Dirk?”
“Dirk.”
She opened the door. “Come on in.”
Savannah didn’t wait to be asked twice. She hurried inside and was greeted by a couple of other lab techs, a Hispanic, middle-aged man and a young, freckle-nosed redheaded woman, both of whom had their faces glued to computer screens. All three wore white smocks over T-shirts and blue jeans. Everyone’s jacket had the name Tom embroidered on the pocket ... thanks to budget cuts and a previous director named Thomas O’Reilly.
The front of the large room resembled any office area, with cubicles, desks, piles of papers and books, and assorted computerware. Along the back wall was a long counter with microscopes, beakers, and other exotic laboratory equipment which Savannah didn’t identify.
In this location law enforcement processed the evidence found at crime scenes ... other than bodies, which were Dr. Liu’s domain. Fingerprints, ballistics, tire marks, scene photos, fiber, and other trace evidence were their tools, used to solve the county’s most serious crimes.
And Eileen Bradley and her team of technicians ran the place with the organized regime of a military academy and yet retained their sense of humor—grim though it might be at times.
“So,” Eileen said, “Dirk Coulter got tired of paying alimony, huh?”
Savannah wasn’t in the mood for Eileen’s dark jokes, especially those that were made at her friend’s expense. But she fought back her temper. Eileen wasn’t being cruel, just insensitive. Savannah knew she liked Dirk, too. They were all hard-bitten characters, and curmudgeons had to stick together in a world of sweeter, kinder souls who didn’t appreciate the joy of needling their fellowman.
“Dirk didn’t do it,” Savannah said quietly. “And I have to find out who did before those bastards Hillquist and Jeffries nail him with it.”
Nothing more needed to be said. Both Hillquist and Jeffries were persona non grata in their own departments. Neither would ever be given “Mr. Congeniality” awards by those who served under them. Both had started getting their own coffee from the community pot, after receiving tips about what disgruntled underlings had used to stir their cups.
“How can we help you?” Eileen asked.
“Give me anything you’ve got.”
“That’s not much.” Eileen sighed, and Savannah noticed she had aged considerably in the past three years, since she had been promoted to head technician. This sort of work could make you old quick. Sometimes Savannah felt older than her octogenarian grandmother, just from all the meanness she had seen in the world.
“Latent prints?” Savannah asked, knowing what the depressing answer would be.
“On the gun, sure,” Eileen said. “Dirk’s.”
“It was his gun.”
“Exactly. And a couple of smeared ones. Couldn’t read those.”
“There were a few on the door and doorknob, and we’re identifying those now.”
She led Savannah to her own desk, which was slightly larger and centered in the back of the room, near the laboratory equipment. Pulling a chair from a nearby, empty desk, she offered Savannah a seat, then plopped down on her own chair. She propped her white tractor tread nurse shoes on a nearby metal file cabinet and ran her fingers through her gray mop of hair, making it, if possible, more unruly than before.
“Some of the prints on the door may be mine,” Savannah told her. “I was there earlier in the day ... and many times before.”
Eileen gave her a smug grin. “Yeah, I know. Yours was the first one we matched. Then there was another that’s probably Dirk’s. We’re working on the last three.”
“I doubt that either one belongs to the killer. Dirk says he was wearing gloves.”
“Mmmm.”
Savannah didn’t like the nonresponse or the cynical gleam in Eileen’s eye. Why was everyone having a hard time believing the unknown-intruder story? Hadn’t they learned anything from poor old Dr. Richard Kimball?
“How about fiber or other trace evidence?” Savannah felt like she was grasping for straws ... or at least hanging on to threads.
“Dr. Liu hasn’t sent the victim’s clothing over yet. We didn’t see anything outstanding on the body when we looked her over. We haven’t processed the rape kit yet, either, but we just talked to the doc and she said she expects it to be negative.”
“Raped? Well, of course she wasn’t raped. She was with Dirk and ...”
The distasteful thought occurred to Savannah that Polly and Dirk might have gotten down and dirty sometime that day, before the killing. And if they did, that would mean that his DNA was ... No, she didn’t even want to wander down that mental path. It would just be one more nail hammered into Dirk’s coffin lid.
Besides, the thought of Dirk and Polly together made her feel like cold, slippery, slimy eels were slithering up her back. And she didn’t want to get into any Freudian analysis about why. It wasn’t that she had a thing for Dirk; she just couldn’t stand Polly.
Dead Polly.
For half a second she felt guilty.
“Any footprints in the blood?” she asked, changing the subject to another type of bodily fluid.
“Just those made by somebody with bare feet.”
“Damn,” Savannah muttered under her breath. “And that would be Dirk.”
Eileen nodded knowingly. “That’s what we figured.”
“What else?” Savannah felt a frantic anxiety welling up from her guts. “Don’t you have anything to show that someone else was there?”
Savannah noticed that Eileen’s two workers were pretending to work, but obviously eavesdropping. Eileen began to doodle on a notepad beside her phone.
“Nope, not at the moment,” Eileen said, though Savannah thought she picked up on some sort of hesitation in her voice. She continued to scribble. “I’d like to help you, Savannah,” she said, “but that’s it for now.”
Savannah felt her anxiety level tighten a couple of notches, until she noticed that Eileen was pointing to the notepad where she had just been writing. She was wearing a cocky little grin on her face, like a kid with a secret.<
br />
Savannah stood, glanced back at the other two, who resumed their typing and pretending to be busy. Then she looked over at the pad. Eileen had scribbled the words, Come back after 17:00 hours. Got something to show you.
Savannah smiled and nodded. “Thanks,” she said, “for nothin’, I guess.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Eileen said as she stood and escorted Savannah back to the door. “But don’t hesitate to call or drop by if you think of anything else.”
“I may do that,” Savannah said as she shook Eileen’s hand and gave the other two a dismissing nod.
“Just one favor,” Eileen said, as she was going out the door. “Don’t let any of the brass know I let you in here.”
“Don’t worry.” She zipped her lips. “Since when am I on speaking terms with those bastards?”
Back at the house, Savannah found a dejected Tammy sitting at the computer. The glass of mineral water, sprigged with celery and laced with a lemon wedge sat, untouched, on the coaster beside her. Apple slices were spread in a decorative pattern on a saucer. The kid was too depressed to eat or drink, Savannah noted. Not a good sign.
“Find anything?” Savannah asked as she took a sip of Tammy’s water and grimaced. If a drink didn’t have alcohol, chocolate, or at least, some carbonation in it, it wasn’t worth drinking ... except for fresh-squeezed lemonade, of course.
Tammy rubbed her eyes wearily and shook her head. “Not really.” She pointed to a pile of pages she had printed on the edge of the desk. “Polly’s last seven addresses ...”.
“Last seven?”
Tammy nodded. “In one year. She moved a lot, mostly from one man’s place to another’s. And she had crummy credit. Big surprise.”
Savannah glanced over the list of addresses. “Do you have the guy’s names?”
“They’re there, too. Most of them are losers. A couple of professionals. One attorney and a dentist.”
“Ah, yes ... I noticed her smile was brighter and straighter than before, and Dr. Liu said she’d had a boob job.”
Sugar and Spite Page 8
