by LS Sygnet
"Darnell heads a special task force for the governor," Hardy said. "OSI, or the Office of the Special Investigator. Governor Collangelo created it specifically for Darkwater Bay."
"I see."
"Do you?" Weber asked. "Because for an outsider stepping into this city, it's generally a difficult concept to grasp, that our city would require a special investigative team through the state police to essentially police the police."
"I was at a crime scene last night, Mr. Weber. I think I have an inkling that there are problems here."
"The fight for jurisdiction," Hardy spoke to Weber with disgust. "We'd have had a hell of a worse fight on our hands if Jerry'd been around."
"I believe the detectives from Central Division mentioned that had Mr. Lowe been present, there would've been no question regarding jurisdiction."
Tracy slipped back into the room and placed a delicate china cup and saucer on Hardy's desk. "If you need anything else, let me know."
Hardy waited until she closed the door. "This seems a little cloak and dagger I'm sure. We've got our reasons."
Obviously. I sipped the coffee. "One of the officers who assisted me at the crime scene last night, Charlie Haverston, intimated that the timing of the Foster murder seemed beyond coincidental. He suggested that this old case that was never closed to anyone's satisfaction might be the reason you wanted my help."
"Charles is a good police officer," Weber said. "Our uniformed officers have better instincts than –"
"Now Don, let's not scare her off," Hardy beamed at me, but his weary eyes told another story. Yes, he was old and tired, but there was underlying fear.
"If I may be direct."
"Please," George said. "It's one of the reasons your name came up in our conversations. You made quite an impression on a young Rodney Martin once upon a time, for being a brilliant psychologist, but also for making your point without much fuss."
"If there are so many problems in law enforcement, specifically in Central Division, why don't you clean house so to speak?"
"I'd love to share that information with you, Helen, but until we've reached an agreement with you to work in Darkwater Bay, I'm afraid I can't divulge many details," Hardy said.
"Perhaps it would've been wise to secure a contract prior to sending me to a crime scene."
"I hoped it would emphasize the seriousness of our situation, doctor," Weber said. "If you could see the carnage and understand the dynamic within Central Division, perhaps it would impress upon you the urgency we feel. I promise you, this case will not be closed if Central Division investigates."
"And I'm still unaware of any compelling reason that you would retain detectives of the caliber of Flynn Myre. Rogers and Daltry weren't very impressive either."
"This is what I had in mind," Hardy's chest puffed out a little bit. "We'd do this on a temporary basis, say a month on this new case that has the disturbing parallels to the Bennett girl's murder. At the end of that time, we can reevaluate what you'd like to do, Helen."
"But?"
"We need assurances that whatever information you may learn during the course of your investigation aren't shared with your former colleagues at the FBI."
Nobody but me could see the orange glow on the horizon from that burning bridge. "Is that all?"
Hardy continued. "We have a strong tradition of cleaning up our own messes in Darkwater Bay."
"How does that gel with the governor's special police force?"
"There are aspects of this situation that Chris is aware of."
I looked at Weber. He stared at his hands. "But not all of them."
His head rose, turned toward me. "That is correct, Dr. Eriksson. We would prefer that if you learn certain things about our police department that you will give us the opportunity to manage them in house."
I snorted. "You won't fire inept detectives. You don't –"
"Helen," Hardy interrupted softly. "You don't understand the scope of this mess. It'll make more sense when I can give you more details."
"Such as?"
Weber rose and started pacing. "If we knew who it was safe to fire without turning the city on its ear, we'd do it."
"Exactly how damaging is it?" My gaze roved from one man to the other. "That's the crux of your hesitation, your complicity in letting the status quo have free rein around here, isn't it? Someone is blackmailing you. They aren't asking for money. They simply like things the way they are."
Weber crumpled to the point that I wondered if his starched suit had assumed the role of his skeleton. He sat down hard. "It's embarrassing more than anything else. But because there are moral turpitude clauses in both my and George's contracts, it would mean that the first two people out the door would be us."
"Affairs?"
"Horrifically compromising photographs," Weber's agony bled from his eyes. "My family would be devastated."
"Hell, honey, I just like my job," George said. "The last person who would be shocked by what this sleazy li'l bastard's been holdin' over my head for ages is Mrs. Hardy. We sorta got one of them whatchacallems. Arrangements."
"This might be a leap, but I'm assuming that Chief Lowe is unaware of this situation, since you've excluded him from this part of my contract negotiation."
"Jerry Lowe," Weber sighed.
"Do you think he has a similar threat hanging over his head?"
"I expect he could perpetrate such an atrocity," Hardy muttered.
"Interesting."
Both men stared at me.
"Only from the perspective of the power structure in your police department. Several people have mentioned him to me prior to our first meeting this morning."
"And?" Hardy's jaw quivered.
"It would seem that his absence from last night's power struggle was unusual," I said. "In fact, it rather felt like Rogers and Daltry had a wait 'til daddy gets home attitude when they were arguing with Detective Briscoe. What distressed me the most was that the crime scene division wasn't allowed access while the debate raged."
"You observed a great deal, Helen," Hardy said. "What do you say? We'll play this by ear. If it takes a month to close this case or a year, you're welcome to stay on board for the duration –"
"Commissioner Hardy, I'm not sure you grasp what it is that I do. I'm not a police detective. I don't investigate crimes. I look at evidence and try to determine the type of person most likely to have committed the crime. Yes, I can review the Bennett case and give you an impression as to whether or not I believe these murders are linked, but I cannot do the jobs of your detectives."
"Perhaps you could keep them focused in the right direction."
"Mr. Weber, I already directed four of your uniformed officers at the crime scene last night. As we speak, they're talking to neighbors, verifying the alibi of the man who found Ms. Foster's body and attempting to locate her next of kin."
"That's exactly what we're talkin' about, Helen. If it were up to me –" I did a double take at his choice of words, because as the commissioner, it was certainly up to him, "– I'd just as soon leave these uniformed guys on the case with you than turn it over to the detective squad."
In many police jurisdictions I encountered in large cities, the police detectives didn't have the time to do all of the legwork in a homicide investigation. The manpower required for that would've bankrupted the police departments. They relied on uniformed officers to canvass neighborhoods and search for leads that detectives could in turn follow or delegate back to the assigned officers.
"Of course we'd make things nice and official on your part," Hardy continued. He yanked open a drawer and rifled through it. "Detective badge just to make things kosher, and a weapon too, if you think you'd need it."
That much was a deal breaker from my perspective, the weapon. "Of course I'd need a weapon. I'm simply not sure that I would qualify as a detective, should the case close and the prosecutor would require my testimony."
"I doubt with your history at the FBI that it would
be questioned at all, Helen," Weber said. "From that perspective, you're overqualified to be a police detective."
Until some slick attorney started digging into what I did for a living. Hardy and Weber weren't thinking far enough ahead. There was the other matter too. Hardy knew Rick was dead. He couldn't know the black cloud on the horizon, one that threatened to follow me no matter where I went.
It was full disclosure for me. "You should know before we get too serious about this discussion that my ex-husband, Rick Hamilton was murdered recently." My reputation for leaving jaws gaping in my wake was intact. "You should also be aware of why I divorced him. He was arrested for money laundering for a notorious organized crime family on the east coast."
"My God!" Hardy gasped. "I had no idea when I called you."
"You can understand my decision to leave the FBI a bit better now, I trust," I said. Bitterness crept into my voice, much as suspicion had invaded the minds of my former peers. "There are those in Washington who believe, despite the fact that I immediately divorced my husband, that I wasn't ignorant to his crimes."
"Were you?" Weber grew bold, possibly because all three of us carried some sort of explosive secret we'd just as soon stay buried. They had barely scratched the surface of mine.
"Of course." It was the antithesis of the low profile life that Wendell wisely hammered into my brain. I knew first hand the dangers of a two-criminal household. "I was a federal agent. Had I known what he was doing, I'd have arrested him myself."
Hardy nodded once, and I half expected a string of drool to leak into the crack of his very canine jaw line. "It's good enough for me. Hell, the sins of the father are the same as the sins of the spouse. They don't got a thing to do with how you do your job. So what do you say, Helen?"
The irony of his remark made a tiny smile creep over my face. Ah, simple George. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into here. "I think, provided that the same level of confidentiality I'm offering you is returned in kind, that we have an agreement." Hell, I'd agree for the sidearm alone at this point. The thieving PI's still weighed heavily on the scales of concern.
George slid the badge and gun across his desk. "Then welcome to Darkwater Bay, detective."
"I do have one other stipulation," I said. "And this is a deal breaker."
Wary, Weber asked, "And what would that be?"
"I report directly to you, sir. I don't want whatever is wrong in this city creeping into what needs to happen next."
"But …" Hardy scratched his head. "I thought you said you aren't like a normal detective."
"I'm not, but whether you realize this or not, you've got four uniformed officers very capable of closing this Foster case. I'd like to keep Haverston and the three other men he had helping him at the crime scene directly involved in this investigation."
"Then you don't want us to push for Downey Division to take the lead on this case?" Weber looked a little confused too. I had a secondary gain – keeping them off kilter for a little while longer.
"I think that Chief Lowe will be far more amenable to this staying in central's jurisdiction," I reminded them, "and if you ever have the opportunity to remove some of the detective dead weight, I can't think of a better job interview than closing a murder case for the potential replacements."
"What about OSI?" Hardy asked. "It's a resource you could have at your disposal, Helen."
And prying eyes looking over my shoulder while I did other things. "If the citizens of this city are going to have their faith restored in the police, it has to happen through this department. If it becomes necessary to use OSI, we'll tap the resource. Until then, I'd rather keep this investigation on our terms, gentlemen."
The magic words were invoked. Hardy and Weber almost wanted their dirty laundry hidden in the back of the closet more than they wanted justice for whoever killed Gwen Foster. What I wanted dwarfed their petty concerns. I couldn't wait to start digging into Darkwater Bay's seedy past.
Chapter 11
I perched on the counter in Maya's autopsy room, heels clunking against the stainless steel cabinets like a clock in need of repair. She was running her fingers over my shiny new badge. She whistled soft and low between her teeth.
"How serious are they, Helen?"
"About me being a bona fide police detective?" I shrugged. "I suppose it's directly proportionate to my ability to figure out who killed Ms. Foster."
"Good luck with that one."
"No good news, huh?" I grinned. "And here all these years I thought you were the sharpest scalpel on the autopsy tray."
"Cute," she grinned at me. "I have some pictures if you'd like to see what I found when we did the complete exam."
"Give me the Cliffs Notes version."
"Gwen Foster was an out of shape but normal-weight, thirty-four year old white female who did not smoke. She did drink, a little on the heavy side if her gastric contents were any indicator of normal consumption."
"What did you find?"
"Lots of merlot. Her liver function tests were skewed toward signs of chronic and habitual consumption."
"Guess that isn't a great segue to ask if you'd like to have dinner with me, huh?"
"Don't interrupt," Maya grinned. "Where was I? Liver. Yeah, she had close to a liter in her stomach which is what, roughly a bottle?"
"Seven-fifty milliliters is the average bottle." I wondered about my liver and put the thought aside.
"There was no food in her stomach, only wine. Her BAL, had she been driving, would've put her over the legal limit.
"As for sexual assault, there is no question that it happened close to the time of death. We've got plenty of DNA without her fingernails providing additional samples. I found black pubic hairs on the combing, and the swabs were full of –"
"I get the picture."
"As to the cause of death," she dropped a file on the counter beside me, "I'd really like your impression of some of the photos Billy took before the autopsy."
While I perused, she continued.
"We got her medical records which basically confirmed that she was a thirty-something woman in exceptional health. There was only one point of discord between that record and her body."
"Are these bruises?" I pointed at the strange discoloration along Foster's cervical spine.
"They would've been spectacular if she hadn't died shortly after the injury was inflicted."
"What would cause bruising like that? She's not that bony and petite," I said. "She was lying supine on plush carpeting. Is this normal livor mortis?"
"Nope. If it were normal, you'd see the pressure points all over her bony prominences, and as you so astutely observed, she's not that bony and petite."
"You have a theory."
Maya grinned again. "Did you completely gloss over the major incongruity between her medical record and what I learned during the autopsy?"
"Little bit. What was it?"
"Gwen Foster was a mother."
I looked up. "Are we looking at a child abduction, Maya?"
"I highly doubt it." She flipped through the file for another picture, one that outlined the trauma inflicted during the sexual assault. Maya pointed to a fine, barely visible hairline discoloration. "See that?"
"What is it? Hair on the camera lens?"
"It's a scar."
"She had an episiotomy."
"Right," Maya nodded. "Which in itself isn't so terribly unusual. However, since the late 80s, the standard of care recommends a mediolateral incision. Ms. Foster's was clearly midline."
"And this matters because?"
"She would've been extremely young to have a child when midlines were routinely performed. In fact, during the time of her sexual maturation, it would've been more likely for no episiotomy to be performed at all."
I cringed. "You mean …"
"Yep. They let them tear if they don't stretch."
"Yet another good reason to resist that particular siren's call. Again, why is this significant?"
"All right. That's significant. But it wouldn't be the first time a woman lied to her doctor. Say she was very young and put the baby up for adoption."
"True enough, but I kept coming back to the type of episiotomy she had, and the reality that in order for her to have one in this country, she would've had to give birth at age four, roughly."
I chuckled. "I think we can rule that one out."
"So I did a little research."
"This is what I love about you. You're like Quincy with ovaries."
"You're not old enough to remember Quincy," Maya winked. "But I take that as a great compliment. I think he was the first character in entertainment to show what forensic pathologists can learn from the dead."
"Keep going, oh great researcher. What did you learn?"
"Say she had a baby as a teenager. It would still fall outside the standard of care for what she received."
"Unless she went to a simple country doctor who doesn't follow the standards for OBGYN practice."
"True," Maya said, "but I'm confident that even if that were the case, she'd have received the mediolateral incision instead of the midline."
"Which leads you to conclude …?"
"Midline incisions are routinely performed in Central America."
"How does that help me figure out who killed her?"
"Because," Maya said, "as you beat into my skull every time one of your cases landed on my autopsy table, even the most minuscule and seemingly unimportant detail about your victims could mean the difference between writing an accurate profile and not. Gwen Foster had a secret baby that is categorically denied by her official medical record. Who knows what kind of other secrets she had?"
"Good point. Let's get back to these marks. Any idea what made them?"
"I have a theory," Maya nodded. "I can't prove it without her hyoid bone."
"Strangulation?"
"With a poorly fashioned and utilized garrote. Wanna know why I think that?"
