Deadfall

by Patricia H. Rushford

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mac and Kevin let themselves in the old red brick medical examiner’s building through the employee’s entrance at the back. Kristen was already dictating the description of the body when the detectives walked into the small examination room. She clicked off her machine. “Welcome to the little shop of horrors, boys.”

  Mac let his gaze travel over the cap covering Kristen’s spiked hair, the lace peeking above her rubber apron, and then stopped at her clear blue eyes. There was no laughter in them this morning.

  “Can you tell if this guy’s our missing hiker?” Mac had been thinking about Brad Gaynes all night. Brad hadn’t been wearing combat fatigues when he’d disappeared, but he’d been gone long enough to go home and change. Kevin thought the victim might have been a transient who’d been staying at the mill. But what if the guy at the mill had been the killer? Kristen was quick to shoot down his theory.

  “He’s not, Mac. This guy has a scar running along his left cheek. He’s older too.”

  Mac nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t be having to face the Gaynes family to tell them their son had been murdered. His relief was short-lived, though. The guy was someone’s husband or son or father.

  The two body halves were lying on the giant steel table. The victim’s left eye was open, staring blankly, while the other eye was closed. Mac looked away for a moment, seeking objectivity. When he did look back, it was to view the torso. The victim’s clothing had been removed to reveal heavily tattooed arms and torso. “Jailhouse tattoos,” Mac noted. “Once we grab prints, this guy should be easy to identify. Looks like he’s done some time in the joint, by the look of those cheap green tats.”

  “Just what I was thinking, partner.” Kevin scrutinized the victim. “With any luck at all we’ll get his prints into the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. We could use a break. The ID bureau only found a few prints at the scene—no telling who they belong to. Could be our guy here, or the killer, or could be employees who used to work at the mill. They found no real evidence in the guy’s makeshift bedroom either. Looks like what we see is what we get until we put a name to this fella.”

  Mac and Kevin bagged the clothing for examination at the crime lab, in case it contained trace evidence that would help nab the killer. They found nothing evidentiary under the victim’s nails or on the rest of his body.

  Kristen peeled back the scalp, confirming her suspicion of blunt force trauma to the head prior to death.

  “Looks like this guy took a pretty good whack to the head, guys. There’s a large cranial bruise. I’d say it was enough to knock him goofy, but probably not enough force to kill him. I’m going to rule the saw as the mechanism of death. The cause can be your pick: laceration of the brain and virtually every internal organ.”

  “Okay to print him now, Kristen?” Kevin asked. He seemed in a hurry to get through the procedure.

  Mac could certainly understand that, but they’d seen worse.

  “Sure, I’ll change the John Doe jacket once you call with a real identification. He’s not matching any current missing-person reports in the region. I’ll go out of state on the computer search if you don’t come up with anything.”

  Kevin produced a small ink pad from his briefcase, inking the victim’s fingers while Mac carefully cut the duct tape from the wrists and secured it in an evidence bag. After Kevin inked the fingers, Mac rolled each individual finger onto a print card. Rigor had set in, and the fingers were like concrete.

  “Let’s get this stuff down to the lab,” Kevin said when Mac had finished. “See if they can get some prints off the tape and identify our dead guy.”

  “You got it. I’m ready.” Mac glanced once more at the nightmarish scene on the heavy steel table before taking off his gloves.

  “You guys taking off so soon? You don’t want to stick around for some sewing lessons?” Henry, the medical assistant, walked in with a hook needle and heavy thread to sew the body back together for the morgue.

  “Nope—sorry, we have to split.” Kevin winked at Mac.

  Mac groaned and shook his head.

  “Not bad, Detective.” Kristen saluted him. “Not great, but not bad.”

  “Humph. Better than the hash you guys were slinging last night.” Kevin turned to Mac. “Let’s get out of here. You two are rubbing off on me.”

  “I don’t get it,” Mac said once they were on their way. “Why would the killer use a saw?”

  “Actually, the method of murder speaks volumes, Mac. I’m thinking the killer had a vendetta against him. From the looks of it, he was sending a message. Remember the horse’s head in The Godfather?”

  “Right. So you’re thinking this might be a mob killing?” The thought struck Mac in the chest like an ice pick, bringing back memories of his grandfather. Mac didn’t know many details surrounding Antonio DiAngelis’s life—he chose not to know. What Mac did know was that his grandfather’s money was as dirty as he was. Rich, powerful, and mean, Mac’s grandfather might have ordered something like this done. Antonio DiAngelis was serving a life sentence for his connection to the murder of a federal agent who’d infiltrated the ranks of his organization. Mac wondered how a man so evil could have fathered such a decent woman as his mother or have married someone like Dottie. His grandmother, aside from her devotion to her corrupt husband, was a saint.

  “It’s something to consider,” Kevin was saying when Mac tuned back in. “Maybe a drug dealer. I’m thinking our victim crossed someone big-time, and his killer used the saw to send a message loud and clear.”

  “Yeah, like, ‘Cross me and you get the saw.’ ”

  “Or something worse.” Kevin sighed. “If we’re right and this guy is a con, his list of enemies could be a mile long. I’m gonna let you take the lead on this one, Mac.”

  Kevin looked tired and distant. Not that being tired was a problem, but Kevin’s weariness, accompanied by Mac’s own instincts, set Mac on edge. “You feeling okay, Kev?”

  “What?” Kevin fiddled with the crease in his slacks. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”

  The set in his jaw told Mac to butt out. Fine. If Kevin didn’t want to talk, Mac wouldn’t ask. Still, it hurt to think that the friendship they’d developed these past few months meant so little to him. Mac’s thinking took an abrupt turn. What if Kevin had somehow found out about Mac’s family history?

  Mac glanced over at him. That might explain the surliness. Had Eric, Kevin’s former partner and Mac’s cousin, told Kevin about the McAllister family tree? Mac’s father, Jamie McAllister, had been a dirty cop and a drunk. He’d left his wife and Mac when Mac was a kid. Worse though was Mac’s namesake, Antonio: the mobster who thought he could rule Chicago. He did too, for a while. He had the mayor and most of the other politicians in his back pocket.

  My past shouldn’t matter,Kevin, he wanted to say. I’m clean. I put myself through school. I never touched a dime of Antonio’s money.

  That wasn’t quite true. As a kid, Mac had been placed in a private Catholic school and given all he needed by his grandmothers, Dottie DiAngelis and Kathryn McAllister. But getting into college was another matter. Antonio had expected him to become a lawyer and join the family business. Antonio had insisted on sending Mac to Harvard, but Mac chose a different path: law enforcement. Though he hadn’t been the one to take down the old man, he applauded those who had.

  MAC AND KEVIN ARRIVED at the twelfth floor of the Justice Center in downtown Portland in less than fifteen minutes. They walked into the reception area of the state police forensic lab.

  “Anybody home in latents?” Kevin asked the receptionist.

  “Well, hello yourself, Kevin, Mac. I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”

  “Sorry, Sarah. We’re looking to identify the murder victim from last night.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she grimaced. “Heard about that. Let me check.”

  She dialed a three-digit extension. “Hey, Pete. Mac and Kevin are here looking to talk with you. Okay, thanks.”
She turned back to the detectives. “Go on back. Pete’s in the latent print office.”

  The Portland crime lab looked like a business office, filled with cubicles and work stations. The first tip-off that dozens of forensic scientists worked in the building were the wall hangings that depicted photographs of detectives from days gone by processing their crime scenes. The enlarged black-and-white photos showed stern-faced men wearing thin ties and fedoras, using what was then state-of-the-art equipment to catch criminals in the 1930s and ’40s. “Things have changed a bit since then,” Kevin said to Mac while they walked back to the latent examiner section.

  “No kidding.” Mac chuckled. “Do you still have your hat?”

  “That picture was a little before my time, smarty, but a lot of the methods are still the best in my book.” Kevin was sounding a little perturbed again, so Mac let it drop.

  “Hey, guys.” A slight man in a white lab coat looked up from his papers when Mac and Kevin walked in the ID office.

  “Hi, Pete.” Mac stepped inside the spacious room. “Sorry about coming in unannounced, but we lifted some prints from a murder victim at the post this morning and were hoping to get a name from you.”

  “Sure. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Mac pulled the print card out of a manila envelope and handed it to Pete.

  “We also bagged a length of duct tape that was wrapped around the victim’s hands.” Kevin set the paper bag on a steel worktable. “We were hoping you could find the bad guy’s prints on the tape. A field team from your office didn’t have much luck at the scene.”

  “This is the saw blade guy, huh?” Pete made a sour face while he examined the print card. “Not bad; you did a good job lifting these prints. Let’s feed them into AFIS and see what comes back. As usual, you guys need to wait out here, though. The print computer is a clean room, so we minimize our foot traffic in there.” Pete disappeared through a sliding door and returned moments later. “I’ll let you know when we get a name. In the meantime, I’ll get to work on this tape.”

  “Thanks. My pager number is on the card.” Mac slid a business card across the table.

  “I’ll call you on the tape in a couple of hours, even if AFIS hasn’t returned. It will take me a bit to separate the tape and search for latents, but I’ve had pretty good luck with duct tape in the past.

  Folks usually remove their gloves to work with the stuff.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the case,” Kevin said.

  “Want to grab some lunch, partner?” Mac checked his watch.

  Eleven-thirty.

  “I’m not particularly hungry.” Kevin pulled up his seatbelt and fastened it. “Tell you what, why don’t you drive me back to my place?

  I have an appointment this afternoon. We can’t do much until we figure out who this guy is. Maybe Dana can meet you for lunch.”

  “Sure.” Mac turned the key in the ignition.

  An uncomfortable silence rode with them as Mac maneuvered the crowded city streets. He missed his partner’s bantering. He even missed Kevin’s minisermons. What was the deal, anyway?

  Kevin seemed to be distancing himself more all the time. Was he planning to give Mac a bad review? Did he plan to ditch Mac and grab another partner? As much as he wanted to, Mac couldn’t ask those questions.

  He dropped off Kevin and went in search of a fast-food place, finally going through the drive-through at a Burger King. His aloneness and confusion turned to anger, which lasted until he got to the office. Mac took his lunch into his cubicle to eat it, then he decided to catch up on some paperwork and update Sergeant Evans. Once he disposed of his empty lunch containers, he headed out through the maze of cubicles. The junior officers, of which he was one, shared the big rooms with dividers, while the sergeants and senior detectives had private offices. It seemed everyone was always vying for primo space. Mac didn’t really care at this stage.

  He was just glad to be there.

  Mac knocked on the door to Sergeant Frank Evans’s office, hoping to update him on the case and see if there were other assignments pending. He heard shuffling inside. Since the office door was slightly ajar, he pushed it in a bit farther. “Hey, Sarge, you got a sec?” Mac asked in a hushed tone, in case the sergeant was on the phone.

  “Did I say you could come in?” A voice boomed back, but it wasn’t Frank’s. Mac pushed the door open all the way and found Detective Phil Johnson seated at Frank’s desk, reading through a stack of paperwork.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known you were here. Where’s Sarge?”

  “Dunno.” Philly huffed without looking up. “Just dropping off some reports. Thought I would tidy up his desk a little.”

  “Tidy up, or read his confidential memos?” Not sure what to make of the situation, Mac offered a tentative smile.

  Philly slapped the paperwork back on the desk and tried his best to look offended, pushing back on the chair’s wheels and sliding several feet back. “Sarge knows he works with a bunch of detectives. If he didn’t want us reading his paperwork, he should lock it up in his desk.”

  “Would that keep you out?” Mac asked.

  “Probably not. I have a key to his desk too.” Philly went back to reading. “Where’s Grandpa—getting his dress blues altered for his retirement gala?”

  “Kevin? I don’t know.” Mac didn’t think it appropriate to discuss his partner’s business, whatever it might be. He sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. “I think I’ll page Sergeant Evans and bring him up to speed on our case. You want to talk to him when he calls in, Phil?”

  “You tell him I’m in here, Junior, and I’ll string you up.” Philly suppressed a grin as he stood up and poked Mac in the chest with his thick index finger. “I’d like to get out of here on time today without Frank loading up a bunch of admin junk on me.”

  Mac grabbed Philly’s fingers and, with a half-hearted attempt, tried to twist him into an arm bar. He underestimated the strength in Philly’s forearms and found himself in a choke hold instead.

  “Don’t try that ninja stuff on me, kid.” Philly licked his finger and stuck it in Mac’s ear before letting him go. “I’ll let you off with a wet willy this time; next time I go for the wedgie.”

  “I give, I give.” Mac raised his hands in surrender, mainly because the exertion had left Philly red-faced and panting. “Now go sit down before you pass out on me. I’m calling Sarge, but I won’t mention that you were in here.”

  “Good. I owe you one.” Philly slapped Mac on the back as he walked to his own office.

  Mac went out to his cubicle, closing the door behind him.

  Wonder what all that was about? And that remark about Kevin retiring—was that just Philly’s attempt at humor, or did he know something Mac didn’t? Mac had said he wouldn’t tell Frank about Philly’s snooping, but he hadn’t said he wouldn’t tell Kevin—or Eric, for that matter. For a detective, Mac sure was having a hard time figuring out his coworkers.

  PETE CALLED AT TWO-FIFTEEN. “Good news and bad news, Mac. I lifted latent prints from the duct tape, but AFIS didn’t come back with a match for them. The prints came back on our victim, though. The guy is an escaped con from the Nevada State Pen. Name’s Gerald Norton. He’s got a rap sheet a mile long.”

  Pete promised to fax over the information. In the meantime, Mac got on the phone with the Nevada State Department of Corrections and got a lot more information than he’d expected.

  After hanging up, Mac retrieved the fax and scanned the report as he made his way back to his desk. He literally bumped into Kevin when he rounded the last corner.

  “Hey, partner. I’m glad you’re back.” Mac waved the paper at him. “Got the results from Pete and have been on the horn to our buddies in Nevada.”

  “Good timing.” Kevin motioned him toward his office. “Have you been in touch with Sarge?”

  “Tried to a while ago, but he wasn’t in his office.”

  “Okay, give me the info and we’ll let Frank
know what we have.”

  “We were right about the tattoos. The victim’s name is Gerald Norton, an escaped con from the Nevada State Pen.”

  Kevin sat in his swivel chair and leaned back, placing his feet on the desk and crossing his legs at the ankle. “What was he in for?”

  Mac lowered himself into the straight-backed chair across from Kevin. “According to the report, Norton has a lengthy Computerized Criminal History for drugs, guns, and person crimes. He’s the real deal, Kev. Looks like a pretty violent dude. The feds tagged him as an armed career criminal back in 1996 after a number of robberies and assaults, all involving guns. His ACC status placed him on a higher sentencing grid, so he was looking at life even before he murdered a pit boss at one of the off-strip casinos. Got a life sentence for aggravated murder.”

  “So how did he get out?” Kevin picked up a pen and rolled it between his hands.

  “He escaped during transport to maximum security from the state prisoner triage center. Nevada detectives think he had help on the inside, because he made it into the facilities contractor entrance and took off in a service truck without force or any broken doors. They think he paid someone on the inside to get him the keys.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Mid-July. Norton’s been missing since then.”

  “Humph. And he turns up in a sawmill, split down the middle.” Kevin dropped his feet to the floor. “They have any idea who might want him killed?”

  “Yeah. There’s a laundry list of suspects in Nevada. Guy like that makes a lot of enemies. Most of them have mob ties. Their cops will take care of interviewing their local list of usual suspects.

  I told them I’d forward an electronic copy of our tape latents in case they have a local match.”