“Maybe.”
“You know, Pete, when I first met Merritt, he claimed he didn’t even know about the rape. He’d come to the spa at Davida’s request.”
Decker nodded. “So what kind of business could Merritt have with Davida?”
“Who said they had any business, Rabbi? Maybe he was just paying Ma a visit.”
“Didn’t Merritt say his mother called him down?”
“Yeah.”
Decker said, “He had business with Davida. And then after all these years, he suddenly wanted to reconcile with his sister. I’m beginning to put more credence in Freddy Brecht’s words. I think Davida and Merritt were up to something. I think Merritt wanted something out of Lilah.”
“Pete, he was genuinely upset by Lilah’s attack.”
“Or he just faked it well. Acting’s in the genes.”
Marge said, “I’ve seen everything, so I’ll believe anything. But my gut is telling me Kingston didn’t rape his own sister.”
“But say he had something to do with the theft. Like I said before, someone hired thugs and they raped Lilah as an afterthought.”
Marge stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a stick of gum. “Okay, let’s assume Merritt was behind the burglary.”
Decker said, “The only two things we know about in the safe are the jewels and the papers, right? So let’s run with the jewels first. Assume Merritt stole the jewels for money. He was always hard up according to Brecht and his bank account was none too padded. Davida found out about it and that’s why they were meeting at the spa. She wanted her jewels back. Merritt played innocent, Davida got mad and had her own kid whacked. That would explain the robbery and Merritt’s death. If Merritt hired thugs, it could possibly explain the rape.” He paused. “Only problem with that scenario is that if Davida had Merritt whacked, she still wouldn’t get her jewels back.”
“Someone tossed his office, Pete. Maybe someone was looking for them.”
“But only Merritt’s office was tossed. Not the front office, not the ORs.”
Marge said, “If I were Davida and I wanted my jewels and I suspected my son of lifting them, I’d just turn him in to the police.”
“She didn’t want a family thing getting out.”
“But she was willing to murder for it? Draw attention to herself…”
Decker said, “Okay, scratch whacking Kingston for the jewels. I’m sleep-deprived and my ideas are fucked.”
Marge laughed.
“So let’s run with the memoirs,” Decker said. “Keep it basic. Say Merritt stole the memoirs. We know how Lilah felt about the papers. And I remember Lilah telling me that her mother had a fit when Davida found out about them. Suppose Davida wanted them, too. Merritt decided to play the two of them against each other—very easy to do because mother and daughter are in pit-bull competition. Merritt’s twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the highest bidder, holding out for big bucks. That’s why he’s in sudden communication with mother and sister.”
Marge considered his reasoning. “Then we’d have to assume that there’s something very important in those memoirs—probably something damaging to Davida. And we’d have to assume that King knows there’s something very damaging. How would he know what the damaging thing is if the memoirs were in Lilah’s possession all these years?”
“He stole the memoirs and read them.”
“But why bother stealing them unless he already knew there was something juicy in them, Pete? Something that Davida would be willing to pay money for.”
Decker’s brain was buzzing. Slow down. Don’t have to make sense out of all of it. Just try to make sense out of some of it.
“How about this?” Decker said. “Merritt is hard up for cash so he has thugs steal the jewels. The thugs steal the jewels, rape Lilah, and maybe the inner safe was open so they take the memoirs, too. What the hey. Merritt reads the memoirs. Bingo, he has something more valuable than the jewels—something negotiable.”
Marge said, “Okay, he knew that Davida would pay big bucks for the memoirs. Why would Lilah pay bucks for them?”
“Because Merritt knew that Lilah was obsessed with her father, Marge. You should have heard the way she talked about him. She idolizes him. Her first husband told me she felt the same way back when he was married to her.” Decker paused. “So Merritt’s setting the women against each other, one of them gets sick of the game playing and has him whacked.”
Marge didn’t respond.
“I’m just talking off the top of my head,” Decker said. “You know, we haven’t even thought about Freddy Brecht. He really hated Merritt.”
“Brecht’s hatred seems long-standing. Why would he suddenly murder now…focus suspicion on himself. Be pretty dumb, don’t you think?”
“Maybe it was an impulsive thing. Freddy goes to Merritt, says I know you and Mom are up to something. Push comes to shove, a struggle breaks out, Freddy whacks bro.”
“Then you’d have to assume that Freddy had already whacked Merritt before we saw him tonight. If that was the case, he certainly acted like a cool cookie. He was irate, but he didn’t seem nervous.”
Decker said, “Acting’s in the genes.”
“Except Freddy is adopted.”
Decker smiled. “Could be Merritt’s death had nothing to do with the robbery and rape. Maybe some fanatical prolifer didn’t like Merritt pickling fetuses.”
Marge grimaced. “Why did Merritt keep them around?”
“Because he’s bizarre. He fits in perfectly with that pack of hyenas.”
“Man, you said it.”
“Maybe Merritt was selling embryonic tissue to some illicit lab for money. Maybe the lab was cloning…unborn babies to send into outer space. To attack Earth. What do you think?”
Marge tightened her parka around her chest, not smiling. “That could be looked into…the selling of the tissue.”
“Marge—”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Anything’s possible. But is it relevant?”
“If it establishes a pattern of what Merritt will do for money. Three hundred and fifty gees a year from his practice and all he’s got is five grand in the bank. That’s why he runs an abortion mill, that’s why he sells fetuses illegally and steals his mother’s jewels—”
“Hold on—”
“All right, so we’ve got a tiny leap in logic,” Marge confessed. “You can have fucked ideas, so can I.” She paused. “You know, none of our ideas explains the crazy horse. Unless you think Merritt was behind that, too.”
Decker shrugged. “I’m not saying Merritt was behind anything, although his death certainly complicates the case.”
Marge said, “If the memoirs were the driving force behind all of this, maybe we should start finding out about Hermann Brecht.”
“Maybe.”
Decker thought about the old lady Lilah used to visit in her younger, do-gooder days, the one who knew Hermann Brecht in the old country. He’d pay her a visit tomorrow. If she was still alive.
And they say women yak up a storm. Marge tapped her foot with impatience. Pete and the Burbank detectives—Justice Ferris and his partner—had been talking cars for the last twenty minutes. Curly-haired Ferris—a good-looking guy in his thirties—drove a ’67 red Vette. Ferris’s partner, Don Malone, was in good shape for a man in his fifties. He drove an old Jag XKE. All three boys went on and on about different junkyards, where to find the best parts in the city. The whole thing was mind-numbing, but Marge knew it was Pete’s way of gaining rapport with the dudes. They finally started talking shop when the sun came up.
The division of labor was simple. Ferris and Malone were anxious to catch the homicide, and she and Decker were more than anxious to let them have it, just as long as they maintained access to all suspects, files, and lab reports.
“No problem,” Ferris said.
“One more thing,” Marge said. “I’d like to be around when you question John Reed, Merritt’s other doctor brother. We
haven’t connected yet.”
“No problemo,” Ferris said.
“And you’ll leave us the paper trail,” Decker added.
“Ce n’est pas une problème, mes amis,” Ferris said.
They all laughed.
Malone said, “You’re gonna reciprocate, right?”
“Help yourself to my desk,” Decker said.
“Mi files es su files,” Ferris said. “Or maybe I should say: Mi murder es su murder.”
Malone rolled his eyes. A lab tech walked out of the clinic, shaking her head. She was black and very petite, her lab coat practically reaching her ankles. She and Ferris did a high-five handshake.
“Got a problem, Sheri?” Ferris said.
“Justice, my lad, you and Donnie have your work cut out.”
“What’s the bad news?” Decker said.
“Now, did I say there was any bad news? Just news.”
“So what kind of news are we talking about?” Marge said.
“I’m glad you asked,” Sheri said. “We found two completely different blood types. One matches the victim, but there’s a lot of blood in there that doesn’t belong to him.”
“The murderer,” Ferris said. “He got hurt, bled as he fled.”
“He practically emptied his veins,” Sheri said. “Found over two pints in the murder room alone.”
Marge said, “Two pints?”
“Yes, sir-madam,” Sheri said. “Big pool of the stuff. If I were you lads, I’d start checking out some emergency rooms. That guy—or gal—would have needed plasma, prontissimo.”
“I’ll start calling,” Malone said.
“Shit!” Decker slapped his forehead. “That’s it!”
“What, Pete?”
“The trail of blood,” Decker said. “Think about it! A huge pool was found in the murder room, then there were smaller puddles and smears right outside the room, some smears in the hallway, a few more in the waiting room, then less and less blood until there was nothing but drips in the parking lot. Margie, if the murderer was bleeding as he was escaping, we’d have found less blood in the room, much more blood in the hallways, and the most in the parking lot as he was climbing into his car to escape!”
Marge pushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re right.”
Ferris said, “Unless he taped up his wounds.”
“Tape up a wound that’s gushed out two pints of blood?” Decker said.
“Okay,” Malone said. “So what’s your theory?”
“Simple,” Decker said. “Someone was carried out of the murder room after sitting in his own blood for a while. He was then dragged along the floor—that’s the smears—then finally lifted into a vehicle in the parking lot, dripping a little until he was safely stashed inside. Know what I think that means?”
“What?” Ferris said.
“I think it means we have another stiff somewhere.”
22
Marge thought: It’s better than an office of bloody fetuses, but Parker Center Crime Lab is still not the bistro of choice for breakfast. Sipping coffee and wolfing down a doughnut, she scanned the rows of tables sagging under piles of clear plastic bags filled with clothing—hundreds of pieces of evidence waiting to be analyzed. It saddened her—no matter how many times she’d seen this room—to think that these garments had once been worn by living, breathing individuals. Some of the victims were alive—recipients of assaults. But for others, what remained on the table was the only part of them that had survived the crime.
She felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around. Buck Travers was well into his sixties but still had a full head of black hair. He was stoop-shouldered, potbellied, and smiling, as usual. Marge wondered what his secret was. Maybe he was genuinely happy with his work. Travers had tried retirement once but hadn’t liked it. The department, in one of its rare moments of lucidity, gave Travers back his former job. Buck was one of the best hair and fibers men around.
“Sorry I’m late,” Travers grinned. “I had a date with a bloody afghan—not the canine variety. You look tired, Detective Dunn.”
“Been up since three in the morning.”
“Same case or a different one?”
“Two cases that are probably related. We’re not sure how. We’re hoping for help.”
“Well, I might be able to give you a little. Come and I’ll show you what we got.”
Travers led Marge to his desk located between a gas chromatograph and a centrifuge lined with tubes of blood. He picked up a file and frowned. Marge caught it.
“Your expression’s hinky. What’s wrong, Buck?”
“What do you want first—the good news or the bad news?”
“I’m an optimist. Let’s hear the cheerful stuff.”
“Good news is we have a preliminary match—”
“Hallelujah!” Marge clapped her hands. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Wait a minute. You haven’t heard the bad news yet.”
“First let’s finish with the good news. Who, Buck?”
“I think you’d better hear the bad news.”
Marge bit back frustration and told herself to take her time. That’s the way it was with lots of techs. They were meticulous people. “What’s the bad news?”
Travers frowned again. “Who did the evidence collection?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“What happened? Was there a screwup?”
“Yeah, there was a screwup.”
“Damn it! It wasn’t me, Buck. I bagged each sample individually and marked them—”
“Now, hold on, I’m not saying it was you. But there was a screwup.”
“How bad?”
“Well, I found this lone bag of female hairs in your evidence collection. Lord only knows which case it belongs to. Someone’s going to charge in here demanding to know what the hell happened to their evidence and we’re not going to have the answers. Screwups are more frequent than we’d like to think. Some staffers just pass over them. Not me.” Travers pointed to his chest. “I’m not going to further the disaster and make like my results are pristine. I just want to make sure the evidence you gave me is all accounted for.”
“Fine, Buck, I’m duly warned. The results?”
“I’m not stalling for the sake of stalling, Marge. I just don’t want to name a person only to find out he’s not the one you should be after. I’d like some more time—”
“Fine. Take as much time as you want, Buck. I’m perfectly aware that you’re giving me tainted results. Who’s the prelim match?”
“Well…” Travers opened up the file again. “After careful consideration we find consistency between the hair collection taken from sheets on Case Number REb129847563 and a hair sample collected by you. We’re still waiting for DNA banding results to come in using spermatozoa as the primary marker. Banding is more conclusive but the tests take a while. So you gotta take this with a grain of salt, Margie—”
“A whole shaker full! Buck, who is it?”
“Carl Totes.”
The stable hand was as out of place as a cow chip on china, eyes darting from one wall of the interview room to the other. Decker figured it was claustrophobia that was giving Totes the shakes, more than the situation itself. Carl had seemed baffled by the arrest but not the least bit uncooperative. He’d readily offered samples of his hair for retesting—anything to help out Miz Lilah. He’d handled the car trip over to the station house pretty well although he’d been uncomfortable riding next to Marge. But once inside the small interrogation area, Totes’s nervous system began to discharge. He fidgeted and drummed the table with his hands. He took off his cowboy hat and kneaded the felt rim with calloused hands. Clearly, this was not a man used to physical boundaries.
Marge was seated closest to the door, working the tape recorder. Decker wanted to do the questioning. He had seated himself next to Totes at the other end of the table. Totes had been working out the horses when they had presented him with the warrant. The stable ha
nd’s jeans were covered with dust, his shirt had soaked up lots of sweat. Guy smelled up close, but Decker could take it. He’d spent enough of his youth on a ranch and was used to nature’s perfume. After being Mirandized, Totes was given a card that stated he had been advised of his rights. Marge asked him to read the card and sign it and he did so without reservation.
“How long this gonna take?” He wiped his face with his bandanna and stuck it in his pocket.
Decker said, “A long time, Mr. Totes.”
“Don’t like talking in a room.” Totes’s eyes were still jumpy. “Why couldn’t we talk at the ranch? Like last time.”
“Because you’re under arrest, Mr. Totes,” Decker said. “Do you understand that you’re under arrest?”
“Arrest fer what? I didn’t do nothin’.”
Decker tapped his foot. “I think we should get him a lawyer.”
“Don’t need no lawyer,” Totes insisted. “Jus’ ask your dern questions and get this over.”
Marge and Decker exchanged glances. Decker shrugged and told her to turn on the recorder. After reciting the identifying data into the mike, he began the questioning.
“Mr. Totes, do you remember last Monday, June twenty-third—”
“Don’t remember no dates.”
“Okay.” Decker tried a different angle. “Do you remember the day after your boss, Lilah Brecht, was raped?”
“Yessir.”
“Do you remember where you were the night Lilah Brecht was raped?”
“Yessir.”
“Where were you that night, Mr. Totes?”
“Where I always were. At the ranch.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know the address of the place. Don’t you got it?”
Decker smoothed his mustache. “In which part of the ranch were you located, Mr. Totes?”
“Oh…in the stable.”
“What were you doing in the stable?”
“What wuz I doin’? I wuz sleepin’.”
“Why were you sleeping in the stable?”
“’Cause that’s where I live.”
“How long have you lived there?”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 05 Page 26
