by Spencer Kope
“Bottom rung, for sure,” Diane says, “and he has no motive to hate McAllister; the guy defends him pro bono every time he gets arrested.”
“Yeah, Jimmy has a theory, and this guy doesn’t really fit,” I chime in.
“Now, does he?” Diane says in a bored, show-me-what-you-got tone. “Well, out with it; what’s the theory?”
“All in good time,” Jimmy replies. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Well, then I’ll just have to remain breathless with anticipation,” Diane says, sounding neither breathless nor anticipatory. “Suspect number two,” she continues. “Travis William Duncan, age twenty-seven. Real winner, this one; he’s a hard-core heroin addict, career burglar, and car thief. Almost two years ago he was in some dive trailer on a binge with a half dozen of his doper pals. Seems he and his partner in crime were celebrating after scoring a wad of cash from a small safe that had been bolted in place; they used a pry bar to get it out, destroying the floor and wall in the process. With cash in hand, first thing they did was re-up with an eight-ball of Mexican brown and set up a shooting gallery in the aforementioned dive trailer—a shooting gallery is a place where a bunch of junkies get together to shoot up,” she adds.
“I know that,” Jimmy says blandly.
“Ditto,” I add.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“A few hours later an ambulance responds to the trailer after dispatch receives a barely intelligible 911 call.”
“Overdose?” Jimmy asks.
“No, I wish it were so. The medics found a five-month-old baby boy convulsing and suffering from trauma to the head, including a fractured skull. They found the mother passed out nearby with a needle still in her arm. Travis apparently made the call, and was the only one somewhat alert when the ambulance arrived.
“He claimed the mother must have dropped the baby when she passed out, but his story kept changing. Eventually he cracked and admitted to punching the baby in the head a couple times because it wouldn’t shut up.”
“Define a couple times,” Jimmy says.
“He said twice; the medics had a slightly different view. They said the baby had to have been punched eight to ten times, and not lightly.”
“Did the baby make it?” I ask.
“No. He died the next day in the hospital.”
“So Travis picks up, what, a murder second charge?” Jimmy says.
“Correct. His bail was set at a million, which he obviously couldn’t afford, so he spent over a year in the Pima County jail awaiting trial. The prosecutor offered plea deals on several occasions, but Duncan rejected them, against the advice of McAllister. Anyway, the trial didn’t go well for the prosecution. I couldn’t get a straight answer from anyone as to what went wrong, and the lead detective was either too embarrassed or too upset to even talk to me. Duncan was acquitted on March fifth.”
“So McAllister represented him well,” Jimmy says.
“Better than well,” Diane says. “Now … this is the part where you tell me your great theory.” She pauses for effect. “You know, the one about a vigilante hacking off the feet of people who have escaped justice.”
Jimmy and I stare at each other, speechless.
I mouth, How did she know? But Jimmy just shakes his head; he’s completely deflated, like a hot-air balloon lying on its side after all the air spills out. It’s sad.
“I figured it out yesterday morning,” Diane adds, interpreting our silence correctly. She exhales a contented sigh. “Sorry, hon. Gotta be faster than that if you want to beat this old girl to the punch bowl.”
I give a little chuckle.
Jimmy doesn’t think it’s funny.
“Bottom line,” Diane continues, “I’m betting your Mr. Gray is going to be Travis Duncan. Which reminds me: Why do you call him Mr. Gray?”
“Uhhh,” Jimmy and I say together, followed by an awkward silence. When Jimmy makes no move to explain away the name, I jump in. “It’s just one of those stupid names we come up with for our victims,” I say. “So when Chuckles—that’s the pathologist who wasn’t helping us—when he set the feet on the autopsy table they looked all dead and gray—”
“I’m guessing because they were dead and gray,” Diane interrupts.
“Bingo! See, you get it; hence, Mr. Gray. That’s how we do it in the field.” I want to end with a hearty Booyah, but it seems a little over-the-top, so I restrain myself.
“Impressive,” Diane replies flatly.
We sometimes forget that she knows nothing about shine. Little bits slip loose here and there, bits that should be more carefully guarded. Diane’s wickedly brilliant with information, even when that information points to something as unlikely as shine. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been thinking about bringing her into the inner circle, her and Heather.
If Diane suspects anything, she’s not talking.
“Travis’s DNA wasn’t in CODIS,” she continues, “so I tracked down his aunt, Penny Dellal.”
“Is she local?”
“She is. Travis stayed with her on and off. She was the one who reported him missing in mid-July. Claimed she last saw him in early April, about a month after his acquittal, but wasn’t worried about him initially since he has a tendency to disappear for days or even weeks at a time. After the months started to stack up without a word from him she got worried and filed the report.”
“Have you talked to her yet?” Jimmy asks.
“I was just getting ready to call. I doubt there’s much she can add to what we already know. Why? Did you want to take a run at her?”
“You read my mind. What’s the address?”
There’s a pause, filled with the hurried shuffling of paper, then Diane reads off an address on South Presidio Avenue. “I looked it up on Google Earth and checked the county assessor’s site,” she says. “It’s a single-wide trailer in a rough-looking trailer park at the southeast corner of the city. You might want to think about taking backup.”
“I’ve got Steps,” Jimmy says, glancing over at me.
“Your funeral,” Diane replies. “Make sure you get a toothbrush or a razor so we have something to pull DNA from.”
“Is—what did you say the aunt’s name is?”
“Penny Dellal.”
“Is she from the dad’s side or the mom’s side of the family?”
“I’m not sure; I didn’t look that deep. You’re thinking mitochondrial DNA, aren’t you?”
“I just want to have a backup plan,” Jimmy says. “His aunt may have tossed his toothbrush by now.”
“You can’t make identification with mitochondrial.”
“I know that, but I might be able to eliminate him as our victim.”
Mitochondrial DNA is located within the cell’s mitochondria, outside the cell’s nucleus. While a single human cell contains just two copies of DNA in the nucleus, known as nuclear DNA, the mitochondria can contain hundreds of copies of mitochondrial DNA, allowing for a much better opportunity to recover workable DNA, even from heavily compromised samples, such as old bone.
The odd thing about mitochondrial DNA is that it’s inherited exclusively from the mother. Barring a mutation, a woman’s mother, siblings, and children will all have identical mitochondrial DNA. This, however, limits its application in criminal investigations, because it doesn’t provide a positive form of identification. In fact, one string of mitochondrial DNA—the most common one—is shared by 7 percent of American Caucasians. That’s a lot of suspects. It also costs more and takes longer to analyze.
Still, it’s another tool in the toolbox.
Jimmy and I don’t need DNA to figure out if Travis is our man. I’ll know that as soon as we get to the trailer and I see his shine. But a shine-match isn’t something that can go into a medical examiner’s report. We’ll need something legally and scientifically acceptable, and the best thing for that is DNA. That means a toothbrush, or a comb, or an old bandage; anything that might contain saliva, blood,
hair, or skin cells.
On one case we even collected an old stool sample.
Correction: I collected an old stool sample.
Good times.
A Single-Wide Trailer with Curtains—September 5, 12:53 P.M.
“What a hole,” Jimmy says as he pulls the rental to the side of the rutted gravel road in front of the trailer on South Presidio Avenue and shifts into park. Glancing around at the sketchy neighborhood, he adds, “Maybe we should have brought backup.”
“Too late now,” I say. “Besides, we’ve seen worse.”
Jimmy looks wary. “I’m not so sure,” he mutters.
Popping the door open, I step from the gentle air-conditioning of the Ford Fusion into the ninety-eight-degree furnace that Tucson residents so quaintly refer to as “afternoon.” As the air from my first breath half bakes my lungs, I pray aloud, “Dear Lord, let this humble single-wide have air-conditioning.”
“Amen,” Jimmy finishes.
Scrutinizing the other residences along the road, I’m reminded of the slums and shantytowns you see in Third World countries; neighborhoods patched together with plywood and corrugated metal roofing. It’s not that bad, I’m sure, but standing among the filth and decay it’s hard to separate the one from the other. “Make sure you lock the doors,” I say, looking over the roof at Jimmy. “We don’t want a repeat of Detroit.”
I give him a grin.
“Really?” He hits the lock button on the key fob and the car gives a short chirp. “I thought we weren’t going to mention Detroit.”
“You said we weren’t going to mention Detroit,” I remind him. “I made no such promise. Besides, you’re making a big deal out of nothing; they found the car, didn’t they? Well … most of it.”
Taking my glasses off and placing them in their case, I glance around the property and give Jimmy a nod. There’s a well-established path of gray mottled with carmine from the road to the trailer, and around the property.
No doubt about it, Travis Duncan is victim number two.
A pit bull chained to the trailer next door goes ballistic as Jimmy and I make our way across a parched piece of dirt outlined with rocks, presumably the front yard, and continue along the side of the trailer to a dented piece of faded aluminum that serves as Penny Dellal’s front door. Jimmy gives it a couple raps and we wait and listen. There’s no answer or stir of movement from inside, so Jimmy gives it his best law enforcement knock—loud and strong—and calls out, “FBI.”
While Jimmy mans the porch, I scoot around to the front and try to peer in through one of the larger windows. Heavy curtains completely cover the inside, so I work my way around the trailer, checking window after window, and running into curtain after curtain. As I loop around the rear of the trailer and start back toward Jimmy, Cujo goes rabid again; he’s even foaming at the mouth.
“FBI, open up,” Jimmy shouts, pounding on the door.
From my position at the corner I hear a distinct clink and what sounds like a footfall from inside. “We’ve got movement,” I tell Jimmy. He knocks again. “Ms. Dellal, we’re here about your missing nephew.”
The footfalls are more pronounced now, and I hear the unmistakable sound of glass hitting glass as someone moves forward in the trailer. A moment later the aluminum door opens a few inches, and a voice croaks, “Whatchawant?”
“FBI, Ms. Dellal,” Jimmy says, holding his badge up.
Her hand flops around in front of her face and she says, “Call me Penny.”
Jimmy nods. “We’re following up on your nephew’s disappearance, Penny, and I was hoping we could take a few minutes of your time.”
“Travis?” she mutters. “He’s gone.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why we’re here. You filed a missing-person report with the Tucson Police Department in July.”
“No, that was in … July.”
Jimmy looks at me out of the corner of his eye and I make a drinking motion with my right hand. I passed a pile of empty vodka bottles outside the rear window—probably tossed out as they were emptied—and the glass-on-glass clinking from inside likely means there are more scattered about the bedroom floor.
“Can we come in for a moment, Penny?” Jimmy presses.
The door is wide open now and I arrive at the porch in time to see Penny picking at something in her left armpit with a disoriented look on her face and wind-tunnel hair. “I s’pose you can come in for a minute,” she says. “If you’re really the FBI.” She gives each of us an inquisitorial stare before seeming satisfied.
Flopping down in a recliner covered by a lightly stained blanket, Penny invites us to sit. The only other piece of furniture in the room is a road couch: a piece of furniture so nasty that you leave it by the side of the road with a FREE sign hoping someone will take it. Jimmy politely takes a seat and the couch makes a squishy sound as he sinks into it.
I decide to stand.
“You find Travis?” Penny asks.
Hmm, yes and no, I think.
“No,” Jimmy replies, always tactful in these situations, “but we’re making progress.” He opens his notepad and takes pen to hand. “Do you remember if Travis got any threats before he disappeared? Phone calls, notes left at the door, anything like that?”
“Sure, he got some nasty comments after he killed that little baby,” Penny blurts, “but most people didn’t know he was staying here, so it was mostly stuff on blogs and such, people who didn’t know him. Travis had a heart of gold,” she adds. “It’s just the heroin done it to him. He couldn’t keep clean, couldn’t keep a job, stole from everyone he knew, including me. It’s the drugs; it poisons the mind.”
She picks up a half-full vodka bottle from the end table and takes a long pull, then offers Jimmy a drink. He shakes his head and says a polite, “No, thank you,” so she screws the cap back on and lays the bottle in her lap.
“Did Travis have a car?”
Penny thinks real hard and then shakes her head. “He had lots of bikes. Every week it was a different one, it seemed, but no car, not for a couple years. He lost his license, you know. Same with me, but mine was a dis-carriage of justice. I know when I’m drunk and I wasn’t drunk when they said I was.”
“I believe you,” Jimmy replies. “Tell me, are you related to Travis through his mother or father?”
“Through his mother, of course,” Penny says impatiently. “I’m his aunt, not his uncle. His mother was my older sister, Paula.”
“Was…?”
Penny’s face sours. “She died when Travis was nine. The heroin got her. And Travis didn’t have no father; well, I guess he did at one point, but only for a night, if you get my meaning.”
“I do,” Jimmy says. “A lot of that going around.” He makes some scratches in the notebook. “Did Travis leave any possessions behind?”
Penny stares at the bottle in her lap a moment, then sets it on the end table and gets up without a word. She disappears into the small bedroom off the hall and the only thing that comes out for two long minutes is some banging and cussing. When she returns to the living room, her hair looks like the wind tunnel had another go at it, and she’s holding a two-foot-by-two-foot box in her hands.
“That’s it,” she says, setting the cardboard cube on the coffee table. “That’s all of it; everything he had, except the three bikes out back.”
Something is wrong when a man’s worldly possessions fit inside a small cardboard box, I think as I cautiously peel back the four flaps at the top. Most Americans use their garage to store all their extra junk, and sometimes they rent a storage unit on top of it. The fact that Travis’s sum accumulation fits in this box is sad. Where are the middle school baseball trophies, the favorite T-shirts, the books, the movie posters, the music? Where are his high school yearbooks, or his diploma?
McAllister’s right: heroin didn’t do this to him, he did it to himself. Heroin was just the vehicle he drove on the way to self-destruction.
There’s an unappealing odor playing at
the end of my nose, but I’m not sure if it’s coming from the box or from the living room, which has a smorgasbord of its own aromas, and none of them pleasant.
“Don’t touch that,” Jimmy warns me in a soft voice, tilting his head toward the box. “I’m going to run out to the car and get the kit.” He’s gone less than a minute, serenaded by Cujo there and back. When he returns to the living room he’s carrying a small leather bag by its short straps. He sets it next to the cardboard box and unzips the top. Reaching inside, he retrieves a pair of black tactical gloves.
Designed specifically for high-risk frisks and searches, the gloves provide extra protection against cuts and jabs. The biggest concern when dealing with an addict is getting stuck by one of his used needles. It’s a good way to end up with hepatitis or HIV.
Pulling the gloves on, Jimmy begins removing items from the box one at a time, placing each on the coffee table. There’s little of note and nothing of value. Halfway down he says, “Uh, I got something,” and extracts a used needle attached to an empty syringe. There’s a touch of dried blood on the needle and the residue of heroin in the syringe. Jimmy opens the mouth of the kit and pulls out a small travel-sized plastic container designed for safe needle disposal in the field. He pushes the syringe through the hole, and then sets the trap aside.
Two more needles and a pair of dirty underwear later, Jimmy is getting close to the bottom of the box when he says, “Here we go; yeah, that’s perfect,” and extracts a blue toothbrush with the bristles wrapped in clear plastic.
“I wrapped it up ’cause I didn’t want it to get dirty,” Penny says, pointing at the plastic wrapped around the end.
“Good thinking,” Jimmy replies generously.
Next he pulls out a hairbrush, a pair of nail cutters, and a used bar of soap wrapped in a stained washcloth.
“That’s all the stuff he left in the bathroom,” Penny says. “Except the toothpaste; I used that.”
Jimmy holds up the hairbrush in his left hand and the toothbrush in his right. “Can we take these, Penny? We can send them to the FBI lab and they’ll give us a DNA profile for Travis. It’s very useful in cases like this, and could help identify him—find him,” he quickly corrects.
