Back on Murder rm-1

by J. Mark Bertrand

  I don’t bother explaining. I couldn’t if I tried. I just leave, knowing one thing for certain.

  They won’t let her drive home like that.

  CHAPTER 4

  About the paperwork. You spend the first hours and days waiting on reports — crime scene, autopsy, results of various tests both standard and specially requested — then suddenly, it all comes flooding in. And you go from not having enough information, building theories on hunches and the thinnest observations, to positively drowning in the stuff. Sifting the data for what’s important, that’s a skill not everyone possesses.

  Take Lorenz, for instance. He sits in his cubicle, scanning an index finger back and forth over the page. I’ve been watching him for a solid minute. Every couple of seconds he licks his fingertip, turns the page, then nods slowly, as if he’s assimilating an important bit of info. Problem is, assuming our boy Octavio died from the shotgun wounds to his gut, there’s nothing in the standard tox screen that warrants assimilation.

  “Something interesting?” I ask.

  The funny thing is, he looks up in surprise. Like he didn’t even realize I was watching. So the whole act was for no one’s benefit, unless it’s himself he’s trying to convince.

  I reach for the stack of paper at his elbow. “Mind if I — ”

  His forearm drops like a gate, blocking my reach. Nice. Lorenz had some muscle on him when he joined HPD, but somewhere along the line he reversed the balance between workouts and red-meat consumption. Now his blue blazer, which he keeps buttoned even when sitting, pulls at the belly and his shoulder pads ride up around his ears. On his lapel there are series of discolorations, spilled milk allowed to encrust, then brushed away without being cleaned. For a homicide detective, this verges on the slovenly.

  “I’m kind of busy here, March. If you want to make yourself useful, why don’t you start on those call-backs? A couple of tips came in over the weekend.”

  “I already looked. Nothing there. Can I just get the blood report? I want to see if there’s an id on the missing victim.”

  “If there even was one,” he says, not budging. “Those ties could have been there forever, you know. There’s nothing linking them to this particular incident, is there?”

  “You mean it’s just a big coincidence?” I stroke my chin in consideration. “That’s a fascinating theory. Why don’t you pursue that, and meanwhile I’m gonna stick to the more obvious explanations. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”

  I’m baiting him, I admit. But to his credit Lorenz doesn’t react. He just gives another of his slow, assimilating nods. Then he flips through his stack of reports, apparently hunting for the blood work. After reaching the bottom, he shrugs.

  “Not here yet, I guess.”

  “Fine. Thanks for checking. I’m gonna call and see what the delay is.”

  As I turn, he grabs me by the sleeve. “Hold up a second. Have a seat.”

  I try leaning against the cubicle wall, but he shoves a chair my way and I finally relent. Once I’m seated, he leans forward and starts talking in a quiet, reasonable tone.

  “Listen,” he says. “I’m not an idiot. I know what’s at stake here for you. You’re thinking if you can make me look bad, the captain’s gonna keep you around — ”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Let me finish. This is a big break for you, I get that. But I’ve been on Homicide for — what, a year? — so this is a big break for me, too. You’re not the only one with something to prove. So we can do this one of two ways. You can back my play, in which case I’ll be sure to throw some bones your way. Or you can turn this into a head-to-head match.” He gives me his best psych-out stare. “In which case you’ll lose.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Trust me. You won’t even finish the game.”

  I vacate the chair, giving his oversized shoulder a friendly pat. “All right, then. Why don’t we both just focus on the case? You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

  “That’s not what I’m offering, March,” he calls after me. “The deal is, we both do my thing. This is my investigation. Either we’re clear on that, or we have a problem.”

  Halfway to my desk I offer an insincere wave. Reading you loud and clear. My brain says I should try keeping this idiot happy, but my gut wants to throw down. The thing about threats is, people make them out of fear. Either they don’t have the power to follow through, or they don’t want to use it. In this case, Lorenz probably could pull some strings, but he’s smart enough to realize his position is only slightly less precarious than mine. At least I hope he is.

  When I reach my desk, I notice Lieutenant Bascombe standing at his office door, peering over the cubicle walls. While I was watching my new partner, the lieutenant must have been keeping an eye on me. Having Lorenz for an adversary doesn’t bother me — I’m not sure I’d want it any other way. But Bascombe’s another story. Once he’s sunk his teeth in, the man doesn’t let go.

  When your crime lab has had as much trouble as ours, popping in and out of the news, subject to independent investigation, with the DNA section being shut down, opened, and shut down again, nothing is ever easy. I’m not surprised Lorenz doesn’t have the blood report back yet. We send so much of the work out these days, it’s hard to keep track of where it’s gone, or what the status is.

  But listen, this crime lab scandal has only been in the headlines for the past seven years or so. They’re bound to get it sorted any day now. This is the fourth largest city in America we’re talking about, not some backwater jurisdiction without two quarters to rub together.

  So instead of making another pointless call to the hpd crime lab, I go to my work-around, dialing the county medical examiner’s office. The music on the other end of the line is quite soothing. I could close my eyes and imagine I’m on an elevator.

  “I’m sorry,” a female voice cuts in. “Who were you holding for?”

  “Bridger.”

  “He’s in the lab, I’m afraid. Could I take a message?”

  “I know he’s in the lab. That’s why I’m waiting. Tell him it’s Roland March. He’ll want to talk to me.”

  She thinks it over. “Please hold.”

  I might have stretched the truth a little saying Dr. Alan Bridger will want to talk to me. I’m pretty sure he won’t. In the history of our friendship, I’ve done him exactly one favor, which he’s returned a thousand times and counting. But it was a pretty big favor, introducing him to Charlotte’s sister Ann. Plus I was the best man at the wedding.

  When he comes on the line, eternal gratitude doesn’t seem to be in the forefront of his mind.

  “I’m not even going to say this had better be important, because I know it’s not. So can you at least make it quick? The bodies don’t autopsy themselves, you know.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” I say.

  “That’s why you called, to talk about my mood? I gotta go — ”

  “Hold on a second, Alan. I need a favor.”

  He coughs into my ear. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? It almost sounded like you said you need a favor, and I know we already had this conversation.”

  “It’s about some blood.”

  “You have your own people for that.”

  “Yeah, in theory we have our own people, but you’re my workaround. And this is serious, Alan. I wouldn’t have dragged you away from your thoracic cavities otherwise.”

  “What is it?” he asks, sounding unconvinced.

  “That houseful of bodies from Friday. Octavio Morales, Hector Diaz — ”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I cut ’em for you. What more do you want?

  The reports are already out the door.” He coughs again. “Wait a second. Are you working that?”

  “Yes.”

  “An actual murder? I thought they only sent you out when a brother officer eats his gun.”

  “I’m off the odd jobs for now, and I’d like to keep it that way, all right? So you wanna hel
p me out on this or not?”

  He gives a theatrical sigh. “Not really. But go ahead anyway.”

  So I tell him about the bloodstained sheets underneath Octavio Morales, the ligatures tied to the mattress frame, and the obvious conclusion that someone was tied to that bed. If the second victim’s blood can be distinguished, I need to know everything the sample can tell me, from type and gender to a possible identification.

  “You’re not asking for much,” he says. “Seriously, though, can’t your own people handle this?”

  “Oh, they’ll get to it just as soon as they can. But we’re sending our dna work out, and that’s what this is going to take. We’ve got blood, but no body, and I think the whole key to this killing was that person tied to the bed. If I can identify her, that’s the ball game.”

  “Her?”

  “I’m assuming.”

  “Well, listen, I can’t promise same-day service on the dna front, but if you want me to expedite the basics, I can do that. That would tell you if you have another victim, give you gender and so on. Running the profile through codis, though, that’ll take longer. But provided you can rush a sample over, I’ll make sure it happens. All right?”

  “Perfect, Alan. I’ll bring it myself.”

  I thought taking Main the whole way would be clever, avoiding freeway traffic, but by the time I finally reach Holcombe I’m having second and third thoughts. The Harris County medical examiner is just a stone’s throw from the Astrodome — assuming you have a good arm — but I can’t seem to get there in the bumper-to-bumper.

  If you’d told me at age twenty-one I’d spend a good portion of the next quarter century sitting in traffic listening to talk radio, I’m not sure I’d have had the strength of character not to drown myself in the toilet bowl. One of those phrases from Rick Villanueva’s speech comes back to me. It’s time for Houston to get moving again. When Bill White entered the mayor’s office promising to do just that, I voted for the guy — and have twice more since then — never thinking this was more than a campaign promise. Nothing could get this city moving, unless you count a slow crawl.

  During the news break, I turn up the radio volume.

  “In the disappearance of northwest Houston teen Hannah Mayhew,” the announcer says, “hpd officials announced today the formation of a new multi-agency task force to continue the search. A spokesman for the department refused to comment on rumors surfacing over the weekend that reported video footage of the teen’s abduction in the parking lot of Willowbrook Mall.”

  Even though I work for HPD, just a couple of floors away from the center of gravity on the Mayhew case, this is the first I’ve heard about a task force. That’s media pressure for you. Wanda’s people, the ones with experience in these matters, haven’t found the girl yet, so the powers that be decide to throw more manpower at the problem, confusing an already Byzantine jurisdictional map. A task force might sound good, but it just means more people to keep in the loop, more warm bodies without Missing Persons experience.

  All the sudden I’m feeling grateful that my own missing female — assuming there is one, and that she’s in fact a she — doesn’t merit as much public interest as the girl on the cable news. It’s bad enough having to deal with Lorenz. And possibly Bascombe.

  By the time I reach the ME’s office, Rush Limbaugh is off the air and a new guy’s repeating everything he just said. I switch the radio off, grab my sample, and hustle inside.

  Bridger’s lab is a lot nicer than the one I’ve just come from downtown, which always reminds me of a high school science classroom being run by student teachers. Here, everything is bright white and gleaming, an exemplar of sterile technology. None of the encrusted surfaces you see in our own lab, and none of the sexy mood lighting from tv. Every time I cross the threshold, a tremor of sci-fi excitement goes through me.

  “You wait here,” he says, pointing me into his office. He relieves me of the sample as we pass.

  “You’re gonna do it this minute? I want to watch if you are.”

  He pauses. “What part of ‘wait here’ didn’t you get?”

  Although he’s my brother-in-law and I impose on him at will, Bridger can’t help being intimidating. In his mid-fifties, handsome, with rimless eyeglasses and hair as white as his lab coat, there’s something downright objective about the man, like whatever he says must be so. Which is why, when the district attorney’s office has to put an expert on the stand, they always want it to be him. He speaks with the authority of science, even one-on-one.

  So I kill some time flipping through this morning’s Chronicle, the only piece of paper on Bridger’s desk accessible to the layman. Not surprisingly, Hannah Mayhew’s on the front cover, bottom fold, looking as blond and wholesome as she did on the flat screen. I dig for the sports section only to find it’s missing. Someone must have snatched it, because Bridger’s never taken much of an interest. I’ve had to explain to him twice who Yao Ming is.

  As I’m shuffling through the pages, Sheryl Green pokes her head in. She stares at me like I’m a lab specimen, then she frowns.

  “Where is he?” she asks, answering her own question by glancing back into the lab. “What is this, then, your break time?”

  “He told me to wait.”

  I’m not sure if Dr. Green is Bridger’s protégée these days or his chief rival, but I do know she’s never cared much for me. Before my fall from grace, I camped out on Bridger’s doorstep all the time, cadging for one favor or another. Sheryl reacted pretty much the way Jesus must have, arriving at the temple only to find money changers setting up shop. Lucky for me there were no whips handy.

  With a sigh of resignation she drops a thin folder on Bridger’s desk, taking the opportunity to glance over whatever paperwork happens to be faceup. Then she sees the Chronicle in my hand, her eyes tracking the headlines.

  “Can you believe all that?”

  I glance at the front, making sure it’s Hannah Mayhew she means, then treat her to a commiserative headshake. “Yeah, I know.”

  “If that girl was black like me,” she says, “or just ugly like you. .”

  “Tell me about it. That’s why I’m here.” I jab my thumb in Bridger’s general direction. “I’ve got a bloodstain I’m pretty sure belongs to a female victim, from that shoot house off of West Bellfort? I can’t even get anybody to look at it.”

  Not precisely true, but I don’t often find common ground with this woman, so I’d like to make the most of it.

  “That houseful of bodies?” she asks. “Four victims?”

  “Possibly five. I think the guys who did the shooting took her with them.”

  Her eyes narrow. On the phone, Bridger hadn’t seemed too impressed by the possibility, but Green is intrigued. I explain what I’m after from the test: confirmation of my hypothetical victim for starters, and eventually an id.

  “That’s a long shot,” she says. “Running a profile through codis would get you hits for known homicide victims, offenders, military, unidentified samples from other crime scenes, that kind of thing — ”

  “I know how it works.”

  “Then you know how unlikely it is you’re gonna identify someone from the blood on those sheets. Unless you have something to compare it with.”

  What can I say? I answer with a shrug. “I’ve only got what I got.”

  “Then you don’t have much.”

  Just as she turns to go, Bridger appears in the doorway. “You’ve got something, anyway.”

  He hands me a printout, which I spend all of two seconds examining. “How about an executive summary, Doc?”

  “You have blood from a second victim on the sheets,” he says, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Type O-positive, as opposed to Morales’s much rarer B-neg. Your second victim is also female, as you suspected.”

  I feel like hugging the man, or at least pumping my fist in the air, but Green’s presence coupled with Bridger’s usual reserve precludes most anything beyond a smile.


  “And there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “I told you not to expect same-day service, but — ”

  “You ran it through codis?”

  He shrugs. “I got curious. Bad news is, you didn’t get a hit. Whoever she is, she doesn’t have a dna sample in the system.”

  Green nods her head and gives me a told-you-so smile.

  “You find something to match it against, Detective, and then you come back.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I really mean it. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Back in the parking lot, results in hand, I have no idea how to proceed. My initial hunch is confirmed, but then I never doubted there’d been a woman tied to that bed. All I know now that I didn’t before is that I’m right. This will help me with Hedges, but it won’t break the case, which is what I really need.

  Instead of waiting until I get back downtown, I call in the results. Lorenz’s number goes straight to voicemail, which is fine with me. I dial Bascombe and report directly to him.

  “So that’s that,” he says.

  “I guess so. It’s more than we had this morning, anyway.”

  On the radio, a local call-in show is discussing nothing but Hannah Mayhew, alternating “oh, what a tragedy” with “why can’t the police do more?” in perpetual rotation. A woman whose daughters attend Klein High calls in to let everyone know how devastated the students are. She’s dismayed the kids are returning to class after the Labor Day holiday.

  Then an anonymous caller who claims he’s from the Harris County Sheriff ’s Department says this task force thing is only going to make matters worse. My sentiment exactly, but the rivalries being what they are, I find myself doubting when they come from a county deputy’s lips.

  “At this point,” the host says, “Hannah’s been missing for more than seventy-two hours. Since noon on Thursday. How likely is it now that she’s gonna turn up safe?”