Code 61 ch-4

by Donald Harstad

My nose was only two thirds right. They'd thrown out onions and garlic, all right. But the third one wasn't meat. It was a bloody body bag. I stopped as soon as I saw it, and called for a little help.

  Chris Barnes and the rest of the lab crew were at breakfast, just about to leave for Des Moines. He got to the office in five minutes.

  We all stood looking at the bag. It was a white nylon bag, with black nylon handles, and a black zipper. A small label proclaimed it to be a “500 VSA.” A good bag, it was one of the expensive double-thick ones, with reinforcements at the ends and on the bottom. There was quite a bit of blood in it, and a darkish smear on the outside of the bag. Chris looked very closely at that, and said it looked like a wood stain, possibly from where it had been stored.

  “Well,” said Chris, “this goes a long way toward explaining the lack of a blood trail.”

  “Except for the spots, next to her tub, on the carpet outside her room, and at the bottom of the back stair,” I said.

  “Right. Where somebody rested the body, and it was bent forward or to a side, and put pressure on the bag, and forced a bit of blood out of the zipper.” Chris shook his head. “I'd just guess that she hadn't bled out all the way when they bagged her,” he said. “Don't quote me on that, not yet. We gotta test the blood first. See if it's human, and then see if it's hers.” Using a gloved finger, he stirred a little pool of blood that had accumulated in one of the folds of the bag. “It sure as hell should have clotted by now.”

  “Right.” That was from Hester. “How long till we can have the results?”

  “For human, maybe today, depending on when I get to DM.” He paused when she cleared her throat. “Okay, today, then, for sure. As for the DNA match… hard to say, but as fast as we can get it done.”

  “You know,” I said, “having a killer with his own body bag sure makes a case for premeditation. You just can't plan much farther ahead than that.”

  We filled out the evidence sheet for the bag. It consisted of a copy of my logging, where I had entered the time I pulled the bags from the big blue box; the time I placed them in the evidence locker, the time I took them out, and the time I signed the body bag over to Chris. My signature by every entry, and his and mine on the last set. Maintaining the chain of evidence is crucial, but a pain in the butt, regardless. Like they say, the only time it's going to be important is the time you forget to do it.

  We all pitched in and did the contents of the rest of the garbage bags. We found one bloody bath towel, a bloody washcloth, a bloody bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner, a bloodstained bar of soap and a hanging soap dish, a bottle of bath oil with a blood-encrusted rim, a brass rack with a curved section to enable it to be hung over the edge of an old-fashioned tub, and a bloodstained pink lady's razor. All in a white plastic sack, in a brass wastebasket. Even the wastebasket had matched, apparently.

  “I'll bet they knocked the stuff into the tub when they put her in,” said Hester, her voice distant with thought. “Maybe snagged it with the bag, then grabbed for some of it before they thought, and then pitched it to make sure they hadn't left prints. Wiped some of the mess up with the towel.”

  “No wipe marks on the tub,” I said.

  “They could have wiped their hands on it,” said Barnes, not looking up from his itemization of the evidence. “Hard to say just how it got there.”

  “They had the presence of mind to put the knife in the tub, to keep us from looking for the real weapon.” I shook my head. “Pretty cool, whoever it is.”

  “Yeah,” said Hester, disgusted.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess we could start with who sells 500 VSA body bags, and see if there's any chance they might have a limited sales area… ” It was pretty weak, but we had to begin somewhere.

  Another thing we found was a bunch of old e-mails that had been tossed out. They appeared to be from several people, and addressed to the following: OnceLost@gottadance. arts, WailingSoul@gottadance. arts, MagikBoi@gottadance. arts, DealerofDarkness@gottadance. arts, Clutch@gottadance. arts, EtherialWaifGurrl@gottadance. arts, Choreographer@gottadance. arts.

  They were addressed to a wide variety of people and places, from bookstores to eBay, from names similar to their own, to simple ones like DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu. Some were long, some very brief, and they appeared to be pretty innocuous. Nonetheless, I saved them all, to read for content, and to check names and addresses.

  “I wish,” I said to Hester, “that that search warrant had included computers and information thereon.”

  “Well, we didn't have any evidence pointing to computer involvement then. We still don't,” she said.

  “Give me a little time.”

  We went through the rest of the bags, snagging about a half dozen more e-mails, and about a thousand items of generic debris that could have come from just about anywhere. We relooked, hoping for anything else. Nothing. Not one more item that even appeared to have bloodstains or marks on it. No phone bills, no notes other than common, everyday grocery receipts. Lots of political pamphlets from a bumper crop of politicians, from Bush and Gore to Nader and Buchanan. Not to mention the local and state candidates. It looked like the residents of the Mansion had been deluged just like the rest of us. The political pamphlets probably accounted for half the paper in the bags. I did notice, though, that all the political mail was addressed to “Occupant.”

  “Doesn't look like anybody living at the Mansion was registered to vote,” I said.

  “Huh?” That had taken Hester by surprise.

  I explained.

  She went back to sifting through garbage. “The things some people consider important… ”

  “Hey! I'm a trained observer, that's all.”

  “Focus, Houseman,” she muttered. “You just got to focus.”

  Finishing the garbage survey didn't take as long as I'd expected. I looked over at Hester as we were both taking off our latex gloves. “Not much, was there?”

  “Good Lord, Houseman. You got a body bag out of this! What more do you want?”

  “Well, yeah.” What more, indeed? “Something identifying the suspect, though, would sure have been good.”

  Chris and the rest of the lab team headed for the Iowa Criminalistics Laboratory in Des Moines, body bag in hand, so to speak. That left Hester and me to begin our scheduled business.

  Hester phoned the Mansion while I sorted the e-mails into some coherent order. I just sorted by recipient name. There were two double entries, as I termed them, that were from a “gottadance” to a “gottadance.”

  The first was from Choreographer to OnceLost. It was dated September 16, 2000, and timed at 21:56. The text was brief and to the point.

  “Hi.

  We should be there either next weekend, or the one following. Checking to see that you have a good supply of fresh vegetables and that wine we like.

  Hope all is well. Got your August report and approved the payments.

  Oh, and try to get George Hollis for the furnace. He's more reliable than Norman Brecht, and charges the same.”

  No doubt who Choreographer was. Apparently “gottadance” was a wide area network, and seemed to include Jessica Hunley's terminal in Lake Geneva, as well. Judging from the content, I assumed OnceLost was Edie. Had to check, to be sure.

  The other double entry was from Choreographer to Clutch. It was dated October 2, 2000, and timed at

  22:40. The text read: “Hi. I think it did go well. Thought about it all the way back. I agree with you. Many thanks.”

  Like that told me a lot. Unfortunately, people just don't annotate e-mails for the cops.

  In the rest of the e-mails, content identified Clutch as Huck since she talked about her job on the gaming boat. DealerofDarkness had to be Kevin. Kind of left MagikBoi for Toby, which I thought was a bit of a hoot. WailingSoul and EtherialWaifGurrl were up for grabs, but I was willing to bet the former to be Hanna and the latter Melissa.

  Hester got off the phone, and said the group was expecting us after lunch
. She sat down on the other side of my desk, and started going through e-mails with me. I told her that I had pretty well identified Choreographer as Jessica, and OnceLost as Edie. We started in from there.

  After the first complete sorting, there were five e-mails in the OnceLost pile. One was a receipt from Amazon. com for a vegetarian cookbook; two were eBay-related messages indicating an initial bid and an outbid notice on a Raggedy Ann doll. She'd lost the bid at $12.50. The other two were both from DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu. The first was dated July 12, 2000, and timed at 23:15. It included a received e-mail, and like so many, contained the original message that DarcyB2 was replying to. “Dear E,

  I'll sure try to get there for the event! It's been a long time since we have been able to get together for a good talk. Looking forward to seeing you. Yes I remember the D amp;E. We sure had big plans then! I remember Lindzy, too. Hugs,

  D” — Original Message- From:“OnceLost”› OnceLost@gottadance. arts › To:› DarcyB2@UIU. grp. edu› Sent: Wednesday, July 12, 2000 4:19 PM Subject: Birthday and stuff “D,

  Justa thot. The 19th of August is my Shanna's›birthday. I think I can get a Raggedy Ann for her›like Lindzy, our first customer at the D amp;E›Salon. Remember? She would love to see her›Godmother I know. I would love to see you too›and have some things I really need to talk about.›Really hope you can make it. Mom won't be ›with us if that helps.›Sorry its been so long since I wrote.›We miss ya.› E amp; S” The second was dated July 24, 2000, and timed at 16:44. “Dear E,

  I am so very sorry to have to tell you this, but I won't be able to make it after all. I have to be a bridesmaid for my roommate's sister Ellen, who is getting married on that date in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It's a really big wedding. We really have to get together, really. I'll call when I get back for sure. Love and hugs to Shanna and to you. D”

  Interesting. I showed it to Hester. She read through them, and then said, “I had a Raggedy Ann when I was a kid, too.”

  “I hope she wasn't counting on the one she bid for on eBay,” I said. “There's an e-mail here telling her that she got outbid.”

  “Oh.” She sounded a little distracted. “She had a child… I didn't know she had a child.”

  “Yep. Kid lives with Edie's mother. Not sure just why, but Edie and her mother didn't seem to get along.” I thought for a second. “I seem to remember some sort of custody thing. You know, not a battle, just voluntary. Edie didn't fight it, anyway.”

  “Any idea how old?”

  “Not sure, but I'd guess about three or four, maybe?”

  “Ah. That's quite an age,” said Hester. “Quite an age.”

  “Just so you know,” I confided, “with Edie being Lamar's niece and all, she attempted suicide about, oh, a year or so after her mom got the kid. I got stuck with that one, and if I remember correctly, it was the second or third time. None of 'em really serious. Pills, either the wrong kind or not enough. You know.”

  “Might work for us,” she said, “but it could play hell with a jury at some point.”

  “Well,” I said, “in Edie's case, I'm afraid that knowing she'd tried to do herself in before just gave her killer an idea. He just screwed up faking it, that's all. That'd make the jury think.”

  The mere existence of the body bag spoke volumes about the malice aforethought in the mind of the killer or killers.

  “Hey, Hester,” I said, “how many people you suppose have a body bag at home? Just lying around out in the garage, for example?”

  “Not a lot. How many you know would know where to even get one?”

  Not average citizens, anyway. “Well,” I said, “let's start with funeral homes. Then hospitals. Then ambulance services. Police departments. Maybe even a few fire departments.” I shrugged. “It's not a military bag. That leaves civilian agencies who would have them, plus manufacturers and sales outlets. That's about the only ones who would even have access.”

  “Wonder if a sales or manufacturing place would question a request for one?”

  “Well, I'd hope. But you never know.”

  “I think,” she said, thoughtfully, “that it had to come from somebody who wouldn't ask, and who wouldn't have to mess with accounting for it.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, like, if you had a relative or a good friend who owned a small funeral home, for instance. They would order often, I suspect. The owner wouldn't have to account to anybody else for the items.” She smiled.

  I didn't even answer her as I reached for the phone, and dialed Dispatch.

  Sally answered. “Jiffy Dispatch, at your service.”

  “I hope you never get inside and outside lines mixed up,” I said. She giggled. “You'll never know. Whatcha need?” “Well… ” I gave her the gist of what we'd been talking about, and asked her to check for any funeral homes with the same name as any of the five surviving residents of the Mansion, or Hunley or Ostransky, or Peel.

  “Sorry I asked,” she said. “Give me a while on this one, okay? And how far away do you want me to look?”

  That was a good question. It's always tempting to say, like, the whole world. To make it reasonable, and to increase my chances of ever getting another favor like this, I said, “Two hundred miles… ” Before she could object, I added, “… because Hunley lives about that far away, for one thing.”

  “This,” she said, “will cost. Big time.” “Anything you want,” I said. “Just say what and when.”

  “Well, Houseman,” said Hester, “how about you and me go get some lunch, and then lean on some witnesses?” That was more like Hester's normal good spirits. She'd seemed just a bit down since the bit about Edie's daughter came up.

  I smiled. “Might as well. Can't dance.”

  Before we could get out the door, Sally called the back room and reminded us that there was a wake for Edie from 4:30 to 6:00 P.M., at the funeral home at Freiberg. Swell. I just hate to go to wakes where we're involved in a case. They're usually pretty sad, and they can really skew a cop's perspective. You just don't want to get emotionally involved. Makes you rush things, because you want to do something for the grieving survivors. Rush, and the case can get away from you.

  We decided we had to go, though. Lamar would want us to. And we'd be near Freiberg anyway, while we were at the Mansion.

  There was a consensus that I'd better stop at home and get rid of the blue jeans and tennis shoes, and put on something a little more presentable. Considering that I'd also have to be working, and maybe doing grungy things, when I got there I settled for a pair of wash pants, olive, and dark hiking shoes. A shirt, and cardigan sweater-vest to hide the gun at my hip, rather than take a chance and leave it in the car when we went to the wake. I didn't think it was too startling a contrast to my normal attire. Apparently I was wrong. As I walked back out to the car, Hester looked up from her notes.

  “Well, the new Houseman. Hardly recognize you.”

  I got in the driver's seat, and started to buckle my seat belt.

  “My,” she said, “I hope we don't get you dirty.” As I threw her a look of disdain, she continued with, “Maybe you should have eaten first.”

  “Now, come on. They're just wash pants.”

  “You're too modest, Houseman,” she said. “You're creepin' up on presentable on me.”

  “You know,” I said, as we headed out for lunch, “I'd think the group up at the Mansion would want to go to the wake, too.”

  “It could be tough for 'em,” said Hester. “Hard to fit in, I'd think.”

  I grinned. “Then I'll be in good company. Really, though, it's not going to give us much time to do interviews.”

  “Give me a little while on this,” she said, “but we may just have enough to get selective.”

  We were barely in the car when lunch was canceled.

  “Three, Comm?” came crackling over the radio.

  “Three… ”

  “Ten-twenty-five with the search party up north. Eighty-one says they have something for you.”
/>
  Fantastic! “Ten-four, Comm. We'll be ten-seventy-six,” I said, turning left instead of right at the bridge, and heading north. “ETA about fifteen.”

  “Ten-four. They advise at the bottom of the bluff, on the highway end. They'll be in plain sight.”

  “Ten-four.” I was really, really tempted to ask if they had somebody in custody, but I was aware that the media were probably monitoring our radio traffic even then.

  “You think they got him?” asked Hester.

  “I'd think so,” I said. “But maybe not.”

  “Hard to think why else they'd call us up,” she said.

  “If I'm gonna miss lunch,” I replied, turning onto the main northbound highway, “they damned well better have a warm body for us.”

  They did, as it turned out.

  “Eighty-one, Three,” I said into my mike, as I got within a mile of the bluff.

  “Three, go.”

  “I'm a bit less than a mile from you.”

  “Ten-four, got you in sight. Pull in here,” he said, and I saw a figure in blue jeans and a dark green jacket step onto the highway on the bluff side. There was a sheriff's car parked in a level area just off the roadway, where the county kept a gravel pile for use on the roads. The figure waved, and I recognized Old Knockle. As I got closer, I saw there was a blue Chevy parked ahead of the squad car, and as I pulled in, I saw that it had Wisconsin plates.

  As we got out of the car, I said, “Don't you ever sleep?”

  “Only got an hour to go. Hello, Hester.”

  “Right,” I said. “What you got?”

  “Well, we were up the road there, me and Tillman, and we were comin' in to relieve the other guys, and I noticed this car, here. Ran the plates, and they're expired. To a woman named Gunderson, over by Madison.”

  “Okay?” I was awfully eager to see what else he had, but I didn't want to rush him.

  “Well, while Tillman was checkin' under the seats,” he said, provoking a wince from me, “I looked up there.” He pointed to the bluff. “There was a fellah up there lookin' back at me.”

  “Recognize him?”

  He pointed to his glasses. “Surprised I even saw him, Carl.”