Probable Cause

by Ridley Pearson

  Dewitt approached the chalk mark slowly and cautiously, eyes trained on the pavement immediately in front of the toes of his shoes. His chest filled with the familiar pounding of too much coffee; he hadn’t taken any coffee yet this morning. There it was: a similar triangle of motor oil circled at his feet.

  Surprisingly, his reaction was not that of a forensic investigator—he didn’t need chromatographies and comparison photographs to tell him this oil was from the same vehicle that had been at the Osbourne site. His reaction instead was a detective’s cold panic from groin to throat. The uncomfortable acceptance of responsibility for another life being lost. A victim. The very word conjured up an urgency. From this moment forward, it was up to James Dewitt to stop this from happening again.

  The responsibility bore down on him. Somewhere nearby was a killer—a premeditative killer attempting to disguise his acts. A man? A woman? Black, Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic? What age? In what mental condition? Two victims in three days. It was a strange inexplicable feeling for James Dewitt, an intense fear mixed with the exhilaration of the challenge before him. He had been thrown into a race in which other people lost with their lives if he didn’t win.

  He had heard the stories, knew of the investigations. The names were on the tip of his tongue: Ted Bundy, Green River…. This couldn’t be that he told himself, still staring at the oil. Too carefully planned. Too visible. God, the attention it would receive. He glanced back at Nelson, who was watching him and awaiting instruction. He reached up and tugged on his bow tie. It was red today. It felt tight. “Check with the neighbors,” he ordered.

  Rusty yipped from the backseat. His nose had drawn snail lines on the glass. Low fog crept into the parking lot from the beach, like smoke from an unseen fire. The skies threatened rain. Dewitt removed his glasses and polished the lenses while in contemplation. With the fog, the parking lot grew colder. He hooked his glasses behind his ears and then headed to his unmarked car to get his gear.

  ***

  She was a lovely complexioned woman of about thirty, a Sigourney Weaver in librarian mode. Dewitt appreciated beautiful hands like hers; she should have been a piano player. She wore Perry Ellis glasses and just enough lipstick. Her blue rain jacket zipped up the front, trapping a wool scarf at her neck. The blue jeans stretched her already long legs. She had that welcome look about her: bright, athletic, yet coyly unsure of herself. He had noticed her around the lab; she wasn’t one to miss. It wasn’t until he saw her expression that he realized she had noticed him, as well.

  They introduced themselves with a firm handshake. Clare O’Daly, forensic investigator with the Salinas Criminalistics Laboratory. He saw confidence and he liked that.

  She asked him. “So why does a former FI call in an FI?”

  “I suppose I could have done some of this myself,” he admitted, hoisting one of her heavy black bags from the trunk, sensing she would rather do this herself. “I do carry some gear in my trunk.”

  “I hear it’s more like a lab truck,” she interrupted.

  “The smaller cases I do my own work; that was part of the idea of making me the detective over here. But I know from experience that Bill Saffeleti, our diligent District Attorney, likes separation of power on the bigger cases. He would rather the lab work come out of the lab, would rather not explain an elaborate chain of possession to a jury.”

  “Jury?” she asked, slinging an automatic Fuji over her head. “This was called in as a DBF.”

  “We’re investigating it as a possible one-eighty-seven,” he corrected.

  “Not a suicide?”

  “Right,” he said, the force of his voice intimidating. “That’s as much as I want to say right now. I don’t want to influence your investigation. That could come back at me later.”

  “Saffeleti,” she stated. “You’re already thinking ahead to a trial.”

  “My forensic background, I’m afraid. Always protecting the evidence. They steal it away from you so easily, the lawyers, the courts. You learn to think of everything in terms of the trial, whether or not a case ever reaches the courts.”

  “Don’t proselytize, Detective.”

  Their eyes met. “No,” he said, then apologizing.

  “You want to quiz me, I understand. That might even help me: I’m new at field work, but I won’t be lectured.”

  “I only meant to say that if it appears I’ve led you on, that I aimed you at certain evidence, it hurts everyone concerned. Better if you tell me, than if I tell you. It’s your investigation, forensically speaking.”

  She liked that. She said, “Give me a minute alone before this place turns into a zoo.”

  “Take as long as you need,” he said, stepping back. Watching her begin the forensic work proved more difficult than he had imagined. The feeling was not dissimilar to that of watching Emmy board the school bus for the first time.

  He moved well away, beyond the bright orange police tape that Nelson had strung. She spent several minutes circling the vehicle and taking photographs.

  Rusty barked and James turned around in time for the arrival of the coroner’s wagon, and right behind it, Dr. Emmanuel’s silver seven-hundred-series BMW.

  ***

  Dr. Ricardo Emmanuel wore trifocals with thick black frames, the lenses enlarging his eyes. “James,” he said, the two then shaking hands. Zorro, as he was called, planted a Sherman non-filter between his lips and dented his cheeks as he inhaled. He wore black polyester slacks, black loafers with shaggy leather tassels, and his raven hair was combed straight back in a wet look that seemed prepared for gale-force winds. He carried a cup of coffee in a 7-Eleven driver’s mug; the brown-wrappered cigarette was pinched deeply between his fingers. Slate gray smoke escaped his nostrils. He sported a pencil-thin mustache that contributed greatly to his nickname, and, like so many surgeons, he kept his hands spotlessly clean and his nails permanently manicured. When he smiled, he showed off a set of bright white teeth, marred only by a diamond-shaped brown stain dead center, a by-product of his nonfilters. Although Zorro’s English was impeccable, he retained a thick accent. “You believe in coincidence, James?” he asked, the thick smoke escaping both nose and mouth.

  “No,” Dewitt replied.

  “Me, neither.”

  Although paid modestly to conduct autopsies and occasional fieldwork, the three local surgeons who rotated in the job of medical examiner did the work mostly out of a sense of public service. Zorro rattled off something in Spanish. Dewitt didn’t speak the language. “The devil makes an odd bedfellow,” he said in English. “I wish there was someone else whom you could call upon, James. I’m hardly qualified for crime-scene work.”

  “You fit right in, Zorro. We have a lab tech turned FI,” he said, pointing to Clare, “an FI turned detective, and a surgeon turned medical examiner. Welcome aboard.”

  “What exactly is it you want me to do? You’ve done many more of these than I, James.”

  “In a case like this—apparent asphyxiation—the medical data becomes all the more important.”

  “I hate the paperwork. It’s the worst part of the job.” Emmanuel dropped the Sherman and extinguished it with the toe of his brightly polished loafer.

  “Two bodies in three days. But who’s counting?” Dewitt said.

  “No one has touched the body?”

  “One of my uniforms checked for a neck pulse. That’s all.”

  “Good.”

  “I need to know when he died, how he died, and where he died, if at all possible.”

  “How?”

  “Osbourne showed no contusions, right? No sign of violence. Blood chem showed no drugs and only minor intoxication. So if it’s a one-eighty-seven, what does this guy do, ask his victims to sit still while he gasses them?”

  “Interesting. How indeed? I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Maybe he charms them to death. Like you and the women,” Dewitt added. Zorro enjoyed the much-exaggerated reputation of a ladies’ man.

  With
the help of the two firemen who manned the county coroner’s wagon, the corpse was removed from the cab of the pickup truck. Zorro retrieved his doctor’s bag, snapped on a pair of gloves, and began his examination, while a similarly gloved James Dewitt examined the contents of the man’s wallet. Clare O’Daly was busy photographing the pavement behind the truck. This raised Dewitt’s curiosity, but he suppressed it.

  “Asphyxiation, by the look of it, James,” the doctor said. “Again, no apparent contusions.” He checked the dead man’s eyes and then ran a gentle hand down the arms, squeezing occasionally to check the bones. Reaching the hands, he said, “Some bruising here,” which drew Dewitt to his side.

  “Meet Malcolm McDuff,” Dewitt said, reading the driver’s license.

  Zorro nodded to the man’s bluish face.

  “Lives up in Santa Rosa.”

  “Lived,” Emmanuel corrected. “Look here,” he added, pointing to the outside of the man’s right hand. “Light bruising, and by the coloring, I would suggest just prior to death.”

  Dewitt hurried to his Zephyr, opened the trunk, and came out a few seconds later with a pair of white paper bags and a roll of masking tape. He returned to the corpse and helped Emmanuel seal both hands in the bags, a necessary precaution to retain any possible trace evidence. This dehumanizing the corpse reminded him of the other crime scenes. Collectively, they were treating McDuff as a lump of potential evidence.

  The doctor lifted an arm and let it back down gently. He then touched the man’s neck. “Dead two hours at least.”

  “No receipts,” Dewitt said, checking the wallet, “but there’s cash.”

  “I won’t know more until I have his clothes off.”

  “I won’t quote you on that,” Dewitt said, bagging the wallet, sealing and labeling the bag with the case number and date.

  “You do, and you’ll be finding yourself another medical examiner.”

  At that moment, exactly 7:30 A.M., the dead man’s wristwatch began emitting a high-pitched electronic alarm. Dewitt and Emmanuel each reached for a different wrist. Dewitt tore at the mouth of the paper bag to get at the watch. The alarm stopped of its own accord. Dewitt said, “Wait.” He reached across the body and pointed to the band of pale skin on the decedent’s right wrist. “See that?” Dewitt questioned.

  “A tan line,” Emmanuel said, “caused by his—”

  “Wristwatch,” Dewitt finished, holding up the left wrist. “So what’s it doing over here?”

  “I switch my watch when I operate.”

  Dewitt looked at McDuff a moment. Overweight, middle forties, graying hair. “When you’re going over him, Zorro, not only bag all his clothing but let’s run the laser over him and check for prints.”

  “In case someone else dressed him.”

  “Exactly. This someone else may have left a fingerprint behind on McDuff’s skin, not realizing we have the technology to see it.”

  “The laser is your department. That’s crime-lab stuff.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You have to be at the Osbourne autopsy today, anyway. We get the paperwork handled on this guy, we’ll do two in one day.”

  “I can’t wait,” Dewitt quipped. “No lunch today.”

  “You’ve been through autopsies before,” Emmanuel insisted, as if he knew.

  “A very long time ago. One of the joys of forensics is that they place the corpse in a body bag and take it away.”

  “Which is exactly what I’m about to do,” Emmanuel explained, signaling the two men from the coroner’s wagon that he was ready. “See you for lunch,” he said.

  ***

  Clare photographed the truck from a variety of angles. Reconstruct the crimes, she reminded herself, well aware of his eyes on her.

  If murder, as he had suggested, then the killer had left the body here, had rigged the truck, had fled the scene. She dropped to hands and knees, looking for footprints, gaining a fresh perspective from only inches above the pavement. She spotted bubble gum, pebbles, a Popsicle stick, cigarette butts, the crushed cap of a beer bottle. She adjusted her angle, and suddenly the patterns in the sand jumped out at her. She could clearly make out the truck’s tire tracks leading into the lot. What intrigued her more, however, was a thin waving tread pattern that weaved its way back toward the Day-Glo cones Nelson had set out. A bicycle-tire track!

  Maintaining a similar angle, and using a tape measure for scale, she took several close-ups of the tread pattern, realizing their potential significance to the investigation. A gust of wind blew beach grass across the parking lot, constantly contaminating her crime scene. She worked more quickly. Reconstruct the crime. The killer had fled the scene by bicycle. The bicycle had been stored in the back of the truck. The killer had driven the truck to the site. God, she could see him doing all of this, as if a movie were playing in her head. So this was the thrill of field work! He parks the truck, rigs the hose… She was reenacting it now, step by step, following his imagined work.

  Reconstruct the crime.

  He tapes up the passenger window, checks his work. It must be pitch-black or close to it. He’s wearing gloves to avoid leaving prints. He approaches the back of the truck, lifts the gate to the fiberglass shell, opens the tailgate, and pulls out the bike. Three requirements for a forensic investigator: good eyes, innate curiosity, patience.

  She began a thorough investigation of the bed of the truck, starting with the tailgate, mentally dividing the area in front of her into quadrants, eyes carefully scanning each quadrant, alert for the slightest inconsistency. Midway across the rounded lip of the tailgate, she zeroed in on a fresh scratch mark that led directly to a distinct discoloring. Paint! The top of her kit held an abundance of tools: a variety of forceps, scissors, a scalpel, wire cutters, a small saw, measuring tape, and a large-field magnifying glass. She studied this paint first through the magnifying glass, then photographed it, then scraped it loose with the scalpel into a petri dish, which she labeled with the location of the evidence and her name. After several more minutes, climbing inside, she located a smear of lightweight oil and followed the same textbook procedures of photography, sampling, and labeling.

  ***

  He avoided the Day-Glo surveyor’s tape she had placed on the pavement. “How are you coming?” he asked Clare O’Daly from behind, his mind immediately turning it into a sexual pun. She was kneeling on all fours in the truck bed, her movement limited by the overhead fiberglass shell. There was something about that pose: For an instant, he remembered Julia in this same position.

  “Nicely,” she replied to his inquiry. “A forensics feast,” she said, working her way out of the truck. Pointing to the area between the surveyor’s tape, she explained, “A bicycle track leading directly to or directly away from the truck. I photographed it to scale. We should get a very good tread pattern, and if we’re lucky, be able to tell what make of bike and quite possibly the weight of the rider. This,” she said, displaying the petri dish, “may tell us what kind of bike.”

  He noticed the dark-colored flakes then, and recognized them as paint.

  “Found it on the tailgate,” she said proudly. “Also some oil, chain oil if I’m not mistaken. I’ll have to run chromatographies on both of these. I want to hold off on the cab’s interior, no reason to do the detail work here, but I take it you noticed the gaping hole in the dash? By the look of those wires, that stereo was—”

  “Stolen?”

  “We’ll check the cab for prints back at the lab. Have the tow truck take it out there,” she said authoritatively. Repacking her kit, she said, “It’s your call, Detective, but from a forensic point of view, a suicide is more difficult to explain than a one-eighty-seven. Unless,” she conditioned, “he carried a bicycle in the back of the truck. If that happens to be the case, you can reconstruct a theft following suicide: Steal the stereo, steal the bike, and take off. That remains a possibility.”

  “One-eighty-seven?” he asked. “My words, or your words?”

  �
��Why did Brian Marney happen to assign me this case?”

  “Who’s quizzing whom?” he asked. When she didn’t reply, he answered, “You must be handling the lab work on the Osbourne case.”

  “Bravo! Who better to send than the person familiar with the evidence of the first case? That garden hose and PVC fitting look awfully similar, don’t they? And the duct tape on the window? We’re trained to distrust coincidence, aren’t we, Detective?”

  “James,” Dewitt corrected.

  “Sir!” Nelson approached at a run. “We’ve got a possible witness,” he announced in a winded voice.

  3

  His name was Anthony De Sica, and in body type, he reminded Dewitt of his commander, Karl Capp: round, soft, and built low to the ground. He had almost no hair, carried bags of coffee grounds below his eyes, and his lips were shiny from saliva. De Sica churned with high-strung energy, manifest in the shifting of his substantial weight from one foot to the other.

  Dewitt introduced himself and shook the man’s stubby calloused hand. “You saw a car, Mr. De Sica?” Dewitt asked.

  “Right down there,” De Sica replied. “You see there? Right through the trees.”

  Dewitt turned and followed the line of sight. He could make out the rear of McDuff’s pickup truck. He instructed Nelson to return to the Zephyr’s trunk and collect his camera gear; he wanted a shot from here, showing the perspective. Nelson took off at a clip. “What time would that have been?” Dewitt asked.

  “I told the kid,” the man explained, “that I make the coffee right at five, every morning. Ten minutes for the thing to make the stuff. I was just getting my second cup. Must’a been right around half past the hour.”

  “And someone pulled up?”

  “I didn’t see no one pull up, no. I heard this loud bang, like a gun going off.” Dewitt’s heart sank. They occasionally ran into “creative witnesses” who would fabricate a story in order to be part of the investigation. Perhaps De Sica had heard there was a dead body down there; he had jumped to the conclusion it involved a gun and was now making up a story. Dewitt tried to keep an open mind, though his brief flirtation with enthusiasm had been muted.