by Nina Post
He dropped the folder on his desk and opened it. After examining each document, he placed the paper face down on the left side of the folder to keep everything in the original order, then went through property tax receipts, insurance certificates, old appraisals, major maintenance and repair records, including a receipt for a new roof from more than a decade ago, and, close to last, a cashier's check drawn on a local bank.
The check was payable to Dee, and although Brower's name didn't appear on there, Shawn held the check high above his head, turning from one side then the other like one of the wrestlers grasping a belt they had won. "I don't want to wait 'til next week to fight," he said.
A passing vice detective gave him a funny look. Shawn called after him, "I double dog dare you."
"No way, Danger. You're too damn tall," the other detective called back.
The check had only a reference number and the signature of a bank employee, but it was something to go on, and maybe it could get him another lead. While he updated the murder book and processed some paperwork, his cell phone buzzed. "Detective, it's Crane." The officer's voice was strained. "I stopped by Paul Harmon's place and we've got a similar situation here. He's dead. It looks the same as yesterday's homicide."
"Shaved?"
"Yeah. Shaved and everything."
Shawn got a sinking feeling. He failed Paul. Would he fail Darcy, too?
"Why did you relieve the protective detail?" he asked.
"Sir?"
"Officer Marin was on watch midnight to eight a.m."
"Sir, I didn't see Officer Marin. I read Kirby's report when I got on shift this morning and thought I'd stop by the residence to check if Mr. Harmon returned home."
"Anyone else with you?"
"Just me so far."
"Okay. I'll be right there."
***
Shawn considered the naked and shaved body of Paul Harmon.
Today was Sarah's birthday, and he was investigating the second homicide of one of his old friends, plus attending the autopsy of the first one.
He considered Paul's body, shaved and displayed the same way as Jasper, with similar head and abdominal wounds. His eyes were open, like Jasper's. It was horrible and struck him with nausea, but it didn't affect him like Jasper's scene had. But then, Jasper's was the first, and they were better friends as kids. Paul was the one he got along with the least.
"This looks like a serial kill," Officer Crane muttered.
"I killed a bowl of cereal this morning," Shawn said, and everyone in the room groaned.
"Count Chocula?" Crane asked.
Count Chocula? "No, those days are gone," Shawn said. "It was something with flax. Flax flakes. Extra omega-3 flaxons."
This scene was a bitch to gauge in terms of what was abnormal, because unlike Jasper's place, Paul's apartment was an unholy mess. The sink was piled high with dishes. Clothes were draped across the furniture like sleeping cats, and Shawn doubted the place had been dusted or vacuumed in…well, ever. He wanted to wear one of those paper masks.
Shawn sketched the room, pencil whispering across the pad with practiced skill. Drawing had always appealed to him, and he had even, for about a nanosecond, considered going to art school, probably on a bad day of school, but wanted a more secure life. He was just lucky that his calling paid a steady (though not great) income. He wanted to be steady -- firmly fixed.
When he was done sketching, took his own pictures before starting his grid. He was thorough, but the DI, if it were the same guy, would document every inch, take video and photos. You needed that if the case ever went to trial. But he wanted his own perspective, not someone else's. He didn't want to get angry with himself later for not getting the shot he wanted and, of course, that somehow no one else would have.
The shag carpet was a nightmare, both forensically and aesthetically. There was no way he could comb through that mess in any reasonable time. He decided to not worry about it now and have the techs do whatever they could with it. Maybe they could vacuum.
The DI showed up, the same one that worked Jasper's scene. "Lieutenant. Officer." Beers nodded curtly and tried to edge past Crane by the door, a comical maneuver, because Beers was laden with equipment including his camera. Beers swept his eyes over the scene then quickly got to work. He started to note, Shawn knew, the lack of clothing, the condition of the body and visible injuries; the temp, humidity, and inside air movement.
Beers examined then bagged Paul's hands and feet.
Shawn took a deep breath. Time was biting at his heels. He stared at Paul, one of the friends he'd had when he was someone who did eat Count Chocula every morning. One day, Paul was skipping rocks at Devil's Backbone, talking about the crazy shit his parents said, and the next day, so it seemed, his naked, shaved body is illuminated by a death investigator's flash shots. Shawn thought about string theory and pictured forming a loop by bringing one end to meet the other.
And he was the doofus standing over his friend, the schlimazel who hadn't even found the guy who did it even though he knew who it was.
He carefully stepped around Beers to go into the bedroom. Beers started to say something, then changed his mind, and a moment later, Shawn heard the flash. The closet had two folding doors. Shawn pushed them open and looked for boxes. There were two. One contained files and papers, the other had objects: books, a few old Playboy magazines, a hand strengthener, a small ceramic bong, and a ring box with Zippo written on the top in black marker. It was empty. He bagged the small box, though he doubted very much that the lab would find any prints.
When he came out, Beers said, "Approximate time since death is six hours. Lividity's well-developed but not fixed, not for a couple more hours."
Crane found Paul around five a.m. "So he was killed at about eleven on Monday night?"
"His rigor's been set in for a few hours, and I already checked the temperature, so yes, that sounds correct."
"Can you check his mouth?" Shawn asked.
"No."
"No?"
Beers cocked his head. "What did I just say?"
"That rigor's been set in for a few hours?"
"And what does that tell you?"
"But Jasper's rigor set in earlier than normal and we could open his mouth."
"Opening his mouth was not easy," Beers noted. "Anyway, you'll have to wait another six hours."
"I can't wait six hours," Shawn told him. "I need to know right now if there's a note in his mouth." If the same note was there, maybe Ashburn could give him more resources. "It's not just one isolated incident."
Beers exhaled and paused in his investigation. "I'll try. I don't expect to open it one millimeter."
"Break his damn teeth if you have to."
Beers looked askance at him. "Regardless, you'll have to wait until I'm done with everything."
Shawn held up his hands. "You got it."
"Oh, I'm so pleased."
The killer had been in Paul's apartment at least once. Considering Paul was killed around 11 p.m., after he returned from the arena, Brower could have stopped by before that and then waited at the apartment. He probably went right for the bedroom closet like Shawn would have, and found Paul's Zippo. Shawn went back into the living room and to Paul's flimsy secondhand plywood desk, in the corner by the kitchen, where he wanted to shoot out the intense fluorescent tube lights. He looked through all of the papers on top and then opened the drawers. In the top center drawer was a receipt for Paul's Slammiversary ticket. Shawn bagged it.
Beers walked over to him. "I've finished my examination and documentation. I'm going to attempt to open the mandible." Beers' heavy-lidded blue eyes said that it wasn't going to work and he shouldn't even be trying. Shawn filled in the rest: 'but the Detective's charm was too persuasive.'
Beers took Paul's mandible in his gloved hand and put his other hand flat against Paul's forehead, frowning as he pried. The jaw wasn't moving. Beers readjusted his hands and tried again. This was going to be one of those days, Shaw
n thought, as he heard Paul's jaw creak, just a little. Two techs waited near the door and stared on in fascination.
"Long tweezers! Now!"
Shawn searched through Beers' kit, a magical goat's horn of various tools: hammer, paint brushes, bolt cutter, pocketknife, metal detector, a rope, even a small shovel (Shawn made a mental note to not get in a fight with J. Beers, Death Investigator) -- packaging material, tape, blood collection tubes, notebooks, masks, gloves, insect spray, Afrin Original nasal spray, a motion-sickness band, cleaning wipes, cleaning cloths, disinfectant, dolls (Shawn hoped they were for reenactments), a voice recorder, an assortment of rolled-up vinyl objects, and extra camera equipment.
"Don't you know what tweezers look like?" Beers snapped.
Finally, Shawn found an area that had swabs, syringes, needles, a magnifying glass, blades, and tweezers. It was the most terrifying bag he'd ever seen in his life.
Shawn put the tweezers in the palm of Beers' hand. Beers positioned the tweezers in his fingers then pulled some more. It made Shawn think of animal husbandry, not that he had ever done that. Just butter churning.
Beers struggled some more. Nearly ten minutes after he had started, the teeth separated just enough to where Beers could insert the tweezers. "Light!"
Shawn scrambled back to the kit and found a penlight, though he could have used the one he always carried, too. He flicked it on and shined it into Paul's mouth.
"Do you see it?" Beers sounded understandably impatient.
Shawn held the light at a deeper angle. "Can you open it a little more?"
Beers sighed with exasperation. "Yes, because this is effortlessly easy. Why didn't you just say so." But he applied more pressure and the teeth edged open a fraction more.
"Okay, I see it," Shawn said. He and Crane and the techs peered into Paul's mouth like dental students. Beers reached in with the tweezers, trying not to hit the teeth.
"Got it!" Beers maneuvered the paper through the very limited space and drew it out with a satisfied grin. "Your note, Detective." Beers proudly presented the slip of paper to him. "You owe me one."
"Are you an Otters fan?" Shawn asked, as he unfolded the note with trepidation.
Beers snorted derisively. Okay, not hockey. And he guessed BayHawks basketball would be out, too.
"Let me guess," Shawn said. "SeaWolves." The Erie SeaWolves were a Minor League Baseball team that played in Uht Plaza. Beers pointed the tweezers at Shawn and nodded once before packing up. Minor League Baseball it was, then. It was always something.
"The van will be here soon," Beers called over his shoulder as he left, referring to the van that would take Paul's remains to the morgue. When Shawn heard that, he felt bleak, but unfolded the note, heart beating faster. It was the same as Jasper's -- a crude drawing of the League's logo, but with one distinction: two stick figures were crossed out. Relief flooded through him and he let out a breath as though he'd been holding it since Saturday morning. Darcy was still alive.
The techs got to work.
"Print the desk, the closet, the coffee table," Shawn directed. "I doubt we're going to find anything, but maybe we'll get lucky because it was so messy here to begin with. Look for particles: microbes, soil, pollen." Things even Brower couldn't control, unless he went to extraordinary lengths. Shawn looked to one of the techs. "Could you use your vacuum on this carpet?"
"Sure."
"Is it powerful enough to get any particles that could be lodged in there?"
"Yeah, it should get everything, even from this shag," the tech said, lip curling slightly.
"Great." Shawn returned to examining the scene on his grid. If Brower took Paul from the arena, where would he have killed him and then shaved him? The van?
He beckoned to Crane. "I want you to contact the manager on duty at the Erie Insurance Arena and ask for all security footage from the wrestling event on Monday night. I want the concessions, the loading docks, the seats -- everything, and I want it today."
Crane nodded. "You got it."
If Brower took Paul Harmon from the arena, he would have had a vehicle -- the white van he didn't have any information on whatsoever. So what did he have? Two hand-drawn notes, no prints. A microbe that led to Jasper's kill site and a particle of Tapeta Footing from the Downs. Security footage, none of it useful. A check -- and he'd have to find that bank employee. A press release that could bring Brower out of hiding to claim credit. An increasingly disgruntled captain under pressure to close cases and plaster the city with police despite a slashed budget.
He needed to find that white van. It was Brower's transport vehicle, and maybe his kill site for Paul.
"Check for any rented garages within city limits," Shawn told Crane. "Try, anyway." He'd have to cross-check any vans, white or otherwise, in reports for the veteran's homicide.
He crouched to the floor like a baseball catcher to look at the scene from a different angle. It was dark outside, and this was a place where neighbors didn't have security cameras. Would Brower have pulled right up to the door? He did park in Jasper's driveway, if that was him on Acker's camera.
The phone rang. Paul's landline. Everyone looked at Shawn.
Shawn stood up then held his hand out over the phone like he was reading its aura, then picked it up. "Hello."
"How's the investigation going?"
Shawn silently instructed Crane to look outside.
"Where are you, Brower?"
"Did you figure it out yet, Danger?"
"Figure what out?"
"We had to be our own parents, set our own rules. Remember the rules we had? Tell me one, or I'm hanging up."
Shit. But it came to him quickly. "Never wake up dad. Rule number two." His dad slept with a K-bar in his hand. "Now I get to ask you something. Where is Darcy?"
"You're more damaged than you think, Danger."
"Enough bullshit. Tell me where she is." He wondered, just for a second, if that was true. He thought he was even-keeled. He thought he got through the early years as unscathed as he could hope to be, considering, and had built a good life for himself. He hated that Brower was manipulating him into questioning that.
"Where are you keeping Darcy?"
"What makes you think I have Darcy?"
"Where is she?" Shawn stayed composed, but he wanted to get his hands around Brower's neck and choke him.
"I'd hate to take away the satisfaction you get from the investigation, Danger."
Shawn kept the receiver to his ear another moment to make sure Brower had actually disconnected, then set it down. He held up a hand to everyone while he wrote down exactly what they both said.
***
With little to go on, Shawn recruited another detective, a southerner named Rick Daly, to review surveillance footage from the Downs. It covered days and was mind-numbing stuff -- streams of people passing from slot machine to slot machine to restaurants to bathrooms and on and on, most of them smoking, and workers readying the track and the seating outside. Rick had the same drawing and photo Shawn had taken to the Downs. Each of them watched different recordings from different periods.
"You're sure this is the guy?" Daly asked, when he watched Acker's home security video afterwards.
"Yeah." Shawn massaged his forehead with his fingertips, then opened his top left desk drawer, took out the bottle of Advil and held it out to Daly.
"Nah, I doubled up earlier," Daly said, and grinned. "Hey, why don't you go work on your case. I'll finish up here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I got it covered. Don't you have an autopsy to get to?"
Shawn slapped him on the back and headed out.
Chapter 13
Shawn adjusted to the chemical smell and winced when he saw Jasper supine on the table. The audio system piped Civil War-era piano into the examining room, lending the lab a strangely dichotomous feel of the modern twenty-first century medical facility and the late nineteenth century, when you poured whiskey over a bullet wound and hoped for the best. He
could picture himself in a saloon after the end of the Civil War at the same time as he stood in the white and stainless steel lab.
Shawn put his case folder, the most recent investigative reports, the official crime scene photos (his and the DI's), and the wound charts on a counter by the door. How shitty that Jasper was up on that gurney, not even forty years old. How shitty that his old friend died under circumstances that reunited them as part of a murder investigation.
The pathologist, a shortish, average-sized man with side-parted brown hair, greeted Shawn with a ready, broad smile, face creasing around the eyes and mouth. "Hello! You must be Detective Shawn Danger!" He said Shawn's name like a game show announcer. ""I don't think we've met. I'm Dr. Hathaway, like Henry Hathaway, the director of True Grit, Call Northside 777, et cetera, et cetera. No relation, unfortunately. Oh, to have Rooster Cogburn's embroidered suede vest!"
Shawn smiled. "I'd wear it every day."
"Me too!" The pathologist rolled his eyes and cast a skeptical sideways glance at Shawn. "Well, my assistant Ron called in sick with what he called "caffeine intoxication" and "nervous exhaustion," so I'm on my own today. Lots to do."
Shawn donned the paper smock, shoe covers, and gloves. He wouldn't put on the face mask unless he needed to look closely at something, which he hoped he didn't have to do. "Now, as for the gentleman on the table, I'll start my external examination. He has already been weighed and measured."
The pathologist pressed the record button on his recording device and listed Jasper's hair color, eye size, muscle stiffness, facial hair, age, and scars. He noted an old crescent-shaped scar on Jasper's right butt cheek and a smaller scar on Jasper's palm.
Shawn remembered how Jasper got that scar. He and Darcy were hiding behind the bushes, waiting for Jasper to come out of his house after supper. Darcy was making him laugh so hard that his sides hurt and he had to wipe tears from his eyes. She was naturally skilled at making up a ridiculous situation for whatever they were looking at and was probably doing that. Shawn had stopped laughing when they heard a crash and glass breaking and a wail. They waited in tense silence then watched with gaping mouths as a bloodied Jasper was hauled out to the rusted old station wagon.
