by Nina Post
"What's the amount?"
"Five thousand."
"Which account will you be funding the check from?"
"I don't have an account here. I'll pay cash." Tone down the Eastwood, Danger. In his mind, his imaginary cigarillo stuck to his bottom lip as he spoke and the rough, prickly poncho irritated his skin. Shawn watched Michael's expression change from strained memory to dawning realization. Finally, Michael nodded. "Yeah. Yeah! That guy!"
Shawn rejoiced. "Would you come down to the station and sit with our artist?" Maybe they could improve the drawing.
"Are there doughnuts?" Michael's eyes widened with a hopeful anticipation.
"Funny. C'mon, I'll drive you."
"No really. Are there? Lemon-filled are my favorite."
"We'll stop on the way, all right?"
Shawn stopped at Mighty Fine Donuts to pick up some doughnuts for Michael and the office, like they needed more of them.
Michael took the turtle with him, put him on his knee, and stroked his shell the whole way. Shawn knew he shouldn't be one to think that was weird, but he kind of did anyway.
***
Shawn steered Michael over to the forensic artist. Shawn had considered volunteering for that when he started, but didn't have the right skill set and hated to dilute his time. He was most content when he was working homicide, about as unrelatable a vocation, it would seem, as someone who shaved the armpits of clowns for a living.
He went back to his desk and noticed the flashing red light on his phone. "What now?" He punched in his password. The first message was from a man in his fifties or sixties who took his time speaking. "This message is for, ah, Detective Lieutenant Shawn Danger. Returning your call. This is former Detective Sergeant Wodarski in Pittsburgh."
These three sentences took approximately one hour.
"Calling about the investigation you mentioned," the caller continued. "Didn't get your message 'til this morning, ah…was out of commission for a while. Kidney stones."
Shawn rubbed his forehead and sighed.
"Anyway, gimme a call back." Wodarski left his number, during which time several generations of monarch butterflies lived and died.
Shawn called Wodarski immediately and spoke to him for some time. Later, his patience stretched thin, he got an email from Wodarski with more info on the unsolved murder of two other veterans -- one Vietnam, one Korea, both with similar wounds, but neither one of them shaved.
The wounds alone made him think this must have been the work of the same person. As for the detail of the shaving, the MO could have changed for any number of reasons. Brower could have taken the extra step of shaving Jasper and Paul because he knew them personally. It had to be an acknowledgment of their friendship, even though the notes left in their mouths seemed menacing.
Wodarski also had very little to go on. There had been very little evidence left at the scenes, and he couldn't pull the cases together based on the similarity of the wound pattern. Shawn checked CODIS anyway -- if there was even a small chance he could get a lead from any biological evidence the techs recovered from those three scenes, it would be well worth it.
But the only thing that connected them was the stab wounds, and probably the weapon. Shawn opened the murder book and wrote down the time, date, and Wodarski's information. A moment later, he received another email from Wodarski with a scanned copy of the autopsy reports from both victims. Shawn printed the documents and went to pick them up. He took them out of the tray then stapled them.
Ashburn leaned around the door. "Detective? A moment?" He gestured for Shawn to follow him. Shawn rolled up the papers and went to the captain's office and closed the door almost all the way.
"Do you recall what I said when you began working on this investigation?" Ashburn asked. "How, when I took this thankless ball-crusher of a job, I was instructed to bring up the closure rate and get the caseloads down?"
"I do recall you saying that." Though Ashburn had only mentioned the second part. Shawn usually worked fewer than five investigations each year, and wanted to keep it that way. But with fewer investigations, Shawn knew Ashburn would have a higher clearance rate than murder police saddled with more cases, and knew that most of the time, it was the lack of cooperation from the public that hampered higher clearance rates. But he wasn't going to mention it unless he were backed into a corner.
"It concerns me that it's been forty-eight hours and you still don't have a strong lead."
Shawn was ready to protest but kept his mouth shut.
"We have no idea how to find your suspect. We don't know where he lives, we don't know where he works, we don't have evidence." Jab, right hook, uppercut. "No weapon. No prints, no DNA." Left hook, jab, jab. Gut and chin. "We don't know if he's responsible for the other unsolved homicide you mentioned."
There was a moment where neither of them spoke. Shawn's anger flared at Brower and himself, and then he wondered if he was any good at this job, or if he'd just been fooling himself.
"I'll find him, sir. I'll find him. I just need a little more time."
"Sooner is better than later, Detective. Or move on. The drug-related homicides are piling up like cartoon pancakes."
***
Shawn grabbed a coffee from the break room, opened the murder book on his desk, then, frustrated, pushed it away in disgust. Instead, he read through Wodarski's copies of the autopsy reports from the three unsolved murders in Pittsburgh. Ashburn would have the final word, but he didn't want to give up on this case. Jasper and Paul deserved better than that. The last thing Shawn wanted to do was fail them. He never wanted to fail anybody, but he felt an added layer of responsibility.
"Uh, Lieutenant?"
Shawn barely registered the voice.
"Lieutenant Danger?"
"Yeah, what is it?" He didn't take his eyes away from the reports. Then, like a bug, he honed in on something. One of the two autopsy reports indicated a trace of a flower in the victim's clothes. Normally, unless the victim was naked like Jasper and Paul, any clothes the victim was wearing were removed and then analyzed for blood, body fluids, trace evidence.
One of the clerical crew, the guy who was trying to get his attention, held up a phone. "Call to the tip line."
"Uh-huh." He did a quick search for the flower the Pittsburgh lab had analyzed, under pressure because he needed to attend Paul's autopsy. An endangered geranium? He thought geraniums were as common as crows.
"I think you should talk to this one," the guy said.
Shawn looked up, annoyed. The clerical staff kept track of the tips that came into the line: when they were distributed to investigators, what the investigations yielded, and whether the tips were closed out. In some shops, the detectives took turns manning the line, but here they didn't. Shawn cursed quietly but tore himself away from the book and went over to the desk.
"This is Lieutenant Danger," he said into the phone. He couldn't say 'This is Danger'; it sounded ridiculous. "Who's this?"
He thought the caller had already hung up, He shifted his body, ready to go back to the murder book. But whoever it was on the other end cleared his throat.
"I read the press release…"
It was a man, maybe middle-aged, soft-voiced, hard to hear, definitely skittish.
"Can you tell me your name?" Shawn asked, thinking it was most likely nothing.
"Patrick. My name is Patrick."
Shawn's patience had already been kicked around by Sergeant Wodarski. "All right, Patrick." Which of course wasn't his real name. "Can you tell me more about the press release you read?"
"Um. Ah, yes. Mm, it described a…" the caller fell silent for a moment, as though someone was walking by. He continued in a softer voice. "It described a person with a strong build who is methodical and may collect war memorabilia."
"And you think you may know this person?"
Patrick took so long to answer that Shawn said, "Are you still there?"
"Yes, yes, I'm still here." A whisper.
"You think you know the person described in the release? Did you recognize the person in the sketch?"
"I -- I think so, I'm not sure…"
"Why don't you call back when you have something more concrete?" Shawn didn't have the time to draw out the caller. He hung up, grabbed the reports, and headed to the morgue.
Chapter 16
"Welcome back to my lair, Detective," the pathologist Dr. Hathaway said with a chipper tone. This time, the pathologist had a morgue assistant, a tall, skinny guy with glasses like airplane windows and a nimbus of brown hair, triple the height of Lyle Lovett's, and with a wave that rivaled the Banzai Pipeline. The hair probably had its own intelligence. It probably had its own Netflix account. It probably received regular invitations to speak at Ivy League commencement ceremonies. It probably contained a netherworld where monsters had houses.
Shawn tore his eyes away from the hair and checked for a name on the jacket. Ron Safari. Ron was helping to document the external exam with photos and notes. Considering how radically the autopsy process altered the body's appearance, documentation was critical before the internal examination -- as critical as a fresh crime scene was to Shawn.
Shawn watched Ron carefully, hoping the assistant had fully recovered from his caffeine intoxication and nervous exhaustion. Ron glanced up without moving his head, met his eyes, nodded once, returned to the notes. Shawn settled into the same chair as before, feeling every hour of sleep he'd missed since finding Jasper. He felt like a wreck. His whole body ached.
"Ah, Morpheus is beckoning. I have just the thing." The pathologist held up a finger and opened one of the coolers. Thankfully, it was a cooler that contained drinks and someone's lunch. In Shawn's experience, pathologists always had a concoction that was THE thing for whatever ailed you, so to his lack of surprise, the pathologist came toward him with a clear bottle filled with something that, to Shawn's horror, was a reddish color.
The pathologist, noticing Shawn's expression, threw his head back and cackled.
This did not make him feel better.
"You're nervous because it's red!" The pathologist clapped his thighs. "Delightful. No, Detective, that's just pomegranate, a symbol of fecundity, fertility, and regeneration."
"Terrific."
"It'll perk you right up. And it does not contain a purgative." He presented Shawn with a box of paper-wrapped straws. "Go on, take one." Shawn sighed and took a straw, then warily accepted the bottle while the morgue assistant did the X-rays.
"Drink at least one cup." The pathologist stood back and crossed his arms, a pleased look on his face. Shawn hesitated. He couldn't spare the time to have an unwanted reaction.
"It's perfectly safe," the pathologist reassured him. "I drink it myself every morning. And I don't exactly have an iron stomach." To help get the autopsy over with, Shawn drank some of the very cold, very thick whatever-the-hell it-was, then handed back the bottle. Then after a moment, Shawn said, "Not bad."
It tasted good, and in fact, he was already feeling more energetic. Placebo effect?
"I have a small request, by the way," Shawn said. "Could you pay particular attention to any traces of plants or flowers on or in the body?"
The pathologist put the drink back in the cooler. "I'll be on the lookout." He returned to the table and examined Paul's wounds. "These are remarkably similar to the previous one," he remarked, peering at Paul's shaved head with his binocular glasses. "He was stabbed through the left temporal region. There are lacerations on the left side of the face, with multiple facial bone fractures. Highly unusual."
A monster did this, Shawn thought. Jasper had kept his monsters close, maybe out of superstition, like he thought they could protect him. Nothing protected him from this.
"The weapon of the second stab wound penetrated through the left temporal region into the cranial cavity, penetrated the cerebrum, and stopped within the right temporal muscle," the pathologist said in a level voice. Ron busied himself at a counter, his back to Shawn.
"The left temporal lobe suffered cerebral contusions. The third stab wound entered the cranial cavity and inflicted trauma in the inferior region of the frontal lobe. These lacerations, fractures, contusions, and the bruising on both sides of the hands indicate defensive wounds."
The pathologist continued with the two wounds in the abdomen.
Then Shawn caught a break: while searching for trace evidence during the external exam, Ron found a petal between Paul's butt cheeks. This was the highlight of Shawn's week, work-wise.
"Can you take a look in the scope?" Shawn asked, now son his feet and wide awake.
The pathologist squinted one eye. "I'm no forensic botanist -- " he started.
Shawn gave him a dubious look. The pathologist smiled and made an equivocating gesture. "Well, I do collect English boxwoods, as a hobby. I bring cuttings home and try to grow them. And I retain a keen interest in botany, so yes, you have a point there, Detective."
"See, you're a Renaissance man." Just like every pathologist Shawn had met, though before, with Dr. Evans, it was a Renaissance woman. Pathologists knew everything about everything.
"Well, I have a number of interests," the pathologist said with a kind of modesty. "For instance, I like to keep current on Paleozoic snails." He leaned over the scope for a moment, then straightened and danced his index finger along the titles of books he kept in an overhead glass cabinet. "Now, I think I have a reference here…" He opened the cabinet, plucked out one of the books, then flipped through it. He bent back down to the scope, checked the book, then looked back to the scope.
"Geranium, Detective."
Shawn Danger, Geranium Detective. Who cared, as long as he solved the case.
"Specifically, Geranium bicknellii, known more commonly as Northern Cranesbill."
"Thank you," Shawn said, writing this down, thankful he had taken some Latin in high school and could spell bicknellii.
"The seeds of Geranium bicknellii are stimulated to germinate by fire-induced temperatures. The dormancy of stored seeds is broken after a fire." The pathologist clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Shawn flinched at the squeaking rubber sound. "I love it!"
After some preparation, the pathologist began the internal exam, and at the first cut, Shawn nearly threw up the mystery drink, suppressing it by pure force of will and by breathing exercises that the Shaolin would aspire to.
But then he settled into this second autopsy of an old friend, asking himself how things turned out like this. What would his old friends be doing if they had completely different fathers, or if their fathers hadn't been drafted and sent to Vietnam before they were born? What would they all be like? How would things be different? Were they in the wrong multiverse?
God, he was tired.
No, tired was before. He was somewhere beyond tired.
"The ancient Greeks performed an exhumation rite after five years," the pathologist said. "If the bones were clean, that indicated the soul had departed. If the bones weren't clean, then the soul was lingering and the body was a vampire."
"I doubt that'll be the case here," Shawn said.
The pathologist chuckled.
The thought that there was something he was missing had only shouted to him from across a field when he read through the other detective's autopsy reports, but it ran right up to him this time and kicked him right in the shin. He remembered the park administrator talking with the DCNR Ranger about someone accessing the geraniums. After the pathologist finished with the organs, Shawn asked, "Do you happen to know where, aside from Presque Isle, this plant could be found?"
"According to my reference, that particular plant is endangered, at least in this state, but there could be some gardens that cultivate it. Churches, botanic gardens, universities, even monasteries come to mind. I know of a Presbyterian church with a lovely garden. They may be able to tell you something about it."
The pathologist pulled Paul's scalp over his face then reached for the bone saw. Shawn suddenly became
woozy and overheated. This was much worse than an autopsy where he didn't know the victim, and it was the second one in a short time. He might have spawned a new personality to deal with it; he couldn't be sure. After a minute, it passed, leaving him lightheaded and chilly.
When it was over, Shawn did his usual paperwork tasks, then thanked the pathologist and his assistant, Ron, who blinked in response. The pathologist said, "Thank you for your assistance, Detective. Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every New Year find you a better man."
***
As much as he enjoyed the pathologist's company, Shawn nearly ran through the entrance to the blessed outside. At his car, he almost ripped off his jacket. He had worn the same suit for both autopsies and would have to drop it off at the dry cleaner and tell them to use the turbo setting. Did the Hadron Collider do dry cleaning? Maybe he'd just get a new suit. He wanted to strip all of his clothes right there in the lot, but instead he called Sarah.
"I'm out of the autopsy."
"I've had so many calls like that today."
"The pathologist gave me some of his energy smoothie."
"Oh no!"
"It wasn't bad. And the assistant found something interesting on Paul."
"A fungus?"
"No, some trace. I'll tell you more later."
"Good. Where to now?"
"A Presbyterian church to look at a garden."
"That sounds like a euphemism."
"It's not. What are you doing?"
"More discovery documents."
"Then we're even."
***
Tuesday evening
Shawn drove to the Presbyterian church the pathologist had mentioned.
A choral group was practicing, so he waited until they paused between songs, then met eyes with the leader of the group, a redhead in a belted blue dress. After speaking briefly with one of the group, the woman walked toward him.
"Lieutenant Shawn Danger, Erie PD," he said softly, after the group started a new song. "I'd like to talk to someone about your garden."
She took in a sharp breath and her hand flew to her mouth, staying only briefly. "Oh, please don't tell me someone's buried in the garden!"
