by Bob Mayer
“Don’t touch the body. Didn’t they teach you anything?”
Chase turned to see the owner of the voice. Doctor Hanson pushed the words around the cigar butt he had tucked in the corner of his mouth. The voice didn't go with the cigar though; high and squeaky. He was a short, fat man who looked more like St. Nick without a beard than a coroner.
“Sorry,” Chase said, backing off.
Hanson looked at the neck. "I'd say the neck incision would be a good guess on this one. But how about letting me do my job and you do yours?"
Chase walked away since Hanson was ready to do the on-site on her and he’d already made one mistake. Chase was supposedly trained to investigate murders but he knew, and the people he worked with knew, that wasn’t the real reason he was here and his police training was minimal at best. He wasn’t a real cop, at least not according to the other real cops. His paycheck was cut by Washington because he was a Federal Liaison Investigator, FLI for short, which when pronounced, had gotten him more than enough sick jokes over the past four months—assigned to the grand city of Boulder, in the Rocky Mountain State of Colorado. Lucky him. He was a bastard stepchild, born of some whiz kid’s bright idea high in the Federal Government and crammed down local governments’ throats with the almighty lever of federal dollars. They thought they were killing two birds with one stone. Sometimes Chase wondered what kind of bird he was supposed to be.
Chase was one of the five hundred counter-terrorism experts the new president had promised to put on the streets, while at the same time; he was part of a Federal Agency Counter-Terrorism Team, specifically the High Plains FACT Team. They couldn’t just have all those highly paid specialists like him sitting around doing nothing, waiting for terrorists to strike, so the whiz kid had reasoned. So let’s shlock them onto the local police to earn their pay, day in and day out, the numbers sounded good in the President’s speech and be in the right area ready to go when needed. Plus they had their ‘ear to the ground’ or so the reasoning went, picking up ‘intelligence’ at the local level.
Thus, Chase worked with the Boulder PD, just like one of their own cops, even answered directly to the chief of detectives, but he also carried a red beeper with him everywhere he went. When it went off, he went wherever he was ordered, Boulder PD be damned; like he had two nights ago. Chase also attended refresher training with his CT, counter-terrorist, team, one weekend a month and for four week-long sessions yearly. At least that was the idea. Four months in and he wasn’t sure how it wasn’t going to work out as it hadn’t been thoroughly tested yet, although to judge by the other night, not exactly too great.
Chase’s paycheck was cut by the Feds, which was fine with the local politicians, and, he assumed, the taxpayers in Boulder, but didn’t thrill his superiors in the police department. It was sort of like the deal the Feds used to get extra teachers into classrooms, an analogy that didn’t impress Chase or his co-workers too much.
Chase rejoined Porter. "What do you think?"
Porter shook his head. "No ID. No rings. No nothing. I don't like it. No sign of the murder weapon, but I’ve put out the word to check the area for a knife.”
“I don’t think it was a knife,” Chase said.
Porter raised an eyebrow. “What cut her throat then?”
“I think she was garroted. Thin steel wire.”
Porter frowned, the worry lines etched on his face getting deeper. “We’ll let Hanson determine cause of death.”
Chase shrugged. “Roger that.”
Porter nodded toward the crime scene. “Come on."
Chase stood perfectly still for a minute, feeling Porter’s impatience to get started, then tuning it out. He imagined the place at night when the body had been dumped here. Stars overhead. Chase felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle and he turned toward the ridgeline, eyes searching the tree covered slopes.
“What’s the matter?” Porter asked.
“I feel,” Chase began, but then realized he’d already freaked his partner out enough for one morning. “Nothing.” Chase walked over to join his partner, but he looked over his shoulder once more at the mountains. He shook his head. Fucking ghosts were getting to him. He thought for a moment about the VA shrink in Denver he’d gone to. She’d made light of his ghosts, but then again, she was a shrink and a civilian. Chase knew from experience that some monsters were real, although they appeared human. Chase hadn’t gone back and he hadn’t taken the pills she’d prescribed.
Chase followed Porter’s lead. A hundred yards from the body, they began working their way in, checking the ground. It was slow, tedious and warm under the rising sun.
There was nothing after two hours of careful searching. They'd searched in to the body and Porter called for Hanson's ghouls to come and take her. Chase and Porter took a smoke break waiting for the wagon to get back out, neither of them saying anything, lost in their own thoughts, getting dirty looks from people getting turned around from their daily run/walk on the Mount Sanitas trail.
Chase knew there would be letters to the editor about closing the trail in the Daily Camera in the next couple of days. And their smoking. Chase always felt like he could tell the pulse of a place by the letters to the editor. In Boulder, they were mostly about protecting animal rights, protesting nuclear weapons, and basically getting in other’s people’s stuff on a large scale. Nobody ever sent a letter saying they needed to stop doing something themselves.
Chase looked around, taking in the area. It was a good drop spot for a body. On a bend of road where one could see either way for a distance, yet not be seen. He had a feeling the spot wasn’t chosen randomly or in the heat of the after-murder. He looked up once more at the ridgeline and shook his head.
They had her sealed up in the rubber bag, but Chase could still discern the outline of her body. She had been tall, but they moved with an ease that told Chase she wasn’t heavy. He figured it wouldn't be very long before they identified her, maybe even before the coroner ran her prints. She looked like a woman somebody would miss.
"Let’s head on back," Porter finally said. “We’ll see if anyone matching has been reported missing and do the honors with Donnelly.”
**************
Chase thought the best thing about the office was that it was in a new building with a nice view of Boulder Creek and the bike/run path that was next to it. Chase always enjoyed sitting there watching people huff and puff their way by. He’d also enjoyed running on it before he decided it interfered with his smoking. The path stretched from three miles up Boulder Canyon to the eastern end of town where the Great Plains met the Rockies.
Porter was away, briefing Lieutenant Donnelly, then checking the front desk for information. Putting his feet on the desktop, phone on lap, Chase leaned back in the chair. He hit speed dial on his cell with eyes closed.
Her voice sounded confused; she had been asleep. "What?"
“Noon. You’re mine.” Chase hung up.
He was watching two female joggers headed west to east, when Donnelly arrived at his desk while Porter was still away, now checking on messages. Chase had worked for him for four months now, since arriving in Boulder after his FLI training. The first few months Chase had just thought he was an asshole. After another couple of months of Donnelly regularly affirming that initial impression, Chase got so used to it he couldn't hate him anymore. Donnelly was a politician covering his ass, looking for promotion, and eventually retirement at a nice pay grade, something Chase had also seen too often among the officer corps in the army. Chase didn’t have the energy to fight that any more.
“Looking a little rough today,” Donnelly said, his fingers playing with his police-badge tie clasp.
“Yes, sir,” Chase said automatically. Coming out of twelve years in the Army and four year at the Academy, Chase had little idea how to dress in the civilian world and frankly, he didn’t give a shit. He did what he was supposed to do, who cared what he looked like doing it?
“I heard you were ale
rted the other night for that shooting in Larimer County.”
“Yes, sir,” Chase said. He noticed that everyone within earshot, and those beyond, were trying to listen in.
“I didn’t get a report from Agent Fortin.”
That’s because he doesn’t report to you, Chase thought but didn’t say. “I suppose not.” Chase noted Porter coming into the squad room, a piece of paper in his hand.
“Well,” Donnelly said. “Seeing as this is your first homicide, you’re in good hands with Detective Porter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow his lead,” Donnelly advised.
“I certainly will, sir,” Chase said.
Porter walked up, almost stepping between Chase and Donnelly. “I’ve got a name. Her husband reported her missing. Mrs. Rachel Stevens.” He looked at Donnelly. “We’re going out there to interview him, sir.”
“Good,” Donnelly said, as if he had thought of that course of action himself.
CHAPTER THREE
“You up to this?” Porter asked as he drove.
Chase shrugged. “We dealt with this in the Army by writing a letter from the other side of the world, not going and ringing a doorbell. Of course, we also usually knew and saw the person dying. So it’s hard to say which is more difficult.”
Porter nodded as if he understood. “The husband’s already identified the body. He’s back home. Doc Hanson doesn’t want to see us until later this afternoon after lunch. We need to talk to the husband ASAP because you always have to look at family first in a homicide. Most murders are crimes of passion.”
Chase didn’t think there’d been much evidence of passion, but he kept his mouth shut, deferring to his more experienced partner. They’d stopped at Moe’s on Broadway, and Chase was eating a pizza bagel and drinking a coffee, trying to quell his rebellious stomach. They were on the way to Pine Brook Hills. Even in Boulder where a run-down two-bedroom house could sell for a half-million, the Hills were expensive. The area was northwest of downtown in a section of the foothills with great views in every direction, particularly overlooking the town and the peons who lived there. There wasn't a dwelling in the Hills that went for under a cool million and most cost several times that. Their mountain road also got plowed first in the winter; so much for equality and democracy, Chase thought.
Chase’s back was stuck to the vinyl seat and the open window encouraged the dull roar of the city to exacerbate his hangover. He was trying to wipe a small dab of pizza sauce off his tie when they got to the Stevens' neighborhood.
“The body bother you?” Porter asked, glancing over.
“I’ve seen lots of dead people,” Chase said, taking another bite of his bagel.
“Right.”
The silence lasted until they turned in the driveway of the victim’s house.
“What does the husband do?” Chase asked as they pulled up to the sprawling mansion.
“Urologist,” Porter said.
“Must be a lot of prostrate trouble in town.”
Porter smiled. “Actually there is. Boulder has the highest rate of prostate cancer in the entire country. There was an article in the paper last year saying it’s all the bike riders. Those thin seats can be hard on the anatomy.”
Chase snorted. “You don’t think it’s Rocky Flats?” he asked referring to the sprawling government compound eight miles to the south of Boulder where the Rocky Flats Nuclear Munitions Plant had churned out big, dirty bombs for decades and was still in the middle of a massive cleanup effort. Chase’s FACT team had already done one training exercise down there and they’d been fully briefed on the facility. It wasn’t as clean as people thought.
“They’ve shut that down,” Porter said.
“They’re shutting it down. Big tense difference.” Chase shook his head. “They call it an ‘Environmental Technology Site’ now, like that changes the history of the place. I spent enough time in the army to know government double-speak.”
Porter glanced at Chase as he turned off the engine. “You don’t trust the government?”
“Do you?” Chase asked.
Porter shrugged. “Let’s keep our focus here. I’ll question, you watch and listen.”
Chase got out of the car and took in the house. It had more levels than he could count and enough glass to make the Hubble weep with envy. The sprawling home screamed money. He followed Porter up to the door and waited while his partner pressed the doorbell.
The woman who answered was early fifties, well groomed, and saddened. She told them she was the maid and that Doctor Stevens was waiting on the back terrace. The inside of the house as Chase walked through was a little much for someone who didn't have a nightstand and slept in a converted coal bin.
Doctor Stevens looked terrible. After a few seconds, the doctor finally acknowledged their presence, and told them to sit down. The doctor didn't stand, but Chase estimated he was about the same height, a little over six feet. He was in his late thirties but looked older. Probably all the silver in his dark hair and the worry lines around the eyes. Chase imagined he worked long hours. This house looked like it demanded it.
Porter took point. "Doctor Stevens, I wish we didn't have to do this now, but we need to talk a little about your wife. Most particularly where she was last night."
Stevens was twisting a small paper napkin into a roll. "She was at school."
Porter had his small notepad out. "School?"
The doctor was staring vacantly over at the view of the foothills rising up behind the house. "This is probably not the best time to talk; the reality of her death hasn't touched me yet. I was just sitting here wondering when she would be back."
Chase figured if they waited for a good time, the killer could walk to Canada or Mexico. He wondered for a moment which one he would head for if he had to?
Porter pressed on. "What time should she have returned last night?"
"Around ten-thirty."
Porter was writing. "What time did you call the police?"
"About eight this morning."
Chase’s eyebrows raised a notch but it didn't matter because Stevens wasn't looking at him or Porter for that matter. Porter asked the obvious: "Why did you wait so long?"
Doctor Stevens put the napkin down and finally looked at Porter. "I was just so positive she would be home. Bad things simply did not happen to Rachel."
Right, Chase thought. Even money and living in Pine Brook Hills couldn’t protect a person from the vagaries of life. Stevens finally looked up and must have seen something on Porter’s face because he continued, trying to amplify his comment, explaining his lack of action.
"I know it sounds strange, but she was so in control and so structured that when she was gone so long I just presumed she had a good reason. Rachel doesn't--" With great control he stopped and then continued. "Didn't do stupid things. It is simply impossible for me to think that she's really gone."
Porter nodded as if he understood. "Could you just give me an idea about your wife's school schedule?"
"She goes two nights a week. Wednesdays and Thursday’s. CU. She was working on her masters in clinical psychology."
That was something, Chase thought. A starting point at least.
Porter moved on. "What kind of car did she drive last night?"
"A white BMW 330CI." Stevens suddenly stood and motioned for them to follow him into the house. "Rachel was a very organized woman. Why don't you take her address book and calendar? It will tell you more than I could."
Chase followed the doctor and Porter through the house, crunching the ball he kept in his pocket, until they reached the upstairs master bedroom. To the right was a large alcove; Stevens referred to it as Rachel's sitting room. It was bright and colorful and facing east, which meant Rachel Stevens, had preferred to look out over the Plains than the Rockies. Chase briefly wondered what that meant about her.
The stuff the Doctor wanted was in the desk. Stevens got it for Porter, while Chase scanned around. Everything seem
ed to be in drawers. It wasn't one of those homes that had lots of personal things lying around for prying eyes to see. It seemed rather cold and sterile. For a moment, Chase wondered what someone would figure out looking at his apartment—he put the brakes on that line of thought quickly, because it wasn’t pretty.
Porter asked for a picture of Rachel and Stevens reluctantly pulled a small wallet size photo from his billfold.
"I have the portrait of this at my office." Stevens seemed to feel a need to go on. "Rachel didn't like photographs of herself and it took a lot of pleading to get her to sit for this one."
Porter took the picture without looking at it, handed it to Chase, thanked the doctor for the other stuff, gave him a receipt for the property, and they left him standing in that room alone and saw themselves to the door.
“What do you think?” Porter asked, as soon as they were outside.
“The house seems a bit much for just two people. Conspicuous consumption like a lot of Boulder.”
“About the husband,” Porter said wearily.
“Seemed pretty broken up,” Chase said.
“Or he’s a good actor,” Porter commented as he got in the car.
Chase got in the passenger side and smiled. “You don’t trust people.”
Porter nodded. “Not in murder investigations. Trust no one, especially family, and never, ever, fucking pray with them in front of their damn Christmas tree.”
“Say again?” Chase asked, slipping back to Army radio lingo.
“The first detective on the Ramsey case did that,” Porter said. “I was in uniform then. The body was still in the damn basement of the house and the detective was upstairs praying with the family, thinking it was a kidnapping. I learned a lot watching all the fuck-ups.”
Chase nodded. “Same here, partner. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I saw in the ‘Stan and Iraq. Never underestimate the power of stupidity.”
