Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “It is still a valid possibility.”

  “There’s no blood here.”

  “His head was on a pillow. It captured the blood.”

  “Something stinks,” said Thom. “And I don’t mean the mattress.” He hopped down and entered the bathroom.

  The words Dead fish scrawled on the bathroom mirror were the same as the Lawrence scene. Capital D. Lower case letters. The creep factor amped by the blood’s oxidized blackness.

  “Foam brush in the sink?”

  “Affirmative,” said Anita.

  “What do you think the words mean?”

  “We ran it through a slang dictionary and got a variety of the same theme. Someone who does nothing in bed. Turning a palm away when high-fiving. Bad kissing technique. A bad handshake. Like that. What did you come up with?”

  “Off the top of my head I thought it might mean pushover, or easy prey, or someone defeated or dominated.”

  Anita nodded. “Taking into consideration the manner of death that makes more sense.”

  “I see it as a two-fold message,” said Thom. “One, it makes a statement about either the killer or the victims or maybe both. Two, it draws the attention of law enforcement. I bet you a hundred bucks there are more victims with dead fish written in blood on their bathroom mirrors. And if the killer is smart, like I think he is, then the next one will be in the jurisdiction of a different PD or the Sheriff’s department. He’ll figure that it’ll be harder to connect the dots. Except he made one vital mistake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Those words are how we’re gonna catch him. He can’t hide behind jurisdictional red tape for long. You might not have wanted to work with anybody else, but you did release a law enforcement bulletin. You do want help because you’re all about solving murder.”

  As Anita chewed on Thom’s words he could almost see the smug alpha softening.

  Thom removed latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapped them on. He waded through the hoarded consumer waste in the mini office under the bed platform. “You take custody of his computer?”

  “He didn’t have one,” said Anita.

  “Everyone who has a home has one. Desktop. Laptop. Tablet. Trust me, he had something. We just have to find it.”

  “We tore this place apart.”

  Thom kneeled to look under the desk. He knocked down a stack of magazines and a wave of silverfish scurried in every direction. Thom jerked back in surprise and hit the underside. Something sharp nicked his head. “Damnit,” he yelled.

  “You okay in there?” said Anita, not sounding at all concerned.

  “I got stuck.” He turned his head. “A dangling staple. There are a row of them. Something was attached under here.” Thom threw the magazines aside and found a black cord plugged into an outlet, stapled to the wall. Thom pulled and it came free. Snap, snap, snap. The cord’s adapter was duct taped to the wall. He peeled back the tape and pulled again. Resistance. Thom jiggled the desk until the pinched cord came free. It had been cut. He crawled out of the paper and held up his find.

  “The killer took his computer. What business was this guy in?”

  “Deep background hasn’t been concluded. One of the neighbors stated that he was unemployed. Always here. Day and night. Sitting. Smoking.”

  “Welfare or unemployment wouldn’t provide enough to cover rent in this neighborhood. He had something.”

  Anita shrugged. “We haven’t found it yet.”

  “What about family?”

  “He has an estranged sister in Oregon. She thought he had died years ago and wasn’t interested enough in her brother to take the time off her job to claim his body.”

  “What about business papers?”

  “We didn’t find any. No bills even.”

  Thom stood in the middle of the room and slowly turned. Eyes tracking. Something was here. A clue. A lead. There always was. Often, it’s not what’s present, but what’s missing. Like the file on the Lawrence foster kid, Jelena Shkatova. A red flag. But how to determine what’s what in a residence where the detective is a trespasser of sorts.

  There was only one way to find out. Get dirty with it. Become one with the environment. Thom hung his jacket on a bathroom hook. Rolled up his shirt sleeves and went to work.

  After nearly two hours of searching the closet and the living space he’d not found anything of interest. Anita hadn’t helped either. She was outside making calls. She might as well have been filing her fingernails. Thom had found the cut cord within five minutes of entering. She knew her team hadn’t been thorough enough. At least she could pretend to help.

  The smell was suffocating. Hot. Claustrophobic. Thom wanted to be done. But he would not give up without something more. He opened the freezer. The ammonia from the refrigerator compartment leeched through the seal. Damnit. He really didn’t want to go in there.

  Thom recalled that California’s natural disaster guru always did the media rounds after an earthquake or major fire. He talked about protecting possessions. What to do in an emergency. What to have in the survival kit. The freezer was a good place to store valuables he’d said. Thom pulled everything out. Opened the cardboard boxes. His search yielded nothing other than iced-through TV dinners and popsicles.

  Thom held his breath and finally opened the refrigerator. Fuzzy round things oozed bacteria. On the top shelf sat a secondary reason for the stink. A warehouse-sized jar of mayonnaise. Big blue letters across the front: MAYO. Lid open. Long-handled scoop inside. Thom righted a stainless pot and began spooning the slimy-white contents into it.

  Anita finally came back in. “What the hell?” she yelled.

  Thom said nothing. He felt sickened. Continued to work the spoon around and around until he was certain nothing other than fat calories were in the jar. He’d vowed to never eat the stuff again. He finally gave in to the conclusion that he’d find nothing. That he was wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. But he didn’t want to be wrong in front of Ah-nee-TA HILL-on.

  His eyes swept the ceiling and landed on the mattress. The one Jerry Deats slept on. The one Jerry Deats died on. No. Please, not in that thing.

  “Screw it,” whispered Thom. Too late to save face. Might as well go for it.

  Thom reached up with both hands and gripped the edge of the mattress. He lifted it over the ledge and slowly backed away, dragging. Heavy for such a thin thing. He pressed his lips in a tight, grossed-out grimace as the mattress came free and fell with a sluggish thump on the floor. He flipped it over, found no access cuts.

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Anita. “Totally wacked.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Thom as he climbed the ladder once again. “But Jerry Deats is a homicide victim. He deserves my full attention and effort. I’ll keep searching for discovery until I’m absolutely sure I completed the task.”

  This time Thom was rewarded. Stuck to the bottom of the pine platform was a Tyvek mailer covered on the top side in some kind of science experiment slime that he didn’t want to think about. He opened the flap and happily found the papers inside to be dry. It only took a quick glance to know he found something important. His effort paid off. Thom held the envelope aloft in a celebratory gesture.

  “No way,” said Anita.

  Thom jumped down and slapped the slimy envelope into Ah-nee-TA’s stomach. Right on top of that beautiful camel jacket.

  “Thom Keane. LAPD. At your service.”

  twenty-one

  Thom ran down the hall. The medical examiner, an efficient man named Rollie Clayborne—known simply as Clay—would give him an earful about how a scheduled time was a time to keep. Thom shook out a folded disposable gown required inside the exam room and put it on over his suit. The pale yellow cover made him feel like a lemon drop. Just about to push in, his cell rang. Lance Craig.

  “LT,” said Thom
, breathless. “I’m late for the Lawrence postmortems. What’s up?”

  “The SMPD bulletin got two more hits,” said Craig. “Two bodies in Culver City. One in Westchester. The big war room is scheduled for oh-eight-hundred for a meet and greet and information exchange. I’m leaving the option open for a taskforce. I’ve got S&M on their way out to liaise with Pacific. Before he left Seymour wanted me to tell you to check your email. Something about a computer search. See you in the morning. And Thom? You’re quarterback. Bring coffee and donuts.” The call disconnected.

  Three more? Thom fell back, slowly slid down the wall. Felt the edge of panic. Eight murder victims targeted for a specific purpose. His job—no, his invocation—was to find out why and bring justice to victims and their families. Solving murder wasn’t simple. The books and the movies turned it into entertainment. Made it seem easy. The reality was far more complicated with untold and uncountable consequences. This he knew from personal experience.

  Quarterback. That meant taskforce lead—if it goes there—an investigator’s career win. But Thom could not shake the dread. His involvement already compromised the case, especially if Jelena turned out to be a suspect. The what-ifs were storm clouds looming on the horizon and a swift wind waited in the distance ready to blow the darkness his way.

  Thom stood and took a hit of stale, chemically disinfected air that filled the corridor. He was glad he’d already called a family meeting. He’d take all the guidance he could get.

  Thom slipped into the room. Rachel’s supine body was laid out on the exam table in front of Clay. He had just finished the Y incision to dissect the dead and was in the process of peeling back the skin to expose her internal organs.

  Thom sidled next to George who stood against the far wall, arms crossed, head turned away from what some detectives called the canoe. George looked just as foolish in the yellow cover. Good company.

  “You’re late,” said George. “Clay started promptly at one o’clock. And you’re putrid.”

  “The Deats crime scene,” said Thom. “It stank of garbage and decomp. The aroma infected everything, soaked into the carpet, the furniture. Walls damp with condensation.”

  “Enough,” said George sharply. “I get the point.”

  “Anyway, didn’t have time to change.”

  “Thom,” said Clay, “glad of you to join us. You missed Mr. Lawrence’s postmortem in its entirety and the external of his wife here.”

  “My apologies, Clay.” For George’s edification as well, Thom said, “We have a serial. Four scenes, three jurisdictions, eight bodies. Time critical and I’m the lead. We’ll stay as long as we can.”

  George registered this new information and whistled the first few lines of the main theme song from a familiar Western movie. A distinctive, two-note melody.

  “Hey,” said Clay, “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Clint Eastwood. Great film.”

  Apropos, thought Thom. It was about upsides, downsides, and the parts that could be better.

  “Well, then,” continued Clay, “how ’bout I have your attention for a short while so I can get you out of my exam room. First, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Let me guess,” said Thom. “Not a natural death.”

  “Correct. Corpus delicti. Massive damage to the brain incompatible with life. The direction of the bullet was front to back, slightly upward. Skull fragments in the wound track.”

  “Anything of the bullet salvageable?”

  “Nothing of significant size for comparison.”

  “And the one in the groin?”

  “A pelvic wound. Also front to back. Missed the penis. Both testes were in the scrotum and without trauma. Had a vasectomy at some point. A small-caliber round nicked the prostate and ureter, pierced the right kidney. That one was recovered and might prove useful. Were it not for the brain trauma this shot alone would’ve been survivable with immediate hospitalization. I did note marks on the abdomen strangely similar to resuscitative marks.”

  “Conclusion?” said Thom.

  “Someone pushed.”

  To get more blood to write a message, thought Thom.

  “I’ll expedite the written reports,” said Clay. “Meanwhile, the external examination of Mrs. Lawrence’s body was unremarkable aside from the apparent gunshot wound to the head. Rigor mortis well-developed in the limbs and jaw. Livor mortis fixed and distributed. No foreign material in the mouth or upper airway. You may talk while I move onward to the internal. Please keep your voices hushed so the recorder doesn’t pick them up. I’ll give a verbal as I go.”

  “Thanks, doc,” said Thom. Then to George, “I notice you’re up against the wall. As far from the body as possible.”

  “Easier to talk,” said George.

  —The high-pitched squeal of a rotating saw blade cut Rachel’s rib bones.

  George flinched.

  “Right. Did you find Dominic’s briefcase?”

  “On top of the credenza directly behind his desk, but I couldn’t touch it. The Special Master won’t be available until four. Meanwhile, I sealed the office.”

  “Was Jelena there?”

  “She had been. According to Dominic’s aide, a guy named Gordon, she pitched a fit when he denied her access to the office. Screaming in Russian. Beyond pissed. Face as red—”

  —Rachel’s rib cage was removed with a wet, plunger-like sucking sound.

  “—as an apple. Gordon said that when Jelena finally understood she wouldn’t get in, she went home claiming she was too ‘emotional hardship’ to work.”

  “Was she after the briefcase?”

  “She didn’t expressly say. And when pressed by Gordon she wouldn’t say.”

  “Why did Gordon feel the need to prevent her from entering? She’s his clerk.”

  “That’s the thing. Gordon never liked Jelena. Never trusted her. He advised Dominic to fire her for her lackluster commitment and work ethic. His words. He also thinks she stole an ironwood bear that the governor had given Dominic. Some kind of California service award. When Gordon heard the news he immediately went straight to the office expressly to keep her out of it.”

  “Does he think her capable of murder?”

  —The scale rattled with the weight of Rachel’s heart. “Three hundred and eight grams,” said Clay.

  “He capitulated and eventually landed on a soft ‘no.’ Jelena has a roommate named Claudia Stepanova. Also Russian. No accent. She’s a linguist. Speaks and writes several eastern European languages. Floats between divisions. She’s been installed in Dominic’s office for a couple of months.”

  “You’re really bothered by the way Jelena speaks,” said Thom.

  “I am. Not sure why, but I’m going to find out. For now, Claudia confirmed she was with Jelena earlier in the evening on Saturday and left around midnight. Claudia was upset Jelena abandoned her for an old guy at the bar. That’s why she remembers the time so specifically. That squares with what Jelena already told me.”

  “Old guy, huh?”

  “Her words,” said George. “According to Claudia, she met up with musician friends and hung out at their place. She didn’t come home until near dawn. Jelena’s bedroom door was closed so Claudia was unable to say if Jelena was home. There’s a third roommate named Dona. She and Jelena share a room. Dona left for vacation on Sunday. I reached her via phone. According to Dona, Jelena’s bed wasn’t slept in Saturday night. It was still made up from the morning. However, Jelena reported that Dona was asleep when she arrived home and still asleep when she left Sunday for her foster parent’s house.”

  —The scale rattled. “Right lung weighs 350 grams.” Clay placed it on a slab. Picked up the other. “Left lung weighs 400 grams.” He placed it next to the other then sliced the lung like a loaf of bread. “The visceral pleura are smooth and intact.”

  “A made bed could have several interpreta
tions,” said Thom. “The scenario can go either way. Nevertheless, when she returns from vacation bring her in for an official statement. We’ll see if her story changes. Are there security cameras at the apartment building?”

  “Exteriors and lobby door. I contacted the security company. They weren’t cooperative. They insist on a warrant. If I get lucky with time I’ll prepare the paperwork and get it signed by the night judge. We’ll see. During the interview Jelena reported that she invited the old guy back to her apartment, but he declined. True?”

  “Video and roommates.”

  “So the backseat of a Honda was better?”

  “Apparently not. They have photos.” Thom turned his back to the exam table. “I never felt the tingle that someone was watching.”

  “You were wasted.”

  Thom vigorously shook his head. “I’m an expert scoundrel.”

  “What are you thinking?” said George.

  “Not sure. Go on, finish up. Who did Dominic have conflicts with?”

  —“What the—” Clay leaned over something that held his rapt attention.

  “According to several staffers, nobody. One of the lawyers called him a therapist. The one with the magic touch. He’s the last person anyone would think of to die via homicide. Of course, they’re lawyers. No issuance of guarantee.”

  Thom scratched his brow in frustration. “Who knew him best?”

  —Clay sliced into Rachel’s reproductive organs.

  “The aide, Gordon. He’s been Dominic’s right-hand man for a decade. He has no clue why someone would want him dead.”

  “What was Dominic working on?”

  “Gordon wouldn’t say. He wanted to confer with the Special Master before telling me.”

  “Sounds serious. Stay on it. Meanwhile, maybe we’ll get lucky with the office, the files, the briefcase. We also have to consider that Rachel or the twins were the primary target.” Thom gestured toward the clock on the wall. “Don’t be tardy. I’ll stay here as long as I can. I’m not going back to the office today. I have the book, the Deats file. Seymour might have found something, too.”