Touch of Red

by Laura Griffin

  Sean curved around the bend and dipped down over the low-water bridge, passing the spot where some guy had smashed his car into a tree last night. Sean turned onto Cypress Hollow and spotted Brooke’s white Prius in the glow of a streetlight near the victim’s house. He pulled over and parked as Brooke got out of her car.

  She glanced up and down the block as she approached him. She had on the same clothes as earlier—including the sexy black boots—and her hair was back in the ponytail she always wore for work. Looked like she hadn’t been home yet, either.

  She stopped and gazed up at him. Her eyes were a mesmerizing blue-green color that seemed to change with her surroundings. Right now they were deep blue.

  “Hi.” She seemed . . . anxious. Maybe because only a few hours ago a woman had been slaughtered just footsteps away from here.

  “Hi.”

  “Did you find the child?” she asked, studying his face.

  “No.”

  She looked away. The child witness was not a hypothetical. Not to Brooke. It was a living, breathing person. A very vulnerable one.

  “We were here all afternoon,” Sean said, pulling her gaze back to him. “We talked to the neighbors. There are some children around, but none that fit.”

  “How old?”

  He nodded across the street. “People over there have a baby and a three-year-old.”

  “Too young.”

  “And a block over there are some teenagers ranging in age from sixteen to nineteen.”

  Brooke stared down the street and sighed. She started toward the house, and Sean fell into step with her.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” she said.

  “I was on my way here anyway. It’s been twenty-four hours.”

  Sean liked to see a crime scene in close to the same conditions as when the crime occurred. There was no rain tonight, but the lighting would be similar, and probably some of the same people and cars would be coming and going as residents went about their evening routines.

  Sean let Brooke go up the front steps ahead of him. He took out his pocketknife to slice through the police seal over the door, then used the key the landlord had given him.

  Brooke stepped inside first. Someone had left a box of gloves on the floor near the door, along with the crime-scene log. Sean signed in and passed the log to Brooke before pulling on some gloves.

  He stood for a moment and looked around. The house was cold. Still.

  “There’s something off about this.” Brooke turned to look at him.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Sean caught a faint trace of vanilla, but none of the superglue smell that usually lingered at Brooke’s crime scenes. She’d taken the evidence back to the lab for fuming this time.

  “When will the scene be released?” she asked.

  “Few days. Maybe tomorrow. Depends when the DA can get out here.”

  The case was grabbing headlines already, and the county prosecutor was eager to get a piece of it. She’d want to see the scene for herself, along with her staffers.

  Brooke walked down the hallway toward the bedrooms, and Sean crossed the living room to check out the television. The remote had been collected for fingerprinting, so Sean used the button on the set to power it on. The Simpsons was beginning.

  Brooke walked over and stared at the TV, and Sean took a moment to study her profile. Her neck looked way too distracting with her hair pulled up that way. Even more distracting was the thin black sweater that clung to her breasts. He shouldn’t be having these thoughts about her at a death scene where the blood was barely dry. But he couldn’t help it. Most times he got to see her they were in the aftermath of some kind of violence.

  Brooke stepped into the kitchen and went straight for the freezer. She examined the ice trays and poked through the bags of frozen vegetables. The freezer was a common place to hide drugs or money, but investigators hadn’t found anything.

  “We did all that,” he said. “Same for the air vents, the toilet tank, and the crawl space.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “I had our drug dog out here, too. He didn’t alert on anything.”

  She walked past Sean to stand in front of the open pantry, where she combed through the soup cans.

  “What are you thinking?” She looked at him.

  “Same thing you are. I’m not buying the drug connection.”

  He filled her in on the interview with Sam’s friend from AA, and Brooke’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No.”

  “You think she was on the phone with Samantha when the murder happened?”

  “Could be. It’s hard to pin down the timing that precisely, but it’s possible. Anyway, you were right about the AA thing. And this friend doesn’t think Samantha was into drugs at all.”

  “So, what then? You think the evidence was planted?”

  He scoffed. “Not by us.”

  “The killer?”

  Sean didn’t say anything. He tucked his hands in his pockets and watched her work through it.

  “I see evidence she was a recovering alcoholic and a healthy eater and a neat freak, maybe even OCD,” Brooke said. “But not that she was a drug addict.”

  “People fall off the wagon.”

  She shot him a look. “You sound like Roland.”

  She walked through the utility room and unlocked the back door, then stepped out onto the porch. The brown-black stain covered the area near the door. The landlord, who had talked to Ric that afternoon, was in a hurry to get the place cleaned up and vacated so he could get a new tenant in. Business as usual.

  Brooke stared down at the blood, and Sean felt a pang of uneasiness. He didn’t like seeing her standing there.

  “Very emotional.” She knelt down and looked at the wood, where the stain went deep into the grain.

  Sean crouched beside her. “You mean because of all the blood?”

  “The violence of what he did to her,” Brooke said quietly. “So much rage.”

  Sean knew what she meant, and he’d seen that kind of emotion before. “Makes me think of a jealous ex. Some guys are allergic to rejection.”

  She glanced up at him. Then she looked out at the driveway. “Are you familiar with Locard’s principle?”

  “Every contact leaves a trace.”

  “Exactly.” She stood up, and Sean did, too. “A perp leaves behind evidence. But the reverse is also true. We haven’t found much of him. The attack happened fast, no sexual assault, he didn’t go inside.” Brooke’s gaze locked on Sean’s. “But if you get a suspect, if you get me his clothes or his shoes or his car, I will find a trace of her on him.”

  Her voice vibrated with determination, and Sean had no doubt she’d do it. Brooke was smart and tough and good at her job.

  Underneath her toughness, he detected some skittishness, though. He didn’t know what it was about, but he was determined to get past it. He wanted to get to know her better.

  She turned and picked her way down the creaky wooden steps.

  “Speaking of dogs,” she said, “we found dog hair on one of the sofa cushions.”

  “She didn’t have a dog.”

  “Maybe she had a visitor who does. Maybe an ex-boyfriend, or her friend Amy, or possibly the child we’re looking for.”

  “You sure it’s a dog and not a cat?” he asked. “I noticed a striped tabby hanging around here.”

  “Animal hair varies by species. Microscopic examination reveals different scale patterns on the hair cuticle. It’s definitely a dog.”

  Sean wasn’t going to argue. He knew jack shit about scale patterns on hair cuticle. But it seemed odd for the victim to have dog hair on her couch when she didn’t have a dog. “You know what kind of dog?”

  “Long, light hair. Possibly a Labrador mix.”

  Sean filed it away as she went to stand in the spot where Samantha’s car had been parked. The Kia was now at the Delphi Center garage.

  “You g
uys start on the car yet?”

  She nodded. “We didn’t get much. It’s clean and well maintained. Recently had an oil change. Again, not the usual MO for a drug addict. There’s something else we’re working on, though.”

  Sean perked up. She had that tone she always got when she was onto something, but didn’t want to get his hopes up. “What is it?”

  “Let me show you.”

  She led him to the trash cans at the side of the one-car garage. Last night Sean had checked out the dilapidated structure, which was used as a storage shed for torn screens and old paint cans.

  “We believe the victim was ambushed,” Brooke said. “So the killer had to have been hiding somewhere nearby, then approached her from behind for the attack. I think he was crouched here behind the trash cans. Roland found a footwear impression that corroborates that theory.”

  “I thought we didn’t have any footprints because of the rain?”

  “This wasn’t in the dirt. Roland recovered a small styrofoam box, like you get for fast food, flattened right here beside the trash can. You’ll see it if you go through all the crime-scene photos. Looks like someone stepped on the box while he was crouched here. It’s only a partial impression, but the herringbone tread pattern looks consistent with a small portion of a footprint made in blood on the bottom step of the deck. So, we’re thinking it’s the killer.”

  “Any idea the shoe size?”

  “No, and we’re not optimistic on that because it isn’t a full print. But we’re running the tread pattern through the database to see if we can get the type of shoe. We’re lucky with the styrofoam—it’s pretty impervious to the elements.”

  “I’ll take any luck we can get, at this point.”

  A woman at the end of the driveway caught Sean’s attention. She was pretending to walk her dog as she watched what they were doing. The woman was short and heavyset, and she had a yappy terrier on the end of the leash.

  Sean strolled over to her. “Evening, ma’am.”

  She nodded warily.

  “Detective Sean Byrne.” He gave her a smile. “Do you live on this street?”

  “On the end there. Right before the hollow.”

  So, this would be Mrs. Morton, the widow who lived alone. Sean had read Jasper’s interview notes.

  “Have they caught him yet?” She squinted at the house.

  “We’re working on it. Ma’am, have you seen any suspicious people or vehicles around here lately? Maybe even today?”

  She shook her head. “Except for the news van. They were here this morning, but they haven’t been back since.”

  “And were you home last night?”

  “I was at church. Wednesday potluck. Then I stopped by the store. I came home about nine and unloaded a few groceries.”

  Sean nodded. “Do you remember any cars you might have passed?”

  “The officer yesterday asked that. I don’t remember any.”

  “Hear any noises or commotion?”

  “Well, it was raining. Not a lot, but enough to keep people indoors instead of walking their dogs and whatnot.” She tipped her head to the side. “When I was unloading the groceries, I heard a screech of brakes down by the bridge. People are always taking that turn too fast and running off the road there. Someone did it last night, too.”

  Sean’s pulse picked up. “What time was this noise?”

  “Like I said, about nine. Maybe a little before.”

  The first responder had arrived at nine fifteen. The wreck that held up Sean and Ric had happened even later than that.

  Sean took out a business card. “Thanks for your help tonight. If you think of anything else—”

  “I’ll be sure to call.” She took the card.

  Brooke joined Sean at the end of the driveway as Mrs. Morton and her terrier walked off. “What was that about?”

  “Come on.”

  Sean headed down the street toward the hollow. They passed the widow’s house, and then the fenced yards gave way to overgrown bushes. The air smelled like wet leaves, and a thick layer of kudzu covered everything except the road and the guardrail.

  Sean approached the tree where the guy had crashed his car last night. The front of the black sedan had been crumpled like an accordion. Up ahead, Sean could make out the fresh yellow wound in the tree trunk.

  “What time did you get to the scene last night?” He looked at Brooke.

  “Around nine forty. Why?”

  “Ric and I reached the neighborhood just before ten and got stuck behind a wreck.”

  “Yeah, you said.”

  “That witness heard brakes down here around nine.”

  They stopped beside the guardrail that was bent and twisted. Black skid marks led directly to the tree.

  “There’s a second set of skids here,” Brooke said.

  Sean turned around. She was standing on the opposite side of the road about ten yards back.

  Sean crossed the street, pulling out his flashlight. He swept the beam over the guardrail. The railing was bent in one place, but the damage looked old.

  “Doesn’t look like the car left the roadway,” she said. “But it clearly swerved and braked.”

  Sean glanced around. No streetlights here, only the reflectors along the curved metal barrier that had been smashed into time and time again. He walked all the way to the end of the guardrail, moving his light over the vegetation. Some of the weeds were bent and broken.

  Sean waded into the brush, his stomach growing heavier with every step.

  “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer as he pushed aside some branches and crouched down to look at a blue baseball cap with a Red Sox logo on it. Behind him, Brooke gasped.

  The land dropped off sharply. Sean picked his way down, shining his light around. The beam landed on something white. Sean held his breath as he peeled away the branches.

  “Sean?” Her voice was small and fearful.

  He stared down at the mangled metal, then turned to look at her. She was a dark silhouette at the top of the ridge.

  “Sean, what is it?”

  “A kid’s bike.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Roland walked in and plunked a Slurpee on her worktable. “Wild cherry.”

  Brooke didn’t look up. The print she was attempting to lift required her undivided attention. “Thanks. Next one’s on me.”

  “Forget it. You’ve got visitors, by the way.”

  She glanced up. “Who?”

  “Two detectives, a man and a woman.”

  She narrowed her gaze at him. Why didn’t he just say who they were?

  Roland smiled, and she knew he was needling her. Maybe he’d picked up on the weird tension between her and Sean.

  As if on cue, Sean stepped into the laboratory, followed by Callie McLean. Both wore visitor’s badges.

  Brooke put down her fingerprint powder. “Hi.” She didn’t bother to hide her surprise.

  “We decided to stop by.”

  She glanced at Callie, who was looking around the lab curiously. To Brooke’s knowledge, she’d never before been down here.

  Sean stepped closer, his attention drawn to the red brick on Brooke’s worktable. “What’s that?”

  “A murder weapon.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get a print off that thing?” Sean said.

  “You sound like a very annoying sheriff’s deputy who told me not to bother.”

  “Never tell Brooke she can’t do something,” Roland said from across the room. “Only pisses her off.”

  Callie stepped over to take a look. The brick had dried blood on it because it had been used to bludgeon a man to death. Brooke had already used an alternative light source to locate a trio of prints on the side of the weapon. The challenge was lifting the prints from such a textured surface. She had dusted the area with black magnetic powder and photographed it, and now came the hard part.

  “You guys mind waiting a sec? I have to finish this before my casti
ng material dries.”

  “Not at all.” Sean smiled as he stood back to watch.

  Brooke wasn’t used to having an audience, but she tried to stay focused as she dipped a plastic spatula into a small bowl of liquid silicone. “Right now it’s the consistency of toothpaste.” She carefully coated the area. “When it dries, I’ll be able to lift the prints. They’ll show up black against the white putty. I’ll then reverse the images using digital photography and run the prints through the database.”

  “Impressive,” Sean said.

  “Hopefully. We’ll know in a few minutes.” She finished applying the material and turned to look at her audience. “So. What can I do for you, Detectives?”

  “We’re checking in on our evidence,” Sean said. “You managed to get to it yet?”

  “First thing this morning.” Brooke stepped over to the maimed bicycle in the vehicle bay beside Samantha Bonner’s Kia. Even the kickstand was bent.

  Callie circled the bike. “Wow. This thing is trashed.”

  “We got transfer paint off the frame. The paint is dark red, but you knew that already. We’re waiting on a make and model of the vehicle.”

  Callie glanced at Brooke. “You can get make and model just from the paint?”

  “Oftentimes, yes. The sample is analyzed not just by pigment, but also the layering involved—the undercoat, topcoat, clear coat—to narrow down the particular type of vehicle.”

  “What about his fingerprints?” Sean asked.

  Callie looked at him. “His?”

  “It’s a boy’s bike, so we’re going with that assumption.” Brooke looked at Sean, who was watching her steadily with those hazel eyes.

  “No prints. It’s the same problem we had at the crime scene. Very fragile evidence, and the rain doesn’t help us.” Brooke turned to Callie. “Based on the size of the bike and the lack of fingerprints, it’s probable it belongs to a boy between eight and ten.”

  “Maybe our mystery witness?” Callie asked hopefully.

  “It’s possible. The timing works. A neighbor heard a screech of brakes about nine p.m. We saw skid marks leading to the area where the bike was recovered. And a close examination of some of the crime-scene photos shows a tire mark on the driveway.”

  “I’ve got them here,” Roland said from his computer.