by Paul Bishop
“Really?” Hatch asked.
“It was amazing. Big old muscular guy. Big fat tears running down his cheek. The man loves his kids.”
“Nice thing to do,” Hatch said.
“Trying to do what was right.”
“Enough male bonding,” Fey interrupted. “You and your partner can go out and hug trees and beat war drums on your own time. Tell me about the bat.”
Monk picked up an SID report from his desk. “I took the bat to the lab. They complained about how busy they were, but finally came across. Even though the trash driver had cleaned it up, they were still able to find traces of blood in the wood. It’s a match for the victim.”
“How do we tie the bat to the suspect?”
“Shirleen's statement. She saw Lance take it when he left to have a chat with Bradshaw.”
Fey's face took on a wary expression. “It might fly,” she said, eventually. “Maybe enough to get the case filed. When are you going to present it to the DA?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Keep me posted. Don't let the DA continue the case for further investigation. We want a filing or an outright reject. We need the crime clearance.”
“You got it,” Monk said.
“You done good, son,” Hatch told Monk.
“Absolutely,” Fey agreed quickly. She wished she'd been the first to offer the compliment, but she found giving praise hard. She had trouble feeling if she praised someone, it gave license to take advantage of her in the future. There were a lot of mixed signals for women who supervised men. If you tried to be one of the boys, you were considered easy. If you took a more reserved roll, you were an ice queen. Finding a middle ground was something Fey was still striving toward.
“What about this new caper?” Hatch asked.
Fey put the files she'd been checking back into her in box. “It’s going to be a problem. What do you make of these?
Fey pulled the three sets of ID from her purse and handed them to Hatch.
The money from the dryer was in the trunk of the police car. They would count it later and book it into evidence, but Fey didn't want to do it in a squad room full of well-intentioned, but nosy detectives not involved in the case.
Working his way through the cards and papers, Hatch passed each piece to Monk as he finished with it. The faces of the two men creased with concentration. Fey marveled, as always, at how good detectives managed to compartmentalize their thought processes.
All thoughts of the Bradshaw case, or the John Doe transient, or the day's earlier court appearances and other activities, had been swept away in favor of total attention to the issue at hand. It was very existential, each case existing strictly within its own absurd universe, unaffected and unrecognizing of anything outside its own universe, total attention to the here and now.
The ability to compartmentalize, to not be overwhelmed by the demand for attention on too many fronts, was essential to the emotional makeup of a good detective. However, the trait was hell on interpersonal relationships. Spouses and offspring often felt closed out, unable to break into the other universes a cop kept to himself, and therefore felt ignored or unimportant. This often led to divorce or alienation. Perhaps, Fey thought, they could now lodge their complaints with the 800 number instead.
“Unreal,” Monk said, setting aside another piece of the victim's identity collection. “Miranda Goodwinter; May Wellington; Madeline Fletcher. Who the was this woman?
“My question exactly,” Fey said.
Hatch walked over to the small office the detectives used as a coffee room. He came back carrying a small tray with three personalized mugs filled with steamy black liquid.
Fey gratefully took her mug. “You heard about the citizen who runs into the police station and tells the desk officer there's a dead cop lying naked in an alley across the street. The desk officer asks how he knows it’s a cop if the body is naked”
“Because he's got an erection and coffee pouring out his ears,” Hatch said, stealing the punchline.
“Wise guy,” Fey said. She knew it was an old joke because there were now too many women on the force to make the punchline valid.
Fey became serious again, fingering the IDs now on the desk. “This is a problem.”
Hatch took a sip of his scalding brew. “Monk and I will keep up with the old stuff, and catch anything new, so you and Colby can stay on it.”
“Thanks,” Fey said. “If we don't break this one fast, the lieutenant will have our heads served up on a platter with apples stuffed in our mouths.”
“Won't he be happy with the Bradshaw result?” Monk asked.
“He'll be happy, but it will only keep him off our backs for a while. We had eight unsolveds out of twenty-two dead bodies in the division last year. Not a great batting average. Up until this break with Bradshaw, we've been riding a four-body losing streak. The brass are getting antsy. I know my butt is on the line.”
“The unsolveds aren't your fault, boss,” Hatch said, concerned. “The last four have all been nowhere cases. We've worked them to death, and with the exception Bradshaw, the clues closet is bare. Nobody could have done more.”
“Not an answer I can take to the next supervisors' meeting They'll chew over Bradshaw and then ask why we haven't worked the same kind of magic on the other cases. They won't care if baseball bats in trash cans only come along every millennium.”
Hatch shrugged, turning his attention back to the identification on the desk. He was surprised he'd been promoted as high as D-2. He knew he was a good detective, but he'd never been good at playing the promotional politics game. He also knew he wouldn't want the added responsibilities Fey carried as a D-3.
He didn't have ambitions beyond the pride he took in doing his job. He had no desire to promote, or do anything else, until he retired in another couple of years. Then he and Lorraine were going to grab his pension and take off for their retirement cabin outside of Seattle. Nothing but fishing and sipping. No dirtbags, no politicians, no stinkers, floaters, or babies with their heads bashed in. After a while, maybe his nightmares would go away.
“This ID is really good,” Hatch said as he worked his way back through the papers. “Driver's licenses, Social Security cards, credit cards, even library cards.”
“You get tired of one life and step into another like a snake shedding its skin,” said Monk. “The ultimate goal of conspicuous consumption.”
“Then there's these,” Fey said. Dipping back into her purse, she brought out the other documents from the dryer drum. “Birth certificates, school transcripts, passports.” She spread the papers across her desk. “Plus, down in the car, we have a nice round million in cash.”
Fey wasn't sure what tipped her off to take a second look in the dryer. Maybe instinct, or perhaps experience. After twenty-two years on the job, there wasn’t much difference.
Hatch whistled when Fey mentioned the money.
“A million in cash?” Monk asked in disbelief.
“Yeah.”
“I haven't seen so much cash since I worked dope,” Hatch said.
“I've never seen so much cash,” Monk said. “Can I go down and get it? I want to run my fingers through it. Smell it. Take it home and stuff it in my pillow to dream on.”
“Down, boy,” said Fey. “You'd never be able to get it out of the car. I've got an attack cat watching it.”
Hatch laughed. “I heard about the cat. Colby was pissed.”
“What else is new?”
“What are you going to do with the vicious beast?”
Fey shrugged. “If we can’t find a relative, which doesn’t appear likely, it’s off to the animal shelter.”
“I know better,” said Hatch. “You come across as a hard-ass, but you won't let the cat be put down.”
Fey smiled. “You're probably right. Constable and Thieftaker won't mind a cat around the stable.”
“Not unless they're friends with the mice,” said Hatch.
Monk was frowning. “Who
are Constable and Thieftaker?”
“My horses,” Fey said, and pointed to a photograph under her desk blotter of two well-groomed quarter horses.
Hatch picked up one of the passports from Fey's desk. He flipped through the pages before setting it down again and picking up another. “Maybe we should send this stuff over to Questioned Documents. See if they can tell us what is forged and what isn't.”
“You have something in mind to do with the results?” Monk asked. Like Colby, he was a D-1. Unlike Colby, he was always ready to learn something new.
Fey answered for Hatch. “Forgers are like painters. They all have a distinctive style. Unique flairs or special touches. Sometimes it's an ego thing, sometimes it's sub conscious, but you can always spot the technique.”
Hatch opened up one of the passports. He showed Monk a page full of visa stamps. “A few years back there was a guy named Justin Otekan. An Englishman, he was reputed to be so good museums hired him to paint replicas of priceless paintings from their collections. If they took the original down for security purposes, or restoration, they would hang Otekan's copy in its place. Nobody ever caught on.”
“Your point?” asked Monk.
“Otekan was also known to produce perfect American passport forgeries. The only problem with the things was all of them had the same three visa stamps – Great Britain, France, Switzerland. If a passport had those three visas, chances were it was an Otekan forgery.”
“You're saying if we find out which of these IDs are forged, we might get to a forger who might be able to give us a clue to the victim’s true identity.”
“No flies on you,” Hatch said.
There was a commotion on the back stairs. The three detectives turned as Colby swagger into the squad bay. He looked smug and pleased with himself.
Mike Cahill also saw Colby enter. Sensing something was up, he appeared as if by magic in the midst of the homicide unit personnel.
“I've got good news and bad news,” Colby said, shaking a fistful of fax paper. “The good news is there was a successful hit from FIN.”
He pulled out a specific fax sheet and scrutinized it.
“Ditch the drama,” Fey said.
Colby was purposely drawing out the suspense. It was as if nothing she’d said in the parking lot registered. “Eleven years ago our victim was printed after a shoplifting arrest in San Francisco. Her name then was Miriam Cordell.”
“What's the bad news?” Fey asked, hoping Colby would get to the point if she played straight man.
Colby's grin widened. They were hanging on his every word. “The bad news is, ten years ago good old Miriam got herself murdered.”
Chapter 8
“How could she have been murdered ten years ago in San Francisco and end up freshly dead again this morning?” Fey kept her voice calm. The last thing she needed was Colby trying to make a farce out of this case. “Either the FIN people made a mistake, or we've got the first recorded case of two different people with the same set of fingerprints.”
“The FIN people didn't make any mistakes,” Colby said. His voice held a tinge of anger. “I called them direct after finding out about the situation. Instead of running the prints through the computer a second time, they hand-searched the records and pulled the hard copy of Miriam Cordell's prints from the shoplifting arrest. Then they used the hard copy to do a comparison with the prints we faxed them from our stiff. No question, they belong to the same person.”
“No way.”
“Don't climb all over me, Frog Lady. I'm only the messenger. You're the big-deal detective.”
“Cool it, Colby,” Mike Cahill said. He could see the confrontation coming and wanted to defuse it.
“What about the fax we sent?” Monk asked. “Maybe it wasn't clear enough. Maybe the prints are close, but not exact, and comparing off a bad fax copy makes them look alike.”
Colby shook his head. “They said the first fax copy of the prints was clear, but I sent another anyway. Same result. Miriam Cordell and Miranda Goodwinter are the same person.”
“The first name, Miriam, is consistent,” Hatch put in. “Miriam; Miranda; May; Madeline. The M can't be a coincidence.”
Fey shrugged, reluctantly. “I'll buy the prints,” she told Colby. “But how did you come up with the stuff on the murder? I know it didn't come from FIN.”
“I called SFPD direct after FIN told me the Miriam Cordell prints came from a shoplifting arrest in the Bay area. I wanted to see if they had anything else.”
“And?”
“Their records unit ran the name every which way and came up with the One-eighty-seven report listing her as a homicide victim.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“I don't know. The records unit could only tell me what was on the computer. The suspect on the murder report was listed as Isaac Cordell. Their computer showed two other connected reports – an arrest, and an arson report.”
“Smart work,” Cahill said.
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“None of this explains how our victim managed to pull a resurrection act and then get herself murdered again ten years later,” Fey said.
Colby turned to her. “I'm working on it. The detective who investigated the original case retired a couple of years ago. SFPD will contact him and have him call us.”
“What about the original reports?”
“They're on microfiche in the bowels of San Francisco PD's Records and Identification Division. The supervisor said he'd overnight them to us.”
“You touched all the bases,” Fey said, grudgingly. “There isn't much we can do until the reports get here or were hear from the detective who handled the case.”
“What do you want us to do while we wait?” Monk asked.
“Are you and Hatch clear?”
Monk looked over at Hatch.
Hatch nodded and said, “The new reports were light today. There's nothing can't sit on the back burner for a while.”
“Then go back to the scene and canvas the neighborhood. Door-knock every unit until you find a witness. Keep a list of units where there's no answer. We'll pick those up later. Colby and I will meet you after we book our evidence into property.”
“Who's going to start the murder book?” Hatch asked.
“I'll run it,” Colby said. The murder book held all the case reports and memos for later reference.
“I'll do it,” Fey said. “I want you to crank out the crime report and chase SID to give us anything they have from the scene.”
Colby looked as if he was going to protest. Then he seemed to think better of it and shut his mouth.
Monk saw the action and smiled to himself. In Monk's estimation, Fey had her work cut out trying to supervise Colby. He also knew she was equal to the job. The fact Fey was a woman never bothered Monk, like the fact he was black never bothered her. He figured there were things in life put there to challenge you. Things you couldn't change. It didn't make sense worrying about them.
Even if he had the choice, he wouldn't change being black. After watching Fey do her job, he doubted she would give up being a woman. Being good at your job was Monk's bottom line. He'd worked for Fey long enough to see she was good at doing hers.
Monk and Hatch grabbed their jackets and headed for the door.
“Can I leave you kiddies alone?” Mike Cahill asked, once Monk and Hatcher had gone.
“Why would you even ask, boss?” Colby said quickly, before Fey could get in a reply. “We have no problems. Do we?” He threw a vicious smile at Fey, which Cahill couldn’t see.
Internally, Fey felt her emotions flip-flopping. She didn't understand what was behind her ambivalence toward Colby. Sometimes, she could keep herself in check and treat him with nonchalance and superiority. Other times, when her guard was down, his inherent sexiness touched something inside her. Still other times, she felt violent and aggressive toward him.
This time her emotions settled into the latter area.
�
��We both have big problems,” Fey told him. A cold fury at his goading escalated inside her. “My problem is trying to figure out who slashed Ms. Risen Again's throat. Yours is finding a psychiatrist you won't scared off after one session.”
Chapter 9
By the time Fey arrived home, it was midnight and she was almost dead on her feet. There was a note under her front mat from her neighbor, who took care of her horses when she couldn't be there. Thieftaker had a loose shoe, and Constable appeared to be off his feed. Fey groaned and took the note inside. She dumped it on the living room table along with the day's mail. She shucked her purse and jacket and returned to her car to get the white cat.
Fey expected the cat to be skittish after a day filled with extraordinary circumstances. However, after she had transferred the cat from the plain detective sedan to her own car, the animal had simply curled up on the passenger seat and gone to sleep.
Once on the floor in Fey's house, the cat began to whine and wrap itself around Fey's legs.
She set down the litter box she had also brought in from her car. “I know what you want,” she said to the animal, bending down to scratch its head. “You must be starved.”
The cat followed her into the kitchen and kept up a constant racket of excited, if unintelligible, conversation as Fey opened a can of tuna.
All the way home, Fey had tried to decide what to call the cat. There had been no collar and tag with the animal's name on it, nor had there been anything in the victim's house to indicate the cat's moniker. Hell, there hadn't been anything in the house to indicate the victim's true moniker. It was the weirdest case of identity Fey had ever come across.
After much deliberation, Fey had decided on Brentwood, after the area where the victim had lived. It had the equal amounts of class and irony of the best cat names. She tried it out now as she flaked the tuna onto a saucer.
