by Paul Bishop
She didn’t understand why Colby was constantly riding her sexually. With his looks and flash, he could pull women who were far younger and better looking than she was. But she'd met men like him before. It frustrated them when a woman wouldn't lay down for them. They didn’t realize they were obnoxious asshats. Therefore, the woman must be a dyke.
Fey learned over the years the only way to handle men like Colby was to never let them see they bothered you. If they saw you were upset, it gave them a sense of power. If they couldn't screw your body, they wanted to screw with your mind.
To keep them in line, they had to be slapped down. You insult them right back and kept the upper hand. Eventually, they would back off to lick their wounded egos, waiting for a chance to stab you in the back.
There was no way to earn their respect or become friends. You were either a notch on their bedpost or you were a lesbian. Fey, like many other women, preferred the mislabeling. Sleeping with asshats certainly didn't accomplish anything.
Inside Wayside, Fey and Colby placed their guns in the lockers along one wall. They introduced themselves to the watch commander, who took them to an interrogation room before sending for Tommy.
Another deputy brought Tommy into the room, sitting him in the single chair. He was a frightened rabbit. Fey expected his nose to start twitching.
“Hello, Tommy,” she said.
“I got nothing to say,” Tommy whined, in the aggressive manner of a man trying to show he isn't scared to death.
The eyes of the scrawny inmate darted around the room. In his mid-thirties, Tommy's body was soft and anemic from years of drug abuse and malnutrition.
“Why did you do it, Tommy?”
“Why did you put me in this hellhole?” Tommy retorted. “I'm your brother and you sent me to jail.”
Colby saw where the conversation was going and kept his mouth shut. Fey had filled him in on the background between Tommy and herself. He read between the lines, realizing there was more baggage than she was admitting. Being an only child, Colby only understood enough about the semantics of siblings to be glad he didn't have any.
“We've been over the reasons a thousand times, Tommy.” Fey's voice was unnaturally calm. “I didn't put you in here. You put yourself in here.”
“Sure. It was me who talked to the judge and asked for the maximum sentence.”
“You gave Isaac Cordell my phone number and address because you were angry?”
“Hell no,” Tommy said. “I gave it to him because he offered me dope in exchange for the information.”
Fey hung her head. Colby realized she was on the verge of tears. He recognized it would have been easier if Tommy had given up the information simply because he was pissed off. The emotion would have been easier to accept and rectify than the real monkey on Tommy's back.
When Fey remained silent, Colby chipped in for the first time. “Tommy, there's a good chance Cordell is out to hurt or kill your sister. Is there anything you can tell us to help catch him?”
“You got any dope?” Tommy asked. “No? Then go screw yourself with a broom handle. Cordell can kill her for all I care.”
Colby looked at Fey.
“Let's get out of here,” she said, and pushed herself off the wall by her shoulders.
“Wait! I'm sorry,” Tommy said, turning in his chair to face Fey as she reached the interrogation room door. His voice was a whine, the bravado now nonexistent. “I really didn't mean to tell him. I mean...you know...and then he offered me the dope…”
“Shut up, Tommy,” Fey said, and pulled the door open. “It's too late.”
“No! No! Wait!” Tommy's voice was imploring. “Don't leave me here. Get me out. I didn't mean to tell him anything. He made me take the dope!”
Fey turned around to face her brother, making no attempt to hide the tear running down her cheek. “Don't call anymore, Tommy. I'm going to disconnect the number.”
“You can't!”
Fey walked out of the room, followed by Colby. She twisted the lock on the outside as she heard Tommy fling himself against the door. She wiped her eye. “He's ready to go back,” she told the deputy waiting outside. He gave her a strange look, never having seen a detective cry during an interrogation before.
When Fey turned to walk away, Colby followed close on her heels. They retrieved their guns and walked out to the parking lot.
Fey had told Colby about the answering machine on which her brother left messages. He understood her reference to disconnecting the number. “Are you really going to shut down the number?” he asked, thinking about the emotions of the situation.
“Not for a while,” she said. “Cordell may use it again. We should get a tap in place.”
“You think he's going to come after you? Wouldn't it make more sense to take off for the boonies and hide out?”
Fey reached her car and turned to Colby. “You weren't there in the alley when he and I were rolling around in the garbage. He stopped running when he realized it was a woman chasing him. He enjoyed hitting me. I was able to stop him, and he won't be able to live with it.”
“You must have a high opinion of yourself to think he'll stick around to take you out.”
“You’re wrong. I have a low opinion of men who enjoy hitting women. I was there. I saw his eyes when he was hitting me. I heard his voice when he called. He isn't going to run and hide.”
Fey unlocked her car and slid into the driving seat. “I'll tell you something else for free. I'm not going to run and hide either.”
Chapter 23
Any luck?” Mike Cahill came out of his office when he saw Fey and Colby returning.
Fey, still fighting to rein in her emotions, shook her head, moving on to her desk. Behind her, Colby shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes in the lieutenant's direction. “Anything new on this end?”
“Nothing specific to Cordell,” Cahill said. “Hatch and Monk went to roll call here and in Devonshire with photos and info-bulletins, so patrol is aware he's out there. They also had a judge sign the warrant paperwork and placed it in the system.”
Colby stepped into the lieutenant's office as the two men talked.
“How's Fey doing?” Cahill inquired.
“She had a tough time handling the situation with her brother.”
Cahill disregarded the statement. Anybody would have trouble handling the family dynamics.
“Think Cordell is a real threat to her?”
Colby shrugged. “I don't buy it. The guy is probably running for the border if he isn't across already.” Colby sat in an office chair. “What does he gain by sticking around to mess with Fey? I think she's running scared.”
Cahill knew Fey never ran scared.
“I think she has more on her plate than she can handle,” Colby continued. “The unit needs shaking-up or this string of unsolveds will continue.”
“Remains to be seen,” Cahill said. His tone was cool, letting Colby know he was dangerously close to stepping over the line. If Cahill reassigned Fey, it would be a black mark on his own judgment for putting her in charge. “She wrapped this case up quick. Cordell escaping is not on her.”
“This case was a self-solver from the get-go. Nothing tricky about it. We found a witness who placed Cordell at the scene. We found the murder weapon in his room. He ran when we went to talk to him. It wasn't exactly great detective work.”
Cahill shook his head. “Careful. You're in no position to buck for her job. Remember it only takes one ah-crap to wipe out every atta-boy you've ever earned.”
“Shut my mouth and write the president,” Colby said in a fake feminine, southern accent as he briefly covered his lips with his palm. “I don't know what gets into me sometimes, but it do make me twitter on.”
Cahill couldn't help laughing. “Twitter out of my office and make us both look good by recapturing this jerk.”
Colby looked put out. “Can I wait until he carries out his threats?”
Fey planned to take Colby with
her when she started backtracking the case, but seeing him come out of Mike Cahill's office, her paranoia kicked into overdrive. Feeling Colby’s knife in her back, she retaliated by dumping the day's paperwork on him.
“Dig in,” she said when Colby opened his mouth to complain. Seeing Fey’s expression, he wisely relented.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I've got to make my apologies to Harry Carter for missing the autopsy. Then I'm going to SID—see if they have anything further from the crime scene.”
“Let me come with you,” Colby said. His voice sounded strained.
Fey shot him an odd look.
“You think I need protection?” Her voice held a dangerous edge.
Colby felt his face flush.
Fey saw the rising crimson tide. She smiled as she grabbed her purse and briefcase. “Take care of the stuff already on your plate. Let me worry about the stuff on mine.”
Heading downtown in her unmarked detective sedan, Fey thought about the idea of protection. She glanced at the shotgun on the passenger floorboard, wondering if her precautions were necessary. Was Cordell stupid enough to make a run at her while she was on duty? Then again, Cordell might figure it was the best time to take her by surprise.
What about when she wasn't on duty? She had told Jake she wasn't going to constantly be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. She’d also told Colby she wasn't going to run and hide—even if it was what she felt like doing. There had to be a solution. Her mind chewed over options as she drove.
Harry Carter was in his office filling out paperwork when Fey arrived. It was a small, cluttered space, but Harry was comfortable in it, refusing to move despite being chief coroner. His face came alive when he stood up to greet Fey.
“You've been busy,” he said, giving her a genuine smile and shaking hands.
“Wasn't anything I couldn't handle.”
Harry reached out to gently touch her chin, examining the bruises on her face. “Interesting battle scars.”
Fey chuckled. “I prefer to think of them as war paint.”
Harry took his hand away. “If you were the winner, how bad did the other guy look?'
“His testicles are probably still in orbit.”
“Ouch.” Harry winced. “Ever considered fighting fair?”
“Fighting fair? There's an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”
“Like jumbo shrimp?”
“Or military intelligence.”
Harry laughed. “Coffee?” he asked. He turned toward an old-fashioned plug-in pot on a back counter.
Harry poured brown liquid into two glass measuring beakers. He added cream from a jug in a refrigerator holding various samples.
“Sorry I didn’t make the autopsy,” Fey said when they were settled.
Autopsies were a curse, but a necessary evil. Fey knew two detectives who enjoyed going to autopsies. She suspected both were serial killers in a previous life.
“Didn't miss much,” Harry said, waving off her apology. “It was routine. Nothing startling or case-breaking.”
He pulled a file from beneath a stack of papers. The stack tilted, but held. He pulled glasses down from the top of his head to read.
“Female, Caucasian, approximately forty-five to fifty years old. Sixty-six inches tall, one hundred and thirty pounds. She was in good shape for her age. Must have worked out like crazy.” He flipped over a couple of pages.
Fey knew Harry Carter well enough to realize he was using the file as a prop. He could have told her everything in it without referring to a single page. His memory was virtually photographic, but he enjoyed the role of absentminded professor.
“Time of death approximately two a.m.,” Harry continued. 'There was semen in the vagina vault. From the condition of the sperm, she'd had intercourse around three hours before death. There were no physical indications of force.”
Harry checked his notes. “The victim ate a salad for dinner the previous evening. From her colon, I'd say she was a vegetarian. Her liver showed no alcohol or drug damage. She didn't smoke, had a strong heart, and a good set of lungs. From the way she took care of herself, I'd say she was planning to live forever.”
“Until she ran into somebody specializing in throat slashing.”
“True,” Harry said. He closed the file. “The carotid was slashed and she bled out quickly. I’d said the weapon was a screwdriver, but closer examination showed it to be a wider blade.”
“But we've recovered the murder weapon,” Fey told him. “It was a flat-head screwdriver as you originally said. The lab hasn't confirmed, but there was blood on the tip and handle. I’ve no doubt it was the victim’s.”
“Hmmmm,” said Harry, raising his eyebrows. “I'm surprised. I won't dispute the fact in court. It could have been a screwdriver, but I still favor something slightly different.”
This bothered Fey. She had never known Harry to be wrong.
“I'll keep it in mind,” she said. “Things have happened so rapidly I haven't had a chance to think straight about the evidence. I’m not really comfortable with the way everything has come together. On the surface, it has been handed to us on a plate. But something is missing.”
“Like who the victim really was?”
“Exactly,” Fey said. “Who was she before she was Miriam Cordell? Who was she between being Miriam Cordell and Miranda Goodwinter?”
“Good point.”
Fey sighed. “Need to go back to the beginning.”
Harry tossed the file back on his desk. “What are you going to do about Cordell now he's escaped?”
Fey swigged a last swallow of coffee from her beaker. “One thing at a time, Harry.”
Fey called ahead from the coroner's office arranging to meet Annie Thaw at a sandwich shop across from Parker Center. The afternoon was waning, but Annie had put off eating lunch until Fey arrived. The two women sat eating sandwiches and chips at a tiny outdoor table.
“How's life?” Fey asked Annie as they munched.
“Those fairy tales our mothers told us are crap,” Annie said sourly,.
“No happily ever after part?”
“When was the last time you came across a Prince Charming? Men are slime.”
Annie and Fey were firm friends. Annie started work in the Scientific Investigation Division's lab the same time Fey entered the police academy. Over the years Fey had found Annie's scientific expertise to be invaluable. She could, however, live without Annie's bleak view of the world.
“I take it Danny is not keeping up with alimony and child support?”
“When has he ever been up-to-date?”
Danny Thaw was Annie's ex-husband, the father of her two sons. He wasn't as bad as Annie made out, but he could be a bastard when he wanted. Fey also knew life with Annie wouldn’t be easy.
“What about the results on the Goodwinter case?” Fey asked, cutting to the chase.
“Another prime example of why men should be nuked,” Annie replied. “A women would never do something like this to another woman.”
Arguing with Annie when she was in this kind of mood was fruitless. Feminism was one thing, man-hating another. Fey knew women did awful things to other women. She'd seen the evidence—shootings, stabbings, bludgeonings, poisonings, arsons. If anything, women were more vicious than men when it came to murder and physical child abuse.
Sex crimes, however, were another matter, but this case did not appear to qualify. There were no indications of deviant sex acts or forms of torture. The style of the murder was more consistent with an act of anger. Just because the victim engaged in intercourse before being murdered did not mean she'd had sex with the murderer. Nor did it mean she didn't. As usual, sex only complicated matters.
“I hear you. Men are slime,” Fey said, agreeing simply to move on. “Now, what do you have for me?”
Annie took a bite of sandwich. She chewed while talking, spraying crumbs. “Not much.”
Why did the evidence in this case ke
ep coming up empty, Fey wondered. She needed something more than not much. She needed something solid to stand on.
“This is me, Annie. You can do better.”
“Not this time. There were no prints in the room matching your suspect. What's his name?”
“Cordell.”
“Yeah, Cordell. Anyway, you're out of luck when it comes to his prints.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“Zippo, baby. Clean. No prints.”
“Crap,”
“Exactly.”
“What about the blood on the murder weapon?”
“There you score some points. The blood is A-positive, same as the victim's. The first level of DNA testing indicates the blood could belong to your girl. It will take a couple of weeks for long-term testing, but I don't think there's any doubt.”
“Anything else?” Fey pushed her plate away and fought the urge for a cigarette.
Annie was silent.
“Annie?”
“You're not going to like it.”
Fey rolled her eyes. “What else is new?”
“Most of the prints recovered at the scene belonged to the victim, but there were two other prints still unidentified.”
“Not Cordell's?”
“Not even close. Best I can tell, we have prints from a thumb and an index finger. Both have nicks and scars indicating someone who does hard work with their hands.”
“Construction?”
Annie shrugged. “Perhaps. The thumbprint came off of the bedroom door handle. The index finger was only a partial caught in a smear of blood on the sheet.”
Fey gave an excited start. “So it was left after the killing blow was delivered.”
“I agree, but it adds to your problems.”
Fey stopped to think. “It means somebody else was there after Cordell.”
Annie gave her friend a condescending look. “Get your head screwed on straight, Fey. The print may be a lot more significant.”
“Don't say it.”
Annie did anyway. “It may also mean Cordell isn't your murderer.”
Fey's heart was pounding in her chest. “Again,” she said quietly.
