Bone Maker: Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 1

by D. F. Bailey

  “Tell us what, precisely?”

  A look of frustration crossed his face. She was playing devil’s advocate. Now he’d have to spell out the details.

  “That Raymond Toeplitz was shot and left for dead in his SUV. The shooter threw the physical evidence — these brass casings — into the bush a half mile from the scene of the crime. The bear then dragged Toeplitz from his car and began to devour him. As part of his meal” — Finch grimaced at the thought — “he consumed the two slugs which killed Toeplitz, the same bullets you extracted from the bear. Toeplitz wasn’t killed by the bear. He was murdered before the bear found him.”

  She nodded as if she were considering two or three other possibilities. “Okay. Are there any fingerprints on them?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just partials. To be sure, we need to get them to a lab.”

  As Jennie hesitated again, Will realized he needed to be more persuasive. Without her half of the puzzle, his evidence alone didn’t warrant a homicide investigation.

  “Jennie, step back a minute to consider what we’ve put together. If your forensics team can match these two pieces of brass to the two slugs you extracted from the bear, you’ll possess enough street cred to seize Toeplitz’s car and request a formal inquest into his death. You won’t need Sheriff Gruman’s permission. You won’t need anything else.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “But first” — he held a finger in the air — “first, I want you to guarantee me that we keep our deal.”

  She narrowed her eyes and considered this. “Okay.” Finally she seemed able to muster the determination needed to press forward. “The deal is still on. Let’s see if the brass match the bullets we found in the bear.”

  “All right.” He smiled, certain now that the case would break wide open.

  “But if they do, Will, I hope you realize that we’re into a whole new level of trouble.”

  ※

  When they returned to the pit, Will immediately saw that the room had been transformed since his ignominious exit.

  After he’d extracted brain tissues from the bear to check for rabies or other neurological disease, Manfred had incinerated the corpse and restored the work space to a state of professional hygiene and order. All that remained of the bear were the audio and video recordings of the necropsy — and their collective memory of it.

  Once again the three of them relived Finch’s fainting episode, and after a new round of laughter he steered the conversation to the new business at hand. Jennie told Manfred about the new puzzle concerning the bullets and brass casings and said that they needed to examine them in the lab. She led the way down a windowless corridor. Manfred followed her and Finch brought up the rear.

  He pulled the ziploc from his bag, opened it and carefully slid the brass onto the stainless steel bench next to Jennie. “I haven’t touched these with anything organic,” he said. “Just so we could dust them for prints.”

  “This is only a preliminary examination, by the way,” she said as she lifted the metal casings on the tip of a toothpick. “ME’s don’t handle weapons forensics, so whatever we discover has to be sent to the forensics lab for verification.”

  Finch nodded. From years of reporting he understood the distinctions.

  “But still, we can make some informed guesses. First, let’s see if they’re the same caliber and check for any obvious similarities.” She tugged on her gloves and then clicked on an overhead lamp and placed the two slugs and shells side-by-side on a black cloth. Despite the warping the bullets endured, they appeared to make a superficial match to the brass. “Looks like the bullets and casings are both nine-millimeter,” she said.

  “Agreed.” Manfred took a flash photograph and tilted his head to one side to consider what the match might mean. “But these bullets weren’t shot at the bear. After a second evaluation I couldn’t find any entry wounds in the bear carcass that would correspond to nine-millimeter slugs.” He paused and took a step away from the examination table. “Oh my god…. He ate them.”

  Finch smiled. Look who’s arrived late to the game. Better late than never.

  “Exactly what I’ve been thinking,” Jennie said. “And when Will showed me these bullet casings, it conferred more certainty. What it means? That I don’t know.” She moved to the far end of the bench and with a stainless steel tweezer she set one slug under a microscope, then peered through the lens and adjusted the focus and light mechanisms. Then she lay one of the casings below the scope and turned the brass slightly. “There, have a look. You can see micro alignments — tiny mechanical and manufacturing signatures — between the brass and the slug. And yes, here — that might be a trace of a fingerprint.”

  Finch examined the slug and shell through the lens. As a result of the impact, the slug had been transformed into a mushroom-shape after it hit its target. Once his eyes adjusted to the amplification, he could clearly see tiny dents at the edges of the brass and the base of the slug that seemed to carry from one to the other.

  Jennie laid out the other pair and set her eyes to the scope. “This match is even more pronounced.”

  Manfred gazed through the lens. “Yeah. And has a better fingerprint.”

  “Do you think they can lift it?”

  “In the forensic lab?” He drew his head away from the microscope and he pressed his lips together. “Maybe.”

  “All right. Send them in for a complete diagnostic on all four pieces.” She checked the wall clock: 2:33. “And we want to know the results on the bear’s brain tissues. If you can have a report to me on everything by this time tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”

  “What about the Wallenby file?”

  “Move it back a day,” she said and pulled the latex gloves from her hands. “And Manfred — if you happen to see Gruman, he doesn’t need to know about any of this yet, okay?”

  Manfred smiled with the same grin that had graced his face when he’d spooked Finch about posting the video of his faint on YouTube. He nodded and clicked off the microscope lamp.

  Finch decided that he disliked the varnished look painted on the intern’s mug. An expression of pleasure masking a sadistic humor. Sadly, it suited him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brenda Wheeler led Finch past the floor-to-ceiling windows to a table at the far end of the Bridgewater Bistro. “No fog, tonight,” she said with a nod to the clear sky.

  Finch studied the river as it flowed under the massive bridge. “It’s gorgeous,” he said and his eyes lingered on a pair of gulls coursing above the water. To his relief, they provided a respite of sorts, a break from another long day.

  She smiled, passed him a menu, and advised him that his waitress would be along in a moment. Back at the hostess desk, she called Gianna Whitelaw, who was just finishing a latté at Three Cups Coffee House, a few blocks down the road. Gianna had heard from Brenda’s sister, Jill Sutton, that Finch had visited Three Cups on four occasions now. Jill knew these things because she worked in the sheriff’s office and Gruman had directed everyone to keep an eye on the reporter from San Francisco. Gianna smiled. One way or the other she knew that she’d bump into Finch that evening, she just didn’t know if their meeting would be by accident or by design.

  Like all of the Whitelaws, Gianna had spent a year living in Clatsop County. Her great-grandfather established the tradition a few years after he built the lodge. The idea was to ensure his children appreciated the natural lifestyle and the people who lived and worked in small towns surrounded by “unsullied wilderness” as he called it. Even if it meant withdrawing his offspring from their preparatory schools and sports academies for two or three years at a time, the old man insisted on the change of pace. And his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren all loved it. They referred to the year-long residency as doing a “rotation,” as if they could roll out of the programmed pace of their urban lives and find an inner sense of purpose in the family lodge. One by one, rotation by rotation, each of the Whit
elaws built friendships and laid down their individual roots in the community.

  During her rotation Gianna met Brenda and Jill, and all of their friends in Astoria and Cannon Beach. Gianna’s twin step-brothers and step-sisters had done the same. Her father, too, spent a year on rotation and actually attended Astoria High School in the 1960s. That’s where Senator Franklin Whitelaw met Mark Gruman’s oldest brother. Over the decades Mark, now the county sheriff, became a family confidante — a friend who’d spared Gianna from DUI charges on more than one occasion.

  ※

  Gianna Whitelaw eased her Mercedes-Benz C320 Sport Coupe into the Bridgewater Bistro parking lot and glanced at Will Finch’s Ford Tempo. She cut the ignition and thought a moment about her plans. Then she drew down the sun visor mirror and primped her hair. No lipstick smudges, no runny eyeliner. Not bad for a bereaved girlfriend.

  At the desk she met Brenda Wheeler, who tipped her head toward Finch’s table.

  “Thanks,” Gianna whispered and made her way to the bar where the bartender fixed her a Margarita.

  She took a sip and walked to the far end of the room. As she approached Finch she fixed her face with a look of dawning surprise. “Oh,” she said when she drew beside him. “It’s Mr. Finch.”

  Finch shifted his eyes away from his cell phone. He’d been studying the photos he’d taken of Toeplitz’s car. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  She scanned the room as if she were looking for spies. “Had to get away from the family. The hostess is an old friend so I thought I’d pop in.”

  “Pop in,” Finch mimed her tone and put his phone away. “Please, have a seat.” He pointed to the chair opposite and considered the probability that she might stumble into him here. Small town, after all.

  As she settled into the chair he studied her. He could tell she’d had a drink or two, but she seemed able to hold them. She was still dressed in black, but now attired in a sleeveless cocktail dress with a discrete scoop neck that hinted at the volume of her breasts. Tasteful, he thought. For a woman in mourning.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No, but — ”

  “I insist,” he said and passed the menu to her. “Your timing’s perfect. I just decided what I want but the waitress hasn’t come by.”

  Finch ordered poisson St. Jacques and a bottle of Perrier, Gianna the Caesar salad with a side of prawns and a second Margarita.

  “No booze for you?” She tilted her head to one side, a gesture to determine if he felt ill.

  “No, not tonight.”

  “Really?” Another look of surprise crossed her face. “From my vantage point, which is already two sheets to the wind, you look stone sober.”

  He laughed. “I just climbed onto the wagon about a month ago. Trying to see if I can stay on it for another few weeks.”

  “Oh.” She looked away with an air of confusion. “Well, then,” she hesitated, “maybe I shouldn’t — ”

  “No, please.” He sensed her awkwardness and for the first time since he’d departed Eden Veil he felt the burden of his sobriety. “Drink whatever you want, it’s not an issue.”

  Finch decided to shift direction and steer the conversation to where they’d left off in the lodge kitchen when the senator had interrupted them. “Look, sorry I made such a bad impression on your father.”

  “Oh god.” She pulled a cord of dark hair past her right shoulder and waved a hand to dismiss the idea. Her face took on a tinge of bitterness. “Believe me, unless your wallet is full of cash, no one can make a good first impression on Franklin.”

  “And I didn’t realize how hard it hit you.”

  She glanced away again. Finch could see that she’d been hurt by Toeplitz’s death. It wasn’t mere affectation. He had to tread carefully.

  “You mean Ray. I can’t really talk about him yet. It’s too soon.”

  “Ray,” he repeated. Finch leaned back in his chair and tried to take her measure. Her ribbons of hair, the distant look in her face, her obvious pedigree. She was born and raised in a world of enormous privilege. Overall she filled the room with a striking, even glamorous presence. Yet part of her inhabited a self-absorbed bubble.

  “You know, I think I’m the one most surprised by how I feel.” She frowned as if she wished she’d understood the power of Toeplitz’s affections before he died. “You saw my family at the house today. It’s all party games. Christ. It’s been less than a week since….”

  Finch sensed her discomfort and shifted his head to observe a freighter easing out toward the ocean. After a moment he turned his attention back to Gianna. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have — ”

  “No, no. You’re the only person who actually knew him that I can talk to up here. None of them will talk about him.” She leaned forward and held him with her eyes. “Because of the so-called betrayal.”

  Finch nodded. “You mean the trial? That he was going to testify for the District Attorney about the bitcoin fraud.”

  “That’s all that mattered to Franklin and his brother. And the twins.” Her mouth turned in disgust.

  He wondered if he should disclose exactly how much he knew about Toeplitz and his situation with Whitelaw, Whitelaw & Joss. Did she understand that Toeplitz was about to smash their empire? He hesitated. Awkward as it was, now seemed like the right time to ask her to go on the record. “Gianna, it seems like a terrible time for this, but can I ask you some questions about the story I’m working on for the eXpress? For the record, I mean.”

  Her jaw tightened as she considered the options. She didn’t expect to be talking so intimately about Ray and her family. On the other hand, she realized this was precisely why she’d tracked Finch down. She knew she was at a crossroads, but she couldn’t make out what lay ahead. “All right.”

  Finch picked up his phone, scrolled to the recording app, pressed RECORD and set the phone on the table between them. He narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Okay. So we’re on the record now, Gianna. I’m just going to add the date, time and place. For the record.” In a neutral voice he spoke the necessary facts in the direction of the phone, then smiled at her.

  “You were saying that Ray Toeplitz’s testimony in the trial was all that mattered to your father and brothers. But what was it that mattered to you, Gianna?”

  “I don’t know what exactly. Like the other girls, we never were allowed to get that close to the company board room. Only Justin and Evan were admitted to the inner circle. But what mattered to me was the way they all cut him off.”

  “From?” He gave her a searching look.

  “From his life at the firm. He gave them ten years of his life. And the firm was the only life he had. No wife, no kids. No family.” She shrugged at the final emptiness of Toeplitz’s life. “I imagine his will gives everything to some charity. Probably ASP.”

  “ASP?”

  “Asperger’s Support Programs.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him.

  “Right.” He nodded, glanced away and then smiled. “A friend of mine in journalism school had Asperger’s. He was so shy. In the end he simply couldn’t do the job. Not journalism anyway. He became a researcher instead. I still call him whenever I need information I can’t dig up on my own.”

  “With Ray it was all numbers. Perfect for a finance mathematician, right? Except in the last six months. I think I actually opened a door for him.”

  “A door?” Finch realized that the interview had entered a predictable phase. Gianna had forgotten the recorder on the table, forgotten that she was on record. He also realized that an interview with Gianna required a series of probing questions to decode the meanings that lay beneath most of what she said. Despite her superficial looks and charms, she lived her life three or four layers below that surface.

  She studied the puzzled look on his face. “Look, okay … he had Asperger’s. But he was genius with numbers. Financial engineering. Everyone who worked with him knew it. Ask my Uncle Dean. No wait, don’t even talk to Dean! The man is a sociopath.” Her f
ace displayed a bleak smile. She shrugged and continued.

  “But despite the way Ray could hide it with strangers, he had no clue with people. At first, like most everybody who’d spent a few hours with him, I had this kind of pity for him. For his isolation. Then one day we were alone, sitting right here as it happens” — she directed a manicured finger at the table surface — “and he completely opened up to me. How he had these feelings. How he was so afraid of them. And my god, wouldn’t you know it, I took him on as project.” She pressed her lips together and glanced away as if telling it aloud now and hearing it for the first time, she couldn’t believe what she was saying. “And not just as a sympathy fuck, either. Turns out, he was a beautiful man. Inside.” She held up the index and middle fingers of her right hand and pressed them to her heart.

  For a moment Finch couldn’t think how to respond. In a whisper, he let out one word. “Wow.”

  Gianna tipped her head back and grinned, amused that she’d stymied him. She finished her drink and set it aside, then glanced around the room searching out the waitress. “Good. Here comes dinner. And my next drink.”

  As they began to eat, Finch realized that while Gianna might not know how her father had enticed Toeplitz for his final visit to the lodge, she could reveal the circumstances of his final departure. First, he needed some background details.

  “So when did Toeplitz arrive? On Friday?”

  She considered this a moment. “Yes. Just after we had dinner.”

  “And he stayed the night?”

  “Yes, but in the guest room. He’d been up for hours, arguing with Franklin, or rather listening to Franklin blast him. Ray didn’t argue about anything. Ever.”

  “And what happened the following day?

  “Just like I told you. The last time Franklin and I saw him was in the kitchen. The situation was so tense, he couldn’t even kiss me goodbye.”

  Finch nodded. Obviously she hadn’t felt the need to hide her relationship with Toeplitz from the senator.