by Gary Starta
Sid steamed in silence, a handful of Jay’s shirt in his hand, praying his friend had enough sense to confess while there was still something he could do for him. Maybe vouch for his character, possibly even say he was insane during the acts or hopefully, get him admitted to a comfy psycho ward where Jay could watch the Wheel of Fortune every night.
But Sid’s hope shattered as a gust of salty air rippled his shirt. Jay still stammered over and over again. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. For god sake’s, why would you think I did?”
Maybe Jay was over the edge, beyond reach, beyond reasoning.
Sid loosened his grip and let Jay fall back against the wooden railing, his chest heaving up and down, fighting not only to gain air, but also to regain his wits.
“You scared the shit of me, man. Tell me this is all one of your fucking PRANKS. Tell me, TELL ME, right now!” Jay was demanding, despite his frail state.
“What do you mean, my pranks? I frickin’ told you I don’t remember anything about me doing impersonations or playing practical jokes. I think it was you who had the memory problem. And unfortunately”—Sid’s voice had become less confrontational and more comforting—“it’s something we’ve both got to deal with now. That’s why I want you to confess. It will look a lot better than having your ass hauled into the bureau by some stranger. If I bring you in, with your cooperation, we can maybe make a deal . . . ”
“I can’t make a deal if I didn’t do it.” Jay had said this with a clenched jaw, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Then you’re on your own, kiddo. I can’t help you. But you’ve got the night to change your mind because come the morning, I’m compelled to take action.”
“Then go ahead. Where’s your evidence? It’s just circumstantial. Suspicion. You know, Sid, maybe that’s why you fucking failed the detective’s exam. Maybe your detective skills leave a whole lot to be desired.”
“Anything else?” Sid said, letting the taunt bounce off him harmlessly like a wave.
“I think I should go home now.” Jay laughed but there was no humor in it, only a sting of irony for Sid. “Maybe I’m the shitty detective thinking you were my friend.”
Sid turned away and began his retreat toward the shore leaving Jay to reflect in darkness beneath a moonless sky.
It was silent except for the clomping noise of his Sid Auerbach’s shoes. For Sid, the sound confirmed the final separation of their union, the end of a kindred friendship.
And as Sid reached for his keys to unlock his door, he wondered if he could be mistaken. For Christ sakes, if Jay didn’t do those murders then who the fuck did?
***
“It could be someone with long, copper colored hair,” Tony Gelder said, holding a strand of hair up to the light. It gleamed in the stark whiteness of the trace laboratory.
“It could,” Carter responded. But his voice didn’t indicate he was willing to commit to the evidence found on the seat of Tim Pressler’s car just yet. The vehicle itself was currently impounded and locked in the crime lab’s underground garage.
Carter recalled the bloody rock that Gelder had analyzed only a short time ago. It turned out an animal had left its DNA on it, and the only other biological contribution had been Dan Collins’ blood.
“I know it may not be the case breaker, detective,” Gelder responded. “But I can be sure, the clothes found in the car were indeed Cheryl Thomas’s thanks to her adrenal contributions,” Gelder said.
Carter didn’t ask for elaboration. Thomas had soaked these clothes in sweat with an increased production of epinephrine, a hormone derived from the amino acid tyrosine, part of the fight-or-flight response initiated by the sympathetic nervous system.
He reflected upon what horror Cheryl Thomas endured during her final moments—fully aware she was going to die that night. Helpless to enlist aid, shrouded in the dark and rainy confines of a dimly lit road, losing her last shred of human dignity to the cruel heartless bastard who snuffed her life out before brazenly displaying his very judgmental and severely surreal Salvador Dali type art for all to see.
Gelder informed Carter it would be another hour or so before he could analyze semen contributions. Carter was sure he’d find Tim Pressler’s. That would be no surprise. But what if another male contribution was found? Would they be able to match to any known felons in the Codus database? It was those sickening mind puzzles that kept him absorbed in his job because as much as the crimes disheartened him; Carter had to admit a small part of his human nature was fascinated by the whodunit aspect. Carter kept this perverse curiosity locked away in a small box inside him; a box where he kept a lot of other horrors too horrible to comprehend. He wondered how long this Pandora strongbox might hold its contents before they spilled out. Captain Sean Lyons was confident that his strongbox would hold these atrocities. It was mind over matter, Lyons said. But Carter knew he was not strong enough to keep the gorgon like monsters from rearing their ugly heads. He was convinced he needed Jill as much as Jill needed him to retain her sanity. Yet, in what capacity did he need Jill most to keep his demons at bay? Was it a wife? Or was it a fellow crime scene investigator? He glanced up at a clock and literally felt the seconds ticking like a time bomb, demanding he answer the question soon.
Chapter 13
The next morning Carter arrived early to the lab hoping autopsy results and forensic tests might still reveal yet another clue to solve his latest homicide.
ME Robert Shirley glanced up from the morning paper as Carter walked into his autopsy room.
“Do you believe this?” Shirley said, nearly stammering. “The media are blaming police for not being more informative about the Cheryl Thomas ‘hanging.’ They are more or less confirming a psychotic serial killer is at work and they say quote: ‘police are embarrassed to admit they don’t have any suspects’.”
Carter perused the paper over Shirley’s shoulder, but he was not actually reading it. He commented.
“I’ve already read it and filed it—under trash. Mr. Shirley you’ve got to let these things roll off your shoulders. We both know they have the facts wrong. The girl did not die from hanging. And furthermore, we ‘do’ have suspects. The problem is we may have ‘too’ many suspects. And if it makes you feel any better, they’re blaming me, not you.”
“If they blame one of us, they’ve blamed the whole lab as far as I’m concerned.” Shirley, visibly upset, tossed the paper into a receptacle and donned a pair of gloves.
Carter smiled. He was thankful Shirley was a team player.
“So what can we do about this?” Carter asked.
With Carter in tow, Shirley strolled over to a gurney and uncovered the corpse of Cheryl Thomas
“I can tell you Ms. Thomas participated—willingly or unwillingly—in some rough intercourse. There was some moderate vulva and vaginal injury. Initial analysis tells me it didn’t happen post mortem. Analysis for semen contribution confirms there is only donor as to her sexual partner.”
Carter was convinced Tim Pressler was the one who abused Cheryl sexually, but no evidence had surfaced so far to confirm Pressler was her murderer. He informed Shirley that no epithelial contributions were found on the rope used to hoist and secure the corpse to the goalpost. He also told Shirley that the lab may need another two days to process the DNA sample taken from Pressler—via warrant.
“So even if we determine Pressler had abused Cheryl sexually, that might only leave us with a rape charge,” Carter said to Shirley. “And that’s just not good enough for me.”
Shirley’s glance told Carter it wasn’t satisfactory to him either.
“But,” Shirley said, “It might prevent him from harming other girls.”
“Point taken,” Carter responded, dryly. He wouldn’t concede defeat just yet despite the odds. “Pinning a murder charge on Pressler is not impossible, but it’s going to be difficult. We’ve found his hair on the vehicle’s carpeting. But that won’t convince a jury he murdered Cheryl since he owns the car�
�and furthermore—you tell me you show no defensive wounds on Ms. Thomas—no sign that she fought back.”
Shirley nodded.
“So we’re at square one. We have no transfer to convict Pressler, to show he was the one who strangled Cheryl Thomas.”
Shirley gave Carter a knowing look. Carter had at least one ace—the long copper-colored hair found on Cheryl’s clothing. Carter could almost telepathically hear the ME’s internal chatter. Shirley must be wondering why I’m not playing that card. He is as much as a detective as he is a medical examiner. Finally, Carter assuaged Shirley’s silent angst.
“Well, I hate to say it, but the copper-colored hair only casted further doubt on Pressler’s participation. Mr. Pressler’s hair was long—but it’s black.”
“But what if Pressler wore a wig it to disguise himself? To trick or confuse Cheryl?”
“I’ve already considered that possibility. Mr. Gelder is convinced the hair is natural. He found the hair was in its exogenous phase.”
“So it might have shed naturally,” Shirley said.
“Yes, and that could also indicate the hair had been part of a wig—perhaps a blend of natural and synthetic hair. But if there were no witnesses, why would Pressler want to disguise himself? Had he already spooked Cheryl so much that she would flee from him on sight?”
“Her blood work seems to corroborate that theory.”
“Still, that evidence will not earn Mr. Pressler a murder one charge. Cheryl, a lawyer would argue, certainly could have panicked in her last minutes of breath. Toxicology will only prove she was scared out of her wits, not who had scared her out of her wits. And I have a hunch she might not even known who were attacker was if a disguise was actually involved. More than likely she had been strangled from behind—obviously it would have been easier for the attacker to subdue her that way.” Carter twisted his mouth and paused to consider his theories. “Nonetheless, that point is mute, because if she had been strangled outside the vehicle, we won’t be able to confirm it. All foot prints were washed away thanks to heavy rainfall.”
“So might you consider the possibility of a female attacker? Maybe other female dancers at the club were threatened by a newcomer—besides if Pressler’s vehicle was truly disabled—he might not have had the opportunity to cart Thomas’ corpse into the city.”
“Well, I haven’t totally dismissed that idea, Mr. Shirley. Yet that scenario might have involved several women. I can’t see how one female had the upper body strength to hoist Ms. Thomas onto the goalpost and keep her there long enough to secure her.”
“I know,” Shirley said, his eyes fixated on the corpse.
“And if there were a posse involved,” Carter said, “our friends in the media have made it nearly impossible for us to differentiate whose footprints might have been left.”
Shirley nodded. Carter recalled the field. The rain had stopped by the time the victim had been dragged to Fenway High School. Prints had been preserved. However, dozens of media hounds had descended upon the scene prior to officer Jamieson’s arrival. Footprints from one shoe had overlapped the other in the melee. It would be next to impossible to identify all the shoes that had left imprints behind.
“Still,” Carter said, ‘it’s a possibility I will keep in mind.”
Carter walked down a corridor that would take him to Jill Seacrest’s lab. He was grateful for even a few precious seconds of alone time. His mind began a laundry list. His investigation of Dan Collins’ murder had stalled. There was Jill’s impending transfer. And then he abruptly stopped, filing those worries into his own personal strong box he contained deep in the back of his mind. He could almost hear Captain Lyons’ voice in his head, scolding him for wasting valuable time. He put his focus back on the case in hand. He would go speak to Jill, but only about the case, nothing else. And although it pained him to bury the anger and fear her transfer would evoke, he pushed these emotions down, further and further into his subconscious as he walked. He envisioned throwing these worries down a long chute as if they were contained in packing cartons. One by one they slid down the chute out of sight. Each step Carter took now clarified his focus. The case: the possibilities for solving it—not the impossibilities . . . With each clacking step on the shiny linoleum floor, he felt empowered by light, not debilitated by dark.
Jill was already hard at work studying the foot casts taken in and around the end zone area where Thomas had been hung. She was working to find a boot print—taken from Pressler’s shoe during a house search—that might put him at the scene. This one task might take days. Still, he must remind Jill to expand her search for other types of footwear. He envisioned the other dancers at the Spread Eagle voluntarily offering their shoe prints to help avenge Cheryl’s death. Maybe not all of them were enemies. Maybe Tim Pressler hadn’t lied when he said Cheryl had a friend at the club. Possibly, this woman still might come forward with information, information that might find one of the club employees responsible for the murder. On the other hand, if Tim Pressler was still his prime suspect, maybe Pressler had an accomplice. Maybe Cheryl’s father helped Tim. As sick as it made him feel, Carter considered it. Cheryl’s father could have transported the body and Tim to the football field. Carter felt Cheryl’s mother, Sherry, might have been coerced when she told him that Darryl Thomas had an alibi—he was with her asleep in bed during the time of the murder.
Carter came to an intersection of the building. He would take a left to go see Jill. But suddenly, he was interrupted by a figure in black dashing toward him from the right. It was Sergeant Sid Auerbach. He was nearly panting, sweat beading on his forehead and his eyes were bulging.
“What it is?” Carter asked. The July heat was not the only thing flustering Auerbach at the moment.
“We’ve got to talk . . . um . . . sir. We’ve got to talk in private.”
Carter walked with Auerbach, leading him his to his office. But Auerbach couldn’t contain himself and began to speak again in a whisper.
“I have information that your two homicides are connected.”
Carter put a hand on Auerbach’s shoulder and quickened the pace to his office.
***
“So, let me get this right. You and PI Fishburne regularly shared information on cases?” Carter, seated in a chair behind his desk, perplexed about how Fishburne could willingly violate his client’s confidentiality.
“Not on our cases—I mean, your cases—only Jay’s. I know it sounds ridiculous, but Jay needed to confide in me. He wanted to join the force but got turned down. He sort of lives the life of a cop through my eyes. When I lend my ear and listen about his cases, he feels vilified. He has some self-esteem issues no doubt.” Sid Auerbach’s posture was slouched, he leaned forward, his hands grasping his police cap for comfort. He was seated across from Carter in the chair the detective reserved to hold one-on-one discussions pertaining to performance reviews and proficiency tests. It was the proverbial hot seat Sid Auerbach had willingly placed himself in. Carter clasped and unclasped his left hand, listening not only to Auerbach’s words, but also to his choice of words and the tone in which he said them.
If PI Jay Fishburne was indeed guilty of two murders, it explains why Auerbach was literally inviting not only an IA investigation of himself but most probably a suspension. Auerbach, Carter deduced, was now facing a personal crisis in which he would sacrifice himself for the greater good. This reminded Carter of Jill and her stubbornness. This was something Jill would do to right a wrong. She wouldn’t question, she would just take a leap of faith to right a wrong. Guilt boiled. He was allowing Jill’s transfer. He entertained the idea of resigning in the nanosecond of time he had to act on Sid Auerbach’s accusations. He squared his shoulders, took a breath and immersed himself back into the matter of hand. The strong box, the storage chute . . . I’ve got to keep all other clutter filed there for the moment . . .
