by Neal Griffin
“Yeah. Well, whatever.” Youngblood hunched his shoulders in a show of obvious disinterest and offered no further explanation.
“Dispatch got recall info, though, right? Captured the number?” she asked, prodding. “Have you reached out? Tried to get him to come back?”
“Ask Dispatch. All I know is we got a call about a body off county Highway Twelve, a mile north of the campground. Took us a good twenty minutes to find the guy. Hell, my trainee practically tripped over him.”
“Wait a sec,” Tia looked up, pen poised over paper. “You mean another twenty minutes, after the twenty-seven it took you to arrive on scene?”
“No.” Now Youngblood was flustered. “I mean—yeah, so what? We had to search around. Jesus, Suarez, what’s with the third degree?”
“Take it easy, Jimmy. I’m just trying to get the time line straight. So we can figure time of death, right?”
Youngblood scoffed, “Because it really matters what time this guy blew his face off?”
Tia ignored him and moved on. “So, this Henry guy. Have we tried calling him back or not?”
“Like I said,” Youngblood enunciated each word, “ask Dispatch.”
Tia looked him up and down. This guy’s our training officer?
Granted, in a case like this, the first patrol officer’s only job was to freeze the scene, then document and pass along all activity up until the arrival of detectives. But most cops actually took the initiative to start the preliminary investigation. Check out the crime scene. Locate possible witnesses.
Not Youngblood. The man dodged more work than any cop in the department.
Trapping the Maglite under her arm, Tia pulled out the pair of blue latex gloves she’d shoved into the pocket of her jeans before leaving her house. She slid on the first then snapped the second one on her wrist. Meeting Youngblood’s gaze in the bouncing ambient light, she made no effort to hide her opinion of the man’s ability. “The guy found a body, Jimmy. We probably ought to have a talk with him. But no worries. I’ll handle it.”
“Relax, Suarez.” Youngblood did his best to downplay his own incompetence. “He’ll turn up. Probably just got a little spooked. How many folks you know have the sac to hang out at two o’clock in the morning with a headless body? In the woods, no less. But it don’t even matter. This shit ain’t exactly complicated.”
“Is that right, Jimmy? You got it figured?”
“Damn right. This here’s the human chum of a fella who was by no means just toying with the idea.” Looking at the body, Youngblood nudged it with his boot, like a boy might poke at a dead cat with a stick. “Whoever he was, he was not fucking around.”
Tia’s frustration boiled over. Taking a quick step forward, she reached out to shove at his 250-plus pounds, to no effect. “Knock it off, Jimmy. Holy shit, man. This is a crime scene, get it?”
He shook his head dismissively and pushed his hands deeper into his vest. “Whatever, Suarez. Like I said, I got travel plans. Just do your thing so we can get out of here. I gotta take a piss.”
With that, he walked over to a nearby tree. His shoulders hunched up and she heard the sound of his zipper.
“Oh, hell no,” she shouted. “Keep walking.”
Youngblood muttered objections but moved further into the woods, until his dark silhouette dissolved into the night. She heard the strong stream hit leaves and dirt, coupled with the sounds of other bodily functions.
“Pig,” she said out loud. She wasn’t talking about his occupation.
The trainee took a step back, into the shadows, probably not certain how to deal with two cops who so clearly despised each other. Tia figured that was a good place for him.
“Get on your radio, Puller. Ask Dispatch to try the RP’s number. Get them to come back out.”
Puller began to fumble with his radio and Tia turned her attention back to the body. Irritating as Youngblood might be, his assumption was hard to argue with. First impression was that the death was a straight-up suicide. Still, the other officer’s dismissive attitude aggravated the hell out of her. She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her thoughts; a roll of far-distant thunder helped quiet her mind. She took a deep breath and checked her watch. Be daybreak before too long.
“I’ll be damned, can you believe it?” Tia looked down at the dead body and to the general area of where the eyes might have been. “I made it to thirty-eight.”
TWO
The Wisconsin night sounds faded away, along with the irritating distraction of the two patrol officers. Tia began what was for her a crime scene ritual—a mental cleansing, of sorts, a concentration on known fact and nothing more. All we have is a body. A dead one for sure, but that’s it. Anything beyond that was speculation. In her mind, she held the one key question. The question with a single truthful answer but a thousand imposters. Limitless masquerades. The one question she would hold herself to resolve.
What really happened here?
Tia clicked her flashlight on, instantly transforming dark, muted tones of black and gray into bright, Technicolor, 3-D images, still and silent as if frozen in time. In the center of the circle of light lay the body, supine on a bed of hard dirt, twigs, and dried leaves, mostly birch with a few maple mixed in. The legs were awkwardly crossed and pulled up close to the torso. The arms stretched out to the sides, dramatic and biblical. Along the right side of the body, in a position consistent with self-infliction, was what Tia immediately recognized as a Remington 870, single-barrel, pump-action shotgun.
The 870, long known as the field artillery of law enforcement, had been carried by generations of patrol cops, until finally replaced by the sexier and much sleeker M-class of military assault rifles. Tia still preferred the shotgun. In a close-up gunfight, the Remington was unmatched for reliability and deadly effectiveness. If you don’t believe me, she thought, looking at the ground, get a load of this guy.
Before moving closer, she scanned the ground, studying every leaf and chunk of dirt. After a full two-minute, 360-degree examination of the immediate terrain surrounding the corpse, nothing of evidentiary value jumped out. Tia lowered herself to her knees. She knew the importance of avoiding unnecessary physical contact, but one issue needed to be cleared up, and under the circumstances there was only one way to do it. With a gloved hand, she grabbed the crotch and squeezed, confirming her first instinct. Male parts. That settled, she directed her light on the area that had been the head.
Strange, she thought. The first undisturbed flesh was near mid-throat. Not so much as a remnant of a chin or jaw. Not a hint of lips or teeth. Eyes, nose, mouth: all gone, replaced by an exploded mass of tissue and cartilage. Countless strands of red flesh, with the thickness of spiderwebs, stretched uniformly toward what had been the top of the head. That meant the wound had been inflicted not through the mouth, but from somewhere under the chin.
A deviation from the norm, but not unheard of. In shotgun suicides, most determined individuals went with an intraoral discharge. Or what Tia referred to as the “wrap your lips around it and let ’er rip” approach. Hollywood bullshit. Then again, Tia figured people were entitled to improvise on something like suicide. Show a little individualism.
She’d long since come to realize there are no hard-and-fast rules about gunshot suicide. Just general guidelines. In the end, getting the job done was all about good barrel placement, steady trigger pull, and a strong sense of personal commitment. Practice rounds were highly discouraged. If she were handing out letter grades, this fella had definitely earned an A for effort.
Adjusting her light, Tia ducked down for a sideways view. Both ears were still in one piece and attached, along with the back third of the skull, which was covered in thick, black hair that extended down past the collar. All consistent with a bottom-to-top trajectory. What was left of the head rested among a red-stained halo of leaves and dirt. She played the beam over the blood pattern. All seepage. No sign of high-velocity spray. He was either sitting or standing when the fatal injur
y occurred.
She sat back up and took a breath. So far, it all made good sense.
Next, the hands. Brown—not tan. Youthful. Could be Latino. Maybe Native American. Her attention was drawn to a tattoo on the web of the right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. At first, it looked like some sort of symbol formed with crisscrossing lines. She kept staring until it dawned on her: letters. HTH. Crude, uneven, in drab green ink. Self-made for sure. She bent down for a closer look, resisting the temptation to adjust the position of the hand to get a better angle. She guessed the faded ink was at least a year old. Tia pulled her cell phone from a pocket and took several pictures. She hoped there would be some ID on the body, but if not, the tattoo might be helpful in figuring out who he was.
A question occurred to her and she spoke, without looking up.
“How’d he get here?”
“Say what?” Youngblood, back from his nature hike, was leaning against a nearby tree, texting on his phone.
“Car. Bike. Anything in the area?”
Youngblood shrugged so Tia turned her attention to the trainee, who was still doing his best imitation of a tree stump.
“How about you, Puller—notice any sign of transportation?”
“No, ma’am.” Tia sensed a reluctance to offer up anything that might contradict his FTO. “I mean—no.”
“Any luck on getting hold of the RP?”
Puller spoke quickly, as if glad to finally be making a contribution. “Dispatch said it went to voicemail.”
“Yeah?” Tia said. “Right to voicemail or after it rang a few times?”
“Uh, I didn’t ask.” Puller began to fumble for his radio.
“Forget it. I’ll deal with it later.” Tia couldn’t let the teachable moment pass. “But always ask. It makes a difference.”
Having the reporting party on scene would help but everything about the body said suicide. Screamed it, actually. She had half a mind to start digging through his pockets. With any luck she’d find a suicide note. Hell, maybe he was even one of those lost souls thoughtful enough to have included a list of next of kin. Phone numbers. Addresses. A litany of regrets and apologies. Or a “This is all your fault so deal with it” letter. Either way, a note would clear this shit up quick and she could be back in bed before daylight.
She carefully lifted the T-shirt with two gloved fingers, just enough to light up the smooth, hairless skin of the stomach. Damn near baby skin, she thought. Bit of a belly, but no more so than your average teenager. Kid was young. Maybe sixteen or seventeen, eighteen tops.
Youngblood shrugged himself off the tree and moved in. “I’m gonna go ahead and call the meat wagon. Get ’em headed this way. We got rain comin’.”
Tia ignored him, slipping her latex-covered hand under the shirt to lay her palm against the skin. The body was cool to the touch. She gave a light pinch. Still soft and supple. She pulled the shirt a bit higher and again used her flashlight, this time to light up the back. A slight reddening of the skin showed early signs of settling blood in the area where the body rested against the ground. Nothing indicating postmortem movement. Definitely DRH: died right here.
Tia once again sat back on her heels for another mental assessment. No known method of arrival, but he could have walked in or parked somewhere out of view. No movement of the body, so no way it was a dump. Mechanism of injury and death was obvious. Weapon accounted for. Position of gun and body consistent with self-inflicted fatal wound. Yeah. Everything pointed to suicide. But damn. No rigor and just the early stages of lividity. The kid was fresh.
She went back to the wound area with her flashlight, leaning in for closer examination. Dark areas of chunky coagulation had begun to form, but she saw no insect activity. She looked to her watch.
“Tell me again. What was the time of call?”
Youngblood inhaled deep through his nose and blew it out, doing his best to sound annoyed. “Zero-two-eleven.”
“Not even two hours ago,” Tia said, under her breath and mostly to herself. “That’s really cutting it close.”
“Cutting what close?” Youngblood asked.
“I’m just saying, he wasn’t dead long when the call came in.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Youngblood began to punch numbers on his phone. “Like I said, I’ll call the wagon and get a waiver. My trainee’s got a bunch of reports to write, plus this one. He needs to get at it.”
“Not yet.”
Youngblood stopped, looking up. “What?”
“Hold off on the transport.” Tia smoothed out the dead boy’s shirt and gave his chest a sympathetic, almost maternal pat. “I think I’ll have an investigator from the ME’s office come out and have a look.”
The uniformed officer cocked his head. “An MEI? On a suicide? What the hell for? This time of night, it’ll be an hour before they roll out.”
Still kneeling next to the body, Tia said, “He ain’t gonna complain, Jimmy.”
“Oh, for shit sake, Suarez.” Youngblood held out his phone. Again, Tia heard his frustration at having to deal with any cop who didn’t have a penis. “Just let me handle the notification. I’ll tell it right and they’ll waive off on the response.”
In the never-ending effort to save another tax dollar, all county police departments had signed a memorandum of understanding with the county medical examiner. Police officers who attended a one-day training course on death investigations were allowed to determine manner of death in cases that were obviously natural causes, accident, or suicide. In Newberg, Chief Sawyer had added a stipulation requiring a detective make the call if the death involved a weapon. Tia knew the decision was hers.
“Yeah, I’m sure you could keep this pretty simple.” Tia stood, being sure to step well away from the body before wiping off the leaves and dirt that clung to the knees of her jeans. “And I agree, it looks like a straight-up suicide. But protocol says if there are any significant extenuating circs, the ME’s office will be notified prior to removal of the body and respond to the scene.”
“‘Protocol’? ‘Extenuating’—” Jimmy threw his hands in the air and practically shouted, “What are you talking about? There’s a dead dude with no face lying by a shotgun in the middle of the damn woods. What the hell ‘extenuates’ that?”
The near-half-hour response time, lack of a reporting party, and no sign of transportation seemed to be the textbook definition of “extenuating circumstances,” but Tia wasn’t going to argue. A quick assessment by an investigator with the ME’s office would confirm the finding of suicide and she knew that was the appropriate course of action. For Tia, this was just another example of having to deal with the alpha-male mentality of graveyard patrol officers. She answered calmly and even tried to smile.
“If you need to split, Jimmy, then go. I’ll take care of the report.”
“Can’t do it. Need to check the death investigation box for his training book,” Youngblood responded, hooking a thumb in the direction of his trainee. “Believe it or not, I’m supposed to cut this hot mess loose at the end of the week. We might not get another body before then.”
Tia looked at the brand-new cop, who again obviously wanted to be anywhere other than at the center of a disagreement between a detective and his FTO.
“Leave’m with me,” Tia said. “I could use a scribe. I’ll drop him off at the PD when we clear.” When Youngblood looked at her with distrust, she couldn’t resist adding, “What? You think I’m going to infect him with lady-cop germs or something?”
“Exactly.” Tucking his phone away, Youngblood let loose with another gob of chunky tobacco spit and went on with disdain, “Trainee Puller already comes across a little too sissified. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to get him to put some damn bass in his voice.”
Glancing at Puller, Tia saw the young cop’s expression mixed anger with embarrassment. She regretted having walked him right into a fanging from his jerk-off FTO.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll have him do
all the paperwork. That way you’ll be able to sign off on his training record.”
“Fuck it. Fine.” Youngblood waved Tia off dismissively and turned to his trainee. “Listen up, Thing. I’m going back to the PD and crash out in the break room. Come find me when you’re done. And remember, I got a flight outta here in a few hours. Don’t go trying to play detective. Just hang out for the MEI, then wrap this shit up.”
“Yes, sir.”
With no further acknowledgment of Tia, Youngblood trudged off, headed back toward the patrol car. When he was safely out of earshot, Tia turned to the trainee.
“Seriously? Thing?”
Puller stared with contempt at the dark figure disappearing into the night. “Yeah. That’s one of his nicknames for me. It’s actually one of the least offensive ones.”
His diction was precise and Tia got the impression the kid was pretty book smart. She knew that wouldn’t sit well with Youngblood. “Well, what should I call you?”
He managed a smile and shrugged. “Rich is good.”
“Fine.” Tia gave a wave with a gloved hand, then it hit her. “Wait. You said Rich?”
“Yeah.” His tone was one of knowing dread.
“So, like Richard?”
“I prefer Rich.”
“Richard Puller?” Tia paused and couldn’t help but smile. “So your name is Dick Puller?”
It was clear he’d been through the same scenario a thousand times before. “Like I said, I go by Rich.”
“I imagine you do.” Tia felt bad for bringing it up. “I’m Detective Suarez. Call me Tia.”
Puller’s voice now carried a bit of friendly sarcasm. “Yeah. I think I’ve heard of you somewhere.”
Tia brushed off the typical reference to her reputation. Her high-profile cases over the past couple of years had gotten plenty of local notoriety.
“I’m going to get on the phone with an MEI. We’ll get this thing wrapped up as quick as we can.”
“What’s an MEI?” Puller asked, reminding Tia just how clueless trainees could be.
