by Jack Parker
Hell, I wasn't unlucky at love. I was just plain bad at it. Abysmal.
Oh yeah. The telephone.
I whirled on my heel and snatched up the receiver. "What?" I demanded in a decidedly harsher voice than I would normally have used.
"Is this Detective Stikup?" The voice was masculine and familiar, but over the phone I couldn't place it.
"Who else would I be?"
The man cleared his throat in what could possibly have been indignation. "This is Robert Mendoza, Detective."
I had to think for a moment to remember who that was. Coming to the realization that I was working for Robert Mendoza, I sighed heavily, calming myself almost reluctantly. "Oh. How are you, Mr. Mendoza?"
"Fine, fine," he said with swagger, and now that I knew who it was, I easily recognized his characteristic growl of a voice. And now that I thought about it, he sounded remarkably like Kevin Slyder. "I was just calling to see if you had any leads as to the whereabouts of my car yet. I've been paying two-fifty a day to ride the bus to work."
I sighed, annoyed, and rubbed my eyes. "No, no – nothing new. Things are very complicated right now, and I really don't know anything. I need to find a few more puzzle pieces before I can take action."
"Oh," he grunted. "Have the thieves been giving you any more trouble?"
There was something strange about his question, but I couldn't identify it. "Yeah, they hit another place last night. I don't know much, though. Made one arrest, but he couldn't give me much info. So, I'm pretty much still at the beginning of the maze."
"I see." Mendoza's tone had taken on a disappointed air, and I guess that was understandable. But what had he expected – a miracle? "Well, I'm sorry to bother you."
I almost told him that I hoped he was, but I held my tongue and forced my lips into a painful smile. Not that he could see it anyway. "Don't worry about it. I'll call to inform you if and when I get anything new."
"Okay." And he hung up without another word.
I dropped the phone on the receiver and sighed, utterly drained. Alas: another disappointed customer. It was a good thing my agency didn't run on positive reviews, because I couldn't honestly say that I'd gotten many of those recently.
It took me a several minutes to rein in my irritation and stop grinding my teeth. I scrubbed my face with my hands for good measure and then got up and began sponging coffee from the carpet with a mass of paper towels. However, my head wasn't in the chore. My head was down the hall, where a certain secretary was tapping away determinedly at her typewriter, wondering just how I was going to speak to her again after the last moment we'd spent together.
Chapter Seven
The crime scene was unchanged.
From the crumpled throw rug in the entrance hall to the picture shattered on the steps, nothing had been moved in the Daniels household. It had been perfectly preserved for the investigation, just the way a crime scene should be. In a way, it was eerie – as though time had frozen within the household as an act of preservation, to prevent any further corruption from sinking into the young foundation. If it hadn't been for the telltale signs of violence and struggle, it would have been peaceful, comfortable – the way a home should be.
But any sense of sanctuary was destroyed by the knowledge that just up the stairs, in the first room on the right, an innocent woman's life had been stolen in the most obscene way. Her restless spirit would forever haunt the place – perhaps not literally, but in the sense that someone would always remember her, Mrs. Daniels would live on posthumously.
The dead are always with us, after all.
It was 10:03 in the morning. I'd arrived at the scene of the crime bare minutes prior and had lost no time flashing my badge and copy of the search warrant at the South Harrison cops stationed across the street in order to gain access to the Daniels household. Now, it was time to get to work.
I began my investigation in the master bedroom, in which Mrs. Daniels had been murdered. The body, of course, had been removed for the autopsy, and Madley's people had taken the pillow, the unlikely murder weapon, along with the shredded robe that the victim had been wearing prior to her death. All that remained of her now was the chalk outline on the floor.
I've always liked working with company.
Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, I began poking around the room. I rooted through desk drawers, bookshelves, and the closet where Sheldon had hidden, examining any possible object that he or the other perps might have touched, only to come up with – as I had anticipated – absolutely nothing. But looking for fingerprints really wasn't my priority anymore. Even if Sheldon hadn't given us the real names of his partners, Slyder could still run a search on the aliases "Harris" and "Thawyer" in the cop database and most likely still find information on them – assuming they were repeat offenders. There was also the likelihood of getting forensics off the body. If we struck gold in either of those categories, we would suddenly find ourselves with more information than our case demanded.
What I was looking for wasn't going to be anywhere in the Daniels' bedroom. What I needed now was a tip as to where the goons were now and who this "boss" character was that was directing their actions. I needed motive and reasonable suspicion for arrest. But there was nothing in the house that could possibly give me any of those things. I could only hope that the information Slyder was working to procure would give me some hint as to where the perps' hideout was located, and hopefully that in turn could grant us some insight as to who and where their leader was.
If I'd learned one thing about the perps, it was that they certainly knew their way around Gloucester County: they had out–driven Slyder's and Seth Chauncey's boys on two separate occasions. It was possible that they'd grown up in the area, or perhaps just lived in the vicinity long enough to know the back roads.
That, or they're good with road maps and they get lucky with the lights.
I thrust my hands deep into my trench coat pockets and looked around the destroyed room. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, illuminating the empty chalk woman on the floor. I studied the impression for a moment, wondering what it was that possessed man to kill and destroy.
Pride bordering on utter indifference for the rest of humanity? Uncontrollable greed? Hatred?
Self–indulgence.
Sin.
The phone rang from somewhere downstairs, muffled but distinct, a voice from another lifetime.
I turned to face the doorway, listening. A moment later, it rang again, proving to be more than a mere figment of my imagination, so I hurried down the steps to the first floor and entered the kitchen, looking for the source. The answering machine kicked in the moment I had located the phone – on the bar counter – so I leaned on the back of one of the stools to listen.
*beep*
"Hi, you've reached Jeff and Ruby. We can't pick up right now, so if you'll leave a message, we'll call you back ASAP. Thanks."
Mr. Daniels – still unaccounted for at the present time – stopped speaking, and then began again after the beep. Only, now he sounded agitated, and in the background, I could hear the noise of a crowd.
"Ruby, you're scaring me. Why aren't you answering the phone? Are you there? Listen, I'm stuck here at the airport and I need –"
He continued, rambling about the terminal being a nightmare, wondering why she hadn't been there four hours earlier as planned, wondering if he should call a cab, wondering where the hell she was. After a moment of initial hesitation, I reached over and carefully picked up the receiver, cutting him off in the middle of of a sentence.
"Mr. Daniels?"
There was a long silence over the line as Daniels train of thought shifted from the commuter rails to the express. I could almost hear the clicking, the frenzy of helter skelter thoughts clamoring for precedence.
"Who is this?" he asked finally.
I took a deep breath. "My name is Detective Stikup, Mr. Daniels. I'm a PI working on an investigation with the Swedesboro Police. You are the
husband of Ruby Daniels, are you not?"
"Jeff Daniels – that's me." His agitated tone suddenly took on a tinge of anger. I supposed that were I in his situation I would have been just as upset. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"
I cleared my throat. "I'm here..."
Investigating a murder.
But I hesitated, unwilling to disclose the information in just that way. I cleared my throat again, nervously pushing the fedora away from my forehead. The sweat on my back certainly hadn't been there just moments prior.
"Ah… your wife…" I gritted my teeth as the uncomfortable realization set in that this was my first time informing the next of kin. "Mr. Daniels, your wife was murdered last night."
Silence.
And then came the explosion I'd anticipated. It was outrage like no other, primordial and raw and bottom line righteous. The protector had failed his mission. This was a man who was denying truth, even though deep in his guts he already understood. The pain of knowledge is sometimes simply too great to bear, and anger has to come before acceptance.
"Is this some kind of joke, 'cause I'm not laughing! This is fucking sick – are you having an affair with my wife, Stikup? What's going on? What the hell are you doing in my house?"
He kept shouting, which gave me a second to sigh and collect my words. My insides felt desperately hollow, like my guts had packed up and left without leaving a forwarding address. "Listen, Jeff… I'm telling you the truth. It's the truth. Ruby's dead. They took her to Jefferson last night. I'm so sorry."
Silence, the kind that sets your heart to pounding.
And then, Jeff Daniels dissolved into tears. "No… No…"
My throat tightened, and I found myself consciously wishing to be somewhere else – anywhere else, wishing to be someone else. "I'm sorry, Jeff – I really am. I know what it's like to lose a loved one."
Heavy breathing punctuated his words as he hissed them out between sobs. "Who… Who did this?"
I could hear the mounting rage in his voice, like a fuse burning dangerously low. "I've got a couple names, but that's it. Chief of Police himself is looking into them right now, so I can promise you we'll have something on these guys really soon. For the time being –"
"Stikup, I want you to tell me who they are."
Irrationality works both ways, in grief and frustration. My lack of patience pushed the words out of my mouth, and had I been keeping track, the words that came out of my mouth next could have been chalked up as the fourth truly insensitive thing I'd said in my lifetime. The Biblical turn–the–other–cheek philosophy simply jumped out of my mouth before I could even think about it, even though I knew before I'd finished speaking that it would enrage the widower.
"Two wrongs don't make a right, Mr. Daniels."
"Fuck you!" he exploded, and his voice broke. "The bastards killed my wife! I want –"
"Mr. Daniels, I have to go," I interrupted gently. "I've got a lot of work to do on this case. But I promise I'll be in touch when I know something else – anything else."
"Stikup," he bit out, choking on sobs. "Fucking talk to me! I want to know everything you know right fucking now –"
And he was off again, shouting, crying, creating a scene at the crowded airport terminal. Philly security was probably on their way already to calm him down.
"Look, let me give you my office number and we'll talk later," I said, speaking over him.
And I gave it to him, but I don't know that he wrote it down or was even paying attention for that matter. Mumbling apologies that went unheard, I gently replaced the phone on the base. There was no point in humoring Daniels' heartbroken rant: I was no shrink, and arguing with him would only make him more furious. I suppose leaving him hanging that way could be considered harsh and callous, but circumstance rendered it the lesser of two evils. But that goddamned thing called conscience always has a way of making you second–guess yourself.
Sure, Daniels wanted revenge. Sure, the death of his wife hurt – probably worse than any pain I would ever suffer in my lifetime. It might seem cold and impersonal to leave him hanging just after breaking the horrible news to him, but he needed to get through his grief on his own. This was his battle to fight.
I sighed and walked slowly through the empty house, hands deep in my coat pockets. There was nothing left for me to do there. The wind stirred up as I stepped outside, blowing through the front door and filling the entrance hall with icy gusts. Sunlight sparkled off the dark windows of the Daniels household, and the whole house seemed to sigh as I pulled the door closed behind me, locking Ruby Daniels' spirit inside.
For a long moment, I stood on the welcome mat, looking up at the second floor window where it had happened. Then I turned and started across the frozen lawn to the Anglia. Even as I crossed the street, I could still hear the telephone ringing and ringing inside the vacant house: the hopeless, wordless cries of a man who had nothing left to live for.
* * *
Jefferson Morgue was adjacent to the Swedesboro Police station, located on the 5th Street side of the precinct. The ugly block–building was joined to the station by the CSI office, around back from the main parking lot.
I parked on the street and entered through the back entrance, into the lobby. The lighting within was dim and gloomy, cold despite the active heating units. The temperature perhaps had more to do with the feeling of wrongness that hovered about the place.
The dead should be left to rest in peace, not examined and picked apart.
I drew my coat tighter around me and grimaced as the old conviction I had always held resurfaced in my mind. Obviously that was somewhat of a ridiculous stance, but it wasn't based simply off of my perpetual need for contention. Catholicism had declined significantly in radical philosophy through the ages, but there was decidedly a residual crusader even in the best of us.
As I waited at the receptionist station for a coroner, I checked my watch. It was almost 3:00, which meant I'd spent more time at the crime scene than I'd intended – even though it had seemed like mere minutes. There wasn't much else on my schedule, yet I still found myself hoping that this wouldn't take long.
Shouldn't, I told myself. I won't be asking her many questions.
A man dressed in surgical attire came to the desk. He was slim and balding, the stereotypical physician. "Hello, Detective Stikup. I'm Doctor Simms. You're here to see the Daniels victim, correct?"
I offered my best grimace. "So long as she's still dead, yeah."
Simms gestured toward the back. His face remained blank. "Right this way."
He led me down a long room, the walls of which were filled with countless drawers – deathbeds all, floor to ceiling. The atmosphere was thick and oppressive and only seemed to deepen as we walked deeper into the crypt. I'd never been claustrophobic, so this was as close as it came.
Dr. Simms finally stopped and, with a tiny silver key, unlocked a drawer level with my waist. He unrolled the bed contained therein and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before offering me a pair as well. I pulled them on obediently and watched as Simms removed the cloth from the woman's face.
As I'd already gathered, Ruby Daniels had been an attractive woman with high cheekbones, a thin nose, and faint eyebrows airbrushed beneath a gently sloping forehead. Her brown hair was shoulder–length and had been dyed several times, as I observed from the vast shades of brown at the mousy roots lying close to her scalp. Her eyes were a brown to match, and there was a slight dusting of freckles on her face and down her arms. In death, her complexion was stark white, but I assumed she had appeared rosy and well–nourished before her untimely departure.
And she had been so young.
I concluded my brief examination of her, but found nothing. The cause of death had already been confirmed: the murderers had used the pillow to suffocate her – Simms' team had found tiny fragments of cotton in Daniels' nostrils that were identical matches to the material of the pillow we'd found next to her. She had also suffered a mino
r brain aneurysm at some point during the struggle, which had only quickened her departure from this world. The bruising on her arms, leg, and face were also results of the struggle, as was obvious.
"Can you tell me who touched her?" I asked Simms, peeling off my gloves.
The smaller man sighed. "It's almost impossible to identify fingerprints on a person, because of the different skin oils and things that mingle immediately after contact. It's even more impossible to identify marks on a corpse, just because sebum has all dried up. As far as my investigations lead me, I think we're dealing with two main points of contact. You've noticed the bruising for yourself, around the neck and shoulders, and on the inside of her right elbow."
Simms uncovered those parts of the woman's body as he spoke, pointing them out in detail. "There are also plenty of abrasions all over her from what would appear to be human fingernails. These are really our best bet toward identifying her attackers, although we still need to check her vaginal cavity for sperm or blood."
