by Jack Parker
I sighed heavily. "Boy do I hate being right."
Dr. Simms covered the woman's face with the cloth again and slid the drawer shut, eclipsing the stiff from view. Once again, I had gained nothing essential – only confirmation of that which I'd already suspected. Really, it seemed that was how the entire investigation was destined to play out.
I turned to the coroner. "After you've DNA'd any bodily fluids that don't belong to her, I want the results sent to me pronto. You can get my fax number from Kevin Slyder."
That would get me the leverage the prosecutors would need once we'd apprehended the crooks. And I wanted everything I could get, just to put the monsters away for a long, long time.
Simms nodded agreeably. "Whatever you need, Mr. Stikup."
I could have made a joke, but found that I wasn't in the mood. It probably had something to do with setting and present company. Instead, I thanked Simms for his time and headed back out to my car, entertaining more questions than answers.
* * *
Six o'clock that evening found me buried up to my armpits in paperwork.
I was seated at my desk, straining to see in the darkness of my lightbulb–less office. The mess of papers was almost overwhelming and could have made lesser men pull out their hair. There actually wasn't a terribly vast amount of work to be done; it was more due to the fact that there was no semblance of order to anything that made it so daunting.
Included in the mess were the various tidbits of information I'd gleaned on the case (over which I'd been poring for the past couple of hours). Then there were police papers Kevin Slyder had sent to me for review and revision, warrants for the Daniels and Miles households, the envelope containing the first check from Miles, and Sergeant Cready's report from the night of the 2nd.
And that was only the half of it.
Grunting, I sank back in the chair. I was tired and I needed a caffeine fix. Sufficient lighting would have been nice too, or course, but you can't always get what you want.
As if on cue, Jill entered the dark room, mug in hand. She gave me a brief smile and set the coffee down on the desk before leaving the room – all without saying a word. Her eyes hadn't quite met mine during the five–second encounter, although in the darkness it didn't matter much.
I watched her go, wrestling with unwanted thoughts. Ever since earlier that moment when I'd held her hand, that awkward second of rude awakening, our relationship had snapped into a stiff type of formality – like starched pants, and I hate professional attire of any kind. But at the same time, I hadn't exactly made an effort to break the sudden ice that had developed between us.
Without a doubt, I enjoyed Jill's companionship, even if it wasn't that kind of a relationship. I'd been perfectly happy with usbefore the possibility of us had even occurred to me. She was a sweetheart, one of the closest – if not the closest – friends I had, and we had bonded in many different ways over the two years we had spent in the office together. There was no reason for us to lose that now just because we had both come to recognize the mutual attraction. Or maybe I was only imagining that it was mutual, and that was the problem. In a way, that would be somewhat easier to work with, although there could be no definitive solution.
I sighed and stood abruptly, tossing down my pen in hopeless exasperation. I couldn't concentrate.
That does it. We need to talk.
As I came around the desk, I realized that I wasn't quite sure how to approach Jill on the matter. It was a delicate situation, after all – ridiculous, but still delicate. I didn't really have anything that I wanted to say about what had happened, just that I wanted our friendship back. Besides, what the hell do you really prescribe for a case of romantic tension?
Just wing it, Stikup – that's what you do best.
The telephone on my desk rang just as I was almost out the door. At any other time, I would have been happy to hear that sound. However, this was the second time in one day that an interruption had disrupted my personal life. Besides, I was up to my ears in a case already.
I almost threw my shoe at it. But instead, swallowing my annoyance with difficulty, I reached across the desk and scooped up the receiver. "Stikup Agency."
"Stikup," Kevin Slyder grunted. "I got some shit on Harris and Thawyer. You might be interested."
"Oh, I'm always interested in shit."
He snorted, but I could tell he wasn't really amused. "Right. These names the kid gave us were the real deal, although I'm surprised he didn't give us aliases – they've got plenty of 'em."
"Praise God for honest criminals." Coming back around the desk, I plopped down into my chair and got out my notebook. "Tell me about them."
"Okay, the Harris guy," Slyder said, beginning with a sigh. "Goes by 'Red' although the name on his birth certificate is Shaun. He's 35, a career criminal: he's done time in the Tri–State area and once in Mississippi for a hit and run. As of our last mug shot, he's got red hair – long, bright red hair – and an eyebrow piercing. Jesus, he's tall. Six-foot-ten. Roman nose, scar below his left eye, bit of a patchy goatee. Should be easy to pick out of a crowd, right?"
"Uh-huh," I agreed halfheartedly. "And the other one?"
"Finigan Jones Thawyer. He's your average Joe. Brown hair, beard, gold tooth, both ears pierced. 43 years old and five-foot-eleven. He was arrested in '83 for larceny, pleaded guilty, and got two years probation. In '85 he was tried for assault, but that charge was dropped on account of a mistrial. 1993, he gets back into the act."
He cleared his throat. "Like I said, Harris is the one to watch out for. He's been tried as a con artist in the past, and according to this file he's been involved in a number of famous telephone scams. Most judges have just thrown the book at him considering his history. Oh, and get this – he's Sheldon's uncle."
The dawning light of comprehension was blinding. I sank back in my chair. "No kidding. Well, that explains a lot."
"What, the kid's attitude?" Slyder snorted grimly. "Guess Harris didn't want to babysit anymore. Although I'm not quite sure how Sheldon got involved with this caper if not for Harris. Neither he nor Thawyer are local, so our 'boss' obviously has out–of–state connections."
"Great," I said, mulling that over. "So, do we have any idea where to find these creeps now?"
Slyder sighed. "Not really. Thawyer's got a house in Wilmington – it's actually under his mother's maiden name – but I doubt he'd be stupid enough to lie low there. I can have my guys dig around to see if we can't find out if there have been past hideouts – that might give us some insight on where they're headed next. We've got 'wanted' posters out now and Dempsey insisted on leaking those photos to the press. Their having a field day, you know – what with the murder and all."
"Which means the spotlight's on us, and if we don't come up with the culprits soon, the public will hang us." I slouched, resting my elbows heavily on the desk. Me, specifically. "Why don't you get a list together for me – associates, friends and family for all three of these guys that I can talk to. Locals, preferably – none in Wisconsin, if you get my drift."
"You got it," Slyder said, most likely jotting down a note to himself. "By the way, did you get anything off the body?"
I leaned back in my seat again. "Dead end there – no pun intended. I didn't find anything useful at the house either although I did get a chance to talk to Daniels' husband. He called home for his wife while I was there, actually." I blew out a breath that caused the hair hanging in my eyes to dance. "He was naturally upset."
"What did you tell him?" Slyder grunted.
"Nothing," I replied, hoping it was the answer he was looking for. "What could I tell him?"
"Not much, I guess. Have you heard from him since?"
Actually, now that I thought about it, I found myself surprised that he hadn't called yet. It had only been a few hours since our conversation – if it could be called that – but Jeff Daniels didn't exactly strike me as the type to let things cool before diving back in. He definitely wanted
answers, and he wasn't prepared to wait for them – not when his wife had been murdered for no apparent reason. Maybe he hadn't caught my number. Or maybe he was still on his way home. Regardless, he would be in contact sooner or later, considering I was in charge of his case.
For now.
"Stikup?"
Suddenly, I realized that silence had filled the line for the space of several seconds while I'd been lost in thought. "Sorry," I said, rubbing my eyes vigorously, as though pressure could wipe away the weariness. "No, I haven't. I'm expecting another call from him again any time now."
"Good luck with that," Slyder said mildly, as though there had been no break in our conversation. He seemed like he was in a good mood, which struck me as odd, considering our parting words the previous evening.
I had to force a laugh at the comment, even though Slyder's indifference nettled me. Ever since my visit to Daniels' house that morning, I hadn't felt much like laughing.
"Right, Chief," I said. "Okay, thanks for the info. At least I know who I'm after now."
"Well, except for the boss and this second gang," he threw in, speaking with an off–hand type of mannerism.
I had completely forgotten about that possibility, and being reminded of it brought on a tidal wave of renewed weariness. The swivel chair had a great range of movement, and when I slouched back in frustration, the high leather back hit the lip of the bay window.
Slyder, you goddamn killjoy, I thought, kneading my forehead. Freaking ray of sunshine, that's what you are.
Aloud, I said: "Thanks for your optimism, Sarge."
"No problem," he replied, stepping pointedly on my sarcasm. "Now listen, I've gotta talk to you about something."
And I immediately knew what it was, so I sighed loud enough for him to hear. "Here we go."
"Stikup, this is serious, so be serious for once in your life and listen." He hesitated, maybe searching for words. "Look, this isn't just going to go away. You dug yourself a hole, so you've gotta dig yourself out of it."
He sighed into my ear, a rush of static. "Chauncey's not happy. He gave Dempsey and me an earful about you. He doesn't want an unstable amateur heading up a murder investigation in his district, and he's making it very clear that he'd like his detectives to manage the affair."
I put my forehead against my fist. "Cready ratted on me, then."
"It's not just him, Stikup," Slyder said grimly. "It's in the paper. Not quite front page, but they blasted you pretty good. You can probably expect a call from Dempsey soon."
"What's he saying?"
"Obviously, he's having second thoughts too." I heard the chair he was sitting in creak as he shifted in his seat. "Having a PI head up a simple B&E case for the police is one thing, but a murder investigation is another. Right now, he's kind of hard–pressed to do something about your performance last night. It's making everyone question his decision–making ability."
"And the easiest thing to remedy that would be to admit his mistake and let me go." I raised my head again, working my jaw. "How long do I have? And who will be the one to take over?"
"I don't know, Stikup," Slyder replied immediately, before I'd even gotten the second question out. "The case is going to stay with SPD, that's for sure – Dempsey's not going to give up District Rights easily. As for you… well, I really don't know. If it makes you feel any better, I'm going to put in a word for you, but I can't promise you more than a few days' grace – if that."
I felt a sudden rush of affection for the man, but channeled it into a goofy grin. "Aw, Chief – I didn't know you cared."
His tone darkened considerably. "I don't, Stikup. But changing command in the middle of the investigation never goes smoothly. I guarantee someone's going to be holding your hand from now on, though, and there's going to be a lot of unwanted attention on the affair."
"Naturally," I said. Frustration made me want to pound something with my fist.
"Listen," Slyder said abruptly, "I'm going to let you go now. Do us both a favor: think about what I said, and don't do anything else stupid."
I nodded like he could see me. "Okay."
"I'll keep you posted," he said, and then hung up without a good–bye, so I replaced my phone on the hook as well. And all of a sudden, the darkness of the evening surrounded me again, filling both the office and my optimism.
So now what?
Well, there was an untouched cup of coffee on my desk, and I needed to take care of that before I did anything else. I drained nearly half the mug in one long sip, and then absently wiped my mouth on my shirtsleeve. I immediately regretted that action, considering that the shirt I was wearing was my best white button–up – the one my mother had gotten me for my birthday. All the other ones I had were off–white, stained, or the elbows were beginning to wear out. Swearing at my carelessness, I quickly got up and headed toward the bathroom for paper towels.
The phone on my desk rang again.
This time, I did throw my shoe at it, which only scattered the papers over which I had agonized for the past three hours. My frustration sank to near–irreversible depths as I answered in an aggravated growl.
"This had better be important."
A moment of hesitation. "Uh… Is this Detective Stikup?"
"Yeah, that's me," I snapped. "Who are you and what do you want?"
"This is Doctor Simms – from Jefferson." It was almost amusing how he was trying to remain dignified and professional, despite my abrasive attitude. But at the moment, I didn't find much of anything funny. "You spoke with me earlier today. It's about Mrs. Daniels."
"What, is she up and around?" The jokes were coming unconsciously now. All I really wanted to do was break something or – preferably – someone. "Made a Monty–Python–style recovery, has she?"
Simms seemed to grow flustered. "I've obtained some matches on the sperm cells we extracted from her –"
"Spare me the graphic details, Doc. Who does it belong to?"
"Records show a Finigan J. Thawyer, a career criminal. Fingernail fragments belong to him, and there was dried saliva on her chest from another man named Harris, although it's obvious that Thawyer did most of the… dirty work. I hope that this is helpful information, Detective."
If I wasn't mistaken, there was a definite hint of anger in his voice, and it made me grind my teeth in appreciation. After all, nothing helps a bad mood more than spreading it. At least it made me feel a little better.
"Thanks, Doc," I said, speaking quickly to end the conversation. "I appreciate it. Fax me the specifics when you get a chance. Don't let the stiffs push you around."
And I hung up before he could reply.
I was sure that my shirt was done for, but I headed down the hall anyway. I stormed passed Jill – who was sorting mail – and into the tiny bathroom. Seizing a handful of paper towels, I thrust them beneath the faucet, then began scrubbing furiously at my sleeve with the sopping mass, channeling my frustration into getting the stain out of my shirt.
All I'd gotten from Simms was which of the three had been involved in the rape. That was all well and good, but it wouldn't help me find them any time soon, which was the more important objective for the time being. After all, I had to catch the criminals before they could do their time. I guess that was what I deserved for putting all my eggs into one basket. Maybe I had unintentionally been relying on the hard evidence alone to provide for me all the answers instead of thinking outside the box.
Well, a dead woman wasn't about to magically become the answer to all my questions, and even though I hadn't really expected any more than what Simms had given, I was somehow disappointed that there hadn't been anything extra.
So, once again, everything boiled down to time and patience. For his part, Slyder would get me that list of known associates, Dempsey would possibly enlist other township detectives in the search, maybe even out–of–state PIs if the murderers' relatives and friends lived far enough away, and then we would have to detain some, interrogate others and cross–ref
erence their responses… We were looking at a case that could quite possibly stretch out for several months if not years. And time was exactly what I didn't have, now that I'd made a fool of myself to the public.
"God damn it!" I exploded suddenly, violently hurling the paper towels into the waste bin.
So much for my big break. If Dempsey brought in other people, then I would become buried by the experienced professionals who would know just what to do – who wouldn't threaten their witnesses – and Jill and I would sink back into the mundane again. In fact, that would be the perfect opportunity for Dempsey to dismiss me unnoticed, without attracting any attention.
