The two climbed out of the car and entered the shop. A short woman wearing a baseball cap walked toward them from the rear. “May I help you?” she asked as she rubbed a large spoon with a silver polishing cloth.
“I am Trooper Mark Jankowski and this is Detective Greg Horton,” Mark began, as they both showed their badges. “You must be Caroline Mathis, right? We would like to ask you some questions about Hiram Lazarus.”
Caroline shook her head. “Isn’t it just awful? He was such a nice guy. What happened?” She laid down the spoon, wiped her hands on her apron and led them to a small settee. “Here, won’t you sit down? Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks, we would like to ask you about the business. What arrangement did you have with Mr. Lazarus?” Horton began as Jankowski pulled out his notepad.
“We have a great arrangement–I can’t even think what will happen now.” She wiped her face with a tissue, pushed her cap off her face and continued, “Hiram owned the shop and his goods here. I sublet a space, realistically, but our things are intermingled and marked so we know who owns what. I pay just a small rental fee because I’m here to take care of the shop every day. Many people come in just to browse, but we do make sales. Hiram’s pieces are the large items–hutches, this settee, old bedroom sets and furniture. Mine tend mostly to be small items, lamps, vases and so forth.”
She shuddered and looked about at the collection of antiques. “I can’t imagine running this shop without him. I don’t think his wife knows one value from another. She rarely came here.”
“Did you and Mr. Lazarus get along, were there any disagreements about price or what you brought in?” Jankowski asked.
“No. If I had a question on a price I wanted to place on one of my items, I would discuss it with him. He always set his own prices and if a customer wanted to haggle, I would call Hiram to handle the transaction.” Caroline reached for another tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I’m going to miss him. He was so excited about the expansion. The contractor was about to begin. Now what?”
Horton ignored her question and asked whether she and Hiram had mutual-beneficiary life insurance policies so the business could survive a catastrophe such as his sudden death. She said that each was insured for a half-million dollars, which would sustain the business, but it was more a benefit to her than him. He had considerably greater investment than she in the store’s contents and also had all the antiques at his home. All her holdings were in the store, she added.
“That’s the kind of person he was, more concerned about whether a disaster would ruin me than how it would affect his interest.” She began to shake.
“Okay, let’s go on to another matter.” Horton directed her to a nearby chair. “What can you tell me about one particular customer–a man Bashia Gordon said you were afraid of?”
“Him? I don’t know if I was afraid or just cautious. He wasn’t like one of our regulars who would drop in. He made me wary right from his first step in the door. He kept walking around like he was ready to smash everything in sight. He dressed sloppily and wasn’t very concerned with hygiene. He actually smelled. I thought maybe he was on drugs, he looked emaciated.
“Why, when he picked up that rare vase, I thought I would die. He handled it as if it were plastic Tupperware. He kept turning it around and I took it away from him as soon as I could.”
“What vase is that?” Horton asked.
“My priceless blue Ming,” She headed for the shelf where it sat but Horton reached out to stop her. “It’s from the Chinese Kangxi period, four markings on the bottom identify it as such. It’s in pristine condition and the deep rich blue background lets the white peach blossoms stand out beautifully.”
“Stop, don’t touch it. I wonder if we might take the vase and have it examined for fingerprints? We’ll give you a receipt for it and we’ll have to get your prints as well. We know they’ll be on the vase,” Horton said.
Caroline stopped, surprised, “My prints? Well, they’re on file at the police station. All business owners have them taken when they apply for their license. Of course, mine are on the vase and probably some other prints, as well as that nasty man.”
Mark slipped his hand inside the tall vase and gingerly placed it in a brown paper evidence bag. “We’ll take this vase to Meriden to lift any fingerprints and see if we can get a match. We’ll give you a call later and try to return it today.”
“Tell me more about this man,” Horton said, watching Caroline closely.
Caroline provided a description that matched what Bashia had already told them. Then Horton asked, “Was that the only time you saw him?”
“No, I saw him meandering down the street a couple times and I wondered about him because he had asked for Hiram. When I told him Hiram wouldn’t be here until Thursday, he grumbled and marched out.
“Then, that Thursday I came to work around noon ’cause I knew Hiram would be here. When I opened the door, this guy was yelling at Hiram, shaking his fist, saying something like, ‘You owe me! I’m warning you!’ and stormed out the door. He almost knocked me over and Hiram was so red I though he was going to have a heart attack. When I asked him what that was all about, he told me to forget it. I know he was upset but he never did explain it.”
“Thank you for your time. If there is any other information you can think of, we’d appreciate a call.” Horton handed her his card.
Once outside, Mark stared at a blue-gray Toyota station wagon parked down the street in front of a restaurant. “That looks familiar. It couldn’t be…Yep. Betcha’ any money that’s Bashia’s car. Now what do you think she’s doing here?”
“Let’s find out, but first, I’ll give forensics a call and tell them we need expedited service on some prints this afternoon. Besides, I’m hungry. Isn’t it lunchtime? Let’s go see if that is your lady friend.”
“But we’ll need to hustle if we want to get that vase fingerprinted today.” As they entered the café, Mark slapped his friend on the back. “See, I was right…there’s Bashia.”
“And what are you doing here, Miss?” Mark asked as he slid into her booth.
Bashia looked up, surprised, then burst out laughing. “Geekers, can’t a lady enjoy a little lunch without getting questioned by the police?”
“You know what I mean. What are you doing here, Bashia?”
Greg slid into the seat beside her.
“Nice to see you again, Detective,” she said, tipping her head coyly to one side. “I couldn’t sit still, so I decided to drive down and see if there was something we were missing.”
“WE? Since when were you on this case?” Mark asked, with a stern look that quickly became a broad grin.
Greg interjected in a strong voice “Bashia you really must leave this to us. It could be dangerous and you may be hampering our investigation by putting the killer on alert. In other words, back off!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of butting in, but I don’t believe Hiram shot himself, and if he didn’t do it, who did, and why? Do you think it’s that stranger that’s been looking for Hiram? He sounds suspicious.”
“Would you believe that’s what we’re here for?” Mark shook his head, exasperated. She had discovered her friend, Hiram, dead only two days ago, and here she was trying to learn who killed him.
“This is serious police business. Just leave it to us, please” Horton emphasized. “In fact we need to get something to eat and be on our way to Meriden. Where is that waitress? I think I’ll try what you’re having–looks like down home cooking to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mark was in awe of the State Police facility in Meriden, headquarters for the Central District, which included his old New Haven post. It also was the home of the Forensics Science Lab headed by Dr. Henry Lee, world-renowned blood spatter expert who was called in for extremely complex and difficult cases. He’d never met the man; he almost wished this case required blood analysis.
Forensic science had changed immensely durin
g Mark’s career. Checking fingerprints used to require tedious, visual and microscopic inspection of drawers and drawers of card files. The technology was revolutionized two decades ago by significant advances in computer science along with DNA discoveries that made courtroom heroes of Dr. Lee and his colleagues.
The technician Greg contacted in the fingerprint lab had left their names at the front guard desk, so they flashed their I.D., signed in and had directions to the proper lab quickly. Mark carried the sealed evidence bag containing the valuable Ming vase, a fact the guard recorded with the time and date of entry on both the lab’s log and the bag. If necessary, the guard could testify to the disposition of this single piece of evidence as it passed his station coming and going.
“Thanks, Officer Roberto Martinez,” Mark said, reading the guard’s name off the business card he picked up for the case file.
Down the main hall, first right, next left, one more right and they spotted a white-coated technician waiting to greet them at a sliding glass double-door. A small overhanging sign confirmed that they were at the Latent Prints Lab.
Greg introduced himself and Mark to the short, light brown pony-tailed Scott Devereaux, who looked like he should still be in high school but his photo-I.D. tag said “Fingerprint Specialist”. Devereaux confirmed he had a UConn degree in criminal justice and several FBI advanced courses under his belt.
“I always try to greet people at the door so you don’t get lost in the building or here in our lab,” he said. The immense lab, white-glove clean, housed some eye-level cubicles but mostly long countertops containing various apparatuses totally foreign to Mark.
“Looks like a terrific place to work,” he said, as the two officers followed Devereaux to a workstation adjacent to several light boxes and what looked like a Dell desktop personal computer.
“You want this expedited? Let’s see what you’ve got,” Devereaux said, pulling on latex gloves. He initialed the bright red-and-white evidence tag, carefully opened the bag and used stainless steel tongs to remove its contents onto a piece of white butcher paper he had unrolled onto a small turntable.
“Oh, my, that’s a beauty. We’ve got a museum here in town that would love to have that Ming.”
Mark found himself holding his breath as he watched the technician’s process. Devereaux asked Greg to steady the top of the vase with a wooden ruler in case it teetered. He grabbed a fluffy short-handled ostrich feather brush, dipped it into black dusting powder and, with a flick of his wrist, liberally sprinkled the vase as he slowly turned it full-circle. Then, he carefully rolled and removed print tape squares at intervals on the porcelain.
“Sometimes it’s difficult to roll a usable print from a rounded surface,” Devereaux mused, almost to himself. “Aha, pay dirt. Well-defined patterns in the ridges and valleys of several prints here.”
Greg let out an audible sigh.
After calling the lab, he had asked the Essex Police Department to fax Caroline Mathis’ fingerprints here in case they weren’t already in the national database, AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. The Essex desk sergeant said the ten-finger print cards were retained locally in case of theft, fire, personal injury or other reason to identify the owner of a business.
Mark and Greg stood behind Devereaux, watching closely, admiring his skill. No movement was wasted in the meticulous process of placing the first print onto a glass slide and then to the light box nearest the computer. Like magic, it appeared in the left portion of the computer screen.
“Well, that’s a lucky break–that’s one of those I scanned in from Essex. Perfect match for Caroline Mathis. See the whorls, loops and arches there and there, lots of matching patterns?” Devereaux pointed to several tiny colored boxes and parallel lines highlighting similarities in the views on each side of the split screen. “Match” appeared on the right side.
“It would have taken me a while to spot them without those markers. That’s great, but we knew the shop owner handled the vase,” Greg said. “Good show, Scott. Next?”
When Devereaux placed a new slide on the light table, it appeared on the left side of the computer screen and the right side went blank for an instant. With the touch of a single key, the analysis began again.
“I think I must have a little myopia or whatever it is that causes dizziness watching something blink incessantly like that,” said Mark, turning away from the rapid flashing of the black-and-white images. “My mother used to say she had vertigo because when she ironed checkered shirts, the colors looked like they were moving, but I always thought vertigo was related to height.
“Whatever it is, I must have inherited it, ’cause I can’t comfortably watch that. I’ll have a headache in a few minutes. Okay if I walk around a little?”
“Of course, just don’t touch anything–that sounds like a joke but, really, don’t touch anything that looks like someone might be working on it. It won’t be long, Trooper Jankowski, I assure you,” Devereaux said.
“Someone is either in AFIS or not. There are something like 47 million prints in the criminal master file and I don’t know how many millions in the other databases–public employees like you and me, bank and other sensitive employee groups, military, even some voluntary civilians. I’m using a full-range search and a relatively new rapid response system.”
“All we want is one out of all those millions,” Greg commented. “Do you have any idea how long it will take? We’d like to return this vase today if possible, but we need to let the owner know in the next couple hours. Is that too much to ask?”
“Two hours is within the realm of possibility,” Devereaux answered. “You’ll be happy to know this process used to take around twenty-four hours. We all demand instant gratification these days–the faster, the better.”
Greg looked at his watch, silently willing the unseen digital scan to analyze faster.
Mark walked past a small collection of auto parts on a worktable, the cluster loosely tented in clear plastic. He recognized a process he had seen on a favorite television show and knew that a small dish inside the tent contained steaming hot Crazy Glue. The glue fumes produced a mist that clung to any residue of fingerprints on the objects. He didn’t fully understand it, but knew it helped solve numerous cases on “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation”.
Two technicians worked on separate vibrating, spinning instruments in small nooks against the far wall. Mark decided to return to Scott Devereaux’ workstation. Maybe he would learn more about fingerprint technology.
Greg paced nervously a few feet from Devereaux, his lips in a tight scowl. “Nothing yet, but it’s still cranking on that first print. He thinks he can use one or two others if this doesn’t produce a result, but the rest are blurred. Were you in the Army, Mark?”
Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Remember the saying ‘hurry up and wait’? Well, that sure fits our line of work today. But it’s such an impressive advancement–to think that machine is looking at so much data technicians once spent days and weeks checking. I have a feeling we’re going to get what we need here…I just hope it’s soon.”
“Bingo, gentlemen, here’s a match. Can’t ask for much more than eleven focal points in common with the patterns of our sample. And this guy might not be too difficult to find–he’s been in prison in Pennsylvania but was paroled recently so someone should know where he is. You can use that phone to call your Essex contact, Detective Horton,” Devereaux pointed. “I’ll print this mug shot and have you out of here in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Scott. That’s impressive,” Greg said, fist-bumping with the younger man, then raising a high-five to Mark. “We might make it back to Essex before she closes, but I think Caroline Mathis will wait for us when we say we’ve got a picture to show her.”
Devereaux punched a few keys and a nearby printer spewed out three pages of police records and an old mug shot of Shawn “Skip” Dempsey, 39, of Frankford, Pennsylvania. He’d been found guilty of several drug pos
session and selling charges over a period of years. His last arrest for armed robbery of a drug store put him under the “Three Strikes” law.
“He got a lucky break from the parole board, I guess,” said Devereaux. “That program—‘you’re out’ after three felony convictions–carries a mandatory life term, no probation. Maybe he was after drugs but didn’t use the weapon and someone felt he could be let loose. But he was in prison for almost ten years this time–that probably seemed like life.”
When will young people ever learn from this ongoing history of drug abuse, addiction and death? The thought made Mark realize he hadn’t asked Bashia recently whether her grandson was sticking to his community service commitment and his promise not to use drugs. He would have to remember that the next time he saw her.
Scott Devereaux carefully cleaned the remaining powder from the Ming vase, still on its pedestal, replaced it into the evidence bag and closed the seal before handing it back to Mark. Scott signed all the documents and put them in an envelope for Greg.
“Our witness says she’ll either still be at New England Antiques or across the street at the Dixie Café. I told her we’d find her when we get there,” Greg reported, as he and Mark, in turn, shook hands with Devereaux.
Traffic was backed up halfway down Route 9 from Middletown southeasterly toward Essex. Connecticut’s midstate major roadways were sparse, but Mark and Greg preferred them to zigzagging through small towns on lesser roads. No major towns on this divided highway, but there was still a rush hour effect. A radio check with headquarters did not indicate any problem ahead.
Lights were still on in the showroom when they pulled into a parking spot in front of the store. Sure enough, they could spot Caroline Mathis’ ever-present cap bobbing here and there as she applied a feather duster to highly polished wooden furniture. She scurried to open the door and smiled when she saw them.
“Good news, eh? You know who this guy is?” she asked, staring at the large manila envelope Horton carried.
Old Secrets Never Die Page 19
