The woman Briscoe had identified as Wendy Greenfield had, in fact, been a beautiful woman.
That beauty was marred somewhat now by the fact that her throat had been sliced open. Her head tilted back against the seat at an angle it couldn’t have in life. Her white blouse and pants had been drenched in blood, which had also soaked the windshield and dashboard. Almost as if she had known what would happen to her and wanted to remain color coordinated, she wore a crimson leather belt and matching pumps, and the convertible was white with a red interior.
“That’s definitely Wendy Greenfield,” Ryan said.
“You recognize her?”
“I catch the occasional golf game on TV.”
“Apparently she had an enemy,” Calleigh said.
“Or maybe a friend who turned into an enemy. This looks personal to me.” She bent forward, still not touching the car, for a closer look. “Wound is short and angled, dropping toward the right.”
“So her assailant wasn’t sitting behind her,” Ryan observed. “Which would have been more of a sweep, up on both ends.”
“The second smile. Not this time. I’m guessing that the killer was in the driver’s seat. No question that she was sitting right there when it happened.” She pointed to the blood drops on the inside of the windshield, which had impacted and made satellite spatters where smaller, secondary droplets had hit the glass after splashing from the bigger initial drops. The blood was still wet, trickling slowly down, streaking as it went. “Projection spatters,” she said. “From her arterial pulse.”
“Be hard to use those,” Ryan said, “because of the streaking and running.”
“Fortunately we don’t have to rely on them. We have the arterial spatter on the dash that’s easier to read. And the lower-velocity spatter on her clothing and seat, as her heart weakened. It’s all here, like an open book.” Even as Calleigh talked and studied the dash, she noticed something else.
“And look here,” she added, pointing to a spot on the dashboard where there wasn’t as much blood spatter as there was around it. The space was just to the left of where Wendy Greenfield sat.
“It’s hard to make out because there’s a little spatter, but there’s a void pattern here. The droplets of blood that did impact this area came after the first, heaviest gush.”
“Which means blood ended up on some other surface.”
“Probably the killer’s arm. Assuming he was right-handed, which I think we can based on the angle of the cut, it would have been an awkward reach for him to slice her throat from the driver’s seat. He would have had to turn and face her. She probably turned as well, toward him, which would have made his task a little easier. Maybe she thought he wanted a kiss. Then he cut her, with little or no warning, and the first spray hit the windshield, dashboard, and his arm. She fell back into the seat, and that’s when the blood sprayed the area in front of her, gradually slowing and soaking her clothing.”
Calleigh knew Ryan could figure out the same scenario by looking at the spatter patterns, but talking it through as she studied it helped her keep things straight in her own head. She might eventually have to explain her thought processes to a jury. If she made sense to herself from the start, it would be easier to make sense to them.
“If he was driving, then you’re right, chances are good that he knew her,” Ryan said. “And I don’t see any other signs of struggle.”
“No,” Calleigh said. “But there is one strange thing.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a woman’s purse in the driver’s-side foot well. Red leather, matching Wendy’s shoes and belt. It has to be hers, but if she wasn’t driving, why didn’t she have it on the passenger side with her?”
“That, Calleigh, is an excellent question.”
She walked around to the driver’s side of the car. Before touching anything, she put on two more pairs of latex gloves. This was going to be a bloody scene, and if she had to write anything down or answer a phone or just hope not to contaminate other parts of the car with blood she had already touched, she would need clean gloves. It would be easier and quicker to remove or cut away additional pairs rather than stop and switch.
Ryan did the same, she noticed, but if he held true to form he would avoid touching the DB if at all possible. His OCD didn’t keep him from doing his job—and he was good at his job—but he didn’t like getting down and dirty when he could avoid it.
Triple-gloved, she reached into the car (supporting herself with one hand on the edge of the door, the steel burning hot even through the triple layers of latex) and took out the purse. Kate Spade. Pricey, but Sidney Greenfield had finished in the money several times last year and could afford to buy nice things for his wife. As far as Calleigh knew, Wendy’s only job was being a PGA Tour wife.
She opened it and found a leather wallet inside. A Florida driver’s license confirmed what they already knew: the victim was Wendy Greenfield, who lived on Hibiscus Island. Also pricey. The wallet contained seven hundred dollars and change, and all her credit cards seemed to be there, judging by the way they fit into the leather grooves. “It doesn’t appear that she was robbed,” Calleigh said.
“Which points back to the idea that there was a personal element to the attack.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“The backseat is empty. Pop the trunk, Calleigh, and let’s see if there’s anything interesting in there.”
Calleigh, still standing by the driver’s door, reached in again and pulled the trunk release. The rear hatch opened and Ryan pushed it up. “More than interesting, I’d say.”
“What is it, Ryan?” Calleigh walked to the rear of the car and looked inside.
Ryan had found two shotguns, a Mossberg and an Ithaca, both 12-gauge. Tucked in with them were several boxes of buckshot shells. Ryan opened a plastic bag that one of the guns rested on. “Men’s clothes,” he said. “New. Size XL Hanes T-shirt, Levi’s jeans with a thirty-six-inch waist and thirty-four-inch inseam. No shoes, socks, or underwear.”
“You’re right, Ryan. This is more than just interesting. This looks like someone’s planning to go to war.”
6
RYAN AND CALLEIGH were about to start their methodical, inch-by-inch search of the crime scene when a Miami-Dade Police Department cruiser pulled up with a civilian in the passenger seat and two others, teenagers, it appeared, in the rear. A uniformed officer got out from behind the wheel, followed by the adult civilian, and had a brief conversation with Briscoe of the Highway Patrol. Briscoe pointed toward the CSIs.
“It looks like we have company,” Ryan said.
“So it appears.”
Ryan let Calleigh take the lead, since she had seniority and had recently been promoted to lieutenant. She went to meet the newcomers at the taped perimeter line, Ryan following a couple of steps behind. Alexx Woods had recently arrived and was beginning to examine Wendy Greenfield’s body.
“Is there something I can help you with, Officer?” Calleigh asked.
The uni was a few pounds overweight, his gut threatening to sag over his duty belt. His skin was deeply tanned and creased by the sun, his hair shaved almost to the scalp. “Thought maybe I could help you,” he answered. “This man here thinks he saw your vehicle there involved in a crime.”
“The Mitsubishi?”
“That’s right,” the civilian said. He had a pudgy physique, casually dressed in a striped Polo shirt, khakis, and moccasins. Black hair curled over his ears, and his face didn’t look like one that smiled often.
“Tell me about it.”
The guy looked at the uniform cop, as if he needed permission to talk to the criminalists. The cop gave him a subtle nod. “I was at the Quick Spree, this convenience store a couple miles from here. Right at the intersection with the Tamiami Trail. Buying a couple of twelve-packs, right?”
“It is a warm day,” Calleigh replied.
“Yeah. So anyway, I saw this hot blonde sitting in a convertible out in the
parking lot, like she was waiting for someone maybe.”
“And you believe it was this car?”
“Pretty sure, yeah. I wasn’t really looking at the car so much, on account of the girl inside it being such a babe.”
“I get the picture,” Calleigh said. “What happened?”
“Well, I saw this guy come around the corner, toward the car. She noticed him, like, and I thought maybe it was who she was waiting for. But then he stopped in front of her—his body was blocking my view, so I couldn’t see what he showed her, maybe like a gun or something. I could see her face, though, and she looked scared. Then she moved over to the passenger side and he got in behind the wheel and drove away.”
“So it looked like a carjacking to you?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Did you report it from the store?”
The man looked away, his jaw tight. “Not so much.”
“Why not?”
“I…” He glanced back toward the patrol car. Ryan read the meaning of that glance, the hesitation.
So, it seemed, did Calleigh. “You were buying beer for those boys, who are underage.”
Ryan’s first case with the crime lab had involved Calleigh’s father, who struggled with alcoholism. He knew the subject was a tender one for her.
“That’s my nephew and a friend of his,” the man said. “It wasn’t like I was trying to get them drunk or anything. They were coming over to do yard work at my place, and I promised them some brews when they were done.”
“But they are underage, and you knew that it was a crime,” Calleigh said. Her tone was a little cooler than it had been before, but Ryan thought one would have to know her to recognize the difference.
“That’s right.” The man, having admitted his offense, caught her gaze and held it, as if daring her to do something about it now that he had finally come forward. “But when I thought about what I’d seen for a while, I realized that it might have been something important. Like maybe she was in some real trouble.”
“She was,” Calleigh said. “She was murdered. It doesn’t get more real than that.”
“I know that now. I’m so sorry.”
“By the time we got his call, the vehicle had already been reported,” the officer said. “I swung around to his place and picked them up so he could talk to you.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Calleigh said. To the witness she said, “Can you describe the man who got into her car?”
“He was a big guy. Tall, you know, and muscular. Like an athlete or something. Pretty good-looking, not like a model, but for an average guy.”
“Hair color? Any tattoos or other marks you could see?”
“Brown hair. A little longer than mine.” He touched his neck, just beneath the collar of his shirt. “Maybe about to there. And a mustache.”
“Do you remember anything about his clothes?” Ryan asked.
The man looked at Ryan, eyes widening, as if he hadn’t noticed anyone except Calleigh. Since he seemed to have a thing for attractive blondes, maybe he hadn’t. “Blue jeans. A regular short-sleeved sport shirt. I think maybe it was blue or, like, slate gray or something.”
“And he just walked up to the convertible? You’re sure he didn’t arrive in a vehicle?”
“That’s what I saw. I couldn’t tell where he came from because I was inside the store. I just saw him when he came around the corner and headed for her. If he had parked something around the corner, I wouldn’t have known it.”
“Where were the boys at the time?” Calleigh asked.
“They were at the magazine rack in the store, looking at car magazines.”
“And the clerk?”
“Behind the counter.”
“We stopped by the Quick Spree on the way over,” the uni said. “The way the counter is set up, the clerk can’t see out into that part of the parking lot. But he does have a video surveillance system, so if he’d been looking at the monitor he might have seen something. Says he wasn’t, though.”
“You probably should have let a detective handle that,” Calleigh pointed out.
“Sorry,” the uni said, not looking the least bit apologetic. Ryan wondered if he had any idea how many cases were blown every year by cops trying to help out in areas where they didn’t have specialized training. It was one of the reasons he had been so anxious to get off patrol, into a field where people were more careful.
That, and the patrol locker room was a stew of germs.
“Where is that store again?” Ryan asked, fishing his mobile phone from his pocket.
The officer gave him an address, and Ryan opened the phone, punching the speed-dial button for Horatio Caine. He stepped away from the others so the civilian wouldn’t listen in.
A moment later, Horatio’s voice responded. “Mister Wolfe,” he said. “We’re almost to you now.”
“Don’t come here, H,” Ryan said. The words were out of his mouth before he realized they sounded more like an order than a suggestion.
“It turns out there’s another crime scene.” He described the carjacking and gave Horatio the address of the Quick Spree. “We’ve still got some work to do here, so I thought maybe you and Delko could—”
“That’s fine, Ryan. We’re close to there, so we’ll just stop off instead of coming out to your location.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. “By the way, we have identified the DB as Wendy Greenfield, so somebody’s going to have to notify her husband. There’s no press here yet, but I’m sure it won’t be long now.”
“I’ll take care of the notification after Eric gets started at the Quick Spree. Can you swing by there after you’re finished with your scene and pick Eric up?”
“No problem, H. We’ll bring him back to the lab with us.”
“All right, then. Anything you can tell me about Mrs. Greenfield that might help her husband?”
“I wish there was. She probably didn’t suffer much. Killer sliced her carotid artery, it looks like, and she bled out fast. Alexx is here checking her out. It’s a mess here.”
“It would be. Thank you, Mister Wolfe. I’ll see you later.”
Horatio ended the call, and Ryan folded his phone and tucked it away.
The uni was leading the civilian back to his squad car, and Calleigh had turned toward him. “H and Eric are headed to the Quick Spree,” he reported. “They were almost here.”
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty to keep them occupied,” Calleigh said. “It’s turning into a busy day.”
“Do we ever get any other kind?”
“Very seldom,” she agreed.
“So a carjacking explains some things,” Ryan said as they walked back toward the car. Coming toward them on Leonard Highway he could see the first TV van. It looked like the one from WFOR/CBS-4 News, although he hoped he was wrong because he really didn’t want to see Erica Sikes today. “The purse on the driver’s side, for instance,” he continued. “She shoved over but was too scared to remember to grab her purse.”
“Maybe.” Calleigh stared at the convertible as if it could be persuaded to speak. “But it doesn’t explain everything. If the only weapon he had was a knife, why didn’t she try to drive away instead of just giving in? Since it’s an open convertible, why didn’t she jump out and run into the store? And why carjack a vehicle just to go a few miles, where there’s a getaway car waiting? Why couldn’t the other car have picked the killer up at the Quick Spree? It just doesn’t add up.”
“The math gets even more complicated when you factor in the shotguns. And the clothes. They’re not for Sidney Greenfield, and from the description that guy gave us, they wouldn’t fit the carjacker either. Thirty-six waist and thirty-four inseam is not a body I’d call tall and athletic.”
“Neither would I,” Calleigh said. “There’s a lot more to this case than we’ve seen so far. Let’s finish up here so we can get that car back to the lab and examine it more closely.”
7
AN ACCIDENT ON the Dolphi
n Expressway and traffic on the surface streets had impeded Eric and Horatio’s progress toward the crime scene. That had worked out for the best, Eric decided, because they had been diverted to the Quick Spree shortly before reaching it. Without the traffic they would have had to backtrack, and Eric hated backtracking.
As it was, H had wanted to get to the golfer’s house, so he dropped Eric and his kit at the Quick Spree and told him that Calleigh and Ryan would pick him up on their way back to the lab. He had filled Eric in on his conversation with Ryan, so Eric knew what he was looking for.
The first thing he noticed when Horatio drove away was that the convenience store’s parking lot was busy. Eric stood outside the store for a few minutes, on a shaded concrete island that had once held gas pumps. During that time, eleven vehicles drove in, out, or both. People parked and dashed into the store for smokes or soft drinks or beer. Some stayed longer, microwaving burgers or dogs or burritos, preparing fountain drinks, buying lottery tickets, but still, five minutes seemed like the absolute longest anyone spent inside.
All the in-and-out traffic would likely mean that the lot would be close to useless, in terms of trace evidence. He didn’t have to worry about tire tracks—the vehicle they knew had been parked here was the one they already had—but footprints or other trace would have been nice.
The parking lot was a combination ashtray, garbage can, and oil pan. Cigarette butts, gum, gum wrappers, candy wrappers, food wrappers of every sort and more had been strewn about as if there hadn’t been both an ashtray and a trash can flanking the store’s doorway. Vehicles had leaked every kind of fluid imaginable on the pavement, and human beings had added more fluids of their own.
Eric wouldn’t get anywhere standing around here. He walked into the store, a one-story standalone building with a fluorescent sign box above the door and various neon and paper signs in the windows advertising beer and other goods. The air inside smelled sour, as if something had spilled and spoiled behind a display case. When he entered, he passed through an electric eye and caused a bell to chime. A couple of girls were choosing drinks from refrigerated, glass-fronted cases. A skinny man with greasy dark hair framing a gaunt face glanced up from his stool behind the counter, eyes flitting in every direction. Looks like a meth-head, Eric thought, but at least he’s holding down a job. He showed the clerk his badge.
Right to Die Page 5
