Читать книгу The Burnt House - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 16

9

AT THE SOUND of the tentative knock, Decker lifted his head from his paperwork. It was Marissa Kornblatt, the squad room secretary, and her expression was as reluctant as her entrance. “So sorry, Lieutenant. I tried the intercom but your phone’s not working.”

“I unplugged it. Otherwise, I can’t get anything done. What’s going on?”

She handed him a thick pile of pink message slips. “These were last hour’s calls, but that’s not the issue. Farley Lodestone is on line three, and in typical fashion, he won’t take no for an answer.”

It was the seventh time the bereaved stepfather had called in two weeks. It was getting to be a morning ritual. He wasn’t taking the recent news well.

Hello, Farley—they were on first-name basis now.

No, they haven’t positively ID’d the body yet, but they’re working on it. Yes, I’m so sorry it’s taking this long, but we all want to do the best possible job. The coroner and I will call you when we’ve got something definite to tell you.

Decker picked up the phone. “Hello, Farley. Pete Decker, here.”

“You must be sick of me calling.”

“Not at all. I just wish I had something to tell you. I haven’t heard from the coroner’s office yet, but it’s only eleven in the morning.”

“I just got off the phone with them, Decker. Not with the whole office. With Cesar Darwin. You ever talk to the man?”

“Several times. He’s a very competent doctor.”

“Good to hear, specially ’cause he talks with an accent.”

“He’s originally from Cuba. Is he the one doing the identification for the recovery?”

“He’s the one, and that’s why I’m calling you. When I talked to him, he sounded cagey.”

“Cagey?” Decker raked his fingers through his hair. “In what way, Farley?”

“Like he knew somethin’ and didn’t want to tell me. Call him up for me and find out what’s going on. If you call me back and tell me I’m bein’ paranoid, I’ll believe you. But I want you to be damn straight with me, Decker, if you also think that he sounds fishy.”

“Fishy?”

“I asked him if he got to Roseanne’s autopsy—a straight yes-or-no question. The problem is he didn’t give me a straight yes-or-no answer. What I got was doctor-talking, jumbled-up bird crap. I come to trust you, and I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts ’cause I don’t trust no one. So do me the favor, Decker. Call him up and see if your bullshit detector is as finely tuned as mine.”

THE CALL TO Dr. Darwin was quick, but the answer wasn’t at all to Decker’s liking.

“I think this might be better if we meet in person,” he answered.

Cesar Darwin had been in the country for twenty-five years, but his accent was still thick and he was hard to understand over the phone. Decker thought it was because Cesar had been holed up in the Crypt talking to corpses instead of seeing patients with beating hearts. He probably didn’t get a lot of auditory feedback.

A face-to-face meeting was probably a good idea.

“It’s complicated?” Decker asked him.

“Yes.”

“What time works for you?”

“I have another autopsy. How about two? I’ll be done and I’ll be hungry. I know a great Cuban place not too far from here. Unless you want to meet at the Crypt.”

Decker thought back to his prekosher, Floridian days. Cuban cuisine offered very little in the way of pure vegetarian entrées. Even the rice and beans were often mixed with lard. On the other hand, the Cubans made a great cup of strong coffee. Besides, anything was better than the stench of dead bodies. “Cuban sounds fine. Give me the address and we’ll meet you there.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing along Detectives Dunn and Oliver. I fear that I might need them.”

WHILE DECKER NURSED his coffee, Oliver, Dunn, and Darwin gorged on pastelitos—little puff pastries of ham, chicken, pork, and a Cuban specialty, pacadillos, a spicy ground beef. In addition to the savory tarts, there was a pot of pork adobo. Sides included fried black beans and fluffy white rice. The day was mild, which was convenient because the East L.A. storefront restaurant had no air-conditioning. The sidewalks were humming with activity, some of it legal, some of it otherwise, but it wasn’t Decker’s district and he wasn’t in the mood to look for trouble. Even though Decker couldn’t eat the food, he could smell it and the aromas had aroused his taste buds. Thank goodness he kept kosher. It helped keep his weight down.

There must have been considerable spice in the food because Marge was sweating even after taking off her sweater and rolling up the sleeves of her white blouse.

“Really good.” Oliver had shed his suit jacket and was now in the process of loosening his tie and rolling up his own long sleeves. “How’s the coffee, Loo?”

“Good. And I should know. I’ve had four cups.”

“Caffeinated?” Marge asked.

“According to my heart, yes.”

Darwin summoned a local girl of about fifteen. She had chocolate, curly hair and gang insignia tattoos inked across her arms, neck, and back—everything from snakes and tigers to butterflies. The artwork was intricately done, which meant a lot of needles and a fair amount of pain. She wore a denim miniskirt and a black wife-beater T. Her toenails were painted black and her feet were shod in flip-flops. Lazily, she got up from her chair and took out a pad. The doctor had explained to them that her father owned the place and this was her employment since she dropped out of school.

“Coffee, Dr. Cesar?”

“For the table, Marta.”

She turned to Decker. “I think you had enough coffee.”

“You’re right. I’ll take water.”

“You don’t like Cuban food?”

“I had an enormous breakfast,” he answered her in Spanish. “I’m just not hungry.”

Marta wrinkled her nose. “You talk the talk, but you don’t walk the walk. I bring you some dessert, okay?”

“What kind of dessert?”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t eat anything baked with lard.”

She harrumphed and turned tail. A few minutes later she was back with the coffees and a plate of sizzling hot fritters. “Vegetable oil only.”

Decker smiled and picked up the fried concoction. It melted in his mouth. “Oh, man, this is good. But it requires coffee.”

“I’ll bring you decaf.”

The better part of an hour had passed, and it was time for the discussions to begin in earnest. Decker turned to Darwin. “I’m sure my fellow detectives are grateful for the meal, but that’s not why we’re here. What’s going on, Doc?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I called you down.” The doctor ate a fritter and blotted his lips on a paper napkin. “This is a very perplexing case, yes, and a most difficult autopsy. The skeleton has been thoroughly charred, everything reduced to bones and, unfortunately, ashes. We hope to make a definite identification through the teeth. We do have an intact skull, but it is very delicate. Since we don’t want to damage forensic evidence, we have been treating it quite gingerly. As a result, it has been hard to get the exact angle to match the dentition in the radiographs given to us by Roseanne’s dentist. The jaw is thicker in bone mass, so it is a bit sturdier and easier to position. But I must emphasize, what we are working with is very fragile.” Darwin stopped talking, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve had three forensic odontologists compare and contrast the pre-and postmortem radiographs. We all agree that the skull does not belong to Roseanne Dresden.”

The table fell silent. Oliver coped with the news by eating three fritters in a row.

Darwin said, “As you well know, the recovery team has accounted for all the missing females involved in the crash except Roseanne Dresden. So this unexplained female body poses a problem.”

“You’re sure it’s female?” Marge asked.

“The pelvic bones, by the angle and appearance, are almost certainly female,” the doctor answered. “But even if it was a small male or an adolescent boy, we’d still have a problem. Still unaccounted for from the crash are two male bodies: an old man in his seventies and another man in his forties. We do not have the pelvis of an old man or a man in his forties. It is most certainly a woman, and I would say probably a young woman. But an old young woman, meaning I think the body predated the crash. Once the mandible did not match up with Roseanne Dresden’s radiograph, we began to study the bones more carefully. On the top of the skull there is a well-formed depression.”

“Blunt-force trauma,” Decker said. “Homicide.”

“Probably that would be my ruling if the body was in better shape. Right now I’m going with inconclusive because of all the extenuating circumstances.”

“How long has the body been lying there?” Oliver was up to number five in the fritter department. Last one, he swore to himself.

“If it would have been discovered before the fire, I would have had a much better idea. Now it is almost impossible for me to say.”

Decker twirled the ends of his mustache. He did that in order to prevent his hands from taking more dessert. “Can you at least tell us a race?”

“Possibly Caucasian, possibly Hispanic.”

Oliver said, “Well, in L.A., that’ll narrow it down to a few gazillion people.”

“Was she inside the wreckage of the building or was she found in the ground under the building?” Decker inquired.

“You’ll have to ask recovery, but I think there is still quite a bit of foundation left from the building. I can’t imagine why anyone would dig under the foundation and discover a body.”

“If she was found in the wreckage and not under the foundation, her death can’t be any older than the building,” Decker surmised. “So let’s find out when the building went up. Then we’ll go through the missing persons from that time forward. I’d like to send the skull out to a forensic reconstructionist and put a face on the bones.”

“The bones are too delicate. They would break under the impression material needed to make a cast of the skull. Then you would lose any forensic evidence that the original skull might produce.”

“This is a nightmare,” Marge said. “We finally find a missing body, but it isn’t Roseanne. Instead of one possible homicide, we now have two.”

Inwardly, Decker groaned. He hated cold homicides and this one was in deep freeze. But his main concern was dealing with Farley Lodestone. “Is there anything you can do to help us pinpoint a time of murder?”

“From the skeleton, no. But I think we have tremendous good luck in one regard.”

“The clothing!” Marge said.

“Yes, the clothing.” Darwin ate the last fritter and called for the check. “A chunk remained remarkably intact. No label but it seems that Jane Doe was wearing a shirt with lettering on the back. It was preserved because she was buried faceup and the shirt material was synthetic and not as prone to decay. I have it enclosed in a protective plastic bag. We can go back to my office and examine it under a microscope.”

Marta, the tattooed teenager, handed the bill to Darwin, but her eyes were on Decker. “Dessert okay?”

“Delicious.”

“Next time you come here, Germando can fix you up real good. No problem if you’re a vegetarian. We can do somethin’ for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Yeah, we get all kinds of requests nowadays. No this, no that, no this, no that … man, even the cholos are picky. Everyone’s tryin’ to cut down on the fat.”

THE L.A. COUNTY Coroner’s Office was on North Mission Road in the once-notorious Ramparts district, northeast of downtown L.A. The police substation was now squeaky-clean, but though the mark of Cain was fading, it wasn’t entirely gone.

The morgue was two buildings separated by a walkway, offices to the right, the Crypt on the left. A perennial swarm of black flies welcomed the visitor at the front doors. After the detectives signed in and donned protective garb, including shoe covers and face masks, Darwin took them down to the Crypt, the smell in the elevator growing stronger with every inch of descent. No matter how many times Decker had dropped by, it was the stink that always got to him.

The corridor was quiet, the doors of the foyer leading to the glassed-in autopsy rooms and the refrigeration area used for the storage of the bodies. Because of the tremendous glut of corpses, there were cadavers on gurneys in the hallways, most wrapped in plastic sheeting, but others were more visible, skin gray and growing mold.

The pathologist’s office was off the main hallway, set up like a galley-style kitchen with cabinets above and below, and stainless-steel countertops that spilled over with instruments of the trade—microscopes of various intensities along with scales, calipers, scalpels, tweezers, and camera equipment. There were seven jars containing body parts that floated in unnamed scientific liquids, mostly digits being rehydrated for fingerprinting. Darwin’s desk was tucked into a corner and was piled high with papers. The office provided adequate space for one person, but was crowded for four adults.

The activity centered around a microscope, the doctor and the detectives taking turns as they tried to make out details on a sullied piece of cloth. The swatch was roughly a six-inch square, most of it mud-colored. With the aid of the lens, Decker could see individual threads that still carried some of the original pink dye. Darwin reduced the magnification in order to make out the lettering, the clearest section directly in the middle of the fabric. The paint was rapidly flaking off.

Decker peered into the eyepieces. “Takes a little getting used to.”

“Yes, it does,” Darwin agreed. “But you can make out words.”

“I can make out letters.”

“What letters?” Marge took out her notepad.

“V-e-s …” A pause. “It looks like v-e-s-t-o-n.”

Marge wrote it down. “What else?”

“Underneath the v-e-s-t-o-n is d-i-a-n. Underneath that is a-p-o-l and underneath that is …” He let out a short breath. “I think it’s p-e-k …” He peered at the area with intensity. “Everything else is smudgy.”

Darwin said, “Look before the p in the p-e-k. I think there is an o.”

“Yeah … yes, I see it. So it’s o-p-e-k.”

“Opek?” Oliver said. “The oil cartel?”

“That’s o-p-e-c,” Decker told him.

Darwin said, “Look in the upper-left corner. You can also see lettering.”

Decker shifted the protected fabric and found the section that the pathologist was referring to. “Yes, I see it. A-j-o-r.”

“Exactly.”

“Anything else I should be looking for?”

“That’s all I could tell you at this magnification,” Darwin told him. “Perhaps we can scan it into the computer and it can bring up more information.”

“Good idea.” Decker pulled away from the instrument and rolled his shoulders. “Anyone else want to take a look?”

“I’ll take a crack at it,” Oliver said. The group waited in silence as Oliver looked over the fabric. “Yeah … that’s all I can make out as well.” He lifted his eyes from the lens. “Not exactly much to go on. The letters are obviously part of bigger words.”

Marge said, “We have to take the cloth in context.”

“What context?” Oliver asked.

“Well, for starters, what was the shirt used for?” Marge examined the fabric. “Because of the printing on it, I’d say that the garment was originally a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, or a jacket.”

Decker added, “Since the material is synthetic, my vote is with a jacket. T’s and sweatshirts are usually cotton.”

“I agree,” the pathologist said.

Marge continued to peruse the cloth. “There’s a lot of lettering on a single patch, and usually jackets don’t have long messages on the back. And the way the partial words are stacked on top of one another …” She got up from her hunched position. “To me that suggests some kind of list.”

Oliver said, “So what kind of list would be on the back of a jacket?”

Decker’s brain fired up. “Margie, let me see your notes for a second.” After reading her pad, he hit the paper with the back of his hand. “It’s like doing a gridless crossword without any clues. Still, if you do enough crosswords, your mind fills in the blanks. V-e-s-t-o-n. If I say it instead of spell it, it helps. Veston. How about the city, Galveston. For o-p-e-k, how about Topeka. D-i-a-n could be lots of things, but if we’re in that part of the country, I’d say Indianapolis.”

“Maybe that’s the a-p-o-l,” Marge suggested.

Decker said, “In any case, I think we’re looking at a tour jacket.”

“Sweet,” Marge said. “Unfortunately, we don’t know whose tour jacket. But we know that it was once pink. I’m betting it’s a girl group, a group with a girl as its lead singer or a solo girl.”

“Madonna?” Darwin said. “She was really popular.”

“She’s been around for a long time,” Marge said. “I bet there’s some nut out there who’s an expert on Madonna’s tours.”

“You picture Madonna going to Galveston?” Oliver asked.

“What’s wrong with Galveston?” Marge countered.

“Nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m sure it’s a great city except in hurricane season. Superficially, it just doesn’t seem like her crowd.”

“A country star,” Decker said.

“With Topeka and Galveston, I’d say that’s a good guess.”

Decker said, “How old do you think the jacket is?”

Darwin shrugged and the small lab fell silent. So many unanswered questions.

Oliver bent over and looked into the eyepieces, adjusting the lens for stereoscopic vision. He shifted the cloth to the upper-left corner, reading the letters aloud. “A-j-o-r. These letters are bigger and not stacked. I don’t think this word is part of the list of cities. So the question is …” He looked up. “What are these letters and I’m saying … that maybe the letters indicate the band.”

“Ajor,” Marge said out loud. “Maybe major?”

“Shit!” Oliver hit his head. “Oh man! What about Priscilla and the Major?”

“Now there’s a blast from the past,” Decker said.

“Who?” Marge and Darwin asked simultaneously.

“They were a singing duo in the seventies. They played soft rock, if I had to categorize it, but they were very popular with the country circuit because he was a retired army major and very patriotic.”

“He played guitar, but she was the star,” Oliver said. “They were big in their time.”

“True,” Decker said, “although I don’t think I ever bought one of their albums.”

“Albums,” Marge said. “Now you’re really dating yourself.”

“They came in somewhere between acid rock and disco,” Oliver told her. “They were a nostalgic group even in those times.”

“You know a lot about them,” Marge told Oliver.

“My ex liked them,” Oliver said. “Me? I never bought any of their albums, either, but I remember Priscilla as being a fox. That’s old-speak for being a hottie.”