The Slowest Death Page 3

  He’d have to call Katie and give her the bad news. To be honest, he preferred working a murder to talking to a bunch of twelve-year-olds. He could get somewhere with the murder.

  Steinberg said, “You dress like a CEO, not like a cop.” Steinberg was visibly shivering.

  Jack said, “I’m not a pussy like you. Did your wife dress you this morning? No, wait. Your wife dressed me this morning. Well, undressed me, actually.” Jack held his hand out for the sign-in log.

  Steinberg said, “Well, I’m glad someone got lucky. Maybe I’ll dress like you tonight and get lucky. You think?”

  “If I call your wife and break our date tonight will you let me sign in?” Jack asked.

  Steinberg said, “I’m not taking my hands out of my pockets. You got hands.”

  Jack pulled the log out from under Steinberg’s arm, signed it, and put it back.

  “Who found the deceased?” Jack asked.

  “Roscoe’s down there,” Steinberg said, and motioned down the street by tilting his head. Jack saw a black-and-white cruiser parked on the corner. “He got flagged down by two white kids. Teenagers. Boy and girl. Probably down here buying dope. Anyway, Roscoe said they told him they found a dead man, and sure enough, they wasn’t lying. It ain’t pretty, man.”

  “Where are they?” Jack asked.

  “Like I said, they’re down there with Roscoe. Walker is inside. Little Casket’s been notified.”

  He was referring to Chief Deputy Coroner Lilly Caskins, who had been nicknamed Little Casket by law enforcement because of her diminutive size, evil eyes, and total disregard for the dead. An officer had once told Jack, “She could eat a plate of spaghetti on the back of a rotting corpse.”

  “When was it called in?” Jack asked.

  Steinberg said, “About thirty minutes ago. Jeez, Murphy. If you keep asking me questions I’ll have to insist on my attorney being present. Besides, I got an alibi.”

  “Lester, you’ve always got an alibi. You’re too lazy to murder anyone.” Jack took green paper booties and latex gloves from his pants pocket and bounced from one foot to the other as he put the booties on. If he stood here much longer he’d have to get his feet amputated.

  “Where’s your partner?” Steinberg asked.

  “In-service training. Liddell missed the last three Sensitivity classes. He’s in a nice warm classroom, probably sleeping and dreaming of being nice to the citizens of Evansville.”

  Steinberg snorted and said, “Sensitivity training, huh? How can they teach someone to be sensitive? It’s like teaching ethics. Either you got it or you don’t. Am I right?”

  “If he’s nice, he can come over here later and play,” Jack said.

  “If he’s smart, he’ll flunk the class and retake it in the summer months. Anything’s better than what you got in there.”

  Crime Scene Officer Tim Morris came to the door. “Aren’t you freezing?” he asked Jack. “Where’s your coat?”

  “My dog ate it along with my homework,” Jack answered, and Morris snickered.

  “Where’s the Cajun?” Morris asked. Liddell Blanchard, aka Bigfoot, had been Jack’s partner on the Homicide Squad for several years. Liddell stood six foot six, and weighed in at a full-grown Yeti. Hence the nickname Bigfoot, although Jack was the only one who called him that to his face. To the rest of the department he was Detective Blanchard, or the Cajun because he had come from a Louisiana Sheriff’s department and worked water patrol in and around the Mississippi River.

  “I can run out to the car and get you a blanket to cover up with,” Morris offered. Morris was suited up like an Eskimo. He was like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from the Ghostbusters movie.

  Steinberg asked, “Could you bring Detective Murphy some warmed-up Scotch and read him a story?”

  “I’d say yes to the Scotch, and no to the blanket. But thank you,” Jack said.

  “Follow me,” Morris said. “My boss is waiting for you.” His boss was Sergeant Tony Walker.

  Jack stayed directly behind Morris. He followed the tech into a room that seemed to be growing a crop of discarded McDonald’s boxes, pieces of shattered drywall, broken glass, Styrofoam cups and food wrappers.

  McHomeless: Over 1 million NOT served daily.

  In one corner of the room was a small pile of ashes where someone had built a fire. He imagined the fire-builder was trying to get warm, or maybe cook someone’s pet. He idly wondered if the two teenagers had made the fire.

  To his left were the intermittent flashes of crime-scene cameras. Straight ahead a tech snapped photos of a naked corpse that was suspended from the wall like a grotesque marionette, arms and legs bent, head cocked to one side. A blackened tongue protruded from the mouth. Deep cuts slashed across the chest muscles, upper arms and legs. The side of the head was gashed open as well, and large spikes were driven through the victim’s eyes.

  Frozen blood and fecal matter was pooled on the floor beneath the body. The subzero temperature almost masked the smell that accompanied the kind of violence that had been visited upon this victim. But not quite.

  Shards of glass lay on the floor beneath the windows, covered with ice crystals and years of grime. The window frames held jagged pieces of glass like broken teeth. There were holes in much of the drywall where someone had punched or kicked it to strip out the copper wiring. Kids probably. Old damage. Across the room in the far corner some items of clothing were haphazardly piled up. A pair of faded and scuffed combat boots lay on the floor ten or twelve feet away from the clothes.

  “Are we having fun yet?” asked a familiar voice from behind Jack.

  Jack turned to find Crime Scene Sergeant Tony Walker. Tony was fifty years old and, except for the salt-and-pepper hair, could pass for twenty years younger. He was as tall as Jack, but without an ounce of fat on his sturdy frame. He had been Jack’s mentor and partner when Jack first made detective a decade ago. They made a formidable team until Walker was promoted to sergeant and transferred to Crime Scene. At first it seemed like a bad thing that Batman and Robin were split up, but since Tony had taken over the Crime Scene Unit, things ran much more smoothly. The brass was afraid to cross him, and the other detectives respected him. It was the best of both worlds, as far as Jack was concerned. Jack was glad to see Tony was at this scene because it had all the earmarks of a gift that kept on giving. In other words, a case that kicked your ass for months.

  Jack said, “What I think is, I wish Bigfoot was here to share in the fun.” Jack was unable to take his eyes from the hanging man.

  “Where is your partner anyway? He’s not coming?”

  “You’re the third person to ask. No. He’s not coming. He’s making up an in-service that he missed. Sensitivity training.”

  Walker said, “They should make you teach sensitivity, Jack. You’re the most sensitive guy I know.”

  “I mean this in the most sensitive way, Tony. Bite me.”

  “See what I mean,” Walker said. “Somebody really didn’t like this guy. Let me show you.” He said to the tech taking pictures of the body, “Take a break, Jim.”

  The tech said, “Hi’ya Jack. Where’s your partner?”

  “Not coming,” Jack said. “That’s four,” Jack said to Walker, as the tech walked away. “Can we identify him?”

  “No wallet. There’s a pile of clothing over there. Boots there.” A ruler and a small red flag set beside each boot. “We haven’t finished searching inside and around the outside of the house.”

  The tech finished taking photos of the clothes and began the collection process. Each piece went into a separate paper bag. Paper bags were used because of the possibility of ice crystals or bodily fluids. The clothes would need to be dried completely to collect any evidence.

  The tech said to Walker, “Nothing in the pockets, Sarge.”

  Walker put his head close to the wall. “C
ome here Jack. See those,” he said, a gloved finger pointing behind the victim’s back.

  Jack saw the large metal hooks buried in the victim’s back, upper arms near the elbows, and legs near the knees. “What the hell, Tony?”

  Walker said, “One of my guys says these are used to hang meat in a butcher shop.”

  “The killer took his time,” Jack said.

  Walker said, “His bowels evacuated while he was up there.”

  Jack recognized the signs of livor mortis—the dark purplish coloring that appears on the skin from the pooling of blood after the heart stops pumping. The blood settles in the lowest extremities. “He was hung up there close to his time of death,” Jack offered, and Walker agreed.

  The victim’s head was tilted forward and cocked to one side, effectively hiding the face. Jack stooped down to see the face more clearly. The tongue was swollen, blackened, pushed out of the mouth, but not as pronounced as would be seen in a strangulation-type hanging. The guy’s face and head had taken a beating. A two- or three-inch cut on the back of the head was crusted with dried blood. A knife wound ran from above the left ear, continuing down through the jaw. The ear was sliced vertically and teeth showed through the gaping wound. The face, head, neck and shoulders showed small circular burn marks, but something worse caught Jack’s eye.

  A large piece of black metal protruded only slightly from both eye sockets. Streaks of blood underlined the objects and had run down the cheeks like red tears.

  “Are those what I think they are?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah,” Walker answered. “Railroad spikes.” He pointed out the direction of the blood streaks beneath each spike. “This was definitely done after he was hung up here. Maybe when he was still alive.”

  The scalp was shredded in places, and chunks the size of a quarter were missing in others where bare skull showed through. The hair was burned to the scalp around some of the small circular burn marks. Jack felt numb, and not from the cold.

  “Taser burns,” Walker suggested, pointing to one of the places where the hair and scalp were burned. “He has them all over his body.”

  Jack was no stranger to Taser burns. He had volunteered to let himself be Tasered during an in-service training class on the use and effect of Tasers. The Taser uses compressed gas to fire two small metal darts, each with a thin wire attached. The darts strike the target’s body, the barbed end of the probes catch in the skin, and at the same time an electric charge flows from Taser to target, interrupting the body’s own electrical signals to the muscles. When a Taser is deployed, it runs through a five-second-cycle jolt. Jack could only describe the experience as akin to being struck by a Star Wars lightsaber. The muscles lock up, the pain is immediate and severe, but the person is aware of the entire experience. Five seconds was a lifetime, and Jack came away from the event with two small, circular burn marks on his skin, similar to but not as severe as the burns on this body. Whoever did this held the trigger down for a very long time.

  Walker pointed to several places. “See these patterns? Four spots in a row. Some of these are overlapping. This isn’t a regular Taser. I found a brass knuckle/Taser combination on the Internet. The knucks are made of polyprenco instead of brass. Polyprenco is hard. The advertisement said it has a high melting point and will insulate the person using the knucks from the electric charge.”

  Jack said, “I’m impressed, Mr. Wizard. I know what polyprenco is. My bagpipe chanter is made of that.”

  Walker showed Jack a photo on his phone. The weapon was indeed a Taser, but it fit in the hand like brass knucks with pointed studs over each knuckle. This photo was advertising something called a Zapper personal protection device.

  “Personal protection doesn’t get much deadlier than this,” Jack said.

  “You can buy them on Amazon or in a sporting goods place.”

  “I wonder if I can find the killer on Amazon,” Jack said sarcastically.

  Crime Scene Tech Morris came up to them. “You want us to wait for Little Casket? We’re ready to move the body.”

  Walker said, “No need. Just give her a set of the pictures.”

  “We didn’t find much in the other rooms, Sarge,” Morris said. “The only thing I thought strange was the clothing is expensive, brand-name stuff. The boots are crap and don’t seem big enough to fit someone this guy’s size.”

  Jack thought something was off about the clothes, but the marionette body with spikes in the eyes had distracted his thought process.

  Morris didn’t seem to be finished.

  “You got something else?” Jack asked him.

  “The body has an impression on the ring finger. No ring,” Morris said.

  A white cotton sheet was positioned on the floor below the body, carefully avoiding the fecal matter. An open body bag was placed on the sheet. Two of the techs snipped the wires and lowered the body slowly. Rigor mortis—stiffening of the muscles—had fully set in and the joints were locked into the position in which he was found, arms and legs akimbo.

  “Put him on his side. I want to see his back,” Walker told the techs.

  A third tech had to forcibly manipulate one of the arms before they were able to put the body on its side.

  “Is he frozen in that position? I mean literally frozen?” Jack asked. He knew from experience that rigor mortis set in within two to six hours of death because the muscles lacked some type of chemical process. Rigor could last as little as twelve hours if the body was in a warm or hot environment, and as much as three to five days in cold such as this.

  “You’ll have to ask the coroner that one,” Walker said.

  The metal hooks buried in the upper back, arms and legs corresponded with splashes and smears of blood that stained the wall behind the body.

  Walker said, “Below-zero temperatures will slow rigor mortis. I suppose Lilly will want a core temperature before we move him.”

  Jack would skip that part. Core temperature was what it sounded like, and could only be obtained with a rectal thermometer.

  To the techs Walker said, “Let’s leave him as is and let the deputy coroner decide.”

  The techs carefully pulled the black bag around the extended limbs. Jack said, “Wait a second. Did you already bag up the boots?”

  A tech handed Jack two paper grocery bags. One was sealed with red evidence tape but the other was open. Jack took the boot out of the open sack and knelt. He held the sole of the boot near the bottom of the victim’s bare foot. It was obviously too small.

  “Don’t seal that one, Tony,” Jack said. “Corporal Morris. Did you find a ring?”

  “No,” Morris said. “But I should have mentioned the jacket that was with these clothes is probably worth less than these boots. You think someone came in here and helped themselves to the jacket and boots?”

  “Steinberg said the kids that found the body were runaways, right?” Jack asked Walker.

  “He didn’t tell me that,” Walker said. “I know Roscoe was holding them down the street until you got here.”

  “Tony, can you get the jacket and boots and come with me?”

  Walker was given the bag containing the jacket and opened it, but didn’t take it out of the bag. He grabbed the single boot and he and Jack went outside.

  Chapter 4

  Jack and Sergeant Walker hurried through a freezing fog of exhaust plumes to the back of the police car where the two witnesses were being held. Through the windshield, Jack could see a young male and female. The female sat with her back against the passenger door as if she were trying to keep her distance from the male.

  Jack rapped on the car window and stuffed his hands under his arms.

  The officer turned his head and said something inaudible to his passengers. He braced himself before opening the door, stepped out and pulled his jacket up around his face. The wind wasn’t moving much, which made the cold
barely tolerable. They walked to the back of the car and Jack could see the boy rubbernecking at them and mouthing something to the girl. She turned her face away, arms crossed. Jack didn’t know much about teenagers, but he recognized a pissed-off female when he saw one.

  Officer “Roscoe” Dean said, “Hold on a second, guys.” He rapped hard on the back windshield, made eye contact and pointed at the young male. The boy faced forward, but Jack could tell his lips were still moving. Undoubtedly, he was saying something age appropriate, like “Screw you, man,” or “Up yours, cop.”

  Roscoe stood away from the exhaust cloud and shifted from one foot to the other, hands jammed in his pockets. Police love to nickname everyone. It comes with the job. The only rule is that you don’t get to nickname yourself. Another detective in Jack’s office had wanted to be called Magilla Gorilla because of his muscular physique. You never, ever, want to show a weakness around policemen, and it was well-known this detective had a low gag threshold. If someone even pretended to hawk up a gob of spit he would run from the office, hand over his mouth. He was promptly named Loogie, as in hawking up a loogie.

  “Roscoe” had earned his nickname when he had threatened to beat a child molester with his “roscoe,” the old-timer name for the long-barreled revolver police carried back in the day.

  Roscoe had as many years of service as the number of lines that cut across his craggy face. His uniform was crisp, with razor-sharp creases in his pants. Even in this cold he wore the eight-point police cap and dress shoes that most officers had traded for BDUs and baseball caps. Roscoe was a veteran policeman in every sense of the word. A throwback to the days when Jack’s own father had walked a beat. His gunslinger’s eyes told of the suffering he’d seen and somehow shoved into a place in the back of his mind that didn’t open except in nightmares.

  “Let’s make this quick,” Jack said.