“Jogger had slipped on a sprinkler head. The neighbor tried to see if he was okay but the jogger just took off running. Neighbor walked his dog a littler farther. When he came to Leslie’s house, he noticed that the light was on in her car. He was worried that the car battery would be dead in the morning, so he went up to Leslie’s door. He said when no one came to the door, he stuck his head in and called Leslie. Saw the body in the foyer.”
“Where’s this neighbor?”
Dan pointed toward an elderly man standing behind the yellow tape with two dozen other onlookers. I approached him. “I understand you saw a man, a jogger, leaving the area.”
He pushed black-frame glasses up on his nose. “Yes, sir, he took off running after he tripped on a sprinkler head.”
“Were you watering your lawn?”
“Leslie’s yard. She has the sprinklers come on the same time every night in the summer, eight o’clock sharp. I felt bad for the feller. He took a nasty spill. Hit the grass and the sidewalk. Had to hurt like the dickens. He comes up all wet, probably grass in his mouth, and he starts running.”
“Running or jogging?”
“He was running. Coming around third and heading for home.”
“Could you identify him?”
“Not his face.” He nodded toward a utility pole. “That street lamp isn’t working. Told the county about it. They can’t be bothered. Meantime, poor Leslie is killed.”
“You said, not his face. Can you identify anything else? His build? Clothes?”
“I’d just started walking my dog toward Leslie’s when I saw a man running, trip and fall. The sound was like what I’d hear when I used to play football. This jogger had just taken a fall right near the sidewalk towards the front of Leslie’s yard.”
“Can you show me where?”
“Sure,” he said, walking to the sidewalk. “Right there.” He pointed to a spot with a few pieces of grass blades on the concrete. “The jogger tripped on the irrigation head. He was running across Leslie’s yard. Looks like he got a good soakin’ before he could run off. For a jogger, he dressed a little funny. Had a hooded sweatshirt. Didn’t have the hood on his head, but as he ran the opposite direction from me, I could see it bouncing around his shoulders. You know how a woman’s ponytail bounces?”
I knelt down and looked at the sidewalk. “Are you on county water out here?”
He laughed. “Hell no. We’re on well water. I spend a lot of my pension just putting salt and chemicals in the tanks to keep the rust outta the water.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all? Think the jogger did it?”
Dan said, “Thank you, Mr. Boone. We’ll probably talk with you again.”
I walked toward the house with Dan and said, “Put the tape up immediately around the spot where he tripped and fell. Keep people off the sidewalk!”
“Okay.” Dan turned to a uniform and ordered the crime scene tape around the sidewalk. Then he turned to me. “I wish I could let you in Leslie’s house to go over the place. Slater’s in there. Probably wouldn’t appreciate my inviting you in.”
“Maybe I’ll just go in, crash his party.”
“He’ll have you thrown in jail.”
“He’s done it before.”
“Yeah, but why play his game? He’ll mess up, and when he does, we’ll be there.”
“Because the bodies keep piling up. As a cop, Slater has the perfect alibi, the perfect cover, and the perfect opportunity to take people out. Even cops.”
“He’s coming out of the house right now. Maybe you ought to go back home. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Can’t do it on this watch,” I said, walking up to Leslie’s house.
FIFTY-SIX
I saw a TV news reporter and his cameraman slip under the crime scene tape.
Dan said, “O’Brien! Wait a damn minute!”
It was too late for Dan to pull me back or have an officer tackle me. Slater saw me coming. There was a mixture of nervousness and contrived arrogance in his eyes.
“What are you doing here, O’Brien? Might have known you’d be here. Anytime there’s a body, there’s O’Brien. Now why’s that?”
“I know you killed her.”
“I’m having you committed. We’ll Baker Act you for your own protection.”
“How is it investigating your own crime, Slater? Which do you like best, the killing part or coming back as the actor, acting like you’re investigating a crime when you’re covering up one? Doing your best to make it a cold case.”
The pupils in his eyes became tiny enraged dots.
“Fuck you!” He raised his right hand, and I grabbed his wrist, turning his hand over, exposing a fresh scrape on his palm. The portable lights from a TV news crew turned on, freezing an image of Slater while I gripped his wrist. He drew back his left fist to connect just above my eye. I felt my skin split and the blood flow.
Two uniforms pulled me back. A reporter yelled, “Get a close up!”
“Get them back behind the tape!” Slater bellowed. “This is a crime scene!”
Dan ran up. “All right, gentlemen, behind the line, you know the rules.”
“What’s the argument about?” asked a reporter holding a microphone.
“Just a little misunderstanding in the middle of a crime scene investigation. The gentleman was overcome with grief and struck out at Detective Slater. I’m sure there is nothing intentional. Emotions are a little frayed at a time like this.”
Dan was good. He turned toward Slater, the cameras still rolling and said, “I’m sure if the gentleman volunteers to leave the property peacefully, we won’t have a need to file charges under these trying circumstances. Don’t you agree Detective Slater?”
Slater didn’t know how to react, his mouth opening, trying to form the right words. He said, “Yeah, I’m sure it was just an overreaction, but this is one reason why we can’t allow anyone to cross into a working crime scene.”
“How was the victim killed?” asked another reporter.
Slater stepped closer toward the TV camera. His composure regained. “This has been one of the toughest nights in my life. We’ve lost one of the finest members of the Volusia County Sheriff’s Department…”
Dan motioned for me to follow him to one side. Under the seclusion of a tall tree he said, “That was so dumb! What were you trying to prove? You take a swing at the chief of fucking detectives while TV news crews are camped out to record it. And I know you saw them coming!”
“Let’s hope they got their close ups.”
“What are you saying? You know, Leslie had her doubts about you. At first, she didn’t know if you were really good or just plain lucky. She felt you were good. Maybe the best. Why’d you go off like a nut? Slater can have you committed, and he can get a court order tonight. This the kinda shit you did at Miami PD?”
I looked at my watch. “Call your office and record the 11:00 news. You have twenty minutes.”
“Why?”
“I want to see if they got a close-up of Slater’s hand.”
“Why?
“Because it was scraped and bloody, just like he slid into home plate.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes, and if the cameras saw it, you have visible proof.”
“A scrape on the palm of his hand won’t get a conviction.”
“It will if you can get some skin samples off the sidewalk. The sprinklers didn’t hit the sidewalk. A tiny sample might be still there. Right where the old man pointed.”
“Maybe.”
“Use sheets of clear adhesive plastic to lift anything if something’s there. Bring in klieg lights and shine them at a low angle across the sidewalk. Look for fibers, grass, blood, anything. Find the hooded sweatshirt he wore. Analyze it for the grass and water stains. Do a chemical analysis on the grass. Her yard is St. Augustine. The grass leaves a distinct stain. The well water will be like nature’s fingerprint swirling with good stuff like iron and sulfur. Take a sample from Leslie’s well. Compare that with what’s in Slater’s sweatshirt. If the stuff matches, book the bastard, Dan.”