Probably, Matt decided, Mitchell's appearance had something to do with a Special Operations job he'd heard about, one that had almost been assigned to him, although in the end it had been assigned to Detectives Jesus Martinez and Charles T. McFadden.
It had begun when a highly indignant citizen, the nephew of a woman who'd fallen down her cellar stairs and broken her neck, had gone to his district and told the desk sergeant to report that he'd just gotten Aunt Myrtle's last Visa bill. Aunt Myrtle didn't drink, couldn't drive, and there was no way she could have charged $355 worth of booze at Mickey's Liquor Store in Camden, New Jersey, on the day of her death.
The report had worked its way through the bureaucracy to the Roundhouse, where it had been discussed by Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein.
They agreed there was something about it that made it seem more than a simple case of credit-card fraud. And since it crossed state lines, it became a federal offense, which meant it was in the province of the FBI. Although both Coughlin and Lowenstein held the FBI in the highest possible respect, they also suspected that a credit card fraud involving only $355 would not get the FBI's full attention.
"Give it to Peter Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Not this job. Get him to see if there have been other reports of other things missing from other recently deceased citizens."
Coughlin had-unnecessarily-told Peter Wohl that if somebody at funeral homes, cops at the scene, or maybe even from the M.E.'s office were taking things they shouldn't, he would rather learn this from Special Operations than from the FBI.
Charley McFadden and Hay-zus Martinez had been given the job because they had less on their plates when the job came in than Matt did. It hadn't taken McFadden and Martinez long to discover-Matt couldn't remember ever before having seen Charley so personally indignant-that a lot of stuff had disappeared over the past six months, and that it was pretty clear it had disappeared into the pockets of some of the M.E.'s technicians. They had apparently decided that since the deceased had no further need for rings, watches, other jewelry and cash, they might as well put the same to good use-their own.
Four of them had been arrested, tried, and convicted.
"Good morning, Doctor," Captain Smith said from the bedroom door.
"Hey, Smitty," Dr. Mitchell said, and then spotted Matt. "Hey, Payne. I saw your picture in the paper."
"Good morning, Doctor," Matt said. "The search warrant's en route."
Dr. Mitchell winked at D'Amata and Slayberg, then walked to the bedroom door, pulling on rubber gloves as he did so. The photographer followed him. Mitchell gestured with his hand for the photographer to stop at the door, then went inside.
The medical examiner needed no one's permission to enter the crime scene. It belonged to him until he released it to Homicide.
Matt walked to the bedroom door.
Dr. Mitchell bent over Cheryl Williamson's body, took a quick look, put his fingers on her carotid artery, looked at his watch, and announced, "I pronounce her dead as of ten fifty-five. "
He looked over his shoulder at Matt.
"Unofficially, it looks like her neck is broken, and to judge from the lividity of the body, I'd guess she's been dead eight, nine hours or so."
He signaled to the photographer that it was all right for him to enter the room, and started for the bedroom door.
Matt got his first look at the victim.
She was naked, with her legs spread apart by plastic ties tied to the footboard. Her upper body was twisted to the left. Her left hand was tied to the headboard, and Matt could see another tie hanging loose from her right wrist.
She looked at him out of sightless eyes, and his mind was instantly filled with Susan Reynolds's sightless eyes looking at him in the parking lot of the Crossroads Diner.
He felt the knot in his stomach and the cold sweat forming on his back, and stepped quickly away from the door.
Jesus, not now! Dear God, don't let me get sick to my stomach and make an ass of myself on my first Homicide job!
He bumped into something, somebody, and saw that it was Detective Olivia Lassiter, and that he had almost knocked her over.
She looked at him with what he thought was annoyance.
He started to say "Sorry," but was interrupted by Jack Williamson, bitterly asking, "You got a good look, I hope?"
He turned his back to Williamson and touched Detective Lassiter's arm.
"You get anything out of him?" and then, before she could reply, asked, "Why didn't you get him out of here?"
"I was just getting him calmed down enough to talk when you walked in," she said. "He doesn't want to leave, and I didn't want to push him."
"Come with me," Matt said.
"That sounds like an order," she said.
"Okay," Matt said. "It was a request, a suggestion, but I want you to come with me."
She met his eyes defiantly for a moment, then shrugged and turned away from the open door.
Matt walked to the couch. Jack Williamson looked up at him with cold contempt.
"Mr. Williamson, I'm Sergeant Payne. I'm the Homicide supervisor, and I need to talk to you, and we can't do that in here. In just a few minutes, there will be technicians all over the place, and we can't be in their way. I want you to come with Detective Lassiter and me to someplace where we can talk. Okay?"
"The lady next door offered anything we need," Olivia said. "What about her kitchen? She had said she would put a pot of coffee on."
"We'll just sit around and have a friendly cup of coffee, right? And maybe a Big Mac? With my sister like that in there?"
"We have to talk someplace, Mr. Williamson, and we have to get out of the way of the technicians, and sitting down over a cup of coffee seems a better idea to me than standing on the sidewalk," Matt said. "What do you say?"
Williamson shrugged, a gesture of surrender, and stood up.
"Mrs. McGrory, this is Sergeant Payne of Homicide. We have to talk, privately, to Mr. Williamson," Olivia said when Mrs. McGrory answered her knock. "Could we use your kitchen?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you very much," Matt said, as she led them in her kitchen.
"Anything I can do to help. There's a fresh pot in the Mr. Coffee. Just help yourself."
"That's very kind of you," Matt said.
"I feel just terrible about this, especially with the cops being outside while it was happening."
"We don't know for sure that's what happened, Mrs. McGrory," Matt said.
"Of course, that's what happened. I was here, wasn't I?"
"Thank you very much, Mrs. McGrory," Olivia said, easing her out of the kitchen and then closing the door.
"Why don't you sit down?" Matt suggested to Williamson. "I'll get the coffee. How do you take yours, Mr. Williamson?"
"Black," Williamson said.
"Black," Olivia said.
Olivia and Williamson sat down at the kitchen table while Matt took the glass decanter and poured coffee into ceramic mugs. He walked to the table and set the mugs on it.
"Okay," Matt said. "Let's get a couple of things understood between us, Mr. Williamson. I don't know what happened last night, when Mrs. McGrory called the police, and I don't care."
"You don't fucking care?" Williamson asked, disgusted and incredulous.
"My job is to find the person, or persons, who killed your sister, and see that when they're brought to trial they won't walk out of the courtroom because some legal 't' wasn't crossed or some legal 'i' didn't have a dot. I understand that you're unhappy with what you think happened last night."
"What happened last night was that the fucking cops didn't do a goddamn thing to help my sister."
"If you believe the police did something they shouldn't have, or didn't do something they should have, you have every right to make an official complaint-"