“Not anymore. I used to be up for it. I used to love the challenge…the puzzle…the mystery. Not anymore. I want the murderer standing over the body with an empty smoking gun, crying his eyes out in remorse, crying out for God to forgive him for his sins.”
“This ain’t one of those, Ray.” She flicked a taunting ash out the window.
“I know,” he said, closing his eyes. Ray let his head droop to his chest, and thought about little Erika Hilgendorf and women’s strip joints where men waved boners around and about Lakisha Marland. Then he smiled, remembering he had to call her about her alibi later.
Chapter 12
Tony drove away from the campus with no urgent destination. Stuckey was probably somewhere in the milling masses, anonymous and un-findable for the time being. He considered that the final solution was going to be a good old fashioned stakeout. Tony had never been on a stakeout. He’d sat on the side of the road with his radar on, jigging for speeders, but that wasn’t a stakeout. He’d done roadblocks before, but that wasn’t a stakeout either. The interstate sign appeared advertising Snelling Avenue, the exit nearest the Fredrickson’s house. He decided to make a stop there. It was still taped, still a secure crime scene. Ray hadn’t given him any specific instructions what to do if he couldn’t locate the missing roommate so he decided to go through the house again on his own.
It wasn’t like he’d been told he couldn’t, he told himself. The old saw about begging forgiveness before asking permission came to mind. If he had to sell it he’d call it…initiative. That had some buzz.
There was a squad car parked on the street in front. When Tony pulled into the driveway a young patrolwoman stepped out of the unit, tucked a baton in her belt, and approached him. She recognized it as an unmarked police car. There wasn’t any tension. Still, Tony reached for his new gold shield. He didn’t recognize her.
“Detective de Luca,” he said in greeting, trying to be nonchalant.
“Connors.” She offered her hand. Tony thought she looked awfully young to be wearing a uniform, fragile even. When they shook hands he noticed she sure didn’t smell like a cop.
“I just want to take a look.” He cricked his head toward the house. She told him some evidence techs had left not more than an hour ago, said they might be back, and produced a key and a clipboard he hadn’t noticed before. He hadn’t been looking at her hands. Officer Connors was cute. He felt a little guilty standing at the back door, pulling on his powdered latex gloves. Then he was in the house.
The blood stain was still on the floor, dried and nearly black now, a dark testament of Deanna Fredrickson’s death. He noticed that someone had stepped in it at some point, probably after the body had been removed and the stain photographed and cataloged, described and filed away…after it didn’t matter anymore. He was glad it hadn’t been him.
Dusty graphite smudges surrounded the sink and littered the countertop. He noticed the coffee mug sitting on the counter. He leaned over to inspect it. The other smudges had rectangular striations across them, most of them, where the techs had used a tape to pull the prints off. The mug didn’t have any. That struck him as odd, but just for a second. He guessed the techs had other ways to lift prints. He vowed to study up on it.
The address book was gone. So was the planner notebook. Those would be in evidence now, handier for them to refer to. The smudge on the floor was still there but he could see where someone had scraped at it, no doubt lifting a sample for analysis. He remembered every detail of the appearance of the body from the early morning previous. As if in a photo shoot the image flashed in his mind. Here. There. Side view. The leg tucked under. The missing shoe.
What had the coroner’s report said? That it appeared to have been a left-handed assailant; the blade was angled right to left and slightly upward, under the ribcage, partially severing the aorta.
Click. Flash! Here. The smudge. The shoe. He had it! He took out his notebook and wrote: ‘DF was killed by a right handed assailant…knife in right hand. Dragged back. Lost shoe, Smudged floor. Strong? Stronger than her? Surprised.’
He moved over, nearer the table so he could see the entire scene, especially the center of the kitchen. The killer had approached her from behind, probably had hooked an arm around her neck and dragged her backwards. What had they said? Had Deanna screamed? Mae next door hadn’t mentioned a scream. A hand over her mouth? De Luca made more notes, reminders to see if the coroner had noted any bruising around her neck.
Tony pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. He was suddenly feeling tired and spent. He wondered if this was what it was like when you figured it out…made the leap. That you were suddenly exhausted? He’d seen the murder in his mind’s eye and, damn it, made the connections. He hoped Ray would agree. He hoped he’d be proud of him.
There weren’t as many graphite smudges in the basement but the techs had been thorough it looked like to him. The small refrigerator had been printed. He opened it. A beer was missing. Hadn’t there been four in there yesterday?
The boys, the roommates would come over here to watch football games he recalled someone telling him…Scott Jr.? David Hong wasn’t much of a football fan. He wondered if Swenson was, or if Stuckey was. He checked his watch and decided he had plenty of time. He tried to imagine three or four college men sprawling on the big sofa, yelling at the screen, tossing beers across the room. He tried to picture Deanna joining in. He didn’t see that but he didn’t know why.
Upstairs he found much the same. There were fewer smudges than in the kitchen. A lot of them didn’t show tape marks. Deanna Fredrickson had been thorough in her dusting. One caught his eye. It was on the woodwork of the door to the master bedroom, just about head high. Peering closely he could tell it had yielded a print. He decided it wasn’t too surprising, after all. Who dusts the door trim?
The jewelry was gone from the dresser top, he noticed. He made a note to double check the evidence inventory. Someone had helped themselves to a beer, he was pretty sure, so why not a couple of grand worth of earrings.
The bathroom had been gone over. He thought some prescription vials were missing. Would they have been cataloged into evidence? Maybe she was on uppers, he mused. Maybe she was on antidepressants, on happy pills. Did that account for her energy?
The bedside table on the right nearest the door gave up a secret when he opened it. There was a shiny silver toy in there along with a couple of bottles of lubricant. He remembered it was called a Steely Dan, like the band. A girl’s best friend on Friday night, wasn’t that how it went? Even with the gloves on he hesitated to pick it up and decided to just let it rest there. He felt like an intruder-a voyeur. Was this what Ray meant when he said they had to get into people’s lives?
The table on the other side of the bed didn’t give up anything of interest; two paperback books, a notepad and some pens. Tony was shutting the drawer when something clinked and rolled around, like it had been underneath the paperbacks. It was a bullet, a.38 caliber Federal round. Not new-but not a relic either, Tony thought, based on the patina of the yellow brass. That meant there was a pistol somewhere. He looked at the room with newly curious eyes.
A cheap pancake holster was taped to the back of the husband’s nightstand. It held a small frame revolver similar to the one that was chafing Tony’s ankle in his new holster. The hammer was resting on an empty chamber. It was a Colt, a nice little gun, Tony thought as he hefted it. He decided it should go into the evidence locker. Best not leave a firearm in a house that was a crime scene, people coming and going, snooping around…like him.
Tony bagged it. He had baggies and latex gloves with powder inside them, spare pens, even a small digital camera. He wasn’t going to be caught without his tools again. No sir.