With that Green and Clark headed out to start the canvas.
Mac and Lich headed back upstairs. Morgan was jotting down some notes as another tech took a few more pictures of the body. A third tech was dusting for prints. “Linda, got anything for us?”
Morgan stared at her notes a minute, biting her lower lip. “Body temp indicates preliminary time of death as between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Cause of death is pretty obvious; she was strangled. He got on top of her and basically pressed the air out of her, with his hands on her neck, thumbs straddling her windpipe, fingers around the back. Strong sucker whoever did it.”
“Sex?”
“Yeah, she’d had it all right. I’ll be able to tell you a little more about that once we examine her downtown.”
“Will you be able to get DNA?” Lich asked.
“We should.”
Mac thought for a moment, “She had sex, but…”
“It looks consensual. I’ve taken a quick look. There’s nothing to indicate rape. There’ no tearing around the vagina that I can see. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“Are you saying he-we’re assuming a he-killed her after sex?”
“Not necessarily. I might know more when we get back and examine her. Could be that she was into something weird, sexual asphyxiation, something like that. I don’t see any tools or props around here to suggest that, though. It could be she said he was a bad lay, and he got pissed and killed her. Heck if I know right now, but we might be able to do better after we examine her.”
“All right. Are you going to move her now?” Mac asked.
“In a bit. We need to take more pictures and do a few other things.”
Lich appeared to be mildly interested for a change. “What do you think?” Mac asked.
“No signs of forced entry. At this point, nothing points to a break in so it seems like it was someone who knew her.”
Mac couldn’t argue with that. No forced entry made it more likely it was someone she knew, which would narrow the field of suspects. They headed down the steps. Lich reached the bottom and was looking at the front door. Mac slipped by him onto the front porch and looked out at the street as a Channel 12 news van pulled up. “Ahh, shit.”
“You knew they’d get here sooner or later. They’ll soil themselves when they find out it’s Daniels.” Lich replied lightly, morbidly amused by the situation.
Mac turned back towards Lich, who was standing, hands on hips looking out to the street. Mac’s eyes wandered down to the floor mat in front of the door. He kneeled down and flipped it up thinking, She wouldn’t… but she did.
“Well, lookey there,” said Lich, “I didn’t think people did that anymore.”
“Might explain no forced entry,” Mac thought. Lich called upstairs for forensics to come and get a picture. Just then Mac’s cell phone chirped.
“McRyan.”
“Peters. You and Lich need to come down and fill me in. The chief’ll be in on the meeting. It’s 8:40 now. Be here by 9:00.”
Peters clicked off. Downtown was ten minutes away. Mac looked at Lich “We have an audience in twenty minutes.”
“The chief?” Lich asked.
Mac nodded. Lich chuckled lightly.
“Bet he’s had half the city council on the horn yelling at him this morning. Now this. I wouldn’t miss it.” Lich replied.
Mac snorted, “Well let’s get going then. I’d hate to deprive you of the show.”
Chapter Three
Viper yawned. It had been a long night. After a couple hours’ sleep, he was back to monitor the situation. Sitting in the back of a blue van parked on the northeast corner of Summit and St. Albans, he looked back at Daniels’ brownstone one-hundred-fifty yards away through tinted glass. A crowd had gathered, and a number of uniformed cops controlled the situation, putting out the yellow crime scene tape, keeping people to the other side of the street. It was 8:15 a.m.
Viper took another drink of water, avoiding the coffee the rest of his crew swilled. He rarely drank coffee. It was bad for the system, and he was a self-professed health nut, except for the occasional beer or glass of wine. He would have to watch it though, or he’d have to hit the can, and he didn’t want to leave the van. He wanted to make sure events started and stayed on the proper course.
A couple of detectives, a young blond-haired one in a sharp blue suit and an older bald guy in a rumpled shit-brown suit were talking on the front porch of the condo. Suddenly the young detective looked down and flipped up the mat. The key. Viper figured they’d find it. That was fine by him. No evidence of forced entry, meaning someone had a key or easy access to one. The senator, when they found him, would have to admit he used it. His prints would be on it.
Viper trained the binoculars on the young cop and watched him reach for his cell phone. It was a brief call, thirty seconds at most. He looked to the bald detective, said something and pointed away from the condo. They walked down the steps and looked to be leaving. Then they stopped, turned and climbed the steps to the neighbor’s condo to the right of Daniels’. The young detective pointed in a few directions, and the other detectives nodded. Directions given, the younger detective and the bald one left the porch and headed to the south and out of sight.
Viper thought a little more about what he had just seen. It looked like the young cop was in charge of the situation. He couldn’t be much over thirty years old. Yet, he seemed to be the one giving directions, with everyone else nodding when he talked. The bald guy, much the younger detective’s senior, hadn’t said much at all. Viper wondered why such a young cop would be calling the shots on a high-profile case like the death of Claire Daniels. He would have someone make a call. Maybe they caught a break.
As Mac walked through the door and into the St. Paul Public Safety Building, the intensity of the day hit him in the face. Faces were taut, voices low and serious. It was not St. Paul’s finest day, and all eyes were on the department. The desk sergeant saw Mac and Lich walk in and directed them up to the chief’s office.
Charles Flanagan had been chief of the St. Paul Police Department for eight years. At fifty-four years old, he was a thirty-three-year veteran of the police force who had worked his way up from uniform cop to chief. He was a tall, slender Irishman who seemed to have aged ten years in the last month, largely due to the serial killer. His once bright red hair had turned gray.
Chief Flanagan knew police work but, to put it charitably, the politics and public relations aspects of his job were not his strengths. His saving grace was that he had the complete and total support of the force, unusual for many big-city chiefs. He was, as Mac’s uncle Shamus liked to say, real police. The chief always stood behind his men. While that made him popular with the rank and file, it occasionally made him some enemies at City Hall, enemies now making his life miserable. Mac had known him for as long as he could remember. He had been with Mac, Shamus and Pat Riley, another St. Paul detective, when Mac’s dad was shot and killed.
Mac and Lich walked into the chief’s outer office, and his secretary led them in. As they entered, the chief looked up. He walked to Mac, shook his hand warmly and said, “Mac, it’s nice to see you, boyo.”
“Good morning, Chief. Nice to see you as well.” The chief’s appearance told Mac what kind of day it had already been. The suit coat had been jettisoned, the tie and collar loosened, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. There were three coffee cups on his desk, all half empty. If Mac didn’t know better, he got a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, although a quick scan failed to reveal an ashtray.
“Lich, how are you?”
“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, boys, the shit’s hittin’ the fan. We’ll be speaking with the media soon,” Flanagan said, wincing. “I know you probably don’t have much, but Peters, Sylvia, and I need an update. So,” the chief said, pointing to Mac, “give us what you’ve got.”