CHAPTER 5

 

 

Jake and Sheila simmered over their initiation as partners in Knox’s office. Neither felt satisfied with their assignment, but neither could think of an acceptable way out of it.

The drive to the latest murder scene rolled along in silence.

How did I get saddled with this guy? Sheila knew Jake was supposed to be a hot-shot crime solver, but so far all she’d seen was macho bullshit. She snorted, half-aloud, caught a movement to her left, realized that Jake glanced at her. Just like her ex. Full of macho bullshit. Couldn’t stand for her to have a better career than him. Had to hook up with that dumber-than-dishwater blonde dude. She cut her eyes at Jake. Thinking back to the Lieutenant’s office, she wondered whether Knox had ambushed Jake. The way Knox yelled at him to come to his office and the deliberate way Jake took his time getting there suggested a history between them. And Jake was already upset when she was called in. Knox probably sprung her on him. So maybe that’s partly why he sounded like he didn’t care for me. Whatever. I’ll do my best on the job, anyway. If Jake can’t handle it, or me, too bad for him. That’s the way Daddy would’ve handled it.

***

Jake pursued his own thoughts. Damn Knox! Why’d he put this woman with me? He knew he was gonna do it, that much was clear from the start. Set me up, knocked me into the next block with it. Jake had heard Spencer was okay. The scoop from her last job came back good. The only limiting thing was that she had relatively little experience in homicides from her old job. Not her fault. The smaller town she came from rarely had murders. Older, more experienced detectives caught those few that did come along. But he still held out for Wally to come back and accepting her was like saying he wasn’t coming back. As usual, Jake could see all sides of a situation and come to a decision in a short time. He figured he could tolerate six weeks with her. All right, I’ll give her a chance. It’s not her fault, any of it. Worst case, I’ll train her the way I want her. Best case, she’ll turn out to be good herself and I won’t have to do anything. Or maybe absolute best case, Wally’ll come back and she’ll get assigned to somebody else. Yeah, right.

Warehouses squatted along the four-lane street for three blocks before they found the one they sought. That area of town along the river had a long, rough-edged tradition. In its glory days, saloons and brothels celebrated each other by taking money from those who worked the river. Later, when an effort was made to clean up the area, the city fathers gave tax breaks to businesses, luring them. The businessmen brought in bulldozers, knocked down the old buildings, and threw up the warehouses. Now, the whores and drunks moved downtown.

On an ordinary day, the warehouse they targeted would’ve been no different from fifty other warehouses around there. A silver-gray metal building, oversized, a row of small windows lined up just under the roof. Sun glinting off them as it rose above the surrounding buildings.

Four large, roll-up doors along one side and a smaller, person-size door at the end. Gang graffiti served as decoration.

Today, it stood out, painted in flashes by red, blue, and amber strobes from emergency vehicles scattered across the street in front.

As happens at nearly any accident scene or fire, a crowd of the curious and morbid gathered along the sidewalks near the building. Driving through this gathering to get to the scene, Jake and Sheila encountered the usual collection of street people and others.

Cruising slowly through the crowd, they noticed working-class guys wearing hardhats, some women similarly dressed and other women in the wash-n-wear uniforms of waitresses from the small cafes a block or two over, several people who looked like they wore everything they owned, one man who swigged something he kept covered with a brown paper bag, and one guy who pointed and talked to the air around him. A woman pushing a silver shopping cart with a trembling wheel stopped at the edge of the street and stared at them as they drove by. Her cart was overloaded with blue plastic bags crammed to the bursting point.

Jake barely saw these people, but his wary eyes missed nothing about them, either. Sheila looked them over, but didn’t feel about them the same way she had six months before. When she was still in her old job, she had little or no contact with street people. That small town had few in evidence, and those few were encouraged to move on to other towns. Since taking her current job, she’d been forced by necessity to interact more with these chronically unfortunates. Her FTO made sure her experience was ongoing. Once she got her nose accustomed to them, Sheila found she tolerated them and their unique ways just fine.

“After we get the report from the guys first on the scene, we’ll work the crowd,” Jake said, not looking at her. “Prob’ly won’t get much, but you never can tell.”

Sheila’s only response was, “Okay.”

A glance over at her showed Jake she kept her eyes focused out on the crowd. No creased forehead or worried expression, no bright and shining eagerness to get out there and prove herself. Just a smooth-faced, calm, professional demeanor.

And a sexy shape to her mouth.

Snapping his head to the front again, he chastised himself. Shit. Don’t go there. Don’t get attached. Especially now. Especially with this partner. We’re only together because Knox put us together. Remember that.

 

***

Sheila saw Jake’s sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. Her glance at him caught his deep frown. Of course, she couldn’t know the reason behind it, but she assumed.

What the hell? Was he giving me the once-over when I wasn’t looking? I know he didn’t want me as a partner, but why look like I put a bad taste in his mouth? He should at least give me a chance. Then, a smidgen of realization. But I know this’s hard on him. Getting a new partner so soon after losing his other one. But who the hell does he think he is?

Another glance. He is a good-looking man. Just a little intimidating, but I’ll bet after I get to know him, … Wait! Wait a damn minute. Let’s not go so far with this. He’s my partner, that’s all. We share cases, share a car. But that’s all we share. Keep that straight.

 

***

Jake pulled to a stop alongside a black-and-white with its roof lights rotating. As he got out, he noted with satisfaction the yellow crime-scene tape taking in a large area of the street and sidewalk around the smaller door.

Jake stretched his arms high overhead and twisted his body to work out kinks in his back. Wonder if I need a new mattress or something. Maybe that’s why I’m not sleeping well. He took in a great lungful of air to increase the oxygen in his system. For a change, the air tasted clean, good, except for the keen fragrance left by a diesel-powered delivery truck. As he looked up, he noticed the clouds had begun taking on their warm weather forms. Puffy and cottony, rather than smooth and angular like in cold weather. Shaking his head, he focused again on the reason they were there.

“Det. Spencer?” He waited ‘til Sheila stood beside him in front of their car. “What do you notice right away about the scene? Something that’s very good.”

Sheila instantly went on guard. Maybe he was the senior partner, but that didn’t mean he could treat her totally like a rookie.

“What is this? A quiz? Maybe a mid-term exam?” she shot back. As quickly as she said it, she regretted it.

“I don’t have to do that to you. Maybe I don’t like it that you’re my partner, but I know you know your job.” He turned and stared at her.

Looking closely at him, searching his face, Sheila tried to see if he was telling her the truth. She decided he was, so she relaxed just a bit. There was no need to assume Jake thought she wasn’t good enough. Just because her damn ex-husband thought so didn’t mean all men would. She knew she wasn’t an expert in this yet. She could learn from Jake. She had to. Now it was time to see what she already knew. A survey of the area in front of them showed her what he was talking about.

“Whoever marked out the crime scene did a good job,” she said. “I mean, they took in a good bit of the sidewalk and street, in case there’s something there.”

“Right!” Jake nodded his agreement. “Good. We don’t always get that from patrolmen. I’ve seen ‘em mark off nothing outside the chalk outline of the body. This guy, or gal,” a glance of semi-amusement at her, “knew what he or she was doing. We need to be sure we let ‘em know we appreciate it.”

He started off toward the door in the side of the warehouse, moving with an easy economy of effort. Sheila followed a step behind, wondering at how good she felt after giving him the right answer.

Inside the warehouse, their eyes took a while to adapt to the dimness. Clearly, the windows high above weren’t there for illumination. In a few seconds, the crates stacked on both sides of the narrow aisle became clear. Before much longer, Jake could read the words stenciled on them.

Three people stood under a naked light bulb a little way further into the gloom. They gathered around an equally naked body. One of them turned toward the sound of the door opening.

“Jake? Jake Wiley?” he called.

“Yeah,” Jake replied, starting that way.

Sheila glanced toward the voice, then hurried to catch up to Jake.

“Randy Schmidt here,” the man said as they approached. Several inches shorter than Jake, his already considerable bulk was accented by the Kevlar vest under his uniform shirt. “Watch Commander for this Division.” Sergeant’s stripes shone on his sleeves.

Sheila caught sight of the body just past Sgt. Schmidt’s shoulder. Enough of it to roil her stomach slightly. Trying not to be obvious about it, she turned just enough so that the body was almost behind her. It wouldn’t do to toss her cookies first day on the job. She worked at focusing on what Jake and the sergeant talked about.

“Oh, yeah,” Jake was saying. “We worked the first drug buy together from those bastards who tried to move in here. I thought I recognized you.”

Sergeant Schmidt looked pleased that Jake remembered him. “Yeah. How’s Wally? He comin’ back?”

“Wally’s handling it. Don’t know if he’ll get back.” Jake pointed with his thumb. “This’s Det. Sheila Spencer. My new partner.”

“Hi.” Schmidt took in Sheila’s face, somehow kept his eyes from straying over her body. “You sure are better lookin’ than Wally.”

All of them laughed. Unoffended, Sheila just replied, “Thanks.” The thought came to her that nearly everyone basked in Jake’s attention.

“Who found the vic?” Jake got back to business.

“Patrolman Tucker,” Schmidt replied, motioning for a younger uniformed officer to join them.

Tucker managed with no trouble not looking at the body on the floor. Even in the dim light, he appeared pale. His throat worked a couple of times when he first stood before Jake. Sheila understood well how he felt. She’d only checked out the body herself. She glanced over there again.

“Tucker, how long you been on the force?” Jake’s voice brought her back.

“A little over a year, Sir,” Tucker replied. His voice sounded strong in spite of what he’d found. Tucker had the physique of a middle linebacker, enhanced by hours spent at the weights. Nearly the same height as Jake, Sheila felt sure his youthful good looks and the obvious care of his uniform and equipment would make him recruiting poster material.

“Good job on marking off the scene. You learned well from somebody,” Jake went on.

“Thank you, Sir.” Tucker seemed more comfortable now.

“How many murders have you worked so far?”

Tucker shifted position a little, ducked his head. “This one’s number three, Sir.”

“Yeah. They don’t get any easier, Tucker.” Jake’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “You’ve done well here. I just need to hear from you about how you found everything, then you can go get some air.”

Sheila realized Jake was talking to her, too, telling her to get used to this kind of thing.

She turned slightly, to view the body over one shoulder. This time, she kept her eyes on it a little longer. With a good deal of satisfaction, she noted how her stomach stayed calm.

“Yes, Sir.” Tucker took out a notebook, consulted it. “I got the call in my patrol unit at 7:05 this morning. On arrival, I met Mr. Loomis,” he gestured at the third man, “the warehouse supervisor. He showed me the victim and I then secured the area and called my supervisor.”

“Okay. You notice anybody else around the building when you arrived?”

“No, Sir. Mr. Loomis met me outside the door, we came straight in, saw the body, went back outside.”

“Good. Good job, Tucker. Go get some air, now.”

Patting the patrolman on the back as he passed, Jake turned to the warehouse supervisor. “Mr. Loomis, how did you find the body?”

“Mostly by the smell,” Loomis replied, also not looking at the dead woman.

As Jake got closer to the man, his experience with life showed clearer in the squint of his eyes, the set of his mouth, and the gray sprinkled through his hair and mustache. Loomis had been around. A crude, blue-ink tattoo decorated the back of the hand that brought a cigarette to his mouth. He noticed Jake glance at it.

“Two years of mis-spent youth.”

“What did you go up for?”

“Burglary.” He stared at the design as if his eyes could burn it away. “Two wasted years, ‘cause I was drunk.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “But it looks like you learned from it.”

The man agreed. “Yeah, sure did.” A brief pause and he went back to the question. “I knew something was wrong when I first opened th’ door and got a noseful. Found out in Khe San that bodies empty out when a guy gets it. So, smellin’ that when I unlocked th’ door tipped me off.” He stared hard at Jake. “Plus, the smell of blood is somethin’ you don’t forget.”

Jake acknowledged this last with a grim nod of his head. “The door was locked?”

“Uh-huh,” the man responded after another drag. Smoke from his cigarettes seemed to hover close around his head, a testament to the air conditioning in the warehouse.

Sheila was glad the supervisor smoked. The smells associated with death had never really made an impact on her until she came into this warehouse. The acrid tickle of second-hand smoke gave her something to focus on other than the odors pressing in from the corpse.

The supervisor went on. “I’m the last one out of the building ever’ night and the first one in ever’ morning. So I lock and unlock the door.”

“You got the only key?” Sheila glanced from Loomis to the body, over to the door, back to Loomis.

The man shrugged. “Who’s to say? Accordin’ to th’ owners, yeah. But how do they know?”

“Any other way for somebody to get in?” Jake asked.

“No other small doors. The big ones operate electrically and have to be coded.” He pointed to the door they’d entered. As they looked, it opened again, admitting a man Jake knew well. “That’s the only way she could’a come in.”

“Okay, Mr. Loomis. Thanks. Hang around. We’ll prob’ly have more questions.” Jake turned to the man who just came in. “Hello, Doc. Glad you could make it.”

Dr. Gilbert Watkins, Deputy Medical Examiner, grinned at Jake. “Wouldn’t miss it, Jake. Not for the world.” A slight man with a slight beard, Doc Watkins had been around more than one block a time or two.

Returning the grin, Jake introduced Sheila. “Doc, this’s Det. Sheila Spencer, my partner. Det. Spencer, Dr. Watkins, Medical Examiner.”

Doc Watkins’ hand wasn’t as cold and clammy as Sheila expected. Since this was her first murder case in the new job, Sheila hadn’t met him before. In fact, she had little experience with Medical Examiners, at all.

“What’ve we got?” Doc asked, turning from them and striding over to the body. He acted as if the odor didn’t bother him at all.

“White female, probably late 30’s or early 40’s. Got a call on her a little after seven this morning.” Jake ran through the essentials he’d gotten from Tucker quickly.

While he did so, Doc Watkins opened up his bag, took out a small jar filled with clear cream that had the consistency of jelly. Taking two fingers-full of the cream, he smeared it under his nose. Then he handed the jar to Jake, who did the same thing. Jake handed it to Sheila.

Not at all sure about what the two men did, Sheila first sniffed the jar, glancing at the men as she did. The last thing she wanted was to get caught in some adolescent prank. To her surprise, the cream smelled of menthol. Gingerly, she scooped up a fingerful and dabbed it on her upper lip.

Another surprise. The terribly foul odor of the death scene faded into the background. Menthol filled her nostrils instead. She took another fingerful and swiped it across her upper lip. Then she passed the jar on to Sgt. Schmidt.

Jake hunkered down next to Doc Watkins, looking over the woman’s body. Sheila moved up close to them. She wanted to catch all that was said.

“So you and your partner got the prostitute murders?” Watkins was saying. “I thought Sweeney and MacKenzie had those.”

“Yeah.” Jake almost kept his voice free of inflection. “They did. Now we got ‘em. You examined the other hookers’ bodies, too, right?”

“Um-hmmm.” Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Watkins took out a scalpel, made an incision to get to the liver, inserted a thermometer to get the core temperature of the body. Comparing it to the air temperature would give him an estimate of the time of death.

“What about similarities and differences?” Jake went on. “Between this one and the others, I mean.”

Watkins pushed down on the mattress the body lay on. It squished faintly. “Similarities look to be manner of death and condition of the body, to an extent. All three corpses had their throats cut, were stabbed several times and were left naked and spread-eagled.”

“Possibly done by the same person?” Sheila worked at staying distant emotionally from the corpse. It was a lot harder than she thought.

Doc Watkins glanced up at her. “Possibly. Maybe even likely.” He turned back to Jake. “Differences? A few. This one’s head is almost severed.” He pointed to the gash across the woman’s throat. “Looks like she was stabbed in the right side of the neck, then the knife was forced out the front. Severed both the carotid artery and jugular vein on the left side, sliced through the larynx, got the carotid and jugular on the right.”

“Strong individual,” Jake observed.

“Probably right handed,” Sheila added.

Jake and Doc both turned to face her. “How you figure?” Jake asked.

“If the perp, probably a guy, was in front of her and thus left-handed, there would’ve been more indication of a struggle. Blood thrown around, maybe defensive wounds, ‘cause she would’ve seen it coming.” Sheila shrugged, drawing Doc’s eyes to her chest, which she ignored. “Way I see it, the guy was probably doing her doggy style, cut her, and then held her while she bled.”

Jake studied Sheila a moment, then turned back to the body. “So he turned her over and stabbed her again and again.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Sheila replied, just a little defensiveness in her voice.

Nodding, Jake considered this. He faced her again. “Good thinking.” He turned back to the corpse.

Sheila was surprised at her pride in being praised by him.

“She’s good,” Doc remarked to him with a smile. He went on. “In addition to the stabs, this one’s slashed across her body.” He pointed to the breasts and stomach. “Then, there’s the knife jammed into her vagina. She was dead when that was done. No blood between her legs.” Once again, he pushed on the mattress. “All her blood drained out up here.”

“All of it?” Jake’s voice sounded incredulous. He stood then, surprised at the momentary lightheadedness. He pushed the sensations away, passing it off as due to sleeping poorly.

“Close to it. Didn’t take long, with both carotids and jugulars cut.” He paused as if thinking. “Jake, if this’s the same killer, he’s losing control. These wounds show a lot more violence than the others. I’d hate to see the next one.”

After hesitating just a moment, Jake said, “Doc? Does this remind you of anyone?” He waved his hand over the corpse.

Watkins stared at him another moment. “You mean Gabriel?” At Jake’s nod, he went on. “Not quite his M.O. Similar, but more violent.”

“Who’s Gabriel?” Sheila glanced from one to the other of them.

“A year ago, we had a series of murders similar to these. First time anybody could think of that kind of thing happening around here. The perp taunted us, sent me emails about his murders, signed ‘em ‘Garbriel’, like the angel.” A disgusted expression covered his face. “Never did catch him. He seemed to just leave. Haven’t heard from him since.” He glanced at the corpse. “Until maybe now.”

Watkins nodded, said, “Maybe. But you need to think about what to do if it’s not him.”

Jake just stared at him for ten long seconds, searching Doc’s face. “Yeah.” His voice softened. “Okay. You’ll let us know about the autopsy?” At Doc’s nod, Jake turned to Sheila. “Let’s go interview those people out front that might’ve seen something.”

Without thinking, Sheila pulled several tissues neatly folded together from her jacket pocket. She selected one, wiped the cram off her upper lip. As Jake walked by, she handed him one, too.

Taking it, he stared at the tissue a moment, then at her. It hadn’t dawned on him what it could be for.

Sheila pointed at her own upper lip and watched the understanding blossom in Jake’s eyes. Although she tried not to, she just had to say it. “We’ve got to be able to tell you from those other snot-noses out there.”

As she strolled past him, Jake uttered a short bark of a laugh, just loud enough for her to hear.

Fifteen to twenty people stood outside, milling around and muttering to each other. A couple of them muttered to the air, then cocked their heads as if listening to a reply.

Jake and Sheila split up, interviewing as many of the people there as they could. An hour later, they met back together at the car to share what they’d found.

Sliding into the car, Jake shut the door, rolled down his window. “Well, that was a bust for me. Four winos, two addicts, and one woman who thinks space aliens did it. The rest don’t know anything, didn’t want to know anything.”

“That’s my list almost exactly,” Sheila agreed. “Except for one.” She leafed through her notebook. “Guy who gave his name as Frank Lee. Said he didn’t know anything about the murder, but he was real curious. Asked all kinds of questions about the murder and a lot of questions about you.”

“About me? What kinds of questions?”

She shrugged. “Personal stuff mostly. Stuff I don’t know anything about.” Sheila cut her eyes over at him. “So I couldn’t tell him anything even if I wanted to. He seemed to know you, though. Asked if you were still married to Jana. Told him I didn’t know.”

Jake considered this for several seconds. “What’s this guy look like?”

Sheila consulted her notepad again. “Six feet, 180 to 190 pounds, brown and brown. Easy to spot, though. Got a short right leg, so he walks with a bad limp. We can pick him up when we need to, although I suspect the name and address he gave are prob’ly false.”

“Yeah, right.” Jake still drifted in some other world, pondering who the man could be. He touched down long enough to ask, “What was the guy’s name?”

“Frank Lee.”

Away he drifted again, staring out the windshield at nothing. “Frank Lee, Frank Lee. Walks with a limp.” Nothing there. Yet something nagged at him. Something unclear. A few more seconds, then he shook his head, turned to Sheila. “That all you got?”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t sure whether that came as criticism or not.

“Looks like both of us struck out, then.” A couple more seconds he just sat. Then, “Well,

let’s go tell Sgt. Schmidt we’ve done all we can here. I think we need to go over all the info we’ve got on the other murders and see what turns up.”

Sheila followed him back into the warehouse. They found Schmidt, told him to contact them later that day, then walked back to their car.

“Hey, Jake!”

They both turned, one on each side of the car, at the sound of his name. A young cop in a patrol car shifted the car into Park. “You’re gonna shoot in the Shoot-Out, aren’t you?” he went on.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jake replied.

A smile from the young cop. “Great! I’ve got money ridin’ on you. Unofficially, of course,” he added.

Jake returned the smile. “I’ll do my best not to let you down.”

The cop waved, drove on. Jake climbed into his car.

“You must be good as I hear.” Sheila buckled herself in.

Jake shrugged, uncomfortable talking about himself. “I guess so. I’ve won the Shoot-Out four of the last five years. Didn’t do so well last year.”

When he didn’t go on, Sheila prompted, “What happened last year?”

He stayed quiet, looking out the windshield again. It took a long time for him to respond. “Lt. Knox beat me by two points last year. My concentration was off.” Another silence, a little shorter this time. “That’s when I found out he was seeing my ex-wife.”

“Hey, I’m sorry, Jake. I didn’t know.” She laid a hand on his arm, quickly removed it.

“It’s not a problem. Over and done with.”

He started the car, backed up and began driving back toward Headquarters.

“Is that why Knox stays on you so hard? Is he still seeing your ex?”

Jake shot a glance at her. How much should he tell her? She was his partner now, after all. He had to trust her sometime. “No – he’s not still seeing Jana. He told his boss he’d quit doing that in order to keep this job.”

“But you’re not so sure,” Sheila observed, hearing in his voice what he couldn’t say directly.

Another glance. “Pretty sharp, Dr. Freud,” A tiny smile turned up a corner of his mouth. “Not only a good cop, but a shrink, too.”

She eagerly accepted his praise, surprised that she wanted it so badly. “Yeah. I’m generally good at all I do.”

“Mm-hmm. I expect so. Let’s see how good you are at figuring out how we’re going to catch this guy.”

They continued on their way back to the office, each absorbed in thoughts about the case. Jake’s became a little disturbing.

I don’t know why they get so fired up about the whores. If they’d get decent jobs, they wouldn’t have to turn tricks, wouldn’t have to worry about who they’re out with in the dark. Probably strung out, too. Doing anything and anybody for a buck. So, in a way, they’re responsible for what happened to them.

Then, the thoughts most disturbing to him. They’re just whores and junkies, anyway. What difference does it make that they’re dead?

Almost, he slammed on the brakes as he heard what thoughts rang through his head. But he didn’t. A quick shift of his eyes over toward Sheila told him she noticed nothing.

Whoa! Where’d that come from? Why would he even think such a thing? Sure, maybe those women were whores and junkies, but nobody deserved to die like that. Was he getting so cynical, that’s the way he saw people? Or was that his post-traumatic stress? Yeah – maybe that was it. Wally got his ulcers, I have strange thoughts. Maybe that’s it.

Another glance at Sheila.