“You got five minutes,” the short, stocky evidence officer said, dumping two cardboard boxes with Margaret Copeland’s case number on them onto a Formica table in the examination room that doubled as a break room. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed.
Just to make sure that his instructions were clear, Lenny Coltrane held up his wrist, showed Colleen the time on his watch: 2:58. “We’ll call it three-oh-five.” He gave an oily smile. He had thin lips, pale skin, and brown eyes set far apart. “Then you’re done looking.”
They were in the long-term evidence storage facility on Potrero Boulevard, next to one of the garages, down the street from SF General. Property/Evidence Supervisor Coltrane sat down on the opposite side of the table and lit up a Lucky Strike, blowing a smoke ring, staring at the candy machine.
It should not have been a surprise that Colleen would not be left alone with case evidence. But it was. It didn’t matter, she supposed. She needed to see what those pieces of plastic were, the ones mentioned in the autopsy report. They might trigger a breakthrough in the investigation.
“Time’s a wasting,” Coltrane said, as if reading her mind, showing her his watch again and taking another puff of his non-filter cigarette. A hacking cough took over for a moment. He covered his mouth with his cigarette hand.
“So it is,” Colleen said, standing at the table, taking the first box from the stack down, setting it in front of her. It was light so she started on the other one, removing the lid.
The yellow evidence sheet lay on top. She removed it, placed it by her side, gave the list the once-over.
One Afghan jacket. A pair of white plastic boots. A miniskirt. A tie-dye T-shirt. Panties. Personal effects. Miscellaneous.
All of these items were encased in heavy-duty plastic bags, with case and exhibit numbers written on each bag.
The underpants were the first item.
She held up the baggie with the once white cotton panties to the fluorescent light. High cut, modest compared to the rest of the hippie garb. One side was torn away and the material smeared with mud and blood long since faded. Nothing more to be learned from these.
Next, she removed a larger baggie that contained the tie-dye T-shirt. Ribbed cotton, wild colors, albeit faded now, mostly blue and purple, all in a swirl, with a jarring streak of dried, rust-colored blood across the bottom. She placed that to the side as well.
The miniskirt was yellow with a matching looped-through belt. Likewise soiled.
The boots took up the lion’s share of the box.
She held the bag with the boots up to the light. They were cracked with time, moldy, and caked with dried muck. One boot was much worse off than the other, very muddy, and heavily blood-smeared. She assumed this was the one that Margaret had been wearing when she was found, the one that had taken the brunt of the attack.
She set the bag down, began to pull open the Ziploc fastener.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Coltrane said, admonishing her.
“What?” Colleen said in surprise. “I can’t take a quick look?”
“No way, José,” Coltrane said, smoking. “What did you figure?”
“I figured I’d get a hands-on look for my thousand dollars.”
“A thousand bucks?” he said, eyes popping. “Is that how much that fat bastard charged you?”
“Five hundred apiece,” she said. “Right?”
Coltrane’s face fell. “To hell with that!”
“You’ll need to take that up with Al.” She tossed the items back in the box, pushed it angrily to one side.
While Coltrane muttered and shook his head, she started in on the second, lighter box.
“Where’s the Afghan jacket?” she said, checking the inventory list.
“Doesn’t fit in a box,” Coltrane said, as if she were dense. “It’ll be in a storage closet somewhere.”
“I’d like to see it,” she said.
Coltrane stuck the half-smoked cigarette in his mouth, held up his wristwatch. Three-oh-three. “If there’s time. And there won’t be.”
“This is complete and utter bullshit.”
He held his hands up to the ceiling as if the situation was beyond his control.
Colleen swore, opened the second box.
The personal effects included a near empty pack of Rizla rolling papers, a Muni bus transfer, an opened roll of Lifesavers, shriveled and brittle, a small, wrinkled cellophane wrapper of some sort, a crumpled dollar bill, and a dime. A pair of tarnished earrings, Egyptian Ankh symbols. To finish off, a leather necklace with three turquoise blue beads and a bloodstained tie-dye headband.
“No purse?” she asked.
“Do you see one?” Coltrane said, frowning. He was still annoyed about how much Al Lennox had charged for this private viewing.
“Kind of like the coat,” she said flatly.
“Your time’s almost up,” he said, puffing.
The last baggie that lay in the bottom of the near empty box was small and labeled “Miscellaneous.” It contained what appeared to be the two small broken pieces of black plastic mentioned in the autopsy report. They had been found in Margaret Copeland’s stomach. Colleen took the bag out, felt the fragments through the thick clear plastic with her fingers and thumb. A shiver went through her own stomach at that point, touching these mysterious items that had somehow found their way into the poor girl’s belly.
“You got one minute left,” Coltrane said. “One lonely minute.”
She held the bag up. “I need a closer look at these.”
Coltrane shook his head, smashed his cigarette out in an overflowing amber glass ashtray.
You might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.
Colleen opened the small Ziploc bag, reached inside.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Coltrane jumped up. “You’ll get your fingerprints on those!”
“Oh, lighten up,” she said, touching the fragments. “It’s not going to matter at this point. This case is eleven years old.”
He grabbed for the Ziploc bag now encasing Colleen’s hand and she took the opportunity to make the biggest fuss possible, yanking her hand out of his way, “accidentally” knocking the larger box of evidence onto the floor, along with the ashtray full of butts. Ash flew as the ashtray shattered. She made sure that the Miscellaneous bag tumbled to the floor as well.
“Jesus Christ!” Coltrane shrieked. “That’s exactly why I didn’t want you to fucking open that!” He fell to the floor, scrambling for the bag.
“I’m really sorry,” Colleen said, palming her hand to her mouth.
“Fuck!” he hissed, standing up with the baggie that had contained the fragments. “One of ’em’s gone!”
“Maybe it’s under the candy machine.” With the other evidence all over the floor, it was a reasonable deduction. Colleen was betting he’d buy it.
He checked his watch. “We need to get out of here.”
“I’ll help you look for it.”
They both got down on the floor and peered under the candy machine. A year’s worth of dust and trash.
“Crap,” he said. “Nice goin’.”
After a brief, fruitless search, they both got up off the floor, dusted themselves off. She helped him collect the fallen box of evidence and restore the items.
“You’ll find it,” she said.
“You better hope so.”
And if he didn’t, who was he going to tell?
“This is the last time I do Al a favor,” he said, showing her out.
Colleen doubted that.
“Have a nice day,” she said.
Outside it was starting to rain again as she picked up the pace and made for the Torino parked at a meter. She got in behind the wheel, double-checked for anybody following. Clear.
Then she raised her hand to her mouth, spit out the chip of broken plastic she had secreted under her tongue, into her palm. She felt a dark connection, knowing that Margaret Copeland had done something very similar, eleven years ago, but in reverse.
She stared at it.
It had been found in Margaret’s stomach.
She shuddered.
What the hell was it?