Chapter 6

It struck Fay as peculiar that although Detective Farmer had seemed pleased to receive the knives, she sensed the SPD was backing away from the case. There appeared to be a lesser sense of urgency on Farmer’s part for the time being.

“Frank,” she asked, “were you aware there was a second person in the alley at the time of the murder?”

“Howard Carney, the man who found Charma, mentioned it to me,” Farmer responded. “I know the other person was gone by the time we arrived. We couldn’t find anyone, but I sure would like to talk to them.”

“My assistant has suggested the other person might be the killer,” Fay said as she searched his eyes for a reaction.

Frank did raise his eyebrows, but beyond a slight sigh, there was little else to indicate this surprised him. “You know,” he said, “sometimes, things can be as simple as that.” Frank picked up a file from his desk and pushed it toward her. “Howard Carney’s statement. Take a look at it. His address is in there.”

She leafed through the statement. “Mr. Carney has Sergeant Linn described accurately.” She noted the address, closed the file, and dropped it on Frank’s desk. “How about Carney? Is he a suspect?”

“No, he checked out. He’d just said goodbye to some friends before he entered the alley. He had little time, nor did he have a motive. But,” Frank said with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “check him out. I’m not going to discount your assistant’s theory. Our killer could be the other person in the alley.”

“I am on my way to visit the ME. I will keep you posted.” Fay stood and extended her hand. “Thank you.”

Frank clasped both of his hands over her hand. A warm smile came to his face. “As always, Fay, it’s been a pleasure to talk with you.”

Dr. Don Griffin, the medical examiner, met Fay in the morgue’s lobby, and they proceeded to his office. Griffin resembled someone she knew, but she could not place the face. The journey took them through a large room, with eggshell-white tiled walls and two rows of stainless-steel tables set in the room’s center. To her, the morgue looked much like a giant public restroom. A large bank of drawers was on the left wall, one of them likely containing Paul Charma’s body. She felt cold and rubbed her arms briskly as she walked through the room. Fay thought, A wall full of dead people generates little warmth.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant Commander,” Dr. Griffin offered as they entered his cluttered office. “I trust you had an opportunity to review my report?”

“I did, Doctor,” she said.

“Then how can I help?”

“Your report detailed the wound, Paul Charma’s physical description, and the time of death. I was curious about the knife. What kind of knife was it?” Fay asked.

“I would describe the instrument to be heavy in nature. It would have a large blade, at least six inches long. The blade was serrated because there was a lot of tearing on the wound’s backside. It was evident Charma was struck from behind.” He demonstrated a downward motion of his left hand. “This was all in my report,” he said, with a hint of irritation now evident on his face.

Boris Karloff. Griffin resembles Boris Karloff. Fay pushed the mental image of the famous nineteen-forties black and white movie ghoul out of her mind. She asked, “I am sorry, but I was wondering specifically, would the wound be consistent with that of a military knife—such as a bayonet or a Ka-Bar?”

Griffin appeared to briefly consider a thought before saying, “Most likely a Ka-Bar, Lieutenant Commander.”

“May I see the body?” Fay could not think of any logical reason why she needed to see the corpse, but she was curious. Maybe it was Dr. Karloff’s charm that made her feel a bit ghoulish. Whatever the reason, looking at the corpse seemed the logical thing to do.

“Of course you could, if it were here.” He had a puzzled look on his face. “You must be aware Mr. Charma’s remains have been claimed?” 

“What? No!” Fay cleared her throat, and in a calm voice, asked, “Mr. Charma’s remains are not here?”

“One of your people came here Saturday with the proper releases. Charma’s remains are gone.” 

“Who presented the release, Doctor?”

“A major from the Marine Corps had all the necessary documents ordering the release and disposal of Paul Charma’s remains. The gentleman signed the document I presented to him. W. Irving was the man’s name,” Griffin said. “I’m sorry, I have nothing more for you.”

“How would you describe Major Irving?”

“Male, Caucasian, approximately six feet tall, muscular build, short blonde hair. About thirty years old, I’d say.”

Her mind was racing. “Ah…thank you, Doctor. Thank you for your time.”

She heard him say, “You’re welcome,” as the door swung closed behind her.

While Fay walked toward the exit, she called her office. At the sound of Pearce’s voice, she said, without letting her give the whole greeting, “Hi, kiddo, it’s me. Listen, I’m in a hurry. Did we get Mr. Charma’s service records yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Call the personnel people. Strongly inform them we are formally requesting the records be made available to my office by thirteen hundred hours tomorrow by order of the Judge Advocate General. And if that does not do the trick, otherwise, they will have to deal with me. And they are not gonna like it.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Pearce replied.

Fay said, “And Pearce, I need to know who W. Irving is. I reckon he would be a Marine major connected with the Naval Special Warfare Command.”

“I’m on it.”

Fay smiled. “Did Mr. Rollie talk with Rayzon?”

“Apparently, Mr. Rollie stayed about one minute once he found out we weren’t here.”

“Talk with you later,” Fay said.

Next, she placed a call to Ford Clay. She estimated she would complete her duties in Seattle around dinnertime. She hoped he would be free. As luck would have it, he was.

Her next stop was the home of Howard Carney, who was a student at the University of Washington. The distance from the morgue to Carney’s apartment, near the university, was about four miles. She hailed a cab.

Carney’s apartment was located on the top floor of an older brick building. Fay asked the cab driver to wait for her. The building did not have an elevator, and she found the trek to the third-floor exhausting. It made her realize it had been a while since she’d had a good gym workout. She knocked on Howard’s door several times, but there was no response. As she turned to leave, a young man came bounding up the stairs.

As the man reached the top step, he noticed her and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Howard Carney,” Fay told him.

“I’m Howard,” he said as his gaze blatantly surveyed the length of her torso from toe to head, lingering at her legs then finally settling on her breasts.

“I’m Faydra Green with the Navy Judge Advocate General Corps,” she said, presenting her identification to him.

Carney carefully studied her identification and then said, “I see. You’re here about the sailor, aren’t you?”

“I am. I’ve got a few questions to ask you. Do you mind?”

He nodded, preceded to the door, and unlocked it. “Come in. The place is a mess, I think.”

As she entered, Fay scanned the room. Carney was obviously a bachelor, the tip-off being the numerous posters of scantily clad women adorning the walls.

“Please,” Carney said, motioning for her to sit on a well-worn green sofa, “have a seat. Can I get you a soda, or do you want to use my bathroom or something?”

Howard sat opposite her on a skillfully patched recliner.

It was apparent horny Howard had few female guests. “No thanks, Howard. I’m fine.” Fay sat forward on the edge of the cushion. “I’m investigating the death of a man named Paul Charma on behalf of the United States Navy.” She took a notepad from her pocketbook. “You were the one who found the body?”

“Correct. I’d just said goodbye to my friends. When I was walking through the alley, a black guy came running past me. Almost knocked me down! I continued along the alley and almost tripped over the dead guy.”

“Was the dead person lying in the middle of the alley?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “No, he was off to one side.”

“How was it then you would have almost tripped over him?”

“I had a lot of beer to drink; the alley was dark. So, I stopped to take a pe—.”

She cut Howard short. “I get the picture. Did you see anyone else in the alley?”

“There was another person further along the way. Possibly a drunk, I thought.”

“Did you approach the other person?”

“Not on your life. I was scared shitless.”

“Go on,” Fay prompted.

“Anyway, I was standing knee-deep in a pool of blood. I yelled for help.”

“What happened to the other person?”

“Don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, when I looked again, they were gone.”

“Did you know Charma?”

“Never seen him before.” Howard seemed apprehensive and glanced at his watch.

“What is your major at the university?” Fay asked him.

“Pre-med.” He looked noticeably uncomfortable now. “Look, that’s all I know.”

“I presume the alley was dark?” Fay continued.

“No streetlights, if that’s what you mean.”

“It was dark. How is it you could identify the man who ran past you?”

“I got a good look at him. Close up. He almost knocked me down,” Howard replied defensively.

“What would you estimate the distance to be, in feet, from the point where you first entered the alley to where you found the body?”

Howard thought for a moment. “I’d say about twenty-five feet. Thereabouts.”

“And you met the man who ran into you at the entrance to the alley?” Fay asked.

He gave her a confirming nod.

“Did you notice if the man who ran into you had anything in his hands?”

“I did notice his hands. He used both hands to push me out of his way. I saw a hulk hurtling toward me, and I remember thinking about the physics involved. All I could come up with was a collision that would rival the Titanic and the iceberg.”

“What did you do, Howard?”

“What could I do? I screamed. I prayed.” He shrugged his shoulders. “At least he said ‘excuse me.’”

“He excused himself?”

“Yeah. Real polite about it. The dude even asked if I was all right, as he hurried by me.”

“How would you describe him?”

“Like I said, a hulk,” Howard replied. “A huge black man, muscular, like a pro football player, Mrs. Green. I saw him well enough. Anyway, he dropped his ID card. The collision must have jarred it loose from his pocket. I saw it lying at my feet; I knew he dropped it and called after him. But he didn’t hear me. Later, I gave it to the police.”

At a distance of twenty-five feet, Simon would have had little time to dispose of a knife and gain a full head of steam before Howard had spotted him. The SPD would have found the blade, had Simon tossed it. And had he sheathed the knife, there would have been at least a drop of blood somewhere on Linn’s shoes or clothing. And then for Sergeant Linn to slaughter Charma one minute, only to concern himself whether Howard was “all right” in the next minute, seemed illogical. Fay wondered how the police had found Linn so quickly.

She handed Howard her pen. She already knew his phone number; it was on the statement Farmer had shown her. “Would you mind if I called you if I have any further questions?”

He took the pen. “Don’t mind.” He wrote his name and phone number and handed the pen and phone number back to her.

He’s left-handed, Fay noted. “Thanks, Howard. You have been very helpful.” She stood. “Oh, how tall are you?”

“Six feet.” Howard was leering again.

She smiled. “Good luck with your studies.”

Carney saw her to the door. She left his home feeling in need of a shower.

Why did he abruptly become nervous? Fay mentally replayed her interview with Carney as she rode in the cab to the city.