Hastings called his supervisor Captain Karen Brady to tell her that he wanted a couple of detectives to assist him. It was Saturday and it would mean overtime. Karen had told him last month that she wanted him to get clearance from her before authorizing overtime. Hastings thought this request was unreasonable, as neither he nor his people had ever abused it, but past experience had taught him that Karen needed to be satisfied on the little things. That way, she wouldn’t question him about the bigger things.
His professional relationship with Karen was something that had to be handled delicately. Karen had never been more than an average detective. She was not dumb, but she was not particularly smart either. She was inoffensive and unimaginative and she had the administrative knack for not making enemies. The sort that appears to be everyone’s friend, but at the end of the day isn’t really anyone’s.
But, to Karen’s credit, some part of her recognized her own mediocrity. She was aware that her lieutenant would protect her to the degree that she would defer to him. Yet she could not openly acknowledge this deference. This was why every couple of months she found it necessary to assert her authority. Her latest attempt to do this was on the subject of overtime.
Hastings said, “We’ve got a young girl’s body out here by the river.”
“Dead?”
The homicide detective paused. “Er, yes.”
“Who is she?”
Hastings knew that Karen was smart enough not to ask if the deceased was black or white. Not directly, anyway. But she wanted to know.
“Young white female,” Hastings said. “About twenty-two years of age.”
“Hmmm. Any witnesses?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Suspects?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you ordered a canvass?”
“Well, we have patrol officers doing that now. But I’d feel better with a couple of experienced homicide investigators doing it. At least assisting with it.”
“Right, right. Well . . . is it something you need detectives for?”
“Yes, I believe so. It’s a strangulation, Karen. There are no signs of robbery or sexual assault. Not yet, anyway.” Hastings paused. “She’s a college student.”
“Oh?”
Hastings kept quiet.
Karen Brady said, “How long do you think it’ll be?”
“No idea.” Hastings said. “Maybe through the afternoon.” Which probably wasn’t true. But he wanted the authorization.
“Okay, George. You got it.”
“Thanks, Karen. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
They said goodbye, then George dialed the cell number of his sergeant, Joe Klosterman.
Three rings and then Joe’s voice, a tone lower than a bark.
“Speak with me,” Klosterman said.
“What are you doing?” Hastings said.
“I am driving a Honda Odyssey minivan to a soccer game.”
Hastings said, “Someone cut your nuts off?”
“Filial duties, homey. My daughter’s playing this morning.”
“At Forest Park?”
“Yeah. It’s the six-year-old league. Run up and down the field, a beehive on the ball, and then someone kicks the ball ten yards wide of the goal posts and they do it all over again.”
“Your son play last night?”
Joe Klosterman’s son was a running back for the DeSmet High School football team. There were few prouder fathers than Joe Klosterman, five children and most of them in one sporting activity or another.
Unlike Hastings, Joe Klosterman was a man who looked like a cop and little else. He came from a long line of policemen. For Klosterman, life was a set of duties and dedication. To his family, his church, and the department.
Klosterman said, “Yeah, they played CBC. It was on television last night. Did you watch it?”
“Of course not,” Hastings said. “Anne with you?”
“No. She’s covering another game. Sally’s in the eight-year-old league. Why, what’s up?”
“I’m at the river, standing under the Poplar Street Bridge. We got a dead twenty-two-year-old girl. Karen’s given me authorization to bring you guys into it.”
“You don’t have a suspect?”
“No. No witnesses either. Joe, it’s a strangulation. A joy killing. She wasn’t robbed.”
“Oh. Do you have an ID?”
“Yeah. Reesa Nicole Woods. She had a student identification on her. UMSL. But we found items in her purse that indicate she was working for an escort service.”
“Which one?”
“Tia’s Flower Shop. You know it?”
“Not off the top of my head. You say she wasn’t molested?”
“I don’t think so. The M.E. says there are traces of spermicide, that she probably had intercourse within a few hours of her death but that it was consensual. There’s a contusion to her face, like she’d been punched in the nose. That, and bruises around her neck.”
Klosterman was aware of his children in the van. He lowered his voice and said, “Hands?”
“No. There are fibers. The killer may have used a scarf or a towel. Listen, Joe, I didn’t tell Karen that she was a prostitute.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I thought if I had, she wouldn’t have authorized overtime. I told her the girl was a college student. Which is technically true.”
Klosterman said, “Ah, I don’t blame you.”
“So if you can kind of keep that in mind . . .”
“Right. Well, have you called Howard or Murph yet?”
“No. I can, though.”
“Sorry, man, I’m kind of stuck with these things for a while. Tell you what, I’ll find someone at the soccer game to give Mary-Beth a ride home. Take me about an hour, hour and a half?”
“I appreciate it, Joe.”
•
Klosterman arrived an hour and forty minutes later. Detective Howard Rhodes was there by that time. He was the first one Hastings could reach.
Rhodes, in his early thirties, was the only black detective on Hastings’s team. He was married to a nurse who worked at Barnes-Jewish Hospital, but they didn’t have any children so Hastings didn’t feel that bad about asking him to come down to the river.
There was no “neighborhood” to canvass. Reesa Woods’s body was bounded by the river, two abandoned buildings, and an empty street. They walked around and searched the buildings and found a couple of vagrants who said they hadn’t seen or heard anything. No one had seen any vehicles.
This went on for a couple of hours, and when it was done, the detectives gathered near the county van that took Reesa Woods’s body away.
The van’s engine idled, smoke coming out its exhaust. The doors to the van closed, and when the body was no longer visible, Hastings realized that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He was standing with the patrol sergeant, Klosterman, and Rhodes. There was something of a contrast between them: the detectives in civilian garb, looking like civilians, the patrol sergeant, Wister, in uniform, his blue jacket and belt with holster and extra ammunition clips visible. Homicide detectives could be elitists, but Hastings gave no sign to the patrol sergeant that he wanted him gone.
Hastings said to Rhodes, “You used to work vice, didn’t you?”
Howard Rhodes said that he did.
Hastings said, “You familiar with Tia’s Flower Shop?”
“No,” Rhodes said. “Not that name. But the way that business works, they change their names about every six months. Though it’s usually the same people working them. I’d say the victim was a high-class, high-dollar model. She looks young, clean. Let me make a call here.”
They stood in the cold afternoon as Howard Rhodes pulled out his cell phone. The patrol sergeant told them to let him know if they needed him for anything else and then excused himself.
Rhodes was talking now, having reached an old friend at vice, and then they heard snatches of conversation, Rhodes saying, “Yeah . . . I’m not surprised. . . . Yeah, well, you deserve it, man . . .” and the other detectives knew that they were discussing a promotion that was up for grabs.
Rhodes shut the phone off and came back to them. “Tia’s Flower Shop is one of four outfits owned by Bobbie Cafaza. You know her?”
“Never met her,” Hastings said. “But I’ve heard of her. A madam, right?”
“Right.”
“You got a number for her?”
“Yeah,” Rhodes said. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“Yeah.”
Rhodes dialed a number and then handed his phone to Hastings. Hastings took a breath as the phone rang, remembering that the best thing to do when informing someone of a death was just to do it, not to think too much before. The ringing stopped and he heard a woman say, “This is Bobbie.”
“Ms. Cafaza? This is Lieutenant Hastings with the St. Louis Police Department. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
A pause. Then the businesslike voice coming back. “Is it one of my employees?”
“Yes. Reesa Woods. She’s dead, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God. Oh . . . God. What happened?”
“She was murdered. And I need to speak to you about it.”