Chapter Six

 

While Tim O’ Donnell walked the outside perimeter and flagged it with yellow CRIME SCENE tape, Radhauser slipped on a pair of latex gloves and a pair of disposable shoe covers. He started in the kitchen. There were no dishes in the sink. He opened the dishwasher. It held a couple glasses, two plates and a cereal bowl. Though it always pissed them off, Radhauser started a list of things to be bagged for the forensic guys. Glasses. Plates. A cereal bowl. He rummaged through the cupboards, but found only the usual things; flour, sugar, cake mixes, boxes of cereal, peanut butter, and a loaf of wholewheat bread.

He checked under the sink, found cleaning supplies and dishwasher soap. He emptied the garbage can, which was lined with a white plastic bag, onto the counter.

On the evening his wife and son died, Radhauser had forgotten to empty the kitchen trashcan. When he returned home from the morgue where he’d said goodbye to Laura and Lucas, their German Shepherd, Witka, had pulled every paper towel, egg shell, potato peel and apple core out of the can and scattered them over the floor. The crusts of bread from the wholewheat toast Laura still trimmed off for Lucas had lain, hardened and still, against the doorframe. It had seemed odd to Radhauser then, and again now, that Witka hadn’t eaten the bread. Maybe she’d known.

Now, he set Crystal’s empty garbage can back on the floor. Aside from some paper towels, a few wadded-up tissues, an empty pack of cigarettes, about a half-dozen Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle caps and another six Corona, the garbage held nothing unusual. He added tissues, a cigarette pack and bottle caps to his list. He photographed her bulletin board, removed the pushpins from her calendar, took a photo of each month, then pinned it back onto the cork.

Next, he tackled the victim’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made and still held the smell of detergent. He turned it down and examined the sheets and pillowcases. He found a dark pubic hair, added it and a long straight hair on the pillow to his list. Trace evidence that could easily be overlooked. He bagged both hairs for forensics.

The bedroom trashcan yielded nothing of significance. The victim’s red leather purse sat on the dresser. He picked it up and emptied its contents. The usual. He opened the wallet. There was a picture of her son behind the little plastic window where most people kept their drivers’ licenses. Travis stood in a batter’s box wearing a yellow and green baseball uniform.

Radhauser stared at the photo for a moment, wondering if Lucas would have played high school baseball. After the funerals, Radhauser had packed away his photographs of Lucas and Laura, even their wedding album and Luke’s baby book. He’d believed he had to hide those images in order to keep on living. Now he wondered. Was it possible to find a place for grief that didn’t erase the faces of the wife and son he’d loved?

He examined the rest of the wallet, where he found three dollars and forty-two cents. A checkbook with a balance of forty-six dollars and seventeen cents. A tube of hot pink lipstick. A pack of cigarettes. A teal blue Bic lighter. A book of matches from The Silver Spur Steak House.

After he finished, he headed down the hall toward the bathroom with his camera. As always, he tried to clear his mind. He needed to observe the scene and the victim with absolute clarity. He moved slowly, taking in the doorway, the linoleum floor, and the missing piece of the broken mirror over the sink. The toilet with its lid lifted as if a male had been the last one to use it. Could someone have used the bathroom? Not likely, he thought. Not with the victim in the tub and Radhauser standing guard. The paramedics would know better. There was something reddish brown splattered on the underside of the toilet seat that looked like vomit.

He glanced at the empty liquor bottle. Maybe the victim had been so drunk she’d lifted the toilet seat and vomited before getting into the tub.

As he looked around, Radhauser searched for anything out of the ordinary. There were two chrome towel bars on the bathroom wall, but no towels hanging on them. He looked around the bathroom for a linen closet, but found none.

He made a note to ask Travis if there were towels on the racks when he’d left for his dance. Radhauser purposely avoided looking at the bathtub until he’d had time to take in the rest of the room.

He noted the mirror shards wrapped in toilet tissue in the trashcan and added them to his list for forensics, along with a blue smear of what looked like toothpaste he’d found hardened on the sink.

At the bathroom window, O’Donnell’s flashlight bobbed along the east wall. If any evidence lurked around the perimeter of the house, Tim would find it.

Radhauser set up remote flashes on mounts that lit up the bathroom as if it were still daylight. He photographed the scene and the victim from every angle, then placed plastic numbered tents near the body, the sink, the toilet, and the puddle of blood on the floor, the blood splatters on the tile and tub, the single-edged razor blade, and the vodka bottle.

Paramedics told him the shower curtain had been closed when they arrived, but the blood spatter didn’t support it being closed when the victim bled out. It was too clean. If she’d killed herself with the shower curtain closed, the inside of it would be bloodied. Someone closed the curtain after the victim was killed. Who? A frightened 911 caller who’d wanted to protect Crystal or couldn’t bear to see her that way might have closed it. Or a remorseful murderer. A fly buzzed angrily against the bathroom window.

Radhauser closed off his thoughts to speculation and made sure every possible angle and object was preserved on film. He tried not to think about what he shot or to whom the body belonged, that she was a parent, a woman who worked hard for a living. A person who mattered—at least to that boy waiting in the back seat of Radhauser’s Bronco.

Lastly, he focused on the body. The victim wore only a pair of gold cross earrings, no rings or other jewelry. Her hands were small and neatly manicured, her nails polished red. No visible trace evidence under her nails. But he added them to his forensic list. Though her hair had been cut off in clumps, there were no scissors in sight. Maybe she’d used the razor blade. Or maybe she’d dropped the scissors into the bath water. Or maybe some angry murderer had cut her hair.

Though he was no splatter specialist, the blood on the back wall seemed consistent with a severed carotid. A plume hit the wall and made a big spot, splattered pretty evenly and dripped back down the tiles and into the tub. One thing was for certain, if someone severed it for her, they’d have her blood on their body and clothing. And that could explain the missing towels. Could one of the pieces of glass in the trashcan have been a murder weapon? He gathered up his evidence tents. The forensic guys would bring their own props. Radhauser headed back to the living room.

Tim poked his head around the front doorframe. “I found nothing.” He grinned, shot Radhauser a raised eyebrow look. “By the way. You look like a fag in that necklace.”

“It’s a bolo, but thanks,” Radhauser said, and blew him a kiss.

Tim laughed.

“I want to know what you think went down here, but before you tell me, talk to the boy in the back seat of my car. He seems like a good kid. But I want you to assume he’s hiding something.”

O’Donnell stood in the doorway for another moment, staring at Radhauser.

“What?” Radhauser said.

“I hope I grow up to be just like you.”

“Oh yeah,” Radhauser said, slightly amused. “And what would that be?”

“A cowboy pitbull on steroids.”

Radhauser laughed and grabbed Tim’s flashlight, then picked up his camera and went out the front door to Tim’s patrol car. He didn’t want to disturb any prints the 911 caller may have left on the house phone. And he didn’t want Travis to hear what he had to say. He radioed Lottie. “Time to call Crenshaw,” he said.

“You think it’s a homicide?” she asked.

“I’m sure leaning that way.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Tell him we’ve got a woman with her throat slashed in a bathtub of blood. Tell him her hair has been chopped off and clumps of it are on the floor and in the bathroom trashcan. And some of it is floating in the tub. Tell him I made a list for the forensic guys. And I bagged a couple of hairs.”

“He’ll love that.”

Radhauser gave Lottie Matt Garrison’s phone number, signed off, then retraced O’Donnell’s steps around the perimeter of the house. Radhauser moved slowly, shooting the flashlight about. He photographed some smooth-soled footprints in the pollen on the back patio. They were probably useless, but you never knew. He’d wait for forensics to dust for fingerprints. If his instincts were correct, Crystal Reynolds didn’t take her own life. And there was bound to be something, somewhere in this scene, that pointed directly to the person who did.