Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery Page 8

  “I can’t believe you even give a rat’s ass about this Detective Carter. I mean the cops are the ones who turned you down, remember? So why you still got a hard on over this detective? You should keep a hard on for me only, don’t you think?”

  He walked over to her. She playfully grabbed at his crotch through his underwear. He grabbed her hand in his. “It’s not only Carter who’s competing for my attention. I have a new case.”

  She listened patiently as he described the runaway. He even used her name. “It’s not the first time Cheryl had run out on her family. The parents don’t want the police involved,” he said. “Gee”—he stopped to run his hand through his hair, it aged him a few years—“I hate what she’s doing to her family.”

  The story was a familiar one to Lucy. She seethed, on the inside.

  I could find her, Lucy thought, I know her mind. I was once her . . . I am still her . . . I expected everyone to give a fuck about me, even when I didn’t give a fuck about them . . .

  This revelation only darkened her mood.

  “Why don’t you take me back now?” Her tone was demanding, not questioning. “Unless you want me to ride shotgun with you on your investigation?”

  “No thanks, darling. I wouldn’t want you to come to harm.”

  Jay had completely missed her joke, its sarcasm. It’s why she both loved and hated him. She supposed that if she were a normal girl, she might label it boyish charm. But she was still pissed at the runaway for daring to live her life.

  What a friggin’ idiot! I could find this chick in minutes. I know where she’d run to . . . Maybe I ‘should’ find this girl. Smack some sense into her . . . Lucy silently ranted during the ride back to her street, wishing someone had tried to save her years ago, before it had become too late.

  Chapter 8

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  Jill Seacrest sat confidently, back straight, eyes making direct contact with the interviewer, hands resting on her thighs. Seated before Supervisor Hurley’s shiny mahogany desk, she analyzed her words and regrets she had given in her statement. It made her sound like a criminal: the ones who ignorantly claimed innocence even when the evidence was about to tell everyone otherwise. Hurley studied her silence.

  She refrained from speaking further. Last night, her fiancé had instructed her to volunteer as little information as possible. Come to think of it, she did feel like a criminal sitting here and she resented it. It burned a hole in her stomach. She was an outstanding CSI, scoring highest in the proficiency tests for her job. This is ludicrous. She could be processing the Wong residence right now. A warrant had been obtained to check both Wong’s residence and place of business—with or without the doctor’s voluntary consent. Wong used the same brand of needles found in Dan Collins’ body. Tony Gelder had confirmed this earlier in the morning. Wong’s claim to innocence rested in the contents of her statement. An email confirmed she received a box on the very day of the murder. Yet she claimed it had been taken from her porch. Maybe I can find a footprint on the front lawn that might support or disprove her claim. She was thankful she had obtained not only DNA from PI Jay Fishburne and Therese Collins, but had also taken photos of their respective shoes. If either one had made a print on Wong’s lawn—an arrest might be substantiated. Either way, I should be doing something other than sitting on my hands. She assessed the situation before her. Thinking as a crime scene investigator she reasoned there was little she could do or say to exonerate her from breaking department policy. She should have reported to Supervisor Hurley as soon as she and Carter became engaged. She couldn’t remedy that folly. She must think of the future. She must do what she could to protect her fiancé, Stanford Carter, even if it meant ending her own career. Of course, she hadn’t told Carter of this strategy over last night’s dinner. She simply nodded at every point Stanford had made. At least until Carter suggested the unthinkable, that they sever their relationship. At that point, Jill excused herself to bed. There, lying beneath a whirring ceiling fan, Jill realized Stanford Carter did mean more to her than her job. And she didn’t have to hold one piece of hard evidence in her hand to prove it.

  “I am not judging you personally, CSI Seacrest,” Hurley finally added after a long silence.

  “I just need to corroborate your statements with the lieutenant’s. You are not going be punished. I am only requesting your transfer. If you still want to work as a CSI that is…”

  “Isn’t that punishment enough? We have the best forensics lab and homicide unit in the northeast. We all work together well, supervisor. If you split us up, you’ll be compromising that quality.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that. But back to the matter at hand, when did you first become engaged to Detective Carter?”

  Jill fumed for a long moment in defiance.

  “Four months, sir.”

  After a few more routine questions, Hurley seemed satisfied. He placed a form in front of Jill to sign. “This will be placed in your permanent record. As far as I’m concerned your negligence in reporting your engagement to me was an oversight. Yet I cannot pardon it. I must act in accordance with department policy. I have already been in contact with the State Police lab in Mendon. I’m optimistic your transfer will go smoothly. Their lab will be happy to have your talents.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Uh, you mean ‘here.’ Two weeks. Then you’ll transfer out. Unless of course, you choose to resign—or Detective Carter opts to leave the bureau.”

  “No. That’s not an option.”

  “Which one?” Hurley said, filing Jill’s form in his desk.

  “The one where Carter leaves.” Jill was so mad she was nearly stammering. “That’s ‘not’ an option.”

  “You see CSI Seacrest, this is one of the reasons why we choose to separate married colleagues. Their unwavering loyalty to each other can sometimes compromise an investigation . . . ”

  “Show me proof that our relationship has ever put anyone in jeopardy.”

  “I cannot. Nor do I have to. But recall if you will, a few years ago. Detective Carter raced to save you from the grips of a killer, ignoring protocol to wait for backup. Fortunately, he subdued the perp without further bloodshed. ‘Fortunate,’ I emphasize the word. His loyalty to you CSI Seacrest—to you in particular—made Carter take an unnecessary risk. He also jeopardized his life in the process.”

  “We weren’t even in a relationship then, Supervisor Hurley. And even if we were, there’s no bureau policy regarding fraternization; which leads me to question the whole policy regarding personal relationships with officers. Wouldn’t officers who simply engage in relationships outside the confines of marriage be at risk as well? Respectfully sir, can’t you see the hypocrisy?”

  “You may have your opinions, CSI. But you have a sworn duty to follow protocols. As for myself, I do not see hypocrisy or lack of. I simply enforce the rules.”

  “I don’t want you to see ‘hypocrisy’ Supervisor Hurley. I want you to be aware of a situation that might allow a valuable investigator to slip through your hands one day. And I’m not referring to myself.”

  Hurley winced. Jill interpreted the reaction as justification for her argument. She would sacrifice her job to save Carter’s so the most valuable detective of the BIS could continue to stay right where he was. Jill reasoned Hurley knew Carter. He was all about duty. When push came to shove, love would take a backseat. Jill believed Hurley counted on this strategy as he smugly pushed another piece of paper in front of her.

  “So you’ll be signing the consent form to transfer, I take it?”

  ***

  Despite the impending transfer, Jill Seacrest’s day had started cautiously optimistic. She had given the trace lab the bloody rock she had found in the marshy perimeter of the crime scene. Although the blood very well might belong to the victim, there was hope that the hair stuck to the now prune-colored substance could belong to the killer.

  Optimism and desperation seemed
to walk hand in hand in the BIS, however. Detective Stanford Carter requested CSI Tony Gelder to discontinue the forensic processing of needles taken from Dan Collins’ body to study the rock. Nearly half of the needles had been analyzed and none of them contained a contribution of the killer. Even if they did, could they prove the same person who used them on Collins also bashed his skull in with a rock? Based on this line of reasoning, Carter was only too happy to take a leap and hope blind luck might aid their investigation. Although the color of the hair sample was red—and none of Carter’s three suspects had red hair, including the victim—the forensic consensus was again optimistic—if not desperate—that the hair had either been discolored by the blood, or perhaps a fourth suspect existed. In any event, the hair could be used to possibly eliminate suspects. At this point, Carter hedged on making an arrest because he not only had multiple suspects, but a lack of evidence to place any one suspect at the crime scene. The hair sample could effectively break the case. Yet Carter dared not share this enthusiasm with his colleagues. He kept his tone even when speaking, his facial expressions noncommittal. Jill Seacrest and Tony Gelder knew the importance of this finding.

  Gelder set to task by examining the three main components of the hair sample: the cuticle, medulla and cortex. He would have only his eyesight and judgment to determine if the sample was human or animal. But first he prepared. Examining a strand underneath a microscope could be excessively taxing on one’s patience if not time consuming. First a strand had to be mounted in wax. Thin slices would then be cut to fit onto glass slides. Gelder took a glance at the clock after finishing his slides, it told him half the morning has been spent in preparation only. He was glad Carter and Seacrest practiced restraint. They never bothered him to request updates on the half hour. They knew the process was painstakingly slow.

  Gelder analyzed the medulla, or the central core of cells contained within the hair sample. It showed to be transparent under the light of the microscope. At this juncture, Gelder realized he would have to risk washing the hair sample to study it further. He needed to see it in order to make a positive identification. He prepared some distilled water and soaked a hair sample. Great. Now he would have to prepare yet another wax casting.

  When he completed this task, another examination under the microscope showed the medulla of the sample to occupy more than one third of the overall diameter of the hair shaft. This initial observation told Gelder this hair may not even belong to a human. The pigmentation of this sample was radical, multi-colored, in red, white and brown bands. He was now nearly proof positive the sample was not human. Consequently, the analysis would only put investigators back at square one.

  Gelder stepped back to take a breath. He heard a song playing faintly on the boom box he kept on a wall shelf. Its music had always been there to alleviate some stress. But today, the song playing seemed to mock Gelder.

  It was Jethro Tull’s: Bungle in the Jungle:

  He who made kittens,

  Put snakes in the grass . . .

  Indeed, Gelder thought, resting his body against a table.

  But I still don’t believe an animal could have conked a man over the head with a rock much less stick him full of needles. No, there’s only one kind of snake who can do that. A human one . . .

  Gelder spent the better part of the afternoon matching the hair sample to all animals known to frequent marshy areas of the northeast. Apparently, some wild animal may have prodded or nudged the bloodied rock to examine it. After completing some Internet searches, Gelder was convinced a member of the Fox family was to blame. Only this kind of animal might be bold enough to approach a human scent.

  As the afternoon ebbed, Gelder determined diamond petal shapes of the hair shaft verified the type of animal who contributed the hairs: a red fox. “Doesn’t that beat all,” Gelder stated aloud. “Outfoxed by a fox.”

  But Gelder’s moment of indulgence was short lived.

  He knew Detective Carter definitely wouldn’t appreciate the irony of the situation. Outfoxed by a fox . . . The rock was next to useless. The human blood it contained belonged to the victim only.

  And to make matters worse . . .

  Jill Seacrest had just entered his lab.

  “Hey, you’re looking chipper today,” Tony said to her, hoping to soften the blow.

  ***

  Carter sat at a long table, the kind usually reserved for a wedding reception. It reminded him of the crossroads he was approaching. Should he call off the wedding? He realized Jill would never consent. The way she stormed off to bed last night answered that question. But should he consider the greater good? Would they be better off unmarried, but working together? Supervisor Hurley said he would honor Carter’s word. If he told him the wedding was cancelled, it was cancelled. Both could keep their respective positions. Yet how could he ever do this to Jill? He knew how much it would hurt. Not hurt. Devastate. Nonetheless, he would survive this devastation. Only survivors continued to work as investigators. Only survivors could walk away from crime scene after bloody crime scene with their minds and souls intact. Jill excelled at her job. Hence, she was a survivor, and she too would heal over time. So, despite the insensitivity and hypocrisy of BIS policy, Carter reflected if he should make the ultimate personal sacrifice. His train of thought was broken when the Massachusetts Mothers against Video Violence weekly dinner was called to order.

  A woman with a shrill, high-pitched voice began speaking. She was British. She spoke like the late master chef, Julia Child.

  “Oh, good evening, dear ladies and”—she paused to point at Carter—“dear gentleman. I speak collectively in thanking you Detective Carter for taking the important time away from your murder investigation to help us keep our children safe from video violence.”

  Loud applause erupted. Carter’s face reddened a shade. He stood and bowed.

  “Yes, ladies. I thank you for allowing me to sit in on one of your meetings.”

  The British woman’s name was Leah Magpie. It was written on a tag affixed to her lapel. She wore a charcoal gray suit over a red blouse. A blue hair beret completed her outfit. She no doubt believed her cause to be true blue. Red and white stripes danced behind a field of stars. Carter sensed this woman believed herself to be a hero; a leader of such a noble cause. She stood at the podium, located directly at the center of the banquet table. She announced Carter would be back to deliver a speech next week on the evils of television. Proud and standing tall, the members emulated Magpie, perhaps unconsciously, mimicking her all too perfect posture as they stood to give a round of applause. Carter wondered if it was for him or the very ideals of the group. Their simplified ideology reminded him of his department’s policy on married officers. They mean to do well but their approach is too black and white. As if eliminating violence on the screen would suddenly curb homicides. Maybe I’m just cranky. Carter was mad at how the investigation had been stalled. He didn’t have a means to place a suspect at the crime scene. Analysis of crime scene evidence taken at the homes of Wong and Collins had not given him a suspect. Footprints found on Wong’s front lawn did not prove PI Fishburne or Therese Collins ever visited the acupuncturist. Consequently, he couldn’t prove they had stolen the needles. Yet they may have obtained them on their own. But to date, no confirmation could be made financially. Their bank statements indicated no such purchase was ever made. Furthermore, the one break in the case has turned out be a bust. The hair sample found on the rock used to subdue Dan Collins had been classified as non-human. No DNA evidence obtained from the needles so far could be used to confirm involvement of Carter’s three main suspects: Dr. Wong, PI Fishburne and the widow, Therese Collins.

  Therese Collins had a shaky alibi. She was home alone at the time of the murder. Yet Carter couldn’t refute this forensically. Ms. Wong’s alibi—she stayed the night at her aunt’s home—checked out. PI Fishburne’s alibi, he was drinking lattes at a coffeehouse, had been confirmed, albeit by a shady looking man who managed the establishme
nt. Carter swore the PI paid the manager with a couple of Ulysses Grant’s (fifty dollar bills) to verify his story.

  Carter tuned out the reading of the minutes, made by the group’s secretary Sheryl Carr. He had no choice but to tune back in when the secretary turned the mike back over to the shrill-voiced moderator Leah Magpie.

  “Oh, thank you Ms. Carr. I do look forward to our fund raising rally this coming in August in Dorchester. Donators will be awarded this elegant red, white and blue ribbon, embossed with the slogan: “Power Down The Devil.”

  “Now, back to current business. Before supper is served, I would like to speak about ways parents can protect children from the most vicious shows on TV. The crime shows. And I believe Detective Carter can attest the TV is no place to graphically represent the bloodied, beaten corpses of people whether it is dramatization or fictional story. That type of gruesome documentation must be reserved for forensic specialists, those who can observe this brutality from the confines of an autopsy table or morgue. I suggest you divert your child’s attention to more educational television. I think British ‘telly’ sets a prime example, what with its dedication to public programming. I say we need more PBS in our homes, and less CBS.”

  A raucous round of applause erupted.

  Carter had found himself already at odds with this woman. The fact that programs like CSI were not only inspiring young men and women to study forensics, but also to recognize crime scene investigators and medical examiners as unsung heroes had made television a great resource for the department. And if more young men and women chose a career in forensics, possibly more crimes might be solved.

  Carter folded his arms and continued listening.

  “So maybe you Americans might take a cue from us Brits and watch more PBS. And in the meantime, I suggest you write network executives, saying you’ll boycott their shows unless changes are made.”