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Detective, She Said |
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The victim�s last mark on the world was a large pool of blood on the inlaid parquet floor of her kitchen. Aside from the blood and the chalk outline that marked her departure from her mortal coil, the floor � and the rest of the kitchen � gleamed from cleaning that came only with extreme boredom or an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Detective Charlene Dorne did her best to ignore the stain as she faced Lewis Walsh across it. "You don�t like me Detective, and personally, I don�t give a damn." Walsh stood glaring down at her, arms cross and a scowl on his face but didn't respond. "I know you resent having your case taken over. I can't prove it, but I'm sure you especially resent it taken over by a woman. The scowl deepened. "You said it Sister, not me." Fine. But get this through your skull." She stepped across the bloodstain and stood literally toe-to-toe with the hulking officer, returning the hostile stare, not an easy task given the more a foot difference in height. "I am now lead detective on this case. I didn't ask for it and I don't particularly want it, but you and Rogers have had 24 hours and have zip. Zero. Nada. Because it's the Commissioner's aunt, he wants answers yesterday and he is giving Captain Sobeleski an ulcer. You couldn't solve it so Sobeleski gave it to someone who could. Me." She left unsaid that she had the highest solve rate in the Westside Division Homicide Department. She also left unsaid that she had the lowest seniority in the department and was the youngest homicide detective on the entire force; a combination of facts that led to barely concealed hostility and outright resentment from her male contemporaries. Two days into her first case, Charlie had made a spectacularly outrageous claim that the perp was a highly respected man, close to many people in power, but especially the mayor. Walsh had made a crack about her being a "shining example of equal opportunity in action." He also had the tactlessness to make his comment within hearing of the Captain, resulting in a letter of reprimand placed in his record and three weekends of "Sensitive Training" � on his own time. He did not know it but Charlie resented the classes nearly as much as Walsh did. She didn't want "sensitivity"; she wanted acceptance, based on her own merits. Walsh's resentment only deepened when a jury of twelve men honest and true convicted the mayor's associate of premeditated homicide. Charlie wheeled to Walsh's partner, Jerry Rogers, leaning against the refrigerator. She thought she caught the ghost of a smile that quickly vanished. "Do you have a problem with that, Detective?" Rogers straightened. "Not a bit, Detective. As long as you come up with the right answers." His bland face melted into an angry frown as he regarded the blood-stained floor. "This one's got me talking to the walls and ready to start chewing the carpet." She relaxed a bit. "I'll get the answers, Rogers." "Jerry, if it's alright with you." "Okay Jerry. Charlene. Or better yet, Charlie. Do you mind going over what you've got." "What for?" Walsh's face was a study of innocence. "You're the hot-shot detective. I thought you'd gaze into a crystal ball or something a hand us all the right answers on a platter." "Lewis �" Jerry started. Charlie waved a hand. "It's alright, Jerry." She didn't even give Walsh a glance. "I've discovered the best way to deal with the ignorant is to ignore them." Walsh stiffed and his huge fists clenched and unclenched in tandem with his jaw, but he said nothing. Maybe he didn't want to face more "Sensitivity" classes. Still talking to Rogers Charlie said, "I've read your reports, but I like the human element. Some times when they're chatting, people say little things that they wouldn't bother to commit to paper. So whatcha got?" "You already said it, Charlie. Squat." He pulled a battered notebook from his sports coat. "The Commissioner himself called for a patrol car. Seems Aunty missed some kind of shindig and he couldn't get her on the phone or get her to answer the door." He flipped the page. "With the Top Cop's permission they tried to break in. No luck. Iron bars on every window. Two doors, both steel, set in reinforced frames, and backed with those barricade doohickeys � an iron bar with one end that fits into a socket in the floor and the other into a socket in the door. Just about takes a Sherman tank to break it down. They called vice and used one of their battering rams to get in." He pointed to a dented and warped door hanging from the frame by one hinge. "The vic was face down on the floor with a welder's hammer buried to the haft right where the skull and neck meet." "Looked like a pro job," muttered Walsh, "but that made no sense." Charlie pondered a moment. "It really doesn't. Yeah, she's related to the Commissioner, but I gather they're not that close. Besides "Old Buttersides" didn't get to be Commissioner by making enemies. My impression is he's a paper pusher, not a cop." That struck a chord with both men. "Chairborne ranger, we called them in 'Nam," Walsh said, showing the first spark of life since Charlie had walked in. "Spent a year in a patrol car handing out parking tickets and shi� stuff. Traded the car for a desk and spent the rest of his time kissing, uh, kissing up. Got the appointment 'cause the City Council deadlocked on a replacement when the Old Man keeled over. Waterson got the nod 'cause he hadn't pis. . ., uh, upset either faction." "Oh for God's sake, Walsh, I'm not some shrinking violet. Just be yourself and forget all the sensitivity crap. Say exactly what you're thinking." His eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah. I could really use another reprimand and three more wasted weekends." Charlie sighed and turned back to Roberts. "Time of death?" Autopsy puts it a week ago Thursday � Three days before Waterson and the troops found her. Jibes with the Commish's statement � he called that afternoon around five. That's when he gave her the invite to his bash." "The forensic people say they can't figure entry and exit." That right?" "Yup. The wrought iron bars are on all the windows -- UL approved type. Easy to release from the inside; you know in case of a fire or something? Impossible to lock or unlock from the outside. And setting the barricades?" He waved at the ruined door. "Houdini couldn't have gotten out without moving them and they were untouched." "The murder weapon?" Roberts lifted an object from the counter and handed it to her. It was a tee shaped tool, vaguely similar to a hammer. A steel coil formed the handle. One end of the head had a chisel-like tip; the other end tapered to a sharp spike. The all-metal construction made it heavier than a regular hammer and either end of the head could be lethal in the hands of someone with less-than-pure intentions. "A welder's hammer," Roberts explained. "Identical to the one used on the vic. The perp hit her with the pointed end. No sign of a struggle � heel marks and all would show up like a neon sign on a floor this squeaky clean. Only prints belonged to the vic." As he spoke, Charlie let her eyes wander around the floor. A frown creased her brow and she knelt to peer at the floor near the refrigerator. She indicated several lighter areas of wood. "These are water spots?" she asked. "That's what the reports said," Walsh growled. Charlie looked up at Roberts expectantly as if she hadn't heard Walsh. Roberts nodded. "Forensics says the water had to be there some time to get under the varnish." "What about wax?" A shake of the head. "Single coat. Applied recently." Charlie stood and opened the refrigerator. She carefully scrutinized the interior. "Looking for a snack, Dorne?" Charlie stepped back. "You know, Walsh, that's what I like about you." She watched intently as the refrigerator door closed itself. He smirked. "What's that?" "Not a damned thing." Walsh flushed again and his meaty hands clenched. A warning look from his partner. "I think I've got it," she said as if announcing dinner was ready. The flush turned purple "Like hell you do." Walsh thundered. He crossed the kitchen in three strides and towered over Charlie. She didn't flinch. "We spent days on this case and come up with squat. You waltz in here like the queen of the world and in less than half an hour tells us you've got all the answers? No way, Babe Charlie met Walsh's fiery gaze. "I'll make a dead with you, Babe. I prove beyond a doubt how Mrs. Waterson died and you apologize to me. And admit you've been a jerk." Walsh grinned and started to speak, but was cut off. "Tomorrow morning at the station. At roll call. In front of God and everybody." Walsh's mouth snapped shut and his jaws clenched and unclenched. He wore the face of someone who had just found half a worm in his apple. He glanced at Roberts, whose face was studiously bland. Roberts shrugged. "We've worked together a long time, Lewis, but you've been ragging my case all day. Said she didn't have the experience to deal with this. Said your case got yanked out from under you by some skirt who couldn't be half the detective you are. I say, put up or shut up." Walsh glared at both officers for several moments, jaws working as if chewing on leather. "Okay. Say I decide to take you up. What do I get out of it if you're wrong?" "I tell the chief you're a better detective than me and asked to be taken off the case." "You're on, Sister. Charlie took on the pose of a college lecturer. "Start with the plain basic fact that no one could have left the house after the vic died." She ticked of points on her fingers. "Barred windows that couldn't be latched or unlatched from the outside. No way to set the bar in the door from the outside. And no trap doors that I can see." "So where the hell's the perp? Lurking in the refrigerator?" Charlie gave a wry grin. "Patience, Walsh, we'll get there. Next item: This lady takes 'neat freak' to a whole new level. She's been dead almost a week and her kitchen is still cleaner than most." She turned to Rogers. "One coat of wax. Do you know what that means?" He shook his head. "It means she stripped the floor between coats of wax. The last time I stripped wax was basic training." Walsh jerked at the knowledge she had been in the military. Charlie pointed at the water spots. "Do you think anyone that fussy would let water stand long enough to discolor her perfect floor?" Both men shook their heads. "And where did the water come from?" A shake and a shrug. "It came from here." She opened the refrigerator door. "This has a built-in ice-maker, but the water line has a leak just inside the ice-maker." She pointed at a bulging chunk of ice on the inside of the icemaker. The bulge encrusted a thin metal rod. Charlie stepped back to give both men a better look. After some scrutiny, Walsh stood back, his brow furrowed. "Okay, it's leaking. But it's freezing as soon as it leaves the hose. How did the water get from here," he pointed at the small box near the back of the refrigerator, "to there?" Charlie wetted a finger and drew an imaginary line in the air. "Score one for Walsh! Any thoughts, Jerry?" Roberts withdrew his head and chewed his lower lip for several seconds. "Not a clue, Charlie." "That metal rod is a sensor. When the ice in the box drops below a certain level it turns on the water to make more ice. As the ice level rises, it pushes the rod up until the box is full, then shuts the water off. Except that by that time there's enough frozen water to jam the sensor in place. No more ice until you remove the jam. Take a close look at that froze area and tell me what you see." Again, Walsh was the first to respond. "Gouges in the ice. The old lady had started to chip it off." He pointed at the floor. "Some of the chips get on the floor and melt. She was killed before she had time to wipe them up." Another imaginary line. "Two for two, Walsh. But that ice is thick. She probably wanted to use something heavier that an ice pick." She reached over and retrieved the welder's hammer and hefted it." Walsh scowled. "All right, Dorne. The old lady could have used that on the ice. But that doesn't explain how it ended up in the back of her skull. Or how the killer got away." "I'm getting there. Look at the top shelf of the fridge." A plate held two pieces of stale bread; a slice of cheese, the edge brown and curled; and an unhealthy-look slab of ham. "A ham and cheese sandwich. Very sinister." You're forgetting, Walsh. This lady was compulsively finicky. Even I wouldn't leave meat sitting out like that." Rogers shook his head. "I know there's something important here but I can't put my finger on it. Driving me nuts." "That's not a drive," muttered Walsh, "that's a short putt." Charlie rolled her eyes. "I guess it's time for show and tell." She reopened the refrigerator. "Mrs. Waterson decides to fix a light dinner." She nodded at the plate. "A ham and cheese sandwich. Thing is, she didn't finish it and she didn't clean it up. At some point, she notices the icemaker is jammed again. As usual, she retrieved her hammer � probably kept it in a drawer close by." She pointed at the water spots. "Hard to avoid getting some ice chips on the floor. But we're not talking about Little Suzie homemaker here; we've got a serious neatnick. She would go spastic about spotting her neat little floor, so we can safely assume she was interrupted." Walsh snapped his fingers. "The door bell." "Close." She pointed at a wall-mounted telephone near the sink. "A call from her nephew, the commissioner. Another nuisance, but someone this structured is not going to ignore a ringing phone. She puts the hammer down to answer. Actually, she puts it up." Charlie closed the refrigerator door and placed the hammer on top, positioning it carefully before turning back to her companions. "So she talks to Nephew for a while, hangs up. The soir�e was a dinner right? Probably reminds her of the unfinished sandwich. She goes back the fridge and opens the door. . ." Charlie tugged the door open. The hammer teetered precariously. She eyed it cautiously and stood back slightly, still holding the door. ". . . bends into the fridge to grab the plate . . ." The hammer tipped off the top of the refrigerator and turned in a lazy arc, then slammed into the floor. ". . . and was struck in the back of the head by the hammer. Walsh and Rogers jaw's dropped in tandem as they stared at the hammer, point buried nearly an inch into the wood, the handle vibrating like a tuning fork. "The vic manages to stagger one or two steps before collapsing." She indicated the chalk outline, now obviously pointing directly away from the refrigerator. She released the handle and the refrigerator door slowly but firmly closed itself. "Presto! Instant crime scene." Rogers grinned at Charlie in open admiration. "I'll be damned!" Walsh glared accusingly at the hammer for several heartbeats, the looked up to meet Charlene's gaze. The anger faded to a grudging respect. He gave a wry grin. "Not bad for a skirt," he admitted grumpily. "When I introduce you at roll call tomorrow, should I call you Miss Dorne or Ms. Dorne?" Detective," she said. "Detective Dorne will do nicely." Home Page |
