Miller had wanted to reach out and touch her, to close her eyes, to whisper something reassuring, to tell her the horror had ended, peace had come . . . but he could not.
It had taken some while for the blood to stop thundering through his veins, for his heart to stop skipping beats. With each new victim, the old ones came too. Like ghosts. Each of them perhaps desiring some greater understanding of what had happened.
Catherine Sheridan had been dead for two or three hours. Assistant coroner later confirmed that she’d died between four forty-five and six, afternoon of Saturday, November 11th. Pizza had been ordered at five-forty. Delivery guy arrived at five after six, found her body within a matter of minutes. Miller had been called from the Second just after six-thirty, had arrived at six fifty-four. Roth had joined him ten minutes later, and by the time they both stood looking at Catherine Sheridan’s awkward pose from the upper hallway of her house it was close to seven-fifteen. She looked cold, but the skin had not yet turned completely.
‘Same as the others,’ Roth said. ‘Pretty much the same anyway. Smell that?’
Miller nodded. ‘Lavender.’
‘And the tag?’
Miller walked alongside the edge of the mattress and looked down at Catherine Sheridan. He pointed to her neck, the thin ribbon upon which was tied a standard manila-colored luggage tag. The tag was blank, almost as if a Jane Doe had been delivered to the morgue, nameless, without identity, unimportant perhaps. ‘Ribbon is white this time,’ he said as Roth appeared on the other side of the bed.
From where he stood Miller could see Catherine Sheridan’s face very clearly. She had been an attractive woman, slightly-built, petite almost, with brunette shoulder-length hair and an olive complexion. Her throat was bruised and the same bruises were present on her shoulders, her upper arms, her torso, her thighs, some of them so brutal that the skin had been broken. Her face, however, was unmarked.
‘See her face,’ Miller said.
Roth came around the foot of the bed, stood beside Miller, said nothing for a while and then slowly shook his head.
‘Four,’ Miller said.
‘Four,’ Roth echoed.
A voice from behind them. ‘You from Homicide?’ Miller and Roth turned in unison. One of the CSAs stood there, field kit in his hand, latex gloves, behind him a man with a camera. ‘I’m sorry, but I need you guys out of here now.’
Miller looked once more at the almost placid expression on Catherine Sheridan’s face, then made his way carefully out of the room, Roth behind him, neither of them saying anything until they were once again downstairs.
Miller stopped in the doorway of the front room. The credits were rolling on It’s A Wonderful Life.
‘So?’ Roth asked.
Miller shrugged.
‘You think—’
‘I’m not thinking anything,’ Miller interjected. ‘I’m not thinking anything until I know exactly what happened to her.’
‘What have we got?’
Miller took out his notepad, scanned the few lines he’d scribbled when he’d arrived. ‘No sign of forced entry to the property. Seems he came in through the front door because the back door was still locked when I got here. I had forensics take pictures before we unlocked it. No sign of a struggle, nothing broken, nothing obviously out of place.’
‘Percentage of attacks committed by someone known to the victim is what? Forty, fifty percent?’
‘More I think,’ Miller replied. ‘Pizza delivery guy found her. Large pizza, custom order. Suggests that it was ordered for two. If the guy who did this was already here then it suggests it was someone she knew.’
‘And then she may not have known him at all. Maybe she just liked pizza.’
‘There’s also the known identity,’ Miller replied, referring to the many cases of entry made to houses by people dressed as police officers, gas and telephone engineers, other such things. The familiarity of the uniform made people drop their guard. The perp entered uninhibited, the crime was committed, and even if the individual was seen it was ordinarily little more than the uniform that was remembered. ‘If there was no break-in, no struggle, no apparent resistance, then we’re more than likely dealing with someone she knew, or someone she felt she could trust.’
‘You want to start around the neighborhood now?’ Roth asked.
Miller glanced at his watch. He felt weary, like emotional bruising. ‘The papers get word of this there’s gonna be shit flying every which way.’
Roth smiled knowingly. ‘As if you hadn’t had enough of your name in the papers.’
Miller’s expression told Roth that such a comment wasn’t appreciated.
They walked away from the back of Catherine Sheridan’s house, came up along the hedgerow that divided her plot from the neighbor’s and stood for a while on the sidewalk.
‘You wouldn’t think it, would you?’ Miller said. ‘If you didn’t know that someone was dead in this house . . .’
‘Most of the world is oblivious to the rest of the world,’ Roth said.
Miller smiled. ‘What the hell is that? Yiddish philosophy?’
Roth didn’t reply. He nodded toward the house on the right. ‘Let’s take that one first.’
There was no response at either of the adjacent properties. The house facing the Sheridan lot was dark and silent.
Over the street and two down they found someone at home - an elderly man, white hair protruding in clumps from above his ears, a thin face, eyes set too far back behind heavy spectacles.
Miller introduced himself, showed his ID.
‘You’re wanting to know what I saw, right?’ the old man said. He instinctively looked toward the Sheridan house, the light-bars flashing in reflection on the lenses of his horn-rims, the firework display of activity that was so instantly recognizable as bad news. ‘It was about four, maybe four-thirty. ’
Miller frowned. ‘What was?’
‘When she came home . . . about four-thirty.’
‘How are you sure?’ Miller asked.
‘Had on the TV. Was watching a gameshow. Pretty girls, you know? Watch it most every day. Comes on at four, runs for half an hour.’
‘So if you were watching TV how do you know that Ms Sheridan came home?’
It was cold, bitterly so, there on the old man’s doorstep. Roth’s hands were gloved but still he massaged them together as if he was choking something small. He gritted his teeth, glanced at the road like he was waiting for something else to happen.
‘How do I know? Come inside a minute.’
Miller glanced at Roth. Roth nodded. They stepped inside. Place was neat but could have done with a clean.
The old man waved them into the front, showed them his chair, the TV, how it was positioned.
‘If I’m here I can see the house.’ He pointed. Miller leaned down to sitting height. Through the window he could see Catherine Sheridan’s front door.
‘You knew her?’
‘Some.’
‘How well?’
‘Hell, I don’t know. How well does anyone know anyone these days? Ain’t like how it used to be. We were polite. Said hi every once in a while. She never came for dinner if that’s what you mean.’
‘And you saw her go inside the house?’
The old man nodded.
‘And then?’
‘Some kid with thick glasses won three thousand bucks and darn near pissed himself.’
Miller frowned.
‘On the game show.’
‘Right . . . on the game show.’
‘And you didn’t see anything else?’
‘What else was there to see?’
‘Someone approaching the house?’
‘The guy that killed her?’
‘Anyone . . . anyone at all.’
‘I didn’t see anyone.’
Miller handed him a card. ‘You remember anything else you give me a call, okay?’
‘Sure.’
Miller turned, looked at Roth. Roth shook his head; he had no further questions.
The old man inhaled slowly, exhaled once more. ‘Hard to believe,’ he said quietly.
‘What is?’
‘That he went and killed my neighbor. I mean, what the hell did she do to deserve that?’
Miller shrugged. ‘God knows. What did any of them do?’
Roth and Miller moved on. They spoke with neighbors in three houses further down but came back none the wiser. No-one had seen a thing. No-one remembered anything.
‘Like I said,’ Roth repeated, ‘most of the world is oblivious.’
They returned to the Sheridan place to check on the forensics unit. Miller stayed downstairs, surveyed the scene before him, tried to imprint every detail on his mind for later reference. He thought of the movie that had been playing. It was something to watch with family at Christmas, not something to watch as you died.
Roth came down and waited with him as forensics went through Catherine Sheridan’s kitchen, her bathroom, through drawers and cupboards, fingertip-searching her belongings, perhaps believing that they would find something to help explain what had taken place. They knew they were just looking for a single clue, a hint, a suggestion, a lead . . . the one thing that would let them catch this creature by the tail and haul it to the curb.
It would come. Sure as Christmas. But not when they expected, nor how, nor why.
Before Miller left he asked after the lead CSA, waited while one of the analysts brought him from upstairs.
‘You’re the chief on this?’ the CSA asked.
‘First one here, that’s all,’ Miller replied.
‘Greg Reid,’ the CSA said. ‘Would shake hands but . . .’ He held up his latex-gloved hands, smears and spots of blood visible on them.
‘I’ll leave my card on the table here,’ Miller said. ‘Just wanted you to know who I am, my number if you needed me.’
‘Have to give us the time we need,’ Reid said. ‘A day or two . . . I got a whole house to process. You speak to whoever you have to speak to and then come back, okay?’
Miller nodded. ‘Anything immediate shows up, call me?’
‘Do have something,’ Reid said. He nodded toward the telephone table near the front door. ‘Bag there has her passport and a library card in it. She went to the library today, looks like she returned some books. The passport is the only picture I can find of her right now. You’ll need a picture for your walkabout. Maybe have one of your people clean it up, make her look like a human being.’
‘Appreciated,’ Miller said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else.’
Reid smiled sardonically. ‘What? Like we find the guy left his name and address?’
Miller didn’t respond. He was tired. A CSA’s relationship ended with the crime scene; Homicide would live with this until it was done.
Roth and Miller left by the rear door, paused once again in the lot and looked at the back of the house. Lights burned. Shadows up against the windows from the men working inside. Miller stood there until he felt the cold getting to him, Roth beside him, neither of them speaking until Miller told Roth to take the car.
‘You’re sure?’ Roth asked.
‘I’m going to walk. I could use the exercise.’
Roth looked at Miller askance. ‘You feel like everyone you meet wants to ask you questions, don’t you?’
Miller shrugged.
‘You heard from Marie?’
‘Not a word.’
‘She didn’t come get her things from your place?’
‘I think she’s gone away for a while.’ Miller shook his head. ‘Fuck, who am I kidding? I think she’s gone for good.’
‘Amanda didn’t like her,’ Roth said. ‘She said that she wasn’t down-to-earth enough for you.’
‘Tell Amanda that I appreciate her concern, but it was simply a fuck-up. We all know that.’
‘You figured out what you’re gonna do yet?’
Miller appeared momentarily irritated. ‘Go home, would you?’
Roth glanced back at the Sheridan house. ‘This is the last thing you want, right?’
Miller looked down at the sidewalk, didn’t answer the question.
Roth smiled understandingly. ‘I’ll go home now,’ he said, and started away towards the car.
Miller stayed for ten or fifteen minutes, his attention focused on the lights in the Sheridan house, and then he buried his hands in his pockets and started walking. It was close to ten by the time he reached his apartment over Harriet’s Delicatessen on Church Street. Harriet, ancient and wise, would be out back, drinking warm milk with her husband Zalman, talking about things only they could remember. Miller took the rear stairwell up to his apartment instead of his usual route through the deli itself. Such moments as this, wonderful people though they were, Harriet and Zalman Shamir would keep him up for an hour, insisting he eat chicken liver sandwiches and honey cake. Most other nights yes, but tonight? No, not tonight. Tonight belonged to Catherine Sheridan, to finding the reason for her death.
Miller let himself in, kicked off his shoes, spent an hour outlining his initial observations on a yellow legal pad. He watched TV for a little while before fatigue started to take him.
Eleven, perhaps later, Harriet and Zalman locked up and went home. Harriet called him goodnight from the stairs, and Miller called goodnight in return.
He did not sleep. He lay awake with his eyes closed and thought of Catherine Sheridan. Who she was. Why she had died. Who had killed her. He thought of these things and he longed for morning, for morning would bring daylight, and daylight would give distance between himself and his ghosts.
U
se a knife. Knife killings are personal. Almost invariably per Multiple stab-wounds to chest, stomach, throat - some shallow, glancing off the ribs, others deep, sufficient to leave oval bruises where the blade ends and the shaft begins. Suggest uncontrollable rage, the fury of hatred or vengeance. Such things to confuse, to muddy the waters and cloud issues of forensic pathology, criminal psychology, profiling. Everything needs to appear as if something else.