Cold Case Squad (16 page)

Burch borrowed the photo of Terrell and promised to keep her posted.

"Please give my best to Lieutenant Riley," April said, as they rose
to leave. "She's so thoughtful and understanding."

"Oh, yeah," Burch said. "One of a kind."

"You're not leaving yet?" Joy burst from the kitchen, dismayed. "I'm
making cookies, chocolate chip. They only take ten minutes to bake!"

"Next time," Burch promised.

"Please, please, please!" She clasped her hands together prayerfully.

She looked genuinely disappointed when they couldn't stay.

"Nice kid," Nazario said, as they left the building.

"Yeah," Burch said. "Got a smile that could break your heart."

"Something ain't right here," Burch told the chief medical examiner
in his third-floor office on Bob Hope Road.

"For a start, the fatty liver in the autopsy doesn't jibe with this
guy's lifestyle."

"Any history of severe malnutrition, or obesity?" the puzzled doctor
asked.

"He was a physical fitness aficionado. Did a forensic odontologist
examine the teeth?"

"Without X-rays to match them to, probably not. But the doctor on
the case would have taken a look at the jawbone."

"No indication on the chart."

"No problem," said the chief medical examiner. "We can do it."

"No way," Nazario said. "He was cremated."

"But in cases of that sort, we keep the jawbones. We can examine
them now if you like."

Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled the windowless room deep in the
bowels of the decomposition morgue, the smallest building in the
medical examiner's complex. Cardboard boxes labeled with case numbers
lined the long shelves. The contents were mostly unidentified skeletal
remains, bones excavated by builders, human remains found scattered
along canal banks, in barrels, in woods, underwater, or in the
Everglades. Police confiscated some skulls and long bones from
ngangds
,
the large metal cauldrons used in the practice of Santeria. Complete or
partial skeletons were packaged in larger boxes, while others contained
just bits and pieces of still-unidentified human beings, Miami's
forgotten John and Jane Does, or fragments of them, some unearthed as
long ago as the 1950s.

"The ones with rotting flesh still attached are boiled clean before
storage," the doctor explained. "We use meat tenderizer in the water."

"Let's see here. If I remember correctly, jawbones are over in this
section." The chief medical examiner meandered among the shelves like a
librarian in search of an elusive book.

The detectives trailed him through the rows of numbered boxes.

"We could be eating homemade chocolate chip cookies with normal
people," Nazario said mournfully.

"You'd want to miss this?"

The chief double-checked the case number on the file in his hand.
"Here we are," he said cheerfully. "Ninety-two-four-seventy-six."

The contents rattled as he took down a container the size of a
shoebox.

In the lab, under bright overhead lights, the doctor used a scalpel
to sever the tape sealing the box.

"It all seems to be here." He lifted the lid and carefully placed
the contents on a small examining table beneath a large magnifier.

He didn't need the magnifier to see the obvious.

He paused to recheck the case number on the box.

A number of the teeth had been loose and glued back into place. He
examined one of the jawbones carefully, then put it down.

"These are the teeth and the jawbones of an individual with
remarkably poor dental care. A great amount of decay is visible. There
is evidence of several old, poorly maintained silver fillings,
abscesses, and a buildup of dental plaque."

Dr. Vernon Duffy, the assistant medical examiner who signed
Terrell's autopsy report, had left the job shortly after handling the
case.

"Went back to New Hampshire," the chief medical examiner said. "A
good man, but he never could take the heat down here. As I recall he
had other problems. His wife was very ill."

Burch remembered Duffy. Stooped and pale, with rimless spectacles,
he would arrive at death scenes wearing a shapeless sports jacket and
carrying his equipment in a foam-lined camera case. The detectives he'd
worked with relied on his expertise and held him in high regard.

They called New Hampshire from the chief medical examiner's office.

"Vern," the chief greeted him. "How's the wife? Sorry to hear that.
I have a couple of homicide detectives here in my office. A problem
with an old case."

Not a prayer that the man will remember after twelve years, Burch
thought, as he and Nazario picked up extensions.

He was wrong.

"What a day that was," Duffy said, from the kitchen of his home.
"Hell on wheels. That was the last weekend I worked in Miami. Had to
take my wife to the emergency room at four o'clock in the morning,
another small stroke. I was still there when they paged me. A county
car with two code enforcement officers ran a red light in the Grove,
set off a three-car crash with two dead. That was top priority, until
the double murder was discovered over on the beach. An organized crime
figure, a mobster, killed in his strip club, along with a young dancer
who worked there."

"I remember—the Club Montmartre, right?" Burch said.

"That's the one. Then your victim dies in a flash fire and two
toddlers in North Miami manage to drown themselves in a neighbor's
pool."

"You have to understand, I was the only doctor on duty. Solo, and we
were short on technicians. The county manager and risk management were
all over me about the traffic fatalities. They wanted chapter and
verse. I was up to my neck in hysterical families. Miami Beach
detectives wanted answers, and every reporter and news crew in town was
camped out in the lobby. They refused to leave until we confirmed the
identities of the strip club victims. That was a big, high-profile
story at the time."

"That's no excuse, mind you. But in your case, witnesses confirmed
that the man was working on his car, alone in his own garage. I believe
there was another identifying characteristic present—a missing finger.
When next of kin said the victim had no dental records, I was careful
to establish that the burned man was missing the same finger, at the
same digit. The identification seemed adequate at the time."

"Do you recall taking a close look at the jawbones?" the chief said.

"He was all burned up, charred and messy. I probably asked one of
the techs to clean it up and take a look. I couldn't swear to it.
Phones were ringing off the hook. TV crews pushing and shoving at the
front desk. No way to even go take my wife home from the hospital. No
days like that up here. Sorry if there's a problem. You know where I am
if you need me."

"Where the hell is this thing taking us?" Burch said.

The chief medical examiner's only response was to take two labels
from his desk drawer. He wrote
Unidentified
on one and used
it to replace Charles Terrell's name on the file. Then he replaced the
color-coded yellow accident label with a red one. It said homicide.

"I coulda joined the fire department, the circus, or the CIA. Coulda
been a Navy SEAL or a NASA scientist. Something easy," Nazario said, as
Burch drove them toward Miami Beach.

"What if Riley goes crazy and schedules a press conference on this
one? How'd you like to explain this to a room fulla hostile reporters
asking questions?"

"Crazier," Nazario said. "You mean if Riley goes crazier."

"Maybe it's hormones," Burch said. "How old is she? Bet it's her
time of the month."

He remembered that Miami Beach double murder, a real headline
grabber.

"It was
the
strip joint back in those days," he told
Nazario. "The Place Montmartre, on Collins Avenue. Local landmark.
Place had a huge cut-out sign on the roof. A blonde more than ten,
twelve feet tall—and that's lying down. The broad's sexy, half naked,
lying on her side wearing nothing but high heels, long hair, and a
come-hither look."

"Heard a story once about a sailor on a passing Liberian freighter.
Horny and out at sea for months, he spots her through binoculars from
two miles out. It's love at first sight, and he goes over the side.
He's swimming hard for the beach until the Coast Guard drags 'im out of
the water."

"Place is gone now. I think they built the new Miami Ballet
conservatory on the site."

"How can it be related to our case?" Nazario said.

"Same day, few hours apart? All I do know is I don't believe in
coincidences."

"Yeah, you're thinking dirty. Me, too."

Miami Beach Detective Sergeant Eddie Satin worked the case.

"He's long gone. Drank himself to death," another detective at Miami
Beach Police headquarters said cheerfully. "But Tom Callahan worked it
with him. He's still here."

They found Callahan at a scene, a body on the beach.

They parked in a loading zone and trudged across sandy beach toward
the endless blue of the sparkling sea. A crowd of curious bystanders
had clustered around a tiny makeshift raft that had been hauled up onto
the beach.

"
Dios mio
!" Nazario whispered. The puny craft, just a
piece of canvas crudely lashed between two inner tubes, had bobbed and
drifted across the vast Florida Straits and arrived in Miami at last.

Too late for the lone occupant who stared skyward, feet trailing in
the water.

"Mighta been dead as long as a week," Callahan said. He stood
sweating in the sun, filling out his report and waiting for the morgue
wagon. "Musta died of exposure. He had to be determined. Makes ya
wonder how many more are out there."

The dead man was naked, except for a single red sock on his left
foot. He may have shed his clothes as the relentless sun and sea
brought madness. Or he might have used them in futile attempts to flag
down passing boats and planes.

If he had any food or water when he set sail, his supplies had long
been exhausted.

"What brings you guys over to this side of the bay?" Callahan
demanded.

He remembered the murders at the Montmartre. "Who could forget that
one? What's up?"

"We're wondering if it might be related to one of our unsolved
cases, a guy named Terrell the same day."

Callahan squinted across the sand. "Hey," he shouted. "Get those
kids out of there!"

A patrolman waved back a gaggle of curious youngsters scampering
toward the raft.

"Terrell? Nah. That name never came up. We solved ours. Got lucky.
Shoulda seen it. A stripper blown away with her boss. Just a kid.
Turned out she was eighteen years old. Lied about her age, said she was
twenty-one to work at the club. Musta thought she was lucky to land the
job—all it did was guarantee she'd never make it to twenty-one. Got her
brains splashed all over the wall for her trouble. Bullet went through
the palm of her hand first, like she tried to defend herself at the
last minute. Musta thought she could snatch it outta the air like
Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman she wasn't. Danced under the name Hurricane
Allie. Saw her act a couple times myself. Did a thing with the lights
and a high-speed fan. Pretty cute. At first we figured a jealous
boyfriend mighta interrupted something. But it was strictly revenge,
pure and simple. Guy mighta had robbery in mind, too, but he panicked."

The turquoise surf lapped gently at the shoreline as towering clouds
billowed and bright sailboats darted on the horizon.

"How'd it go down?" Nazario asked.

"A couple nights before the murders, this schmo, Frankie
Scheck, walks into the place. Short, skinny, nerdy guy. Not slick with
the women. So a couple a the girls come onto 'im and he starts buying
'em drinks. What do you expect in that kinda place? They order
champagne, which you know hadda be club soda or seltzer water. The
girls evaporate when the check arrives. Nine hundred bucks. He raises
hell, starts yelling about being ripped off. So Chris, the owner, you
had to hand it to 'im, whatever else you had to say about 'im, he
always kept the place under control. Cops were always welcome, our
money was no good there. He was cool, for an OC figure. Hired a lotta
our guys for off-duty jobs. Chris warns Scheck, who keeps ragging about
the bill. Next thing you know, the bouncer roughs 'im up and tosses 'im
out on the street."

"He comes down to the station next morning and makes a complaint.
Claims they took his wallet, his money, and credit cards during the
scuffle." Callahan shrugged. "He's still steamed when it doesn't go
anywhere. A couple nights later, he takes it into his own hands."

"Goes back with a gun after closing time. Probably didn't figure the
girl would be there, or maybe she comes outta the John and surprises
him in the act. What's he gonna do? He eliminates the only witness.
Musta rattled him 'cuz he takes off without the money. The night's
receipts were still in the safe."

"He have a record?" Burch asked.

"Nah. But you know what they say: Those who live by the sword get
shot by those who don't."

"He confess?"

Callahan frowned. "Nah. Never did. But we had the son of a bitch by
the balls. Found the murder weapon and evidence from the scene in his
car. His prints all over it."

"What was it?" .

"A drawer from the victim's desk. You won't believe how that went
down. One of our crime scene techs is driving back to the station and
sees the punk standing on the street next to his car holding a desk
drawer. The tech recognizes it as the one missing from the desk he just
dusted for prints at the murder scene. He gets on the radio, we swoop
down and find the murder weapon, a stolen gun, in the car as well."