Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 (2 page)

“Someone’s here.”

“Huh?” CJ said, puzzled. “Where?”

“Shhhh…just a minute.” Randi shook the leg, trying to rouse the owner. Nothing. She reached farther out, intending to grab their shoulder to shake them into consciousness. But as her hand landed she found something all too familiar. Randi had done enough monthly self-exams to recognize the soft, round, breast beneath her hand. This one was ice-cold and covered in a thick, wet substance. She yanked back her hand as if it were on fire.

“CJ?” Her voice was no longer a whisper but a quiet, urgent plea.

“What?”

“Would you please head into the restaurant and call the police?”

“Huh?”

“Call the police, please.” The request sounded foreign to Randi’s own ears under the circumstances.

To her credit, CJ held her curiosity in check. There was a moment’s hesitation and Randi heard CJ swallow. “What should I tell them?”

“Tell them we’ve found a dead body.”

Chapter Two

A melodic tune drifted through the air.

Jon flinched.

The music got louder. He stirred and tried to lift his leaden head. He cracked open an eyelid and fought to gain focus. The lid slammed shut.

Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?

His skull teetered on his neck and a wince crossed his face as he steadied his head with both hands. “Shit!”

Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

The theme song to COPS stopped.

There was a moment’s reprieve, then it started again. He opened both eyes and squinted against the lamplight of his bedroom. He held a shaky hand out to block the light and blinked. Bubble wrap and scrunched up balls of packing paper were strewn around him. He spotted his cellphone atop a stack of forensic, criminal psychology, and DNA analysis books at his feet. He reached for it and pitched sideways, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?

“Fuuuuuuuck!” Jon leaned forward and blindly scooped up the cellphone. He peeked at the caller I.D. before he answered.

“It’s my night off.” His voice had more gravel in it than a cement truck.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” the voice said. “But technically it’s your
day
off.”

Jon pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the time—2:27 a.m.

“That can’t be good.”

He pushed himself up and covered his mouth from a beer-laced belch. He looked around and took in the untouched bed across the room, his rumpled clothes, and a slew of empty bottles standing at attention against the wall.

“Hold on.” He hit the mute button and stretched, groaning loudly. There was an answering whine to his left. He reached down and rubbed the giant black head of his Rottweiler. “Why the hell couldn’t you get the phone, Dammit?” Jon looked pointedly at the dog; the large animal’s docked tail began a gentle twitch in response. “What good are you if you can’t cover for me, huh?” His tone caused Dammit’s stub to move faster.

Jon rubbed a hand over his face and managed to struggle to a standing position without falling down. He took the phone off mute. “What happened?”

“You’re not gonna like it,” his partner said.

“Perfect. Thrill me.”

“We’ve got a homicide.”

Silence.

“You there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” He put the phone on speaker and moved about the house exchanging athletic shorts for a pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt he pulled from a laundry basket. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. He snagged some socks out of a drawer as he headed to the bathroom. The big dog’s head swiveled as it followed his owner’s movements, but he never moved from his pet bed.

“Where?”

“Bells Motel. Out on thirteen at the edge of town. Take the bypass out just past Wal-Mart; then thirteen north, you’ll see it.”

Jon scooped water into his mouth from the faucet. Swished and spit. Ran the wet hand through his hair, and then splashed cold water onto his face.

“You know I have access to GPS on my phone, right?”

“Yeah, but the last time I trusted mine I ended up in Canada.”

“On my way.” He clicked the phone off and slid it into his pocket. “Screwed again.”

He placed his hands on the vanity counter and leaned towards his reflection. His eyes wandered across the dark stubble on his square jaw, uncombed dark hair, and the footprints of crows at the corner of his bloodshot blue eyes.

“You’re looking old.” He arched a critical brow as he passed judgment. “What the hell did you ever do to deserve such shitty karma?” Must have kicked Buddha’s dog in a previous life. He snapped off the light.

Detective Jon Bricksen strapped on his shoulder holster and slipped into a black zippered jacket. “I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his keys off the side table and paused to look around the disaster that was his home. “If you get bored, you could earn your keep. Feel free to unpack something. Or just sleep. That works too.” The big dog yawned, turned his head and closed his eyes.

Jon drove his Jeep with the window unzipped and let the crisp air slap him in the face as he made his way to the bypass. Within minutes his Wrangler bumped to a stop against the concrete curb in front of Hometown Café. He turned off the ignition and sat.

Sipping black coffee he’d picked up on the way, he popped a couple of ibuprofen, followed by three breath mints, and waited for the caffeine and pain killer combo to hit his bloodstream. He surveyed the bustling scene behind him in his side-view mirror.

EMS, local cops and sheriff deputies all on hand to offer assistance to the city jurisdiction dotted the area with a rainbow of uniform colors. Detectives employed by Mt. Ouisco, all three of them, were no doubt inside the official perimeter. Overkill in the number of personnel it took to cover a homicide and a potential contamination issue if they were wandering the crime scene. Jon knew it was bad when he saw the chief of police among the throng. There was an aura of frenzy as everyone vied to be part of the nightmare—everyone, that is, but him.

He noted a remarkable absence of reporters. If this were Milwaukee, they’d have arrived alongside the first responders. Soon there would be an onslaught of news people, each sparring for a morsel like vultures over carrion.

Greg Stanton stood off to one side of the crowd nervously shifting foot to foot. Young and lanky with straight russet hair and flat, pale face, the rookie officer was just finishing his probationary period. He fidgeted with his duty belt and a government-issued Beretta and looked ill.

A smile edged onto Jon’s face. When he worked homicide in Milwaukee, he’d dealt with more than his fair share of bloody murders. The worst were the gang killings where innocent children ended up as turf-war collateral damage. That kind of inhumane crap that was impossible to forget. This kid had it easy and didn’t even know it.

The rookie looked his way; recognition crossed his face, and he waved spastically, desperate for help.

“Shit.” Jon did not wave back. He swallowed the dregs in the cup and tossed it onto the passenger side where it bounced off of several others on the floor. He got out and took his sweet time crossing the parking lot.

Unable to wait for the mountain to come to Muhammad, Stanton rushed up to meet Jon. “Hey, Detective. How are you doing? It’s a good thing we got you here to handle this…with your experience and all.” He trailed behind Jon like a puppy tripping over his own feet.

Jon shot him an aggravated look that went unnoticed.

“Guess you got lucky, huh?” the rookie added.

Jon pulled up short and turned to face the young officer. “Yeah. Lucky. You might want to redo your button job there, kid.” He pointed at the rookie’s shirt, which was a mess even by three a.m. standards. The kid blanched and turned his back to the crowd to fix it. Jon fought to keep from smiling.

“At my first murder I puked my guts out in the bushes not far from the corpse. The squad never let me live it down.” He patted the kid on the shoulder. “You puke yet?” Stanton shook his head. “Then you’re ahead of the curve.” Stanton blushed so deeply his freckles almost disappeared.

A rural town with no major crime, Mt. Ouisco didn’t need—nor could they afford—a CSI team, so it fell to regular staff to conduct investigations. The local detectives typically dealt with things like B&E, vandalism, drug violations and theft. Jon knew full well their homicide skills would be academic at best. It was pretty much a given that he would be handed the investigation.

Chief Burgess Thomlin walked toward him. Thomlin was fifty-five and lean with salt and pepper hair that fringed a deep receding hairline. Another year or two and he’d be a card-carrying member of the comb-over club. He had been with the department as a rookie and police chief for the last twenty years. That tenure spoke volumes, but Jon hadn’t known him long enough to make a fair assessment of the man.

“Hey Chief, which one of your people is lead on the case?” Jon figured it was worth a shot.

The Chief’s mouth turned up in a half grin. “Nice try. You’re lead and don’t bother acting surprised.”

“How about you assign someone else and I’ll assist. I can make them look good.”

“It would be negligent to assign anyone else, and you know it.”

Jon nodded. So much for that. “Then assisting departments can run interference. I only want our guys with the body.”

Chief Thomlin walked over to the rainbow coalition, spoke a few words and the crowd dispersed. The action was effective but not without a few dirty looks and grumblings. It was probably the best shot some of them would have to work a homicide in such a small town—maybe the only opportunity in an entire career.

“It’s all yours.” The chief gave Jon a pat on the shoulder and left.

Jon groaned when he saw who was standing sentry to the alley. Sergeant Wachowski. He was keeping a log of personnel entering the area through the crime scene tape. Most people considered Ben Wachowski a pain in the ass. This included Jon.

“And it just keeps getting better,” he muttered under his breath.

Wachowski, aka Wacko, was a senior officer who’d been with the force nineteen years, which according to his colleagues were about eighteen too long. He’d never moved any higher than sergeant and was extremely bitter about the fact. His latest tirade—which he exercised daily—was about having an outsider hired for the detective job that, in his deluded mind, should have been his. He spent a great deal of time posturing and throwing his years of service in the faces of his peers.

Like an STD, Wacko was the affliction everyone was embarrassed by and wanted to be rid of. Tonight was no different. His wrinkled uniform shirt displayed an impressive array of stains caused by sloppy dining habits and inadequate laundering. It took effort to look that bad.

Wacko was just one more thing Jon didn’t want to deal with. The sergeant rolled his eyes and turned up his nose when he saw Jon approach. “Hey, look who
finally
showed up for the party.” Wacko said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Our own personal rock star cop.” He jabbed a finger at Jon’s chest.

Jon leaned in toward Wacko and whispered. “That’s a good way to lose a trigger finger.”

Jon was half the man’s age and although roughly the same weight, Jon’s was lean, sculpted muscle, not flab. Wacko stumbled back a little. He took in the looks of the cops in the alley, and his face bloomed purple. “Just don’t fuck this up.” He made an attempt to pull his pants up past his beer belly and postured, trying to hold onto his dignity, or at least his ego.

Jon made a dramatic show of turning sideways to squeeze past Wacko’s protruding midsection as he walked through the tape, which left several officers laughing. Jon could hear the man bitching to his back.

One hurdle jumped. Or detoured around at any rate.

Jon hesitated just beyond the barrier; feet cemented in place as he looked at the scene in the alley. Being put in charge of a murder was the last thing he’d expected here; he thought he’d put that all behind him when he left Milwaukee. His stomach clenched as he stepped forward—for a split second he felt like Alice falling through the looking glass.

Chapter Three

Jon took in the details of the crime scene. The night’s dew had left a sheen on every horizontal surface. The portable halogen lamps caused the drops to glisten like diamonds, a stark contrast to the spectacle that lay in the trash a few feet away. He heard a scuff behind him and turned to see his partner, Terri Watman. “You and Wacko need to keep your flirting behind closed doors…people will talk.”

“What can I say? It’s true love. We’re planning a spring wedding.”

Terri adjusted her pink ball cap, its breast cancer awareness insignia emblazoned on the front. “Dibs on being the best man.”

Jon gestured toward the body, female. “We got I.D.?”

“Not yet. No wallet, no purse.”

“You check with the motel?”

Terri nodded. “She’s not registered, but we’re questioning everyone who is, see if we can’t find someone who knows her. We yanked them out of bed and put them in the restaurant.” Terri pulled out a small notebook, ready to list her findings thus far to Jon.

He held up a finger. “Give me a minute.”

She stepped back and motioned for the guys to hold up on evidence collecting. Everyone stood in limbo as Jon methodically approached the victim.

Sweat began to form at his hairline despite the cool air, and he unzipped his jacket. He looked to the inside of her arms, searching for track marks. There weren’t any. But then this wasn’t Milwaukee, and this wasn’t some junkie that was killed for her stash or cash. Jon focused on what was left of her face, noted a wrinkle-free neckline. She was slight in build—waifish even, with white-blonde hair and casually dressed in denim, a white shirt and bejeweled tennis shoes. “I’m guessing mid-twenties to mid-late thirties.”

“That’s a pretty big spread.” Terri said.

He shook his head. “I’m not a coroner. Best I can do for now. We need to find out who she is, and then work on where she was last seen and go from there.” Jon noted dew on the victim. “This excess moisture could make evidence collection tricky.”

“Yup, we already discussed it.”

He nodded approval. Jon noted more blood on the right side of her head, deep russet turning into a mottled copper as it soaked into the pale strands of hair. He reached over and took a tongue depressor out of the processing kit that was near the body, using it to lift the hair framing the vic’s face. “Take a look at this.” Terri leaned forward and peered around him as the others moved in too.

“Jesus.”

He let the strands fall back into place and stood up. “You’ll want to bag her hands, guys.” Jon told detectives Wahlberg and Erland, who had clearly been waiting for Jon to show up and orchestrate the scene. “Wahlberg, you get photographs. Erland, can you diagram the area, sketch a grid?”

The man nodded.

Jon saw the dumpster in the corner. The thing was packed beyond full, with bags stacked so high that the lid was pushed up off its hinges. “Call the disposal company and find out when they last made a pick up. We’ve got to process all these bags.” He ignored the groan he heard from somewhere behind him. “The killer might have tossed the weapon, or there might be a clue to our mystery woman.” He shrugged. “Haul them back to the station. It’ll take some time so they’ll be easier to go through there.”

Jon could feel Terri’s presence at his side. She said nothing as they stared at the woman. The victim’s dead blue eyes gazed at the night sky without eyelids—they had been removed. There were a few lashes left at the corner of her right eye, and there were the tiniest of water drops suspended on the ends of the dark hairs. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear, and blood had sprayed across her body. There was no spray pattern on the trash bags beneath her or the asphalt around her. After exsanguinating, her blood flow would have slowed to a trickle. He could see where it had dribbled down the black plastic in skinny rivulets and formed miniature pools on the ground.

“This is a secondary scene,” Jon said in a low voice. “It’s a BD.”

“BD?” Terri asked.

“Body dump. The vic was killed somewhere else. See here…” He pointed. “And here. No cast off on the ground like there is on her clothing. Yeah, there’s blood. But if this were the primary there’d be a lot more.”

“And her lids removed post mortem, right?”

Jon nodded. “Might not find the weapon that killed her here, but maybe he left whatever was used to do the post-mortem work. Look for a razor, scalpel, something small and very sharp. Murder weapon is going to be much bigger. And you should call area hospitals, see if anyone has come in with a hand laceration.”

“You think the killer cut himself?”

“With this much blood the knife could have slipped in his hand. I’ve seen it before. If it happened and the guy didn’t seek medical attention, we could still get him with blood evidence. Some of this might belong to the killer.” He nodded at the vic’s clothing. “The Lab will let us know if there’s more than one type of blood.”

“What about the ear?” Terri asked.

“Looks like animal damage, same as part of her face.” Upon closer inspection, Jon could see what little blood there was on the woman was marred. There were smears across the castoff on her jeans. He walked around and noted that the trash bag on one side of her had been flattened out and mangled. He chewed on the corner of his lip as he thought through what he was seeing.

“Who called it in?” There was an edge to his voice.

“Civilian. Local.”

Jon’s brows pinched together. He looked at the smeared blood evidence, the smashed bags and the outline of multiple footprints in a mix of blood and mud on the asphalt. He shook his head and turned on Terri. “All right, who’s the dumbass that contaminated my fucking crime scene?”