Part 4 (2/2)
Theresa flicked the switch, plunging the room into darkness. The dark brown trousers sat illuminated under a ghostly circle of red light. The body fluid stains receded into the cloth and the sooty area around the tiny hole got darker.
”That could be fouling,” Zoe said.
Theresa hesitated to call it. ”It could be, but I've never worked on something so old before. Why would he be shot? None of the Torso victims were shot.”
”Why is there a problem if you make it with the hostage negotiator?”
”But then the way he left the body-that wasn't the Torso killer's MO either.”
The photographer persisted. ”You aren't married. Neither is he.”
”Because then I'd be one more notch on Cavanaugh's bedpost or gun belt or whatever a.n.a.logy would be appropriate to him, me and the city manager's daughter and whomever else he winks at. And then he'd move on to the next negotiation. It's what he does.”
Zoe depressed the plunger on the remote cable. ”So the surest way to get rid of him would be to hop in the sack? And the best way to keep him coming around is to stay out of it?”
And there Theresa stood, caught in the net of her own logic.
”Um-yeah.”
Zoe advanced the film, depressed the plunger again. ”That is a pickle.”
The door to the hallway cracked open, which let in the whining sound of a bone saw from down the hallway. Christine Johnson's exquisite face poked in.
”Hey,” the pathologist told Theresa, ”did you know your guy was shot?”
CHAPTER 7.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6.
PRESENT DAY.
”Unfortunately,” Theresa told her cousin, ”that counts against it being one of the Torso Murders.”
He stopped at a red light on Lakesh.o.r.e, giving her a good view of the stadium. She still missed the old one, that oversize and clunky edifice that had housed both football and baseball fans for sixty-four years. The modern structure had crystal video screens and more bathrooms but held no memories for her.
”That's unfortunate?” Frank asked.
”If James Miller has nothing to do with the Torso killings, then his murder exists only in the little vacuum we found him in. All attendant information has almost certainly been lost over the years.”
”We may never find answers, then,” Frank said.
”We will,” Theresa said insistently. ”I will. But if he was a Torso victim it would have given us a place to start-we'd have had information from the other murders to consider. And it certainly would have made things interesting. Think how pleased Grandpa would be that we got to work on the case.”
The light changed. Frank said, ”Arthur Corliss sold his building in 1959, died ten years later. We don't know what happened to the wife, but they had one child, Edward Corliss, born 1950.”
”And that's who we're going to see?”
”Yep.”
”Where's your partner?”
”Sanchez is taking the construction crew through their statements again, trying to figure out which unit our murder room belonged to. She might get somewhere if those guys can keep their eyes off her chest, but that will be difficult. The lavatories were the only concession to modernity; each unit added closets and storage s.p.a.ce piecemeal over the years until the interior walls were jumbled. The fire took some walls down and the crew did the rest, but they weren't paying much attention to what part.i.tions were where, not with Councilman Greer breathing down their necks. He's in some kind of hurry for this project to go through. He says it's because the grant will expire, but he's probably got a kickback check waiting on a completion date.”
”They knocked down half the walls to that little room without noticing the table?”
”They saw it, but between the dim light and the plaster dust covering their goggles they couldn't see what was on it until they were close enough to touch.”
”The building is still secured, right?” Theresa asked.
”For the moment,” Frank said. ”The chief's already gotten a call from Greer. The councilman really has a hard-on for the demolition and is already laying down threats of unfavorable voting come budget time. Happily for us, the chief hates the good councilman's guts. Something about a round of buyouts in the late nineties.”
”Do you have a photograph of him? Miller?” she asked.
”I think we're past the point of a visual ID, cuz.”
”Very funny. I'd just like to see what he looked like. Was he married? Any children?”
”Wife named Helen, don't know about kids. I can't tell if anyone investigated her. He wasn't considered a homicide, just a deserter.”
”Which he wasn't.”
”How do you know that?”
”I just do.”
Frank chuckled and hit the gas, and the car shot from the I-90 on-ramp to a precarious position between a tractor-trailer and a school bus in less time than even Ford advertis.e.m.e.nts predicted.
Theresa stifled a gasp, then averted her eyes from the how's my driving? sign nearly touching their front b.u.mper by glancing into the back-seat. ”Why did you bring the stalker along?”
”I'm not a stalker,” Brandon Jablonski said mildly. ”What was that you said about your grandfather?”
”Relax, I'm kidding.” At least she thought she was. He didn't look at all sinister in the cold light of day; in fact he seemed to be all lean determination and stubbled good looks, notebook at the ready. ”It's just that I've never seen my cousin bring a reporter to an interview before.”
Frank made a face he didn't bother to hide from the rearview mirror. ”The chief-the police chief, not the homicide chief-considered this a good PR opportunity. After the media ran the story of James Miller and his Torso killerlike death, we've been deluged with calls, so he figures we should use it to make us look good.”
”Bringing a reporter along on an investigation.”
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