S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“What about the military? She knew he was in the military.”

“It was a lucky guess. Everyone in the military has prints on file. Maybe she recognized the fabric as something one would buy at a commissary. As a process of elimination, it’s not a bad place to start. Just don’t read more into this.”

Frank set the recorder down on the floor in front of the television set. “Okay, how did she know how he died? Buried alive? Benny hasn’t even done an autopsy yet.”

Taking a seat on the couch, Jake shifted his eyes in Frank’s direction and let out a sigh. “Another guess with nothing factual or logical to back it up.” Jake opened an envelope and passed several sheets of paper to Frank. “Sergeant Samantha Casey, twenty-six, happens to be the goddaughter of Chief Don Connelley.”

“No shit. This what you stopped off at the office to get?”Jake flashed him a grin. “Remember that sixty-year-old records clerk who had a crush on me?” Frank nodded. “She’s now Connelley’s secretary.”

Frank studied the personnel records. “You sure you have the right girl?”

“See for yourself.” Jake backed up the tape and pressed the PLAY button. “Watch.”

“She’s bugging the state rep’s phone?” Frank asked.

“That’s what it looks like.”

The screen showed Sam opening the safe, taking out the contents, slipping something into her purse. When she held Preston’s pin in her clenched fist, Jake pressed the STOP button.

“My god,” Frank gasped. “That’s the same way she held the pin in the lab.”

“Red wig and plenty of makeup transform any plain Jane into Cinderella. The eyes are definitely the same.”

“Not to mention the legs,” Frank added with a chuckle.

Jake pressed the PLAY button again. They watched Preston walk in, take a phone call, pound the keys on his computer. Once he left, Sam accessed the computer, printed out a page, and stuffed it in her purse.

“I would be curious to know what she printed off of Preston’s computer,” Jake said.

“I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw who Murphy is paranoid about

… a woman. But now I think Murphy might have something to be paranoid about.” Frank hooked up his recorder, inserted a blank tape, rewound the tape in Jake’s machine, then proceeded to copy the tape.

Jake pulled out newspaper clippings of murder cases. “Check these out. Press makes her sound like some psychic who just sits behind her desk with a crystal ball.”

Frank unwrapped a burger and sat down next to Jake. “You saw what she did with King Tut. I’m telling you, Jake, there’s something strange going on.”

Jake pulled the articles from Frank and tossed them back into the envelope. “You would be a believer. Your relatives come from a long line of New Orleans voodoo priests.” He studied his notes and added, “I did find out something interesting. Seems Connelley received a disturbing photo from the mayor. My source tells me Casey has disguised herself on numerous occasions and shown up at secret political meetings, sometimes as a waitress, bartender. Connelley has looked the other way in the past, even welcomed some of the information she would pass on to him.”

Frank’s smile broadened. “I think I’m going to like this lady.”

“Well, Connelley is up for a big promotion. If his little snitch were to be exposed, Connelley would probably end up writing parking tickets somewhere.” After taking a swig of soda, Jake added, “This lady is flying by the seat of her pants. According to Mary, Chief Connelley had a fix on Sam’s test scores, threw her into a desk job after only six months. I would bet she couldn’t shoot a target if she were standing in front of it.”

“I guess patronage still reigns. That shouldn’t surprise you.” He glanced at the videotape. “So, what’s your next step? Are you going to take the video to Connelley?”

Jake ejected both tapes, studied them, then shook his head slowly. “No, I have other plans for this tape.”

Sam looked down the three rows of back-to-back desks filling the center of the fourth floor at Precinct Six. There weren’t any attractive modular units, potted plants in brass urns, or employees dressed in the latest power suits. Just men in sweat-soaked shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and clerical staff casually dressed in skirts or slacks.

Offices lined the outer walls and a file room occupied the farthest corner. No pictures on the walls. No piped-in music. She scrutinized the tiled floor, which was yellowed from age and losing its design pattern to harsh cleansers. She looked at her white, ankle-wrap espadrilles and wondered if they would still be white by the end of the week.

A stale, moldy odor permeated the air combined with a hint of burnt coffee and the lingering body odors from witnesses and suspects who had been shuttled through the doors over the years.

Ed Scofield, the resident desk sergeant, eyed Sam suspiciously over his bifocals as he handed her a new I.D. badge. Reluctantly, she accepted it and clamped it on her collar.

This was not Precinct One, which she was used to. The First was a state-of-the-art building that boasted a full-time cleaning crew who walked around picking up abandoned coffee cups and periodically cleaning the coffee machine.

Dust was not allowed to settle at the First, which was visited constantly by press, public officials, and dignitaries. Even security was tight. You had to be buzzed in by the desk sergeant to gain access. But here at the Sixth, the desk sergeant wasn’t always at the front desk. Any drunk could wander in and use the bathroom if someone didn’t stop him in time. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the tile wasn’t yellowed from age or cleansers. She shivered and pushed that thought out of her head.

The Sixth’s jurisdiction included the most diverse neighborhoods, from two-million-dollar homes on its northern boundaries to low income housing apartments to the south. In between comprised a vast melting pot.

As Sam made her way down the center aisle, at least a half dozen sets of eyes were focused on her. Maybe it was the medicine bundle or her third earring of beads and feathers that hung from within one inch of her left shoulder. Or maybe it was just their way of scrutinizing the new kid on the block.

She found Murphy’s office at the far end of the room. No one was there. It was a little too tidy, suggesting a man who either delegated well or had next to nothing to do. Walls were covered with pictures and plaques. Several manila folders sat near the edge of the desk. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the back credenza next to a family picture of a woman with a Buster Brown haircut and two teenage girls who had inherited their mother’s plain, just-scrubbed look.

Strolling past the front of the desk, Sam’s finger flipped open a file folder. It was hers.

“Sergeant Casey?” Murphy closed the door behind him and looked at the folder.

“Just making sure my name was spelled right.” Sam’s first impression of Murphy when she had seen him at Preston’s hadn’t changed. He looked like a used-car salesman from his all-tooth, fake smile to his picture-perfect hair.

Murphy extended his hand to her. “Welcome aboard, Sergeant. Although I expected you sooner.” He glanced at her choice in jewelry.

Sam’s smile was just as fake as she grasped his hand firmly. “I was preempted by a homicide.” She released her grip quickly. So far, there were no quizzical stares, no have we met before questions. “Chief Connelley did tell you I work alone.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on my turf now, Sergeant. You work with whomever I say.” Murphy raised his hand toward a figure in the outer office.